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A letter from Briar Moss, Summersea, Emelan; to Trisana Chandler, University of Lightsbridge, Karang
...and that yammer-mouthed idiot count who’s been chasing after Sandry at every court gathering, you remember I told you about him? Well, yesterday he proved he has even less brains than I thought — he decided that it wasn’t enough to push himself at her every time he saw her, and refuse to take the hint when she brushed him off (all noble politeness — you know how our girl does it), and keep nattering on at her about how she must dying for a husband. No, he followed her when she went off by herself for some air, and —
Relax, Coppercurls. I followed him, of course. Not that Sandry can’t take care of herself, but I figured I’d be there for backup, if she needed it.
So there Sandry was, trying to get away from all the people a moment, already in a temper, though she was hiding it pretty well — and along comes Count Dung-for-Brains, oozing his charm behind him like those slugs I find while weeding. He started up with his usual ‘yes look at this weather, isn’t it beautiful, just like your face’ and on and on and on while Sandry tried not to look bored and then stopped even trying. And I guess he noticed that time, because he started getting nastier — calling her cold, asking her what she was holding out for if she wasn’t satisfied with him, she may be the the duke’s heir but she’d still need a husband soon, you know. Just pure bile. I’d have knocked his teeth down his throat if she’d wanted me to, or held him still for her to do the honors, but then he grabbed her arm, and — well, it was like having you around again, Tris.
The air got kind of cold and strange, and if I didn’t know better I’d have sworn we were bleeding magic between our borders again, Sandry looked that close to spitting lightning. I could feel how angry she was — in the back of my head, and where my clothes were stitched at the seams, it felt like they were barely hanging together for a minute. Like they wanted to go to Sandry and help her.
And by that point, she had him tied to the balcony railing by his sleeves, no way he could get free, and her voice was cold when she told him how little she needed a husband to do her job, and even if she wanted one, she’d look for one in a dung-heap before she’d choose him. She sounded like you when you’d have to go stand in buckets of water to keep from pulling the house down around our ears.
Anyway, she went on in that voice to tell him that if he touched her again, she’d string him up by the neck next time. And then she just turned coolly and left him there, calm as you please. I followed her out, of course. I heard they didn’t find him out there until that evening, which is better than he deserved.
You know, Coppercurls — I know you hate scaring people or having them stare at you and all that, but if you ever changed your mind, you could take a break from those academic chufflebrains and come back here for a bit. There’s all kind of idiots hanging around Sandry now, especially since the duke officially named her his heir. You could come by and menace them for a while, show a little lightning if they get too close. You wouldn’t even have to say a word.
I’m only joking, stop scowling at my letter. (I know you’re scowling.) Watching you frighten lackwits out of their tiny brains is fun for me, you know. But I get it.
Try and make more friends that don’t have pages. I’ll be up to visit you soon and yes I’ve been seeing a mind-healer, I wouldn’t dare come see you otherwise.
Until then,
Briar
A letter from Duke Vedris, Summersea, Emelan; to Yazmin Hebet, Ninver, Capchen
...I should have made my decision evident even sooner, it’s become clear — Sandry has taken to the additional responsibilities of being my heir like breathing. It isn’t that I ever doubted her, only that I didn’t want to put that on her shoulders before I needed to. But it is necessary now, and I can rest easier knowing that I’ll have put this land in capable, willing hands when the time comes.
There are those who are resistant, of course. There always will be, when a woman is given power. But Sandry deals with them as she ever has — with poise, and politeness, and that true, Landreg stubbornness.
Most of the harriers here respect her, despite her apparent youth; they remember that ugly unmagic business all too well, and how well she acquitted herself. But there are some who still have not learned that she is more than her skirts and her unlined face; when they come to deliver the crime reports they talk around the details as if she’s never seen a spot of blood in her life, and they dig in their heels when she tells them she won’t be turned away if she needs to see the scene where a crime was committed firsthand. You and I know her very well, my love — how long do you think she would manage to hold her temper under that sort of treatment?
To be honest, I would have enjoyed seeing however the inevitable break came, but I think my niece has found a different outlet for her frustrations — now, when they come, she acts as they might think, flutters her eyelashes and plays empty-headed; and when they’re least expecting it, she mentions with all casualness that time she helped defeat the two greatest mages in Namorn, or the time she saved her student from two murderers. Remarks on those rumors of that earthquake she and her foster-siblings stopped when they were children. And then she moves on before they’ve even finished blinking at her.
You’ve met Briar Moss; I think you would recognize the act. He plays off expectations very, very well.
People find it quite discomfiting, but I find myself amused. I know you would too — I think of telling you these things when they happen, and I miss the sound of your laugh. I spent quite some time without hearing laughter within these walls; how quickly I’ve become accustomed to its presence.
There are many demands on the time of the greatest dancer in the Pebbled Sea, retired or not, I know; I can only hope for you to finish your business and return as soon as you can. As you always do.
With love,
Vedris
A letter from Daja Kisubo, Summersea, Emelan; to Polyam Idaram, Tenth Caravan Idaram
...as much as some Lightsbridge and Winding Circle mages don’t get along, they have to at these councils. You might already know this, but the medallions we wear — that’s because of this council. Lightsbridge and Winding Circle came together and formed all kinds of regulations for the mages that go through their programs; and so now that we’re old enough and living here, and Sandry being the duke’s heir and all, we’re expected to sit in on these meetings as well.
Ambient mages and academic mages — it isn’t that they can’t get on, or see the value in each other’s skills, but the ones who don’t like each other are so blatant about it, it’s like cats and dogs.
And Sandry and I — well, you know how people see us. I know we unsettle most people who know what we’ve done, even among mages. I don’t know if it’s our youth, our sex, or our power in relation to those things, but the looks we get...and can you imagine trying to get anything done when the people you’re communicating with go between ignoring the words that come out of your mouth, and looking as if they’d like to ward themselves when you do make them believe you’ve done what you say?
It’s not everyone, of course. Lark and Rosethorn are on this council, and they’re respected enough that it can’t be a matter of sex alone. But Sandry, Briar, Tris and I aren’t beloved by everyone at Winding Circle, not by far. We’re strange even for the kind of things they’ve seen. And some of those Lightsbridge mages, they look at even Lark and Rosethorn like they think they’re running around ignoring the laws of magic and earth, doing things by rites and rituals alone instead of work.
It’s something of a mess.
And Sandry — Sandry sits in on the meetings as a mage and as the future ruler of Emelan who has to keep an eye on things that might affect the land. Obviously she knows how to be diplomatic, in her position; but she isn’t exactly without a temper. Honestly, I’ve been half-expecting an explosion of some kind. A very polite, noble explosion, of course; but an explosion, still.
Instead, she’s been like — like iron. Calm, and collected, doesn’t let them see what she’s thinking. That seems to unnerve them more than anything else, and we gain more ground when they’re unnerved. There have been times when I’ve expected her to turn all ‘I am Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, mage of Winding Circle, accredited at the age of thirteen, so you had best listen to what I’m saying’ (not that I’d blame her one bit — some of them need that swift kick in the rear), but she hasn’t. She’s just been unyielding and cool-tempered, like she doesn’t even notice the way they talk to her, and we get so much done because of it.
And so I asked her, after the first couple of meetings, what she was thinking of to keep her calm; and you know what she said? She said she was thinking of me. How I don’t let anyone see they’ve gotten to me, even under far worse provocation; and everything I can accomplish because of that.
That would have horrified you when we first met — a Trader teaching a kaq how to be like a Trader? — but now I think it might make you laugh. If I’m to be her model of diplomacy, that court of hers might find itself having some interesting times.
Anyway, I hope you’ve been well — I’m sure you’re remembering to oil your leg and keep it limber in this season, but I’d like to check on it when I see you next. I’d — I’d like for that to be soon.
Tell me when the caravan will be coming in this direction. I’ll meet you halfway.
Trader Koma keep your path clear,
Daja
A letter from Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, Summersea, Emelan; to Cleham Ambros fer Landreg, Landreg clehamat, Namorn
...for everything I went through during that trip, I gained something valuable in exchange, I think. A strong friendship in you and your family, dear cousin; a better knowledge of my heritage; and learning how much of ruling wisely involves listening.
I like to think of myself as open-minded, and world-wise; but I think I’ve been rather naive for some time. I don’t like to throw my rank around unless I have to; but I can, if I must. I have that weapon at hand. And what of those who don’t? I may mean well when I try to fix things for them and speak for them, but the truth is, I have no idea what their lives are like; and so my duty is to listen.
When that festering rat Finlach abducted me, he didn’t dare go beyond locking me up and frightening me, because I was a clehame and that stayed his hand. I still shudder to think of what he would have inflicted on someone who didn’t have the same protections.
That horrid bride-kidnapping custom still makes my blood boil, but — we may do fairly well here for women, as Uncle has seen to that, but we are not yet perfect, and I had best set my mind to fixing that before I go after my neighbor’s failings. That’s what I’ve been trying to do, you see. I think the mistake I made before was that in my haste to empathize with those who have fewer privileges than I, I thought I understood their problems. I don’t. I can only listen to them, and try to act accordingly.
It isn’t going completely smoothly; change never does. Uncle calls me a reformer, and he’s teasing, but I think he approves. I intend to be a reformer. Lands do poorly when they stagnate, and I will not let that happen to Emelan.
They may try to get in my way, but I am Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, of Landreg blood. Our mules have nothing on me.
Your loving cousin,
Sandry