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queen of peace

Summary:

Csethiro broke abruptly free of the pack and came sweeping towards him with hands outstretched, probably hoping to do damage control.
“Serenity,” she said, ignoring her father, who seemed to be wanting to prompt her like a conductor. “We are honoured to have you here.”
Maia had very little experience with the specific social mortifications of an embarrassing family— his own having simply chosen to forget he existed— and it wouldn’t have been fair to make a judgement, but there was already an undeniable tinge of the ridiculous to the entire affair.

(Awkward dinners are part and parcel of the Emperor's role... but the Ceredada really are spectacularly embarrassing.)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

LEONATO’S BROTHER, to HERO: Well, niece, I trust you / will be ruled by your father.

 

BEATRICE: Yes, faith, it is my cousin’s duty to make / curtsy and say “Father, as it please you.” But yet for / all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or / else make another curtsy and say “Father, as it / please me.”

 

(Much Ado About Nothing, 2.1.49-56)

 


 

The Ceredada page arrived pink at the ears and panting, as if he had run the whole way to the Alcethmeret. 

Perhaps he had; Csethiro said, “How now, Teina?” in a tone of distinct suspicion. She and Maia had abandoned any pretence of work, dance practice or otherwise, in favour of gossiping— mostly about the difficulties of the wedding seating plan Csevet was drafting— but any of her previous amusement had suddenly become narrow anticipation.

In lieu of answering, Teina fell on his face in a perfect, but slightly painful-looking prostration at Maia’s feet, and before anyone could say anything, rattled off:

“Serenity, our master the Marquess Ceredel bids us bring this to you, with best well-wishes and felicitations.”

He held up a letter, to illustrate the point.

“Oh,” said Maia, wondering why Csethiro had not simply brought it when she had come here this morning. “Thank you. Csevet, if you would…?”

The page remained in the prostration until Csevet had come marching over to pluck the letter from his hands, at which point Teina leapt to his feet, and stared fixedly at his left boot. Maia thought this was mostly so he did not have to look at Csethiro, who had left behind anticipation and was now staring at Teina in abject horror. She caught Maia’s eye, and regained herself just enough to grind out, with very forced calm:

“We will tell the response to Father, Teina.” 

“Dach’osmin, your father commanded—” The page met her eyes at last, and seemed to give up. He bowed to both of them, and sidled outside without finishing the protest.

Maia and Csevet had a moment of perplexed silence— and then Csevet said, turning to Csethiro: “Dach’osmin, do you know what this is?”

“We fear we may,” said Csethiro thinly. “Go on, Mer Aisava. Open it. We are not happy about it, but it is relatively innocuous.”

Csevet quirked an ear slightly, and slit the seal with the wicked duck-headed letter opener that he always carried with him. Maia had long suspected it was meant to double as a weapon, should the need arise. He examined the contents for a moment, then said, mildly; “Ah.”

“Quite right, Mer Aisava,” said Csethiro. “You might even make an oath if you wish— we shall not be offended.”

“Read it, please, Csevet,” said Maia, baffled. Csevet bowed.

“Serenity.” He cleared his throat, and read; “To His Imperial Serenity Edrehasivar VII, the Marquess Ceredel of House Ceredada humbly offers all felicitations and well-wishes. As the happy occasion of your Serenity’s marriage to our daughter, the Dach’osmin Csethiro Ceredin, draws nearer—”

“He must either think thee very forgetful, or me very nondescript, if he presumes to remind thee which one of his daughters I am,” muttered Csethiro.

“—it would please and honour us greatly if your Serenity would consent to dine with us upon the occasion of our family’s customary spring banquet— in celebration of our renewed closer ties, and in the hope of a favourable future for yourself and our daughter. Ever your loyal servant— the Marquess Ceredel.”

Maia looked slowly between a displeased Csethiro and a neutral Csevet, for some sort of cue.

“It is… a dinner invitation,” he said. No one disagreed. Csevet said: 

“It is a little old-fashioned, Serenity, and the Marquess’s wording is somewhat… peculiar, but it is not so improper. It would be seen as reasonable goodwill, we think.”

Csethiro took in a breath between her teeth.

"Thou’rt perfectly within thine rights to say no, Maia," she said. 

"Dost thou think I shouldst say no?" asked Maia probingly. Csethiro pinked around her ears. He did not usually find her easy to fluster, and wondered what exactly the problem was. 

"I should be pleased,” Csethiro said tightly, “But I am concerned that the Ceredada would not be quite..." She stopped, abruptly. And then she said, slightly desperately: "Oh, damn it all— Maia, I do love my father, but he is ridiculous, and ‘tis a family trait. If thou dost accept, thou canst be sure of an agonisingly embarrassing occasion, an I would prefer not to subject thee to an evening of bluster and thoughtlessness."

Maia could not stop an incredulous smile sliding onto his face, but Csethiro had turned agitatedly to the window, and didn't seem to notice. He looked at Csevet instead, who made an expression of pained acquiescence. 

"The Ceredada are too busy congratulating themselves for ascending back to imperial favour, to consider what might be prudent, ” Csethiro said crossly, staring out onto the Alcethmeret gardens. “The memory of imperial disfavour is very fresh, but they flee from it so hastily that they do not think to learn anything from it at all. While Great-Aunt Arbelan is certainly all things sensible and excellent, she stood out as a prospective bride for Varenechibel in part because she was the only of her ludicrous relatives with an ounce of sense. I am certain thy father must have initially thought he had done an excellent job of securing Ceredada money and Ceredada influence, without a Ceredada man involved. The male patriarchal line has long been a succession of weak, easily-swayed, embarrassing men, propped up by their far more competent wives or sisters, and the efforts of their ancestors. By the time Arbelan was relegated, her brother had spent far too long cringing behind the bulwark of being the Empress’s brother, and Varenechibel was happy to let him fall with his sister, if only to get rid of him. If Father were wise— which he is not— he and the rest of the family would certainly keep their heads down.” She turned back, arms folded. “...an yet I can see from thy face, Edrehasivar the Obstinate, that thou wishest to go.” 

“I certainly will not if it displeases thee,” said Maia, who had honestly assumed he had no choice in the matter. “But it seems thy father will hold the dinner regardless of my response, no?”

“He will,” said Csethiro, frowning. “It is customary that our relatives who live outside of the court come to us around this time of the year, and he will certainly desire to… show me off.”

“I will come,” said Maia mildly. He knew well the particular agony of being the unwilling crown jewel of an event, especially when one was desperate to be almost anywhere else. “Csevet, can it be arranged?”

“Certainly, Serenity.”

Csethiro smiled slightly wolfishly, but her ears were betraying agitation. 

“Thou’rt very noble, to be sure, but ‘twill be agonising. I shall try my best to temper my father’s expectations— for instance, he does not think my sisters should be there, but—”

“I should like to meet thy sisters,” said Maia mildly. He decided not to point out to Csethiro that most of the dinners he went to were agonising, and that it was only sometimes the fault of his hosts.

“I thought as much,” said Csethiro wryly. “Well, I agree thou shouldst meet them— but they are tough company indeed, and when they all try to talk to thee at the same time, thou wilt remember that I warned thee…”


“Emiro! What happened to my good shoes?”

“I put them in thy chest—”

“‘Tis nothing there!”

“Look again!”

“Hes, Hes, do my hair—”

“Do thine own hair.”

“It looks wrong!”

Csethiro marched through the chaos with her skirts hiked up to her knees, and immediately fell to disentangling Iru’s mess of a braid.

“Where hast thou been?” demanded Emiro, looking up from a linen chest with two odd shoes in her hands. “He should be here in less than half an hour!”

“Helping the Marchioness dress,” said Csethiro tightly, and ignored Emiro’s reproachful look. Their father’s second wife so desperately wanted them to call her stepmother, but Csethiro could not bear to call a woman three years her senior anything of the sort, and had settled behind the icy formality like a shield. “Curb thine scoldings, Emiro, I am ready— and thou’rt not, I see.”

“Is Stepmother really coming to dine?” said Iru. “She is so big with the baby, I thought she would not fit behind the table…”

“She thinks it polite to attend on the Emperor at least a little while. I have reassured her that he wouldst not reproach her retiring prematurely,” said Csethiro, sectioning off Iru’s hair briskly. Emiro got up, discarding the shoes.

“I ne’er saw that necklace before,” she said slyly. “Opals? ‘Tis not from the Cered’mura.”

“‘Tis new. Iru, keep thy head still.” 

“Not bought with thy pin-money, I’d wager…”

“No. A gift,” said Csethiro stiffly.

“From whom?” said Emiro innocently. When Csethiro didn’t answer, she crowed; “I knew the Emperor had sent thee something the other week, for thou wouldst not show me the box that came at noon! Ay, I knew it was from the Imperial vault, ‘tis fine…”

“The— off, Emiro—” Csethiro shoved her hands away. “What, vainglory? Go to, be of some use. Help Sal.”  

Emiro went drifting back to the mirror, still smirking. Iru waited until Csethiro had secured her hair, then leapt around to stare at her.

“The Emperor sent a present for thee, and thou saidst nothing?”

“I said nothing to thee, for it ‘twas none of thy concern,” said Csethiro pertly. “Where art thy gloves?”

“Thou never speak’st of the Emperor,” said Saleheio reproachfully, from the end of Emiro’s bed. She had put her kirtle on backwards, and Csethiro motioned her over so she could fix it. 

“It does not do, to gossip—”

“But all thou ever seemst to do with Verdero and Aizheän and Lurino is gossip,” said Hesiriän. Csethiro shot her a glare, but she persisted, which was unlike her; “Csethiro, thou simply dost not want to tell us about the Emperor— but now we must know, for we will see him...”

Csethiro gritted her teeth, but her sisters had seen an opening; they peppered her with questions as she laced up stays, found lost tashin sticks, arranged bunched-up petticoats and braided hair, but she was too wound-up to offer answers longer than one or two words.

“Is he tall?” said Saleheio. 

“Fairly,” said Csethiro, picking the knot of Salheio’s attempt at lacing her own petticoats. Her stepmother had commandeered their maid Min Lierein for her own use tonight, or else she might not have been stuck trying to dress herself and three of her younger sisters. But in fairness to the Marchioness, at her stage of pregnancy dressing herself would have been some task, and she had seemed tired and uncomfortable this evening. Csethiro felt for her, but struggled to truly like her—

“Is he as tall as his grandpapa?” said Iru, interrupting her train of thought. 

“Certainly not. An thou hast seen him before, I remind thee.”

“I was too short to see anything, spare the back of Papa’s jerkin,” said Iru morosely. “So was Sal. Is’t true he is only a little bit older than Emiro?”

“Yes. He is nineteen—”

“Why dost he not marry Emiro, then? She is nearly nineteen.”

“Remember thy lessons, Iru,” said Emiro tautly, fussing with her hair dressings. “‘Tis proper that the oldest eligible daughter is offered to the Emperor.”

In truth, Csethiro had always found it curious that she had been picked from the two of them; they had both been out when the Corazhas had drawn up the list, and there was no actual rule about the oldest, only tradition. Emiro was a closer age to Maia, more beautiful than Csethiro, and less given to unpalatable hobbies like swordplay and academia. Csethiro had recently begun to coddle a suspicion that the Alcethmeret household had something to do with it— that Maia’s attendants had weighed up their new Emperor’s character, then plucked a suitable counterbalance from the scrapping mass of suitable maidens. It would be just like Csevet Aisava to play the personal and the political at the same time. It was a gratifying thought to imagine that she had been picked in part because of her personality, not in spite of it… but she was sure she would never find out, either way.

“Is the Emperor nice, Csethiro?” said Hesiriän desperately. 

Csethiro looked up, and found all four of her sisters staring at her beseechingly. Iru and Saleheio looked like their own fashion dolls— girls still too young for dropped hems, trussed up in fashions too old for them. Emiro was fussing in the corner with combs and maquillage, her vanity exacerbated by nerves; though perhaps not as acutely nervous as poor Hesiriän, who looked almost sick, sitting with her hands clenched in her lap. She had only a year to go until she entered court herself, and had very little practice with formal events, let alone events with the Emperor. She was cripplingly shy, and their father and stepmother were wringing their hands over her prospects. 

At least Maia would be kind to them if they erred.

“Yes,” said Csethiro, softening slightly—

“Is he handsome?”

“Iru,” snarled Csethiro.

“I only ask!” wailed Iru. “Thou hast never wanted to answer questions before!”

This was true, Csethiro thought grimly. She had, until this point, told her sisters almost nothing about Maia; at first because she didn’t want her unhappiness at the match to upset them, and then, afterwards, because she didn’t know how to. Emiro had seen him at court events, and had asked some leading questions that Csethiro had swatted away, but for all her teasing and her vanity, she didn’t have any real spite in her, and would wait patiently for Csethiro to broach the topic herself. If she ever did. The others had only seen him from a distance, at the funeral and the coronation—

“Dost thou love him?” said Saleheio curiously. 

“Put thy shoes on!” barked Csethiro, by way of response.

“She thinks we're going to embarrass her in front of the Emperor,” Emiro muttered.

“I think no such thing,” said Csethiro, who was worrying about it, but in an abstracted, semi-amused manner— unlike her panic over her father and uncles, which was far more real. “Thou must all simply be… polite, and all shall be well.”

“What must we not do?” said Hesiriän, which was probably a better question.

“Do not—” Csethiro searched desperately for a way of phrasing it. “Do not alarm him. Do  not keep pressing questions, he is easily discomfited. Like thee, Hes, he is— shy.”

“Emperors can’t be shy,” frowned Iru, but Csethiro pressed;

“Well, he is.” 

Emiro was listening with a slightly quirked eyebrow, no doubt getting more out of this admittance than the younger girls would be. Csethiro wondered if she was remembering Loran Duchenin’s sneering epithet, Edrehasivar Half-Tongue.

“What shouldst we talk about?” said Saleheio, too young to really know anything about the mild nothingness of formal court pleasantries. 

Csethiro hesitated. She had the impression Maia had never been taught a great deal about art or culture; general court opinion was that his education had been, at best, inconsistent. He seemed to like to hear about music and literature and painting, but it always seemed to Csethiro that it was his first time hearing most of it. He knew odd scraps— wonder-tales, pieces of opera, a surprising amount about embroidery and tapestry— that made Csethiro think that everything Chenelo Drazharan had ever expressed an interest in, he had remembered. But there had clearly been no real education.

“Well— how about thou tell’st him about thine interests, or thine lessons? All of thee.”

“Oh,” said Saleheio. “But Papa says that we should ask great men questions, not tell them things, in case they do not care to hear of it.”

“But he shouldst like to hear,” said Csethiro firmly.

“Soothly?”

“Yes. Now— ah.” 

Csethiro got up as the door opened, and in came their father, beaming and wearing a doublet that would have looked insufferable on a young man, let alone on a middle-aged Marquess. It was yellow, and sported the slashed sleeves which one pulled the undershirt through— it was fashionable in Thu-Cethor, but had never truly caught on in the court. The effect was that he looked like a stuffed pastry, and the yellow and white clashed badly with his nervous pallor and pale colouring, as well as with the gold rings in his ears and the citrine beads in his hair. He was not a bad-looking man, but he was unfashionable and refused to be told so. Csethiro had long given up attempting to push him into combinations that were less arresting.

“Now girls, now girls!” he said, in a tone that did not quite achieve jollity, and instead fell into the range of slightly desperate. “Art thou ready, my doves?”

There was a certain amount of panicked scuffling behind her, so Csethiro said; “Almost, Father.”

A bracelet flew past the Marquess’s ear. Ceredel sighed.

“At least I can always rely upon thee to be punctual, dear Csethiro. The green well-beseems thee— an’ thou’rt wearing the Emperor’s necklace, excellent, excellent…” He nodded to himself, satisfied. “‘Tis a good scheme.”

Ceredel seemed to exist in a perpetual state of panic over whether or not Maia would suddenly change his mind about marrying Csethiro, and as a result was constantly attempting to contrive ways in which the Emperor could be flattered, guilted, or outright seduced into preferring the Ceredada match. He lacked the courage to actually put any of them into practice, thankfully, but it did not stop him agonising over it. 

Now Csethiro looked at her father, eager and almost panting with anxiety in his terrible doublet, and pursed her lips. She still did not entirely forgive him for delivering her into the jaws of a completely unpredictable imperial match with all the enthusiasm of a horse breeder with a prize mare, and she could not take back everything she had shouted at him during their arguments about it— but in her heart of hearts, she understood why he had done it. The Ceredada under Varenechibel had not been happy, and they had not been safe. They had been badly affrighted by Arbelan’s relegation, and Csethiro knew her father had grown up in an anxious and impoverished household— not least because he talked about it all the time. Ceredel was desperate to make sure the family would firmly return to prosperity and security, and his way of going about it had not been wise, nor careful, but it had been done, and it was too late now. He was sickeningly lucky that Csethiro actually liked Maia— and that was exactly why she had given her father no indication, either way, of her actual feelings towards the Emperor. She would not yet give him the satisfaction of knowing his reckless gamble on the unknown Edrehasivar VII had paid off. For all he had known or cared at the time, he could have been marrying his daughter to a maniac. So long as the Ceredada’s coffers flourished and their house prospered… what did it matter?

Iru bobbed up next to them and leant on Csethiro’s side, clamping her skinny arms around her waist. Csethiro smoothed a few errant hairs and smiled at her; and, of course, by marrying Csethiro to the Emperor, Ceredel could afford handsome dowries for every one of his daughters. Each of their prospects would be greatly advanced by their proximity to the Drazharda; that, too, was not something for which Csethiro could fault him.

“Can I show the Emperor my frogs, Papa?” said Iru.

“No, dear,” said Ceredel reflexively. He saw Iru’s face, and added placatingly; “Perhaps another time.”

“But—”

The downside, Csethiro considered, of telling her family nothing about the Emperor, was that they had all come to their own conclusions about him. She was sure that Maia would be nothing but gently perplexed to be presented with an amphibian, but less than two years ago this had been the far more intemperate Varenechibel’s court, and old habits clung to the old courtiers. Her father, it seems, had been blinded by the imperial white, and looked no further than that.

An’ thou wert no better, she reminded herself grimly. She was wise enough to own that she and her father shared a certain short-sightedness— though hers, she knew, was bourne of stubbornness, not foolishness. It was not quite better, but it was something.

“Now now, dear,” the Marquess was saying, “We must all be on our best behaviour, for—”

Iru mumbled along with him on the oft-uttered phrase: “...thy sister is going to marry the Emperor soon…”

“...and I wouldst ne’er give him reason to object to us!” 

Ceredel laughed, but it was not very convincing. He cleared his throat, rubbed his hands together, and went to fuss over Emiro. 

“‘Tis only frogs…” mumbled Iru crossly, but she seemed to have given up. Csethiro gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“Pay him no mind, dear. He is but nervous.”

“He’s always nervous about something,” said Iru. Csethiro could not really disagree with that.


As with the last time Maia had seen him, the Marquess Ceredel was a fussy, slightly cringing man in his forties, with Csethiro’s weak jaw and hard blue eyes. While his daughter made them look arresting, on the Marquess they seemed to dominate his face, absorbing his other features into nondescript isolation. He all but ran up to Maia when he was shown in by the pages, trailed by his brothers— a gaggle of men between middle-aged and late twenties, none of whose names Maia managed to retain, so hastily were they introduced. 

Maia’s edocharei had made a distinct effort today, and Avris, in an usually jaunty mood, had rattled off a long anecdote about meeting his wife’s father, who had made a distinct attempt to intimidate him by wearing a greatsword at the table, which had discomfited everyone involved. Maia did not think he would find that same hostility from the Marquess Ceredel, who was so eager to please he was practically hyperventilating— and at any rate, his daughter was far more likely to bear arms to dinner than he was. He was wearing a strange yellow doublet that made him look rather pallid, but Maia somehow doubted it had any hidden agenda, besides expressing the vanity of a man unfortunately unfashionable. 

He was bearing on his arm the Marchioness Ceredaran, his very pregnant young wife— his second wife, Maia reminded himself, Csethiro’s mother being several years dead. He was slightly horrified that the new Marchioness had felt obliged to attend on him in her condition, but she planted herself bravely next to her husband, and swatted away several cousins who tried to convince her to sit down. She was dressed a little more tastefully than the Marquess, in a muted orange, and Maia found her obliging and chatty, if not particularly quick. The Marquess’s conversation, for his part, see-sawed wildly between jocular and scraping, seeming to remember at intervals variably that this was his daughter's betrothed, but also that this was Varenechibel’s son, and the current Emperor.

“Our daughters will be along presently,” he said rather suddenly, after a rambling anecdote about the Duke Celehel that Maia struggled to follow. “They are…”

There was a distinct thud, and muffled arguing, from upstairs. Maia politely pretended not to notice.

“Fussing,” finished the Marquess lamely. “You know how women are.”

“Yes,” said Maia vaguely, who didn’t. The Marquess didn’t seem sure, either, and took to introducing Maia to a further parade of cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents that Maia could not have remembered all of the names of if he tried. Arbelan Zhasanai was nowhere to be found; Maia suspected if an invitation had been offered at all, it had been rejected, and he did not blame her for it, but he would have been grateful for another friendly face. The only people who particularly stuck out to him were Csethiro’s grandmother, an imperious elderly woman who gripped his hand very hard and looked at him very closely, and an older aunt who smiled at him with a peculiar timid look that seemed almost like fellowship, which Maia did not quite understand.

He was not allowed to ruminate on it any longer, however, for at that point a door at the end of the receiving room was flung open, for—

“Ah, the Ceredin maidens— and all five, too!” said a cousin brightly.

Someone muttered, well ‘twill be four, soon… and there were a few ill-natured titters, but they were mostly quashed by the appearance of Csethiro, magnificent in basil-green velvet, moonstone hair ornaments, and the opal necklace Maia had sent for her. Maia felt a very abrupt and slightly stupid thrill to see her wear it— even though logic told him there was no reason why she would not have liked it, considering she had helped him pick it. A secondary thought prevailed, and he wondered if his edocharei and the Ceredada had coordinated their choices; as usual, he had been wrestled into white velvet brocade, but the jewellery Esha had selected for him was also predominantly opals and moonstones. It seemed someone— he was not sure who— had thought it might be prudent for him and Csethiro to put up a matching front. He was not sure he disagreed. 

Csethiro’s sisters thronged about her, all pale-haired elf girls in deep-tone dresses; there was a certain amount of tight hand-holding and sideways glaring going on that suggested to Maia the older girls were trying to enforce some sort of order upon the younger. Csethiro broke abruptly free of the pack and came sweeping towards him with hands outstretched, probably hoping to do damage control. 

“Serenity,” she said, ignoring her father, who seemed to be wanting to prompt her like a conductor. “We are honoured to have you here.” 

Maia had very little experience with the specific social mortifications of an embarrassing family— his own having simply chosen to forget he existed— and it wouldn’t have been fair to make a judgement, but there was already an undeniable tinge of the ridiculous to the entire affair. 

Still, he had been warned, and so he smiled and bent his head to kiss Csethiro’s hand— it was both proper and expected, but there was still a hastily smothered squeak from one of the sisters. Clearly someone was a romantic, which both embarrassed and amused Maia. 

“Dach’osmin Ceredin,” he said. “It is a pleasure, we assure you. Would you be so kind as to introduce us to your sisters?”

Beside Csethiro, the Marquess looked violently relieved, and took to flapping at the sisters like a giant yellow bat, so he could present them to the Emperor. 

The girls all had a strong resemblance about the nose and cheeks, and it clearly did not come from the Marquess, so Maia could only assume Csethiro’s mother had made her mark on each of the girls. Eighteen-year-old Emiro he recognised from court events; Csethiro had fondly but a little sardonically pointed her out as the pretty one. She had the same flawless court manners as her sister, though an element of good-natured vanity and cheerful self-importance that her sister lacked. Fifteen-year-old Hesiriän was perfectly formal, but she was obviously terribly shy, and almost whispered her platitudes— she clutched Emiro’s hand and could not meet his eyes. Maia sympathised badly. Eleven-year-old Iru and seven-year-old Saleheio were really too young to be at an event like this, but they both bobbed clumsy curtsies and stared at Maia in commingled suspicion and curiosity. Maia suspected they had begged to come too, in the youngest children’s dislike of being left out that he often perceived in Ino and Mireän. Csethiro kept them both in her eyeline as Maia escorted her into dinner, apparently thinking she wanted to keep control of them.

Maia ended up sat between Csethiro and Hesiriän, and opposite some uncle of Csethiro’s from Thu-Cethor, who wasted no time in scraping, cooing, and generally attempting to flatter his stonefaced niece, who very obviously did not like him. Nearby sat Emiro and another set of aunts, including the same woman who had smiled at Maia; she kept looking at him, which wasn’t unusual for the Emperor, but Maia was struck with the nervous sense that he somehow should know her. On his other side, Hesiriän was trembling with the effort of remembering her table manners, and under the pointed gaze of her father, who was opposite her. 

It wasn’t just the Marquess, Maia discovered quickly; the whole of House Ceredada were unbelievably anxious to please. They provided conversation, seized onto every comment he made, and made for aggressively compliant, if slightly hamfisted, hosts. Maia had half-wondered if Csethiro was going to coach them, but her father’s attitude said she had not; Ceredel clearly had no idea who he was dealing with, and kept asking nervous leading questions, probing for some kind of reassurance. Maia thought it was a little late for him to be trying to ascertain what sort of person he was, since the marriage contract was signed, but he nonetheless offered to make prayers to Csaivo for the safe deliverance of the Marchioness when she was brought to bed; he said no, he had never been to Barizhan, and Winternight had been the first time he had met his grandfather; he agreed that the green beseemed Csethiro very well.

“You are wise in your pick of a bride, Serenity,” said Dach’osmer Cazhivar, the Thu-Cethor uncle that Csethiro seemed to be hoping would drop dead during the fish course. “Our nieces are all good girls, but— hm, well, we agree Csethiro is the preferable choice! Emiro is terribly vain, she will empty her father’s coffers with buying her shoes and combs. We pity the husband who must bankroll her wardrobe…”

Emiro, within earshot, apparently took no offence— she made an affected gesture of preening, then smiled at her frowning sister, flicked an ear, and shrugged. Cazhivar noticed and laughed loudly, leaning across to pat the hand of poor Hesiriän, who had clearly been trying to avoid notice.

“And we are sure we have never heard Hesiriän say more than three words— have we, dear?” 

Hesiriän flushed a deep, mortified red, and stared at her plate. Cazhivar waited, then, seeing she was not going to change that, merely snorted. “Do not expect stimulating conversation from her, Serenity, she is no great orator. ‘Tis almost easy to forget that she is in the room… oh, and the other two are far too young and silly to be of any notice at this point— though we have every hope of them making proper Ceredin maids when they are older.” He leant smilingly across to Csethiro, almost putting his elbow in the artichokes. “Csethiro, you may not be the pretty one, dear, but you are very politick, and you have the… robustness required for an Empress. And we can tell you Serenity, she is a tough girl, never sick, oh dear, no— never had a day of illness in her life, the most hale of women—”

“Thank you, Uncle, for your astute observations,” said Csethiro witheringly, clearly tracking where her uncle’s thoughts were leading. “We are sure if His Serenity ever requires an itemised list of our attributes, we shall call upon you to deliver it.”

If Cazhivar detected the warning in her tone, he ignored it; he just laughed, and turned to speak to the people on his other side. Maia looked at Ceredel, who was sagging like a deflating airship’s balloon next to his brother, ears slightly down. He seemed to mislike this brusque assessment of his daughters; he did appear fond of them, in an overbearing sort of way, and he kept shooting Csethiro guilty glances. Hesiriän was still staring at her plate, and it seemed to Maia that she was teetering on the edge of tears. 

“Marquess, we think all your daughters seem fine young women; they do themselves great credit,” said Maia. He kept his tone mild, but spoke loudly enough for an obviously eavesdropping Emiro to hear. Ceredel perked back up tentatively; Hesiriän, Maia thought, just shot him a quick, nervous glance.

“You are too kind, Serenity,” said the Marquess, though his tone was still chastened. “And we do take great pride in each of them…”  

That much, to his credit, seemed to be true. 

Down at the other end of the table, the Marchioness was gabbling nervously to the older Ceredada women:

“An excellent girl, she has been an indispensable help to us in our condition, and almost a second mother to her younger sisters… oh yes, she is very dutiful, always has been… no no, it was no surprise she was selected, none at all, for while the other houses might have put forward more handsome girls, they were all too young and too silly, whereas she is so very dignified, and so very obliging… she will honour her father and the family well, and we are sure she shall do great reverence to the Emperor.”

Maia glanced at Csethiro, and found her picking unenthusiastically at her plate, her ears flat against her head. We are always content to do our duty, he remembered— and wondered how many more obligations the Ceredada could possibly heap onto her. A surrogate mother to her sisters, a companion to her father’s second wife, a courtier, an enforced friendship with Csoru, and then Empress. It was a small wonder she had been so angry at her father, Maia thought. 

The Marchioness’s voice came again; “...oh, no, three years— but yes, sometimes we do not know whether to call her daughter or cousin!”

She laughed excessively. Csethiro looked pained, and even Ceredel looked a little abashed, and took to talking loudly about a production of Zhelsu at the Vermillion Opera in Amalo which had ended in a riot. Maia had heard something about it, but Csevet had shrugged and said well, Serenity, every subsequent performance sold out, so we think the people of Amalo can not truly have been all that upset. What Maia had not realised, however, was that part of the reason there had been a riot, had been because it was the first elven opera with a goblin lead. Ceredel seemed to remember halfway through his anecdote who exactly he was talking to, and hastily added;

“But it was also suggested that it might have been a response to the tragic ending, very tragic… Pel-Thenhior has a penchant for melodrama, you see, and so Zhelsu flings herself into machinery at the end. Apparently women in the stalls fainted, and their husbands would have been looking for someone to blame, and so, fights… you see the logic…”

“It sounds very— dramatic,” said Maia, inadequately, but Ceredel nodded madly.

“To be sure, Serenity, but Amalo has always liked a good bit of intrigue— and, well, is that not how opera is? We cannot think it can be much sadder than The Siege of Tekharee— remember, Csethiro, we saw it at the Ceth’opera with your mother, when you were small? Oh dear, how we cried—”

Csethiro smiled wanly. “You must be more composed than that at our wedding, Father, or you shall alarm the Archprelate and the Emperor very badly.”

“Oh— we will try our best, dear, but we cannot make any promises…”

It was true, Maia thought, that Ceredel was markedly ridiculous— but he could not help but warm to him slightly, in his enthusiasm and his sheer effort, and in his obvious affection for his daughters. 

It was at that point that Dach’osmer Cazhivar, apparently having overheard some part of their conversation, turned back to them, to Csethiro’s obvious displeasure.

“Ah— on opera are we? This family cannot talk about opera for too long, it gets terribly heated, and then we do not speak for weeks.”

Ceredel grinned weakly. “There is a great rift between us all, Serenity, about whether or not The Siege of Tekharee or The Dream of the Empress Corivero is the superior work. Csethiro and her sisters think it is Empress Corivero, but we, as we have said, must speak up in favour of Tekharee—”  

“Can you be prevailed upon to profess an opinion, Serenity?” put in Cazhivel, quite loudly.

“We have—” Maia hesitated. He knew nothing of either of them, only that Min Vechin had once mentioned appearing in Corivero as a child in the tree frog chorus. “We fear we cannot, for we must admit we have never seen a full opera.”

“What? Never!” said Cazhivar, appalled.

“Our education was not particularly— streamlined,” said Maia anxiously. He was fairly sure Csethiro was trying to kick her uncle under the table, but it did not seem to be working. “And Edonomee is not exactly… a cultural epicentre.”

Someone laughed and tried to carry it off as a cough. At least half of the table was craning to listen, now, and Maia gripped his hands together under the table so that he would not fidget with his fork.

“But you were trained in some kind of culture, surely, Serenity?” said one of the aunts. Maia thought she might have been a little drunk; the tips of her ears were very pink. “The late Emperor liked his children to have some sort of accomplishment— Archduke Ciris wrote operettas, we understand, and Archduke Nurevis was a formidable marksman and dancer both...”

Maia was aware his ears were flattening to his head, and with an effort that made his earrings jingle, he forced them still. He knew plainly he was uncultured and gauche— and that he was thought of as such by the court— and that the favoured children of Varenechibel had been given opportunities he could never have dreamt of… but it still stung. Even Idra and his sisters, he knew, had things they excelled at; Ino liked to try embroidering and tapestry (though her age meant her attempts were a little haphazard), Mireän sang and played the virginals, and Idra rode and shot and had once, shyly, showed Maia a few stanzas of epic verse. 

“We— our cousin taught us in law and etiquette, but we own it was a little… haphazard, as an education, and we had no other tutors. Our mother tried a little to teach us to sew, but— well, she did not live quite long enough for— that.” 

He was not quite sure where to look; Ceredel was staring at him with a peculiar mix of embarrassment, sympathy, and triumph, as if he was pleased that at least it had not been him who had driven Maia into the corner; Csethiro’s knuckles were white and her ears pink, and even from the corner of his eye, Maia could see her glaring at her uncle; Cazhivar was exchanging befuddled glances with people near him.

From his other side, Dach’osmin Hesiriän said very abruptly;

“We are a great admirer of poetry, Serenity.”

Several people turned to stare at her instead, bemused.

“Hesiriän,” Ceredel hissed, not quite quietly, but to Maia's— and indeed, everyone’s— amazement, she did not back down. She stared at Maia, ears quivering slightly, going slowly redder. Maia realised, with a violent pang of gratitude, that Csethiro’s terrified little sister was trying to help him.

“...do you have a favourite, Dach’osmin Hesiriän?” he said.

Hesiriän sat up a little bit straighter, and glanced behind Maia, clearly looking at her sister for some kind of encouragement. She must have found some, because she swallowed, and said, in a voice that was quiet, but very dogged it its determination;

“We must profess a fondness for the Valmat’cycle, Serenity.”

Someone sighed, and someone else muttered bloodthirsty, but Maia said;

“Would you be so kind as to tell us about it, Dach’osmin? As— well, as just established, we do not have much familiarity with any kind of art.”

Dach’osmin Hesiriän smiled.


“Well, you cracked Hesiriän, which is no mean task,” said Csethiro later, once they had retreated to the parlour, where she sat swigging orchor and watching Saleheio and Iru argue over something. It was the sort of blend that usually made men’s eyes water, but Csethiro seemed to like it. “Anmura himself could come down and he would not be proffered the experience of Hesiriän holding forth on the Valmata for twenty minutes.” 

“In truth we think she chose to crack,” said Maia, who had learned a great deal in those twenty minutes about the literary tradition surrounding Valmata’s Return, including how everyone involved in it had died— mostly, it seemed to him, gruesomely. Hesiriän had not exactly been an excellent conversationalist— she was too softly spoken, and too given to staring at her hands while she talked— but she had ploughed on so determinedly that almost nothing had been required of Maia but to nod and ask the occasional question, and she had answered him very admirably. Maia had smiled at her when they had gotten up to go to the parlour after dinner, and had been pleased to get one in return.

“Yes, but she does not do so, by nature— so she must like you, we think.”

“We hope so,” said Maia, noticing one of the uncles whose name he could not remember staring at them. He had endured a brief but agonising ten minutes left alone with the men while the women prepared tea, in which there had been a certain amount of aggressively masculine posturing between the uncles, which he got the impression had been somehow intended for his observation. Maia was not sure what the Ceredada men thought their nineteen year old Emperor was supposed to get out of it, but it had been vaguely embarrassing to bear witness to, and he had been relieved when the women had reappeared. Now, though, everyone seemed far too interested in what Maia might be saying to his intended, which was visibly irritating Csethiro.

“We are used to it,” Maia said, by way of placating her, but she sighed.

“We dare say you are, and soon we must be too— but it is different when it is one’s own family. Or one’s own sisters.”

She threw an accusatory look to her left, where Emiro was hovering.

“Refill?” said Emiro innocently.

“We have half this cup left,” snapped Csethiro. Maia was not sure if it was her anxiety about her family that was eroding her court manners, or if it was simply that she did not think she needed to maintain the mask around him anymore. Perhaps it was both; Maia would have preferred it to be chiefly the latter, but from the way she had glared at her uncle, he doubted it. 

Saleheio and Iru’s argument was getting louder— something about tashin sticks— and Maia was not very surprised when Csethiro stood up abruptly, almost upending her saucer, grabbed Iru, and said;

“Iru, how about you find a frog to show to the Emperor?”

Saleheio knew an escape when she saw one, and vanished into the crowd, but Iru stared at her sister, perplexed out of her ire. 

“...but Papa said that his Serenity wouldn't want to see our frogs.”

“What frogs?” said Maia.

Csethiro seized her hand. “See? Your very best, come on—”

She hustled her away, leaving Emiro lurking nearby Maia.

“Dach’osmin Emiro,” said Maia awkwardly, suddenly getting the distinct impression she had been waiting for an opportunity to corner him. Emiro smiled and curtsied, taking Csethiro’s abandoned seat.

“Serenity. If it is not too presumptuous— we had hoped we might ask something regarding your marriage to our sister.”

“...certainly you may,” said Maia, but Emiro seemed to notice his wariness, because she pressed to the point with no preamble;

“We should like Hesiriän to attend our sister when she is Empress,” she said. “As one of her gentlewomen.”

Maia, who had not been expecting that sort of question, blinked. The Empress did not have edocharei in the same way as her husband; instead, she had her ladies, companions selected from noble houses to wait on her, help her dress, attend her in her duties. They sometimes even slept in the same room as her. It was, Maia suspected, engineered to allow the Empress to bring friends with her, to a role and to a marriage she had not chosen and often misliked. 

“We would not presume to tell Dach’osmin Ceredin who she may or may not have with her,” he said. “She might choose whomever she wishes.”

“Well, Serenity, that is the problem,” said Emiro. “Csethiro will not presume to suggest any of her sisters, and certainly Hesiriän will not ask herself… so— and we ask this as humbly as we know how— we beg that you might suggest it to her, as we know you must approve the appointments.”

“But why would she not put her forward?” said Maia, bewildered. “An why not you, instead? Do you believe she should not want you with her?”

“Oh, us, well—” Emiro waved a hand. “We certainly should not object, but we think Hesiriän is a better choice. We thrive in the chaos of court, and Father has great hopes of finding us a rich husband who will buy us all the shoes and combs we should want—” She grinned ironically for a moment. “But poor Hes will certainly not thrive, when she enters next month. ‘Tis better she is in a secure position… where people will be kind to her.”

“Ah,” said Maia. He wondered if this would have been put to him, had Hesiriän not dared to talk to him earlier. “We see your point. But why should Dach’osmin Ceredin not recommend her?”

“Well… how should we put it?” Emiro pursed her lips. She was, truthfully, more beautiful than Csethiro— but she was also even more blunt, which was discomfiting Maia slightly. “Csethiro has been the highest ranking court woman in the main branch of the Ceredada for seven years— our Mama died when she was fifteen, and she entered court the next year. Of course, father remarried, but while Stepmother is quite nice, she cannot quite supplant Csethiro’s influence, for she has taken on so many duties. Our sister feels keenly she is responsible for the four of us, and the Ceredada as a whole. As a result she does not often… rate her own desires very highly, and will think more politically than she necessarily should.” 

“We see,” said Maia, who thought he did. Again, the enforced duty that Csethiro resented so hugely, but performed so flawlessly.

“We thought you would, Serenity,” smiled Emiro. She added, examining Maia's face; “We do not intend to make you worry that you will be increasing her strain by making her Empress. It will come with new duties, certainly— but in truth an Imperial marriage will free her from a lot of the internal Ceredada squabbling which angers her, and we think she should be quite pleased to have a household of people of an age with her, not a gaggle of girl-sisters and overbearing uncles. And she shall not have to file Father’s invoices or correspondence for him, anymore, which will irk him, but… ah,‘ tis his own silly fault for having delusions of grandeur and marrying the only competent member of the family to the Emperor.”

“Oh,” said Maia, seized with the strange desire to laugh. He was not sure he was convinced— but the Ceredada did seem to involve a very particular frustration in Csethiro that he had never seen before. “Well— certainly we shall raise it to her, but will she agree?”

Emiro shrugged. “In truth, we think she would like badly for one of us to come with her— in fact, we heard her say as much to Archduchess Verdero, because we eavesdropped— but we know she will say nothing of it, because she thinks that it is of more import for the two of us to remain here with the younger sisters. But if asked directly, especially by your Serenity, we think she would struggle to argue against the idea. She has long dismissed her own interests, but we will not permit her to continue to do so, for we see the strain it has put on her. We can manage Iru and Saleheio quite well alone— whereas they know they can walk all over poor Hes. We would not make Hes the eldest Ceredin daughter at home for all the world— no, she will manage much better with Csethiro.”

She paused, pressed a sharp and lacquered nail to her lips, then added; “We apologise, Serenity, for being so very forthright. We talk like clockwork as a habit, and we are of an age with you, so we find it a little tricky to be afraid of you. And, more importantly… we are quite drunk. We suspect Csethiro will be very cross with us when she realises.” 

This time, Maia could not help but laugh. Emiro was toeing the line of audacity and presumption, but it was hard to hold it against her, since it was done with such good-natured precision and awareness. And she had come to him to engineer a favour for two sisters at once, which was so impressive a manoeuvre he was a little suspicious that her vanity was partially an act.

“Do not trouble yourself, Dach'osmin Emiro, we take no offence. Thank you for putting your matter plain. We will speak to your sisters.”

Emiro smiled, genuinely.

“Thank you, Serenity. We knew we were not wrong to ask you.” She rose, not a skirt wrinkle out of place, and said; “We should be honoured to call you brother, when you wed our sister.”

“We thank you, Dach’osmin. And we return the sentiment.”

She grinned, curtsied deeply, and left him alone. Soon after, Maia saw she and Hesiriän whispering together, and Hesiriän craned to look at him; he smiled at her, and got a tiny, terrified one in return.


From what Maia gathered when she came back with a green blob in her hands, Michen Iru kept her frogs in a great glass aquarium in the solarium, stuffed with leaves and mulch and basins of water, and that Vedero had encouraged the scheme. Csethiro collapsed onto a nearby divan and fanned herself, frowning, while Iru held up the creature in muddy hands for Maia’s inspection. To Maia’s amusement, he recognised the protuberant yellow eyes and sticky padded-feet; it was one of the green-glass frogs that lived in the Edonomee marshes, the shiny, semi-transparent creatures he had often had to pull off the windows and put back into the ponds, before Setheris found them and threw them into the grass.

“You can see its lungs, Serenity,” said Iru proudly.

“So we can,” said Maia, amused that multiple Ceredin sisters seemed to have a bent towards unorthodox hobbies. “This is a very fine specimen.”

“They live in the south, and in the marshes,” Iru told him.

“Like Edonomee,” said Maia.

Iru blinked. “Yes. You have been?”

“We lived there for ten years,” said Maia. Iru’s eyes widened.

“And you saw them in the wild?”

Maia had never had anyone treat his relegation to Edonomee with such enthusiasm, but Iru, too young to know any other significance of it, was thrilled, and peppered him with questions about their habits and movements. Maia felt inadequate to answer, but every half-remembered suggestion seemed to please her immensely, and she listened with her ears quirked attentively— until her attention suddenly moved.

“See’st thou, Dachenmaza Cala?” she said, surprising all of them. “Thy work is still sound, an’ I did not break the tank, even though Sal said I was sure to—”

“Be polite to Dachenmaza Cala, Iru,” said Csethiro hastily, but when Maia turned around, Cala didn’t look like he minded the informality. At Maia’s questioning look, he smiled, and said:

“We were one of the university mazas that Archduchess Verdero requested for the tank’s construction, Serenity. Some three years ago, now. We were at the time researching amphibious life in the southern and eastern reaches, so…”

“Was that one of the projects you finished, or one of the ones you did not?” muttered Beshelar.

“Do you know, we cannot remember if we did ever submit it,” said Cala musingly. “We think— oh.”

Iru got bored of him talking and deposited the frog in his hands. Cala peered at it in genuine scholarly interest.

“It is bigger than this species is usually meant to grow. We think you must take very good care of them, Michen Iru. Does it have a name?”

Iru and Csethiro shared a shifty look. Csethiro said, reluctantly;

“We admit we have all developed a slightly nasty habit of naming them after… people we know…”

“And?” said Maia. Csethiro cleared her throat.

“Given the… transparency of this particular specimen, and its habit for biting its tankmates, we, ah… named it Sheveän.”

Once Maia had stopped laughing, Iru permitted him to hold Sheveän the frog, who was nowhere near as dislikeable as her namesake, and whose sticky toe-pads were pleasantly cool on his fingers. He could see Marquess Ceredel staring in horror from the other side of the room, but he could not interfere without causing a scene, and so resigned himself to watching in agonised anxiety out of the corner of his eye. Maia smiled when he handed Sheveän back, and made sure he was angled where it would be visible. For her part, Iru seemed a little wary of him, but not outright afraid, and when she turned to leave she did so with an ungraceful but enthusiastic curtsey and a big smile. 


He was not left alone for long, however. 

It seemed to be truly dawning on Saleheio that Csethiro’s marriage would mean that she would leave the Ceredada for good. Halfway through talking to Csethiro and her stern grandmother about arrangements for Csethiro’s household, Maia glanced down and noticed Saleheio hovering at Csethiro’s hip, her face falling further and further as she listened. Soon, she was on the verge of tears, clutching Csethiro’s skirt in a loose fist; Csethiro absently reached down and plucked up her hand to hold it, but didn’t really look at her, frowning along to her grandmother’s questions. Saleheio looked around— and her eyes fell accusingly upon Maia. As Maia watched, she wavered for a minute… then seemed to come to a decision. With wobbly aplomb, and with a wobblier curtsey, she announced;

“Serenity, we have a question. Or questions… more than one.”

Her grandmother and sister looked down at her in surprise. Maia said;

“Then certainly you must ask them, Michen Saleheio. Shall we sit over here?”

Csethiro looked dubious, but Saleheio wriggled her hand determinedly out of her sister’s grip and marched off with Maia, where she sat with legs dangling, and called over one of the dogs roving around the parlour— a long, elegant hound with grey markings and a doleful face.

“He is called Valmata, Serenity,” said Saleheio, patting the dog’s flank. “Hes named him. Csethiro likes to hunt venison with him when we go to Thu-Cethor in the summer—”

Her face screwed up. Maia said, carefully;

“We are sure he is a very fine hunting hound. Michen Saleheio, may we ask what your question was?”

“Well—” Saleheio hesitated, prodding her fingers into the fur at Valmata’s neck. The dog stood placidly, apparently used to being manhandled by children. “Papa says that when Csethiro is married to you, and becomes the Empress, she will belong to you— not to us, anymore.”

She did not seem to like the idea very much. Maia did not blame her.

“That is… the tradition,” he said uneasily. 

“Will we—” Saleheio sniffed hard. “Still be allowed to see her?”

It was little wonder, Maia thought miserably, that a girl from Arbelan Zhasanai’s family would have anxieties about an imperial bridegroom spelling isolation and misery for her sister.

“Of course you may,” he said. Saleheio darted a quick, hard glance up at him. “Dach’osmin Ceredin might live in the Alcethmeret with us, but it is not so very far, and she might come to see you, or invite you to see her, whenever she wishes.”

Empresses were not expected to live in the Alcethmeret; some did and some didn’t, depending, Maia could only suppose, on how much the current Emperor and Empress liked one another. His own mother certainly hadn’t lived there, and neither had Csoru, who insisted upon her own separate household. Maia had been too embarrassed to bring the issue up to Csethiro— he certainly would not have minded the company, but he had not dared say so, and worried that she would prefer not to live in the oppressive glamour and managed chaos of the Alcethmeret. Csethiro, apparently reading his mind, had taken matters into her own hands, and announced that she did not want to live anywhere that Csoru had lived, in case the widow Empress had left her baited traps, and that certainly she would be no use halfway across the court, if there was another attempt on Maia’s life. 

And thus it was decided. Maia had suspicions that Csethiro was developing a distinctly cavalier-like attitude towards him, and was slightly worried she was actually going to run someone through in his name. If she did, she would inevitably then enable the overrighteous Beshelar— and Csevet, who had already punched Odris Ubezhar— to indulge impulses, and then he would have a pack of attack dogs following him around forever. It was a faintly gratifying idea, but in reality it would give him a heart attack.

Saleheio hugged the neck of the dog, staring at him with a quivering lip. She did not seem, Maia thought, quite convinced. She was far too young to remember or know much about Arbelan’s marriage to Varenechibel— but this was the family which had spent years bemoaning its own ill-fortune. No doubt she had heard something, even intuited something, even if she did not fully understand what it meant. Seeing that she clearly needed some more convincing, Maia said:

“Our own mother was not allowed to see her family once she was married to our father the late Emperor, and it grieved her badly.”

“The goblin princess?” said Saleheio, then clamped her mouth shut with a clop, apparently remembering some kind of warning against… something. Probably, Maia thought wryly, against saying the word goblin. It would belike the Marquess Ceredel to make such hamfistedly nervous commands.

“That’s right,” he said. “Our mother— her name was Chenelo—” He was gratified to see Saleheio mouth the name to herself, repeating the pronunciation— “Was very lonely and sad while we were growing up. We do not want Dach’osmin Ceredin to be either of those.”

“Then you must let her practise the blade, for she should not be happy unless she does!” blurted out Saleheio— then coloured, mortified. Another thing she’d been told not to discuss, Maia guessed.

“We do not see why she should not,” said Maia, amused. “She may have any hobbies she likes. And we think it would be useful— we have had at least two attempts at overthrowing us since we have been on the throne, so we should be honoured if she too was able and willing to defend us.”

Saleheio nodded solemnly. “Your maza blew up Dach’osmer Tethimar.”

Cala made a spluttering sound; Saleheio ignored him with all the imperious spirit of a much older court woman. Maia decided not to press the point— but at any rate Saleheio’s attentions had wandered back to the original point.

“An if any of our sisters go with Csethiro to be her ladies…?”

Maia made a mental note to never tell Dach’osmin Emiro anything he didn’t want immediately shared between the other Ceredin sisters.

“You might see them too, yes.”

“Oh,” said Saleheio. She seemed to think about this. “We do not understand why Papa has seemed so very afraid of you, Serenity. We are not frightened of you.”

“We are glad for that,” said Maia diplomatically. Saleheio added;

“Csethiro tells us almost nothing about you, but we think you are quite nice, so we don’t understand why.” She looked thoughtful. “Though, when we asked her—”

Csethiro was at her side so quickly Maia was surprised he hadn’t seen her run.

“Saleheio, Grandmama wants you.”

“I don’t think she does,” said Saleheio doubtfully. 

“She does. Go there— there—”

“Let me take Valamata!” protested Saleheio.

“Oh, drat Valmata, he will follow you anyway— go—”

“Bye, Serenity!” called Saleheio, towing the dog with her as Csethiro almost shoved her away. 

“Goodbye, Michen Saleheio…” 

There was a brief, awkward pause. Maia wondered what on earth she had been about to tell him.

“Do not tell me what she asked thee, I do not think I want to know,” said Csethiro in a defeated sort of tone, finally sliding into the first-informal.

“In her defence, she only wanted to know if she would still be allowed to see thee when we are married,” said Maia.

“Ah.” Csethiro looked a little guilty for her hasty banishment of Saleheio, but Saleheio didn’t seem very concerned, patting the dog and talking to one of her cousins. “Was that all? She must have picked up more of the… family history than I thought.”

“She also asked if thou wouldst be allowed to continue thine study with the blade, and I said thou shouldst, so she seemed mollified.”

“She is very sweet,” said Csethiro reluctantly. “But she has no filter betwixt her brain an her mouth.”

“I think I gleaned that when she said Cala ‘blew up’ Eshevis Tethimar,” said Maia. Csethiro snorted.

“He should have deserved such a gruesome death. Ay, I should apologise to her…” She stared at him for a moment, with a peculiar sort of look Maia had never seen on her face before— almost assessing. She frowned, slightly. “And also caution her.”

“...what was she going to say?” asked Maia. “Before thou didst interrupt her?”

“Something imprudent, but nothing thou needst to concern thyself about,” said Csethiro primly.

“Oh,” said Maia, somewhere between amused and apprehensive.

From behind them, an argument was rising in volume between several aunts and uncles, and there was the crack of a glass breaking. Csethiro said, pertly;

“Once I come back, I am going to pretend to be overwrought and demand to be taken outside so I do not swoon. I wilt pray thee to escort me— wilt thou?”

“Is it a scheme to avoid me bearing witness to thine family’s quarrels?” said Maia.

“‘Tis the very thing,” said Csethiro. “More to the point, if I am in here any longer, I shall scream.”

“Thy will is mine, Dach’osmin.”

“Serenity, methinks ‘tis meant to be the other way around— but thou’rt very good.”

Csethiro smiled at him and swept off. Maia rubbed his neck wearily, and glanced back at his nohecharei. 

“Perhaps the Ceredada should have sent the Ceredin maids to negotiate their sister's marriage contract, rather than the Marquess.”

“Our youngest sisters were mighty suspicious of their eldest sister’s intended, Serenity,” said Beshelar from behind him. “It is every girl’s habit, we think. We doubt it is personal.”

Cala and Maia both turned to stare at him at the same time.

“You have sisters?” said Maia.

Beshelar pinked slightly, apparently regretting some self-imposed breach of propriety. He hesitated, then said, reluctantly:

“Three, Serenity. All younger.”

“When do you see them?”

“They live in Cetho, Serenity. Often we go into town, when we are off-duty.”

Maia blinked at him, perplexed. He knew very little on the topic of siblings, but nothing about Beshelar immediately suggested older brother… except, perhaps, one thing.

“How old are they?” said Maia, a suspicion forming.

“Twenty-four, seventeen, and the youngest has just turned fifteen, Serenity.”

He had been right; Beshelar’s youngest sister was around the same age as Maia had been when Setheris had knocked him into the fireguard.

“Well, we never knew that,” said Cala, amazed. “We thought you were going to watch the jousts. Something… martial.”

Beshelar said, a little primly; “You never asked, Athmaza.”

Cala smiled. “It is only us and our equally absentminded mother, so it never does occur to us.”

Maia had thought to say something else, but it was then that they noticed one of the Ceredada women hovering nearby, clearly waiting to be told to approach. It was, Maia realised, the one who had looked at him strangely all throughout dinner— up close, he was sure he did not know her, but it did not account for the familiarity with which she had stared at him. Hoping for an answer, he gestured for her to approach— she did so, curtsied deeply, held it, and then said;

“We are Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran, Serenity. You spoke with our son earlier.”

“Yes,” said Maia warily. He had not much liked Cazhivar, but she herself seemed less foolish.  

“We hope you do not think us presumptuous, Serenity, but we thought it might be to your interest—” Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran hesitated, then took a deep breath and sat down nearby. “We no longer take an active part in court life— these things are best left to the younger women. But when we did, we were a Lady of the Bedchamber to two of Varenechibel’s empresses. Our sister, Arbelan Zhasanai— and later, Chenelo Zhasanai.”

Maia stared at her. Arbelan’s sister, but, more importantly… “You knew our mother.”

“Yes, Serenity. While she was at court— which was not for very long, but nonetheless— we were one of her closest attendants.”

Not only had Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran known Chenelo, she had spent practically every day beside her while she had been at court.

“We did not— realise any of the women who had been in her household were still at court,” Maia said. “Or even that she had much of a household. She never did discuss her life at the court with us very much.”

“Serenity, most of them are no longer at court,” agreed Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran. “Her household was broken up after she was sent to Isvaroë, and most of us felt it… prudent to retreat to family houses elsewhere.”

“You cannot have felt the appointment much of an honour,” Maia heard himself saying. Almost the second it was out of his mouth, he winced, but Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran just smiled, a touch sadly.

“We liked Chenelo Zhasanai,” she said, “And we did not resent the command to wait upon her. She was a nice girl, and we felt badly for her. But you would not be wrong to suggest that Varenechibel did not think to do the women he appointed to her household any kind of distinction. Many of them felt the intended slight, and as a result disdained her— her piety, her youth, and her…”

“Goblin heritage?”

“We were going to say provenance, Serenity, but you are astute as to the intended point,” said Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran thinly. “Varenechibel made a very poor showing at welcoming his new bride, and we think if he was going to pursue a rushed and ill-advised match, he should at least have had the generosity of spirit to make an effort for the poor girl. He did no such thing. We did our best to honour your mother, but we confess we had not the audacity as a younger woman that we have in our old age, and after what had happened with our sister, we were in great fear of displeasing Varenechibel further.”

“It seems to us that many people felt that fear,” said Maia. It did not surprise him that Varenechibel had seen fit to put Arbelan’s attendants in Chenelo’s household; it was the exact sort of casual vindictiveness his father seemed to have been so given to.

“Yourself included, we do not doubt,” said Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran, her expression narrow. “We saw how your mother was treated, Serenity. We do not imagine her son was better thought-of— and so we are sorry our son pressed the point so very hard tonight. Had he been sitting closer to us, we should have stamped on his foot to silence him.”

Maia smiled weakly. There was, it seemed, a certain robust sense of right and wrong in a lot of Ceredada women. “We think Dach’osmin Ceredin attempted to kick him.”

“We acclaim her for at least trying.” 

“His… concern does him credit,” said Maia.

“Very noble, Serenity, but he has never known when to close his mouth.” She shook her head. “As it happens— we attended your mother during your birth, and we know that your father’s… displeasure at the event is widely repeated. But, for what it might be worth, we remember your mother was very pleased with you. You were born early in the morning, and we were all overwrought, Chenelo most of all— but she showed you to us with great pride, said, is he not handsome, Neiro? and gave you to us to hold.” She added wryly; “You were much finer and better behaved than my own children, who all screamed like the world was nigh on ending.”

Maia found himself worrying his signet, and made a distinct effort to still his hands.

“Our mother…” he hesitated, then cleared his throat, and said. “Our mother often told us that she did not regret her marriage, because it brought us to her. We did not… know if we should believe her.” 

It was the first time he had ever heard anything that might have supported it; anything that moved it from a dying mother’s platitude to her lonely and rejected son, to something that was more like a real truth.

“We think,” said Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran calmly, “As a mother, and a grandmother, and most importantly as someone who knew your mother— that you should believe it.”

Maia looked at the floor, but Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran added, quietly;

“When she was relegated, your mother gave each of us a gift, to thank us for our service. It is a Baraheize custom, we think— honouring the dav— and she must have felt it her duty, but we were very touched nonetheless. During her confinement and after she was brought to bed, she embroidered something for each of her ladies, regardless of if they had been good to her or not. To us, she gave a beautiful sample of goldwork embroidery, worked into a cloak. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship. She was very talented.”

Maia’s heart felt like it was going to stop. He said, and did not even care when his voice cracked; “Do you— still have it?”

“Serenity,” said Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran softly, “We do.” 

“We have… nothing of our mother’s,” Maia said, a little desperately. He was vaguely aware that he must have been making a fool of himself, but it was only the Dach’osmerrem and his nohecharei, and it would not be the first time— or the last, he suspected— he was foolish in front of Cala and Beshelar. “It was all burned after her death.”

“We thought that it might be so,” said Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran, and when Maia looked up, her expression was so compassionate that Maia struggled to look her in the eye. “We had thought, if it would not offend… that we might offer it to you as a wedding present. Or, if it would please your Serenity, we thought to offer it to Clemis Atterezh, to see what he might be able to do to work it into your wedding outfit.”

If she heard Maia’s very sharp intake of breath, she kindly ignored it, and waited patiently until he could get out, in a voice he could not stop from shaking;

“Dach’osmerrem Cazhivaran, that is exceptionally kind of you.”

She smiled at him. “We will leave it to your decision, but it seems right to return it to you. We will ask our great-niece what you decide to do with it.” She paused, then added; “We are sorry, Serenity, we could not do more for Chenelo Zhasanai.”

“Dach’osmerrem,” said Maia unsteadily. “You have done more than enough.”

“If you should wish to ask us anything, we will be more than happy to speak with you. We will leave you. It was our honour, Serenity.”

She smiled again, pressed his hand when she curtsied to him, and left him to sit and take deep, unsteady breaths, alone.

Notes:

10 years late to a fandom is no sweat, I was 40 years late to Discworld and thousands late to uh. The Iliad.
I realise I wrote 12k of Maia just talking to people but considering the book is also largely 140k of Maia talking to people, I think it's canon compliant. I also realise that the phrasing of ‘her eldest sister’s first grown-up Winternight Ball, and what the younger sisters had done…’ in the original text suggests that Csethiro may not be the eldest, but I am wilfully misinterpreting it as 'the eldest of her younger sisters', not 'her elder sister'. With my luck I bet I’m now about to get violently disproven in this presumption by either The Tomb of Dragons or The Orb of Cairado, but I will forgive everyone involved if it means Maia & Csethiro are in canon material again lmao. I saw a theory that Maia might be in TTOD and if so I will shriek and throw the book. Also if you're american and have an ARC a) don't tell me anything I already got spoiled once b) I am Very Jealous