Chapter Two: Escapism
It was several days before Vivenne had the opportunity to speak to the knight again. Truth be told, she avoided the delegation as much as possible. And only Duke Gareth, it seemed, made a point to speak with her between meetings. He also sat beside her at supper, sharing interesting facts about life in the capital of Tortall, regaling her with the story of his leg injury – broken in three places shortly before the war – and discussing favorite works of literature.
Prince Jonathan, she noted with smug amusement and relief, had latched onto Margarethe on the second evening. She could hardly blame him – her sister was easily the prettiest person she had ever met, and was much livelier and friendlier than either Solanne or Vivenne.
Sir Wyldon did not speak much at the meals. He would usually engage in quiet conversation with whomever was seated next to him, but did not join any discussions across the table. His eyes, in fact, rarely strayed to where she sat. It was beginning to annoy her.
The entire castle was set into a flurry of activity when King Ain joined the peace negotiations on the third day. While he was her mother's half-brother, and it wasn't unheard of to have him visiting, the presence of the Tortallans demanded a much more rigorous affair.
The king was fonder of leisure activities than discussing the peace treaty. He let Count Leandre and Ambassador Mikal of Danne handle most of the talks while he sat in, and insisted on certain comforts – like music every evening, much to Vivenne's chagrin. Before dinner on the fifth night of the peace conference, King Ain insisted on singing a duet with one of his nieces.
"You shouldn't choose Vivenne, for she can't help but sing sharp whenever she takes the high parts," Solanne said, taking a place next to the harpsichord. "What would you like to hear, uncle?"
While they discussed the merits of each song in detail, Vivenne slipped away, realizing that it was unlikely they would need her expertise in a discussion of music. She ducked into an alcove – an out of the way place that could usually be counted upon to be vacant. To her surprise, it wasn't.
"Will we always stumble across one another when we're trying to flee cordialities?" Wyldon asked from his seat next to her father's chess set.
She smiled, taking the seat across from him. "It seems so."
"It could be worse," he said. "Goldenlake – Sir Raoul – has feigned a headache so he could be excused from the evening's festivities."
"Is he shy?" Vivenne asked.
"No." He smirked. "Just willful."
"I wish I could do the same," she confessed, idly moving one of the pawns. "But I rarely suffer headaches. Mother would see through me in a heartbeat."
He countered with a move of a pawn on his side of the board.
"It's not really so horrible," she continued. "I just don't like performing music or being forced to speak at dinner." She pushed another pawn into the center of the board.
"Duke Gareth seems to like you; he's an excellent judge of character."
She colored at the compliment. "He's a very polite man. He seems gentle."
Wyldon laughed outright. "You, Lady Vivenne, have never had the honor of dueling him. He's the best swordsman in all of Tortall."
A cold feeling washed over her – was this how Solanne felt all the time? These men weren't just nobles from a foreign land; they had likely all fought in the war. They had certainly killed men of Tusaine, and probably took pride in that action. "I see."
He took her chin in his large hand, tilting her face upward so she was forced to look into his dark eyes. "You're thinking of the lives lost in war, aren't you?"
She nodded, mortified that she was about to cry.
He pulled his hand away and swallowed. "Although we're trained to fight, it isn't always easy. We think of each campaign as defense – defending ourselves from attackers, or defending our homes – our sisters, our wives – from another nation's future raid against us.
"I know it does not make it easier to face the deaths," he continued, "but our king did not let us wage an aggressive war against your people. We were defending our border."
"The people of Tusaine suffered greatly in this war. I worry that negotiated peace will lead to even more suffering," she said.
Wyldon leaned back in his seat, moving his rook across the chessboard. "King Roald is often called 'The Peacemaker' because he values it so greatly. He knows that making Tusaine suffer would lead only to a generation of souls preparing to war upon Tortall again."
She hoped he knew his king as well as he seemed to.
***
Two days later, though, the negotiations hit a stalemate. Raised voices could be heard even in the upper levels of the castle, and Vivenne found it almost impossible to concentrate on her reading.
"What do they argue over?" she asked her brother, who had come into the room to escape the shouts below.
"Last I heard it was rights to the river."
She gaped. "They're trying to limit our use of the best path to the Inland Sea?"
He shrugged. "It's within their borders."
She tossed her book aside with frustration. "So what happens now? Does father keep them all as hostages and make demands, or do we continue as planned with music and pleasantries after dinner?"
Elin laughed, flopping onto a thickly upholstered chair. "Business as usual, I would think. But I might suggest that father recommend you to Uncle Ain's council."
She rolled her eyes. "I would not serve the king if my life depended on it. Not if people like Uncle Hilam continue to make policy." She stretched. "I'm going to the paddock. Care to join me?"
He shook his head. "If anyone sees me, they'll wonder why I'm not with all of the men, shouting and being boastful."
"Suit yourself," she said, leaving the room.
It wasn't hard to go unnoticed with all the huffing and shouting. She darted past the open doors of the library and through the kitchen without seeing one unoccupied person. Lady Fanette was berating a serving maid for flirting with the delegation members, so Vivenne was able grab a carrot and easily slip past her out of the keep altogether.
Outside it was hot and muggy – the summer months were humid in the Drell Valley – but Vivenne was grateful for any breeze she could catch. No one was out working in the heat of the day, so she took off at a run toward the stables. When she reached the paddock she was panting from the exertion, but felt more alive than she had in the last months of waiting, worrying and being quiet. War did not suit Vivenne of Drell Valley; she was much more amenable to a laid back life in the country with her horses and no one to tell her how to behave.
It wasn't that she was willful – not by any definition of the word. She wasn't frowned upon or considered "high spirited"; she had been fawned over at court the year before, and her elders assured her she would receive proposals of marriage before Solanne. She was respectful and kind, but books and horses were her preference over fussy nobles who would speak only of marriages and wealth.
After finally catching her breath, she went to find her favorite in the stable, pulling the carrot from her pocket. "Is this what you want, Paladin?" she asked, stroking the dun's nose affectionately. "Or do you want to go for a ride?" She led him out of the stall and saddled him swiftly, her fingers flying over the buckles. Walking him over to the mounting block, she climbed into the side-saddle and took off toward one of the walking trails near the edge of the property.
She rode swiftly – more swiftly than her father or Lady Colinne would probably prefer. By the time the Drellinne River – a small tributary that dumped into the squabbled-over Drell – was in sight, she could see that she was not the only one who had escaped from the house; Sir Wyldon and a Tusaine lord – Baron Chal – were walking their mounts along the river's edge, discussing something in low voices. The baron was a large, jovial man who was always a pleasant and intelligent companion.
She approached noisily, not wanting to overhear sensitive topics, and slowed to a stop.
"Lady Vivenne!" Baron Chal called out cheerfully. "Were you sent to fetch us?"
"No, my lord," she answered in kind. "I was looking for an escape from all of the loud and angry voices in the house, and you know I love nothing more than riding."
He approached to help her dismount (though really, no help was needed), whispering conspiratorially, "we needed an escape, as well."
She led Paladin over to the river's edge and curtseyed. "Sir Wyldon."
He bowed politely, his smile genuine. "Lady Vivenne."
"Are you enjoying your afternoon ride?" she asked.
"Indeed, I am," he answered. "Baron Chal has been kind enough to escort me."
"He says you two are fleeing the peace negotiations, as well."
Wyldon snorted. "Negotiation implies discussion. It's much more pleasant to be out here, enjoying a nice ride in amiable company."
"If you like, I could show you more of the countryside," she offered. "Or we could see the dogs – I know you were interested in the kennels."
Baron Chal looked troubled. "You would require a chaperone for that, Vivenne, and I'm needed back at the conferences. While young Wyldon is not necessary to all of the negotiations, I'm afraid I can't say the same of me."
"We can ride back to the castle together," Vivenne said. "Then perhaps Lady Colinne will join us for a tour of the kennels and aviary." She looked to Sir Wyldon, seeing if he approved of this course of action. He was not even looking at her, though; his eyes were focused on Paladin.
Baron Chal agreed, and they all mounted. The ride back was much slower, though Vivenne was aching to run again. She and the men idly discussed topics appropriate for nobility – relations that might be shared, music that was enjoyed. She found it rather dull, but luckily the Baron was leading the conversation. Sir Wyldon politely answered questions, but offered no topics of his own.
When they neared the end of the walking trail, the baron fell back, and Vivenne found herself riding with Sir Wyldon – out of earshot of the baron. She realized that Baron Chal had done this intentionally, as if she and Wyldon were actually courting.
"I believe the baron thinks I should be reciting poetry to you, or asking if you are engaged to a nobleman of Tusaine," Sir Wyldon said, glancing over his shoulder at Baron Chal.
She smiled at him. "Engagements are out of the question until I'm seventeen. And poetry bores me."
He looked startled. "I thought all young women were fond of poetry. All the ladies I've met at court loved nothing more than poetry recitals." He shuddered visibly.
"Your sentiments appear to match mine, Sir Wyldon," she replied. "I was forced to study the greatest works of Tusaine poetry, as well as some of the ballads in Old Thak – but I never took to it. My sisters excelled in that, and I – as usual – found solace in other comforts."
"Like riding," he said, nodding toward her mount. "I can't say I've ever seen a lady who rode as well as you."
She could feel her face flush with pleasure. "Lady Colinne – my father's third wife – is a much better rider than me."
He rode silently, his firm mouth turned down into a slight frown. "I must admit," he said after several moments, "that I'm unaccustomed to the notion of having multiple spouses."
"Most people outside of Tusaine and Carthak feel the same. It's an old tradition that many have forgotten."
"Or have chosen to forget." His frown deepened. "Do you look forward to a life where you would share your husband with another woman?"
"That's a very personal question," she answered.
"No, it would be a very personal question if I asked you if you look forward to a life where you share your marital bed with another woman. I would never be so impertinent as to pose that sort of question, my lady."
Vivenne thought, for a moment, that she saw a hint of a smile on his handsome face.
"I have not put much thought into being the sole wife of any man, so I have no expectations with which to compare it," she finally answered. "My father would prefer me to marry a wealthy and powerful man, I am sure, and wealthy, powerful men in Tusaine tend to have more than one wife."
"You could," Wyldon said, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity she had never seen in any man's face, "consider marrying a man who is not from Tusaine."
She felt self-conscious under his gaze, and looked away. "I could consider it, but I doubt Father would."
***
"That sounds promising to me," Margarethe whispered as they dressed for supper. "He didn't say anything indicating that he would be speaking to Father, did he?"
Vivenne yanked her overgown on, pulling at the sleeves that twisted on her arms. "No. He didn't say anything at all indicating that he wanted to marry me – it was his eyes. I've never been looked at that way by a man."
"I can't imagine someone as dry and serious as him looking at anyone that way!" Margarethe laughed. She kept her voice low, in case their older sister or one of their mothers was in earshot. "You describe his expression as smoldering, and I cannot fathom it!"
"I can only assume then, Margarry," Vivenne whispered, grinning slyly at her sister, "that you have never been gazed at by a serious or intense man. Perhaps no man has been serious about you?"
Margarethe took one of the feather pillows from Vivenne's bed and smacked her with it, laughing. "Mother says there will be dancing tomorrow night, so I'll be sure to trip you and make you the laughingstock of all of Tusaine!"
Vivenne shrieked, darting across the room to hide behind Solanne. "Help," she begged, clutching her sister's shoulders.
Solanne frowned, plucking loose feathers from Vivenne's hair. "Someday, Vivi, you'll be a proper lady and you will stop these antics."
"Oh, as if you haven't had a pillow fight in the last year," Margarethe snorted, swinging the pillow and catching Solanne in the belly.