Ayleth

"Well, yes," Ayleth said carefully, unable to meet the young Lord's eyes. "I did learn to fight by being trained by men. But it was… a function of my role as a ruler, you understand? Not a… social time."

"But… he had to touch you!" Prince Gjorge was scandalized. "It simply isn't proper for someone of your stature!"

Ayleth pressed her lips together in a tight smile. "It was with my Knight Defender only. So that I could defend myself in the event of—"

"Is the man lazy? Did he not think he could protect you? Is that not his job?" Had the young Lord been any less horrified—apparently for thoughts of her honor—had he appeared more judgmental, she might have stomped on his foot. But he seemed to be truly trying to find an answer to his horror. Apparently he wanted her to reassure him that her training hadn't ruined her.

Dear Lord, what went on in the minds of men?

"He is only one man," Ayleth explained patiently. "If I am able to defend myself, then no matter who is nearby, there is less chance I will be taken. Or harmed."

The man frowned, but didn't answer. Instead, he looked over her shoulder and scowled—presumably at Falek, who prowled the Hall like a lion on the hunt.

He was utterly furious with her—and had been abundantly clear that he wanted no information about where she'd been, or with who. He was only relieved that she was back safely. He'd ushered her back to the ballroom—one hand clamped on her wrist like a manacle. And when he'd released her at the doors, it was with a warning look.

As the young Prince spun her into a turn and her beautiful dress swung out behind her, Ayleth sighed.

One more week before all of this sneaking and hiding could be finished.

They finished their dance with little more conversation. Ayleth suspected the Lord wouldn't ask for her again. And she wasn't sad.

It was her fifth dance in a row, each with a different man, so before another could approach, she picked up her skirts—which were still slightly wrinkled—and headed for the stage where her parents sat, surrounded by several of the Court.

When she dropped into her seat—a ridiculous thing that looked like a miniature throne—her mother leaned on the arm of her chair and looked at Ayleth. "Where did you disappear to?" she murmured, smiling so anyone watching wouldn't notice the fierce light in her eyes.

"I had a stomach complaint," Ayleth said, looking down as if she were embarrassed. "Trayn and Falek were with me."

Her mother looked at her a moment, then nodded. "You are feeling better?"

"Mostly," she said.

They sat there quietly for a moment, watching the dancers below. Trystan caught her eye, and she smiled a greeting. He smiled back, but then his eyes widened and he turned away.

"Someone likes you," her mother murmured. "You've danced with him the most, yes?"

"Yes, and I plan to do so again," Ayleth replied, trying to pretend she was excited about the idea.

Her mother hesitated. "I'll admit, when he caught your attention early, I didn't really take your idea seriously. But… it has merit. His nation is definitely a useful tool. Though it isn't the strategy I would have employed, I also cannot fault it. Have you spoken to your father? I know Lord Andeluve has not. Has he spoken to you? Asked for you, or indicated that the might?"

"I think he's torn," Ayleth said. "And honestly, so am I. I like him a great deal. But I'm not sure that is enough for a marriage."

"Trust me," her mother said dryly, "Most marriages begin on a lot less."

Ayleth turned to look at her then. "But you said—"

"Not everyone can be blessed by the… heat your father and I enjoyed," her mother said quietly, her eyes cutting towards her father with a sleek smile. "But that heat can develop with time, Ayleth. Comfort and companionship… they are a solid foundation."

Ayleth actually frowned at her mother. Not something she would usually do, but she was utterly confused. "You have told me to seek the Quickening. You've told me to look for the man who lights the fire within me."

"And I'm telling you that sometimes, the fire begins low, but grows," her mother purred. "I have seen you relax when you're with… what is his name?"

"Trystan."

"I've seen you relax when you're with Trystan. That is a valuable thing in a marriage."

Ayleth turned back to the dancefloor and looked at Trystan. Why did this conversation cut deeply? Because, when the time came for her parents to learn about Etan, she had hoped her mother would be swayed by the connection they had. "Are you saying that friendship is more important than… the other?"

"Not at all. I'm saying beginning with friendship will deepen your physical connection. And when it does, your friendship is in turn increased by the intimacy. The two work together. If you can find one, explore whether the other is also possible. The best husband will offer both."

"I will do that," she said. "Thank you, Mother."

"Such a good girl you are, Ayleth."

"Thank you, Mother."

They sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes. Ayleth accepted a goblet of wine from one of the servants. She watched Trystan—smiling, jovial—speak with the men around him, and dance with more than one other Lady.

How was it for him, she wondered, having feelings he could not act upon? Or that he knew would not be returned?

Heartbreaking, surely?

He turned again and saw her watching, and his eyebrows rose. He tipped his head towards the dancefloor, and she nodded. When he started towards the stage, she couldn't help but smile.

It was such a relief for her to know there was someone among all these royals who cared for her and how she felt.

How, she wondered, would she return the favor? "Mother," she blurted suddenly.

"Yes, dear?"

"I think I will ride out with Trystan again tomorrow."

"Very good, dear. Just be certain you do not put yourself in a position of having to accept his suit because appearances seem… scandalous. Leave yourself room to find another."

"I will. But I do like riding with him. Do you think we could, perhaps, lessen the guard?"

Her mother turned to look at her, and Ayleth gave her an entirely innocent look in return. Her mother's smile grew slowly. "I will speak with your father."

"Thank you, mother."