Sherwood Smith - Crown and Court Duet - 02 - Court Duel

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Court Duel by Sherwood Smith (Book Two of the Crown and Court Duet)

PROLOGUE

THE SCRIBES IN THE HERALDRY GUILD WRITE THE history of Remalna. What I am doing here

is telling my own history: how I, Meliara Astiar, who grew up running wild with the village girls and

scarcely knew how to read, managed to find myself swept up in the affairs of kings.

Who will read my history? I try to imagine my great-great-great-granddaughter finding this book some

wintry day—because in summer, of course, she will be rambling barefoot through the mountains, just like

I did. Harder to imagine are people in other lands far from Remalna, and in future times, reading my

story.

You might ask why I wrote this, when we have court scribes whose job it is to record important events.

One thing I have learned while reading histories is that though the best scribes will faithfully report what

people did at crucial moments, they often can only guess at why.

The scribes will begin, for example, with the fact that I was the second child born to the Count and

Countess of Tlanth, a county high in the northwest mountains of Remalna. My brother, Branaric, was the

elder.

Even in our remote part of the kingdom, the people struggled under King Galdran Merindar's heavy taxes

and became restless under his increasingly unfair laws. My father paid most of those taxes himself to

spare our people, and thus we Astiars, in our old, crumbling castle, were not much better off than the

poorest of our villagers.

Our mother was killed when Branaric and I were young. We were certain it was done by the order of the

King, but we did not know why. It was enough to make our father—until then a recluse—work hard to

overthrow an increasingly bad government. On his deathbed ten years later, he made Branaric and me

swear a vow to free the country from the wicked King. Branaric and I shared the family title, as Count

and Countess of Tlanth, and shared the work of governing our county and preparing for the revolt.

Soon after Father's death we discovered the latest, and worst, of King Galdran's acts: He was going to

betray our Covenant with the mysterious and magical Hill Folk in order to harvest and sell the fabulous

colorwood trees, which grow nowhere else in the world. The forests have been home to the Hill Folk

since long before humans settled in Remalna. The Covenant made with the Hill Folk centuries before our

time guaranteed that so long as we left the forests—common trees as well as our fabulous

colorwoods—uncut, they would give us magical Fire Sticks each fall, which burned warmly until at least

midsummer.

So, untrained and ill prepared, Branaric and I commenced our revolt.

It was a disaster.

Oh, we were successful enough at first, when the huge army the King sent against us was led by his

cowardly, bullying cousin Baron Debegri. But when the Marquis of Shevraeth—son of the Prince and

Princess of Renselaeus—replaced Debegri, we lost ground steadily. I stumbled into a steel trap our side

had set out in a desperate attempt to slow up Shevraeth's army, was caught, and was taken by the

Marquis to the capital, where the King condemned me to death without permitting me to speak a word in

my defense.

But I escaped—with help—and limped my way back toward home, chased by two armies. Both

Branaric and I nearly got killed before we found out that some of King Galdran's Court aristocrats—led

by the Marquis of Shevraeth—had actually been working to get rid of the King without launching civil

war.

King Galdran and Baron Debegri forced us into a final battle, in which they were killed. After that

Branaric rode with the Marquis and his allies to the royal palace Athanarel in Remalna-city, the capital,

and I retreated home. As a reward for our aid, Shevraeth—who was favored to become the new

king—turned over Galdran's personal fortune to Branaric and me.

That much, I know, is in the records.

What the scribes don't tell, because they don't know, is exactly how—and why—I subsequently got

mixed up again in royal affairs.

It began with a letter from the Marquise of Merindar—sister of the late King Galdran.

ONE

I STOOD AT MY WINDOW, AN OLD BUT COMFORTABLE blanket wrapped about me. The

warmth of the low midwinter sun through the new paned glass was pleasant as I read again the letter that

had arrived that day.

Esteemed Countess Meliara:

I have had the pleasure of meeting, and entertaining, your estimable brother, Count Branaric. At

every meeting he speaks often and fondly of his sister, who, he claims, was the driving spirit

behind the extraordinary events of last year.

He also promised that you will come join us at Court, but half a year has passed, and we still

await you. Perhaps the prospect of life at the Palace Athanarel does not appeal to you?

There are those who agree with this sentiment. I am one myself. I leave soon for my home in

Merindar, where I desire only to lead a quiet life. It is with this prospect in mind that I have taken

up my pen; I would like, very much, to meet you. At Merindar there would be time, and seclusion,

to permit leisurely discourse on subjects which have concerned us both—especially now, when the

country has the greatest need of guidance.

Come to Merindar. We can promise you the most pleasant diversions.

I await, with anticipation, your response—or your most welcome presence.

And it was signed in a graceful, flourishing hand, Arthal Merindar.

A letter from a Merindar. I had brought about her brother's defeat. Did she really want friendship? I

scanned it for perhaps the tenth time. There had to be a hidden message.

When I came to the end, I looked up and gazed out my window. The world below the castle lay white

and smooth and glistening. We'd had six months of peace. Though the letter seemed friendly enough, I

felt a sense of foreboding, as if my peace was as fragile as the snowflakes outside.

"Looking down the south road again, Meliara?"

The voice startled me. I turned and saw my oldest friend, Oria, peering in around the door tapestry.

Though I was the countess and she the servant, we had grown up together, scampering barefoot every

summer through the mountains, sleeping out under the stars, and dancing to the music of the mysterious

Hill Folk. Until last winter, I'd only had Oria's cast-off clothing to wear; now I had a couple of remade

gowns, but I still wore the old clothes to work in.

She smiled a little as she lifted the tapestry the rest of the way and stepped in. "I tapped. Three times."

"I was not looking at the road. Why should I look at the road? I was just thinking—and enjoying the

sunshine."

"Won't last." Oria joined me at the window. "A whole week of mild weather? That usually means three

weeks of blizzard on the way."

"Let it come," I said, waving a hand. I was just as glad to get off the subject of roads as I was to talk

about all the new comforts the castle afforded. "We have windows, and heat vents, and cushions. We

could last out a year of blizzards."

Oria nodded, but—typically—reverted right back to her subject. "If you weren't looking down the road,

then it's the first time in weeks."

"Weeks? Huh!" I scoffed.

She just shrugged a little. "Missing your brother?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I'll be glad when the roads clear—Branaric did promise to come home." Then I

looked at her. "Do you miss him?"

Oria laughed, tossing her curly black hair over her shoulder. "I know I risk sounding like an old woman

rather than someone who is one year past her Flower Day, but my fancy for him was nothing more than a

girl's dream. I much prefer my own flirts now." She pointed at me. "That's what you need, Mel, some

flirts."

I too had passed my Flower Day, which meant I was of marriageable age, but I felt sometimes as if I

were ten years younger than Oria. She had lots of flirts and seemed to enjoy them all. I'd never had

one—and I didn't want one. "Who has the time? I'm much too busy with Tlanth. Speaking of busy, what

make you of this?" I held out the letter.

Oria took it and frowned slightly as she read. When she reached the end, she said, "It seems

straightforward enough, except... Merindar. Isn't she some relation to the old king?"

"Sister," I said. "The Marquise of Merindar."

"Isn't she a princess?"

"While they ruled, the Merindars only gave the title 'prince' or 'princess' to their chosen heir. She carries

the family title, which predates their years on the throne."

Oria nodded, pursing her lips. "So what does this mean?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. I did help bring about the downfall of her brother. I think a nasty

letter threatening vengeance, awful as it would be to get, would be more understandable than this."

Oria smiled. "Seems honest enough. She wants to meet you."

"But why? And why now? And what's this about 'guidance'?"

Oria looked back at the letter, her dark brows slightly furrowed, then whistled softly. "I missed that, first

time through. What do you think she's hinting at, that she thinks the new king ought not to be king?"

"That is the second thing I've been wondering about," I said. "If she'd make a good ruler, then she ought

to be supported ..."

"Well, would she?"

"I don't know anything about her."

Oria handed the letter back, and she gave me a crooked grin. "Do you want to support her bid for the

crown, or do you just want to see the Marquis of Shevraeth defeated?"

"That's the third thing on my mind," I said. "I have to admit that part of me—the part that still rankles at

my defeat last year—wants him to be a bad king. But that's not being fair to the country. If he's good,

then he should be king. This concerns all the people of Remalna, their safety and well-being, and not just

the feelings of one sour countess."

"Who can you ask, then?"

"I don't know. The people who would know her best are all at Court, and I wouldn't trust any of them as

far as I could throw this castle."

Oria grinned again, then looked out the window at the sunlit snowy expanse.

Materially, our lives had changed drastically since the desperate days of our revolt against Galdran

Merindar. We were wealthy now, and my brother seemed to have been adopted by the very courtiers

whom we had grown up regarding as our enemies. While he had lingered in the capital for half a year, I

had spent much of my time initiating vast repairs to our castle and the village surrounding it. The rest of

my time was spent in banishing the ignorance I had grown up with.

"How about writing to your brother?" Oria asked at last.

"Bran is good, and kind, and as honest as the stars are old," I said, "but the more I read, the more I

realize that he has no political sense at all. He takes people as he finds them. I don't think he'd have the

first notion about what makes a good or bad ruler."

Oria nodded slowly. "In fact, I suspect he would not even like being asked." She gave me a straight look.

"There is one person you could ask, and that is the Marquis of Shevraeth."

"Ask the putative next king to evaluate his rival? Not even I would do that," I said with a grimace. "No."

"Then you could go to Court and evaluate them yourself," she stated. "Why not? Everything is finished

here, or nearly. We have peace in the county, and as for the house, you made me steward. Will you trust

me to carry your plans forward?"

"Of course I will," I said impatiently. "But that's not the issue. I won't go to Court. I don't want to ..."

"Don't want to what?" Oria persisted. I sighed.

"Don't want to relive the old humiliations."

"What humiliations?" she asked, her eyes narrowed as she studied me. "Mel, the whole country thinks

you a heroine for facing down Galdran."

"Not everyone," I muttered.

Oria crossed her arms. "Which brings us right back," she said, "to that Marquis."

I sighed again. "If I never see him again, I will be content—"

"You'll not," Oria said firmly.

I shook my head and looked out sightlessly at the snow, my mind instead reliving memories of the year

before. I could just picture how he must have described our encounters—always in that drawling voice,

with his courtier's wit—for the edification of the sophisticates at Court. How much laughter had every

noble in the kingdom enjoyed at the expense of the barefoot, ignorant Countess Meliara Astiar of Tlanth?

"Lady Meliara?" There was a tap outside the door, and Oria's mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and

I both stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully. "More Fire Sticks?" I asked. "In

midwinter?"

"Just found them outside the gate." Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went

out.

Oria grinned at me. "Maybe they're a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk

know it."

"I didn't do it," I muttered. "All I did was make mistakes."

Oria crossed her arms. "Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the

more reason to go to Court—"

"And what?" I asked sharply. "Get myself into trouble again?"

Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well.

It happened like that sometimes. We'd be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and

then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the

servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit.

"I'm sorry," I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise's letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown.

"You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind."

"I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace," Oria

said quietly. "You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it's

gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road."

I felt my temper flare, but I didn't say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn't

angry with her.

I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. "Perhaps you may be right, and I'll write to

Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!" And I picked up the book I'd been reading before the letter

came. "This is one of the ones I got just before the snows closed the roads: 'And in several places

throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and lyon Daiyin glyphs.'" I looked up from the

book. "Doesn't that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you

find these places?"

Oria shuddered. "Not me. I like it fine right here at home."

"Use your imagination!" I read on. "'Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies—'" I

stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of

warning bells at the guardhouse just down the road. "Someone's coming!" I exclaimed.

Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. "And the Hill Folk saw them." She pointed at the

Fire Sticks.

"'Them?' " I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. "Means a crowd, true enough."

Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. "Countess, I believe we have company on the road."

She looked in, and I said, "I hadn't expected anyone." Then my heart thumped, and I added, "It could be

the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain—d'you think it might be Branaric at last? I don't

see how it could be anyone else!"

"Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?" Oria asked.

"Maybe he's brought lots of servants?" I suggested doubtfully. "Perhaps his half year at Court has given

him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he's hired artisans from the capital to

help forward our work on the castle. I hope it's artisans," I added.

"Either way, we'll be wanted to find space for these newcomers," Julen said to her daughter. She picked

up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. "You ought to put on one of those gowns of

your mother's that we remade, my lady."

"For my brother?" I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. "I don't

need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!"

Julen whisked herself out.

Oria paused in the doorway. "What about your letter?"

"I guess I will have to ask Bran," I said, feeling that neck-tightening sense of foreboding again. "But later.

When I find the right time."

She ducked her head in a nod, then disappeared.

I pulled the letter from my pocket, crammed it into a carved box near my bed, and ran out of the room.

The flags were chilly on my feet, but I decided against going back in for shoes. If it really was Bran, I

wanted to be in the courtyard to see his face when he discovered the improvements to the castle.

The prospect of Bran's arrival, which we had all anticipated so long, made me slow my steps just a little,

to look at the familiar work as if it were new: windows, modernized fireplaces, and best of all, the

furnishings. My prizes were the antique plainwood tables from overseas, some with inlaid patterns, some

with scrollwork and thin lines of gilding; all of it—to my eyes, anyway—beautiful. Half the rooms had

new rugs from faraway Letarj, where the weavers know how to fashion with clear colors the shapes of

birds and flowers, and to make the rugs marvelously soft to the feet.

As I trod down the main stairway, I looked with pleasure at the smooth tiles that had replaced the worn,

uneven stones. They made the area look lighter and larger, though I hadn't changed anything in the walls.

The round window at the front of the hall had stained glass in it now, a wonderful pattern that scattered

colored light across the big stairway when the sun was just right.

Oria reappeared as I crossed the hall to the front door.

"I wish the tapestries were done," I said, giving one last glance around. "Those bare walls."

Oria nodded. "True, but who will notice, with the new tiles, and these pretty trees?"

I thanked her, feeling a little guilty. I had stolen the idea of the potted trees from the Renselaeus

palace—where I had been taken briefly during the latter part of the war—but how would they ever

know? I comforted myself with this thought and turned my attention to the others, who were all gathering

to welcome Bran.

Oria, Julen, and I had designed a handsome new livery, and both women wore their new gowns. Little

Calaub was proud of his new-sewn stablehand livery, which marked him out to his friends in the village

for his exalted future as the Astiar Master of Horse.

Village? Town, I thought, distracted, as the sound of pounding horse hooves preceded Bran's arrival.

Many of the artisans I'd hired had elected to remain, for everyone in the village had decided to improve

their homes. We suddenly had lots of business for any who wanted it, and money—at last—to pay for it

all.

The rattle up the new-paved road—our first project during summer—grew louder, and to our surprise,

not one but four coaches arrived, the first one a grand affair with our device boldly painted on its side.

Outriders clattered in, their magnificent horses kicking up the powdery snow, and for a time all was

chaos as the stablehands ran to see to the animals and lead them to our new barn.

"Four coaches?" Julen said to me, frowning. "We've room for the one. Two, if they shift things around

and squeeze up tightly."

"The last two will have to go to the old garrison barn," I said. "Leastwise it has a new roof."

Out of the first carriage stepped Bran, his hair loose and shining under a rakish plumed hat. He was

dressed in a magnificent tunic and glossy high blackweave riding boots, with a lined cloak slung over one

shoulder. He grinned at me—then he turned and, with a gesture of practiced grace that made me blink,

handed out a lady.

A lady? I gawked in dismay at the impressive hat and muffling cloak that spanned a broad skirt, and

looked down at myself, in an old skirt Oria had discarded, a worn tunic that I hadn't bothered to change

after my sword lesson that morning, and my bare feet. Then I noticed that Julen and Oria had vanished. I

stood there all alone.

In fine style Bran escorted the mysterious lady to the new slate steps leading to the big double doors

where I stood, but then he dropped her arm and bounded up, grabbing me in a big hug and swinging me

around. "Sister!" He gave me a resounding kiss and set me down. "Place looks wonderful!"

"You could have let me know you were bringing a guest," I whispered.

"And spoil a good surprise?" he asked, indicating the lady, who was still standing on the first step. "We

have plenty of room, and as you'd told me in your letter the place isn't such a rattrap anymore, I thought

why not make the trip fun and bring 'em?"

"'Them?'" I repeated faintly, but by then I already had my answer, for the outriders had resolved into a lot

of liveried servants who were busy unloading coaches and helping stablehands. Through the midst of

them strolled a tall, elegant man in a heel-length black cloak. I looked at the familiar gray eyes, the long

yellow hair—it was the Marquis of Shevraeth.

TWO

"YES," BRAN SAID CARELESSLY, INDICATING HIS TWO guests. "Nimiar—and Danric there,

whom you already know." He frowned. "Life, sister, why are there trees in here? Aren't there enough of

'em outside?"

I gritted my teeth on a really nasty retort, my face burning with embarrassment.

The lady spoke for the first time. "But Branaric, you liked them well enough at my home, and I think it a

very pretty new fashion indeed." She turned to me, and I got a swift impression of wide-set brown eyes,

a dimpled smile, and a profusion of brown curly hair beneath the elaborate hat. "I am Nimiar Argaliar,"

she said, holding out a daintily gloved hand.

Trying desperately to force my face into a semblance of friendly welcome, I stuck my own hand out,

rather stiffly. She grasped it in a warm grip for a moment as I said, "Welcome. I hope... you'll enjoy it

here."

"Do you have a welcome for me?" Shevraeth said with a faint smile as he came leisurely up the steps and

inside.

"Certainly," I said in a voice so determinedly polite it sounded false even to my own ears. "Come into the

parlor—all of you— and I'll see to refreshment. It must have been a long trip."

"Slow," Bran said, looking around. "Roads are still bad down-mountain, but not up here anymore. You

have been busy, haven't you, Mel? All I remember in this hallway is the mildew and the broken stone

floor. And the parlor! What was the cost of this mosaic ceiling? Not that it matters, but it's as fine as

anything in Athanarel."

I'd been proud of the parlor, over which I had spent a great deal of time. The ceiling had inlaid tiles in the

same summer-sky blue that comprised the main color of the rugs and cushions and the tapestry on the

wall opposite the newly glassed windows. Now I sneaked a look at the Marquis, dreading an expression

of amusement or disdain. But his attention seemed to be reserved for the lady as he led her to the

scattering of cushions before the fireplace, where she knelt down with a graceful sweeping of her skirts.

Bran went over and opened the fire vents.

"If I'd known of your arrival, it would have been warm in here."

Bran looked over his shoulder in surprise. "Well, where d'you spend your days? Not still in the kitchens?"

"In the kitchens and the library and wherever else I'm needed," I said; and though I tried to sound cheery,

it came out sounding resentful. "I'll be back after I see about food and drink."

Feeling very much like I was making a cowardly retreat, I ran down the long halls to the kitchen, cursing

my bad luck as I went. There I found Julen, Oria, the new cook, and his assistant all standing in a knot

talking at once. As soon as I appeared, the conversation stopped.

Julen and Oria turned to face me—Oria on the verge of laughter.

"The lady can have the new rose room, and the lord the corner suite next to your brother. But they've got

an army of servants with them, Countess," Julen said heavily. Whenever she called me Countess, it was a

sure sign she was deeply disturbed over something. "Where'll we house them? There's no space in our

wing, not till we finish the walls."

"And who's to wait on whom?" Oria asked as she carefully brought my mother's good silver trays out

from the wall-shelves behind the new-woven coverings. "Glad we've kept these polished," she added.

"I'd say find out how many of those fancy palace servants are kitchen trained, and draft 'em. And then

see if some of the people from that new inn will come up, for extra wages. Bran can unpocket the extra

pay," I said darkly, "if he's going to make a habit of disappearing for half a year and reappearing with

armies of retainers. As for housing, well, the garrison does have a new roof, so they can all sleep there.

We've got those new Fire Sticks to warm 'em up with."

"What about meals for your guests?" Oria said, her eyes wide. I'd told Oria last summer that she could

become steward of the house. While I'd been ordering books on trade, and world history, and

governments, she had been doing research on how the great houses were currently run; and it was she

who had hired Demnan, the new cook. We'd eaten well over the winter, thanks to his genius. I looked at

Oria. "This is it. No longer just us, no longer practice, it's time to dig out all your plans for running a fine

house for a noble family. Bran and his two Court guests will need something now after their long journey,

and I have no idea what's proper to offer Court people."

"Well, I do," Oria said, whirling around, hands on hips, her face flushed with pleasure. "We'll make you

proud, I promise."

I sighed. "Then ... I guess I'd better go back." As I ran to the parlor, pausing only to ditch my blanket in

an empty room, I steeled myself to be polite and pleasant no matter how much my exasperating brother

inadvertently provoked me—but when I pushed aside the tapestry at the door, they weren't there. And

why should they be? This was Branaric's home, too. A low murmur of voices, and a light, musical,

feminine laugh drew me to the library. At least this room is nothing to be ashamed of, I thought, trying

to steady my racing heart. I walked in, reassuring myself with the sight of the new furnishings and, on the

wall, my framed map of the world, the unknown scribe's exquisitely exact use of color to represent

mountains, plains, forests, lakes, and cities making it a work of art.

And on the shelves, the beginnings of a library any family might be proud of. Just last winter the room had

been bare, the shelves empty. Ten years it had been so, ever since the night my father found out my

mother had been killed; and in a terrible rage, he'd stalked in and burned every book there, from ancient

to new. I now had nearly fifty books, all handsomely bound.

My head was high as I crossed the room to the groupings of recliner cushions, each with its lamp, that I'd

had arranged about the fireplace. Of course this room was warm, for it had a Fire Stick, since I was so

often in it.

Bran and his two guests looked up as I approached, and I realized that they had somehow gotten rid of

their hats, cloaks, and gloves. To one of their servants? I should have seen to it, I realized, but I

dismissed the thought. Too late—and it wasn't as if I'd known they were coming.

Lady Nimiar smiled, and Bran gave me his reckless grin. "Here y'are at last, Mel," he said. "We have

something warm to drink on the way?"

"Soon. Also had to arrange housing for all those people you brought."

"Some of 'em are mine. Ours," he corrected hastily.

"Good, because we plan to put them all to work. The servants' wing is all still open to the sky. We're

having it expanded. Had you ever seen the tiny rooms, and half of them with no fire vents? Anyway, the

first snows came so early and so fierce we had to abandon the construction."

"They can go to the garrison," Bran said. "We saw it on the way in. Looks nice and snug. Where'd you

get all these new books?"

"Bookseller in the capital. I'm trying to duplicate what Papa destroyed, though nothing will restore the

family histories that no one had ever copied."

"Most of 'em were dull as three snoring bears, burn me if they weren't!" he said, making a warding

motion with one hand.

I wished I'd had the chance to decide for myself, but there was no purpose in arguing over what couldn't

be fixed, so I just shook my head.

Right then Julen came in, her face solemn and closed as she bore the fine silver tray loaded with spiced

hot wine and what I recognized as the apple tart we would have had after dinner, now all cut into dainty

pieces and served with dollops of whipped cream on the gold-and-blue edged porcelain plates that were

our last delivery before the roads were closed. She set those down and went out.

Bran looked at me. "We serving ourselves?"

"Until we get some people from the inn," I said.

Bran sighed, getting up. "You were right, Nee. I ought to have written ahead. Thought the surprise would

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CourtDuelbySherwoodSmith(BookTwooftheCrownandCourtDuet)PROLOGUETHESCRIBESINTHEHERALDRYGUILDWRITETHEhistoryofRemalna.WhatIamdoinghereistellingmyownhistory:howI,MeliaraAstiar,whogrewuprunningwildwiththevillagegirlsandscarcelyknewhowtoread,managedtofindmyselfsweptupintheaffairsofkings.Whowillreadmyhist...

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Sherwood Smith - Crown and Court Duet - 02 - Court Duel

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