Post by wordy on Feb 14, 2013 19:58:50 GMT 10
Title: where you are
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~6,469
Prompt: #3 Zahir/Vania
Summary: Set at the end of Lady Knight.
A/N: I had the idea for this fic before you wrote your Dear Author letter, and was far too attached to change it in any way, so hopefully it’s the kind of thing you were looking for. It also turned out much longer than I’d anticipated (oops) but you can’t really argue with plot! Anyway, I hope you like it! It was fun to write (well, aside from the copious hand-wringing that was involved). :3
This fic was brought to you by a ridiculous amount of The Temper Trap: and in particular, their song ‘Want’.
steady, my heart
You can’t always get what you want this time
A squire? Hardly twelve months had gone by since his knighthood; the idea was preposterous. Zahir told the king so.
Jonathan laughed, the dewy candlelight throwing soft shadows upon his face. The bookshelves behind him were black with darkness, all life beyond the study reduced to a profound silence by the lateness of the hour. “How often I forget,” he said, almost fondly, “that you are so different than I was at your age.”
“You had a squire early.”
“I did. I’ll admit, it was a sure way of keeping our friends close.”
Zahir knew, of course, who Jonathan’s squire had been. And though the two of them had never exactly approached the subject, he had pieced together enough to know that his feelings on the matter were complicated, and perhaps better left unexplored.
“I think a solitary existence will appeal to me for quite a time yet,” said Zahir, swiftly leaving those troubling thoughts behind. He stretched his arms above his head, enjoying the way his tired body protested the movement. “And for quite a time after that,” he added, “if the pages continue to grow smaller with each passing year.”
That brought another round of laughter from Jonathan. Zahir smiled.
The conversation moved onward, from palace rumour to court politics and back again. Zahir suspected that his former knight-master was being careful to keep their late-night meeting light-hearted, but he truly would not have cared either way; these past months he had been alone more often than not, and despite his need for solitude, the company of friends could never be regretted. Still, there was a heavy ache behind his eyes that tempted him with sleep.
“Now that we’ve quite determined that there is no squire in your immediate future,” said Jonathan, before Zahir had even begun to excuse himself between stifled yawns, “I have an offer that might interest you.”
This was, clearly, the reason why the subject had come up in the first place. Zahir wondered at that.
Jonathan leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, weight balanced upon his knees. His blue eyes, almost black in the dimly-lit room, held Zahir’s.
“King Maggur remains at war, despite the loss of his killing devices and the poor morale of his troops. While it is realistic to talk of his eventual defeat, we can’t predict how long the Scanrans will resist for. It is necessary to look to Tortall’s allies, and reinforce the goodwill between our countries.”
Jonathan paused, allowing Zahir a moment to catch up.
“You’re referring to Galla,” said Zahir finally. The pleased expression that spread across the king’s face warmed him, as it always had.
“Gossip can’t be helped,” Jonathan continued. “When it was first discovered by our spymasters that Blayce the Gallan was the one crafting Maggur’s killing devices, there was the inevitable speculation that he was not acting alone. Our continued friendship with Galla is vital, no matter how the war should end.”
“There is evidence that Blayce was acting alone?”
“The royal family have asserted as much, since the very beginning.”
Zahir didn’t consider himself the type of person to question his king. Yet he couldn’t help but harbour some misgivings. A man is not an honest man because he calls himself so.
But Jonathan was no fool.
Zahir allowed himself a small smile, and spread his hands. “You may consider me interested.”
The conclusion of their meeting saw Zahir more awake than he had been earlier, his mind caught on all the plans and possibilities that a delegation in Cría presented to him. His thoughts were still occupied as Jonathan led him to the door, and as a result the hushed conversation—quickly cut-off at the sound of their approach—was nothing more than irrelevant noise and he was entirely surprised when the door opened upon two young royals.
Prince Jasson—for it was Jasson, Zahir having learned quickly how to tell the two younger brothers apart during his time as a squire to their father—was dressed in simple breeches and shirt, Princess Vania in only a nightgown. Zahir averted his eyes politely from the latter, though not before he noticed the pale expanse of her neck and the fleeting, amused smile that seemed to result from his attention.
“I seem to be at the very height of popularity tonight,” said Jonathan with raised eyebrows.
“We were starting to think you would never come out of there,” Jasson said.
Zahir looked at Jonathan sidelong, but could register no significant reaction to the appearance of his two children, aside from pleasure. His own memories of his father were few, and faded with every passing year. There had been plenty of time to dwell on the themes of guilt and regret, but not nearly enough knowledge of the man to know how applicable they were, if they were at all. If Zahir envied the Contés, it was for this: for having a family, a father, and not one of them making waste of it.
When he turned his attention outward once more, he was disconcerted to find the princess’s eyes on him, an enquiry in the upward tilt of her chin. An unpleasant warmth prickled his skin at having been observed while acknowledging such thoughts, if only to himself. But the Conté children were not gifted with the Sight, and when Jonathan addressed his daughter she answered him without hesitation, leaving Zahir to set aside the instance as unimportant.
“She insists on my taking all my best dresses, leaving little room for much else,” Vania was saying. “My travelling case will have so much rumpled silk by the time I arrive that I may as well wear a potato sack.”
“We wouldn’t want the duke to mistake you for a sack of potatoes,” said Jonathan, with appropriate seriousness. Jasson ducked his head, hiding a smile.
Zahir didn’t think there was much chance of that happening in any case: the combination of Jonathan’s blue eyes and Thayet’s striking features had produced a pleasing result in the youngest princess, though at fifteen she still retained that child-like quality which made her merely pretty instead of a beauty. He knew little of her general character except that, like all of the Conté children, she was well-liked and level-headed. And, apparently, inclined to roam about the palace in her nightgown.
“He should be happy with me however I appear,” she said, a little crossly. “And I’m sure he couldn’t care less if I packed at least one pair of breeches.”
“I’m afraid I have no control over your maids, Vania. You must learn to be firm with them.”
It was obvious that the princess had more to say on the matter, but she bit her lip and nodded, her forehead wrinkled in thought.
Jonathan turned to him, then, and Zahir realised that he was supposed to now excuse himself for the night. Inclining his head to the three of them in turn, he said his good-nights and began along the hallway, delayed exhaustion creeping over him once more, and much for him to think about.
Three years later
Zahir returned to his assigned quarters late in the afternoon, opening the shutters and welcoming the cool mountain air into his lungs. From his window the remains of the great fair were barely visible over the cascade of rooftops, tents deflating and disappearing slowly from view. He had spent the better part of the day at the fair, admiring the horses: though much of the horseflesh presented for sale came in the form of Galla’s shaggy, hard-working ponies, there were also some gems to be found, sleek creatures built for racing or breeding.
A servant had come and gone during his absence, judging by the envelope that sat on his small desk. In the few years he had been away from Tortall there had never been a shortage of correspondence, despite the fact that he had few friends: from Roald there had been numerous letters, with news of the ongoing war, his sister’s marriage, the cancellation of his other sister’s betrothal, and other such goings-on in Corus and elsewhere that the prince had thought may be of interest to him; from the Wildmage, one unsolicited letter addressing general topics about Galla and its capital, which he had found quite useful and had felt compelled to write a thank-you note for; from King Jonathan, brief notes about the current political climate and whatever else he thought to include. Zahir had even received a letter from his former training-master, Lord Wyldon, who offered him a position should he need one on his return.
Zahir watched the envelope from his place by the window, the breeze ruffling his hair and the sleeve of his shirt. Only a week ago he had had a letter from Roald, saying that he and Princess Shinkokami were expecting a child, so it seemed unlikely to be from him. When he moved closer the seal was obvious, however, and upon opening the envelope and unfolding the single page within, he was greeted by Jonathan’s familiar handwriting.
After he was finished reading, Zahir realised that he had been staring at the desk-top, the letter still in his hand. He moved to the narrow bed and sat down, eyes skimming over the words a second time to ensure that he hadn’t misunderstood the king’s request. It was quite clear.
There was no reason for him to feel unsettled, or to feel anything at all.
The letter was folded and returned to its envelope, then placed with its fellows in the desk drawer. Arrangements would have to be made. The date—he had made note of it, already filed in the back of his mind as something to be remembered—was in two days’ time. The other members of the Tortall delegation would need to be informed, though he assumed that they had received letters of their own. The Gallans, of course, would already know.
There was little he could do but wait.
Their two parties met at the border in the middle of the day, which Zahir regretted as being terribly impractical. He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead and between his shoulder blades; beneath him, his horse shifted impatiently.
Finally the group from Corus finished organising themselves, and three young women separated from the rest to walk their horses across the border and into Galla. Zahir could have recognised her from a much greater distance by her posture alone: though her female companions were surely of noble birth, Princess Vania held herself with confidence, and he predicted—correctly, he saw, when the ladies drew nearer—that there would be the same upward tilt of her chin that he remembered, perhaps a little too challenging to be confidence alone.
He could not help but notice the subtle changes that three years had wrought in her. When she reined her horse in beside him, he thought for a moment that he caught sight of that amused quirk of a smile, but if it had been there it was gone just as quickly, replaced with a polite look and nod of the head to the other members of his party. Then, in a manner not quite befitting a princess, she turned and shooed the Corus group away.
None of them bothered to dismount for a formal greeting, but nudged their horses back into a walk straight away, for which he was grateful. The princess had positioned herself on his right, and her ladies fell into line behind them. “Well,” she said wryly, “let’s hope this one sticks better than the last one, shall we?”
Zahir watched her tip her head back with a short laugh, and could not think of any reason why it should not.
“I must admit that Galla is already far more appealing to my tastes than Maren,” said Vania as the inn came into view.
Her two ladies were out of hearing, leaving Zahir to assume that some manner of response was required of him. “Why is that, princess?”
In response she raised her hand, indicating the blue-grey mountains that rolled majestically in the distance, a carpet of forest stretched out before them. The inn was nestled in the edge of the trees, and white tufts of cloud completed the picture. She turned back to him with a look that clearly said she had proved her point.
Zahir had to concede that the landscape was worth its fine reputation. Living three years in Cría had obviously dulled his acknowledgment of it, though not his appreciation. “Surely Maren is much the same?”
The rest of their party had begun to dismount and gather their belongings; a portly man who Zahir recognised as the innkeeper was approaching to welcome them. Princess Vania swung herself down from her bay with a ruffle of skirts—he had failed to notice that she had been riding astride rather than side-saddle—and looked at him across her horse’s back with an expression that he found unreadable. After a moment, her face softened and her lips curved into a smile. “I suppose one mountain is much the same as another,” she said, “and all the difference is in where you are standing.”
He was busied with the task of introductions, then, and making arrangements about their horses. It was not until he had been shown to his room on the upper floor that he realised Roald had not made any mention in his letters of why his sister’s betrothal to the Marenite duke had fallen through.
The evening was cool by the time they gathered in the common room after dinner, but not so cold as to require a fire. Zahir sat in an armchair, feeling well-fed and satisfied, watching quietly as the young court ladies persuaded the others to join them in a game of ‘charades’.
The group consisted of two men of the Tortallan delegation and one Gallan sent with them from the palace, a noble of some description who was of high enough regard that no offence was taken at his not being a member of the royal family. Zahir had frowned at the slight at first, but considering a formal betrothal was yet to be arranged between the two countries—the idea of a marriage, Jonathan’s letter had communicated, was still only that: an idea—he could not find fault in the absence of a suitor if the princess herself did not.
“A dragon,” said the lady Clarice, bouncing on the edge of her seat.
The Gallan shook his head with a grin. “Not a dragon, but it’s close.” He scratched his bearded cheek for a moment, then resumed flapping his arms again, teeth bared in mock fury or bloodlust.
Zahir shook his head, not sure what to think of such behaviour. Amongst the laughter and enthusiastic tumult of the game, the Gallan’s wild efforts at being understood, the lady Clarice’s encouragement, and the other lady’s guesses, his gaze fell on the princess where she sat across the circle from him, laughing along with the others and intermittently clapping her hands in delight. She was dressed still in her riding gown, the dusky brown hue a subtle complement to her dark hair and fair skin, the slim cut of the jacket drawing his eyes to her waist.
During the next turn of the game—‘wyvern’ having been guessed successfully at last—and the swapping of Clarice into the middle of the circle, Zahir dared a glance across the room once more and was caught by a pair of blue eyes. His heart seemed to falter his chest as he felt himself suddenly pinned.
Though mere seconds passed, it felt longer by far. A commotion in the game finally interrupted his line of vision and he could tear his eyes away. His face felt hot, suitably chastened for being caught staring so. He did not look in her direction again.
Sleep tempted them all eventually: one of the Tortallan gentlemen was already dozing silently in his chair. The remaining Tortallan and the Gallan took it upon themselves to see the princess’s ladies safely upstairs, the four of them still smiling and laughing to each other about the evening’s game. Zahir watched them go, until the stairs fell quiet again and the common room even more so.
For a very brief moment, he considered going to bed himself, but chivalry won out in the end; he could not very well leave the princess alone—well, practically alone, the sleeping gentleman aside—at such a late hour in a foreign inn. Yet after a prolonged silence he was no longer sure if such a decision had been based on politeness of mere foolishness.
He had been rehearsing the best manner in which to make his excuses and say good-night when Princess Vania rose abruptly. His eyes went to her face; hers to the sleeping Tortallan, then back to his with a smile. “It seems our friend is quite settled for the night,” she said, then bent to pick up the riding boots which she had evidently slipped off earlier, hidden beneath her skirts. She straightened, and raised an expectant eyebrow. “If you would be so kind as to see me to my room, Sir Zahir.”
There was nothing to do but comply. He allowed her to precede him out of the room, then waited a second or two as she took the stairs in front of him. The brown material of her riding attire appeared more shabby up close, as though it had been worn frequently and in all varieties of weather. Resolutely, he kept his eyes on the bannister as his hand slid up it.
Reaching the landing, they walked along the narrow corridor to the end room. The princess put her hand upon the door handle—a soft noise, probably one of her ladies’ snoring, was already coming from inside—and she turned to him with a brief smile. The top of her head was of a height with his eyes; she had to tilt her chin up to look at him.
“Thank you,” she said, already opening the door behind her.
Zahir inclined his head, and waited until the door had shut—with the princess on the other side of it—before heading back down the corridor to his own room.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~6,469
Prompt: #3 Zahir/Vania
Summary: Set at the end of Lady Knight.
A/N: I had the idea for this fic before you wrote your Dear Author letter, and was far too attached to change it in any way, so hopefully it’s the kind of thing you were looking for. It also turned out much longer than I’d anticipated (oops) but you can’t really argue with plot! Anyway, I hope you like it! It was fun to write (well, aside from the copious hand-wringing that was involved). :3
This fic was brought to you by a ridiculous amount of The Temper Trap: and in particular, their song ‘Want’.
steady, my heart
You can’t always get what you want this time
A squire? Hardly twelve months had gone by since his knighthood; the idea was preposterous. Zahir told the king so.
Jonathan laughed, the dewy candlelight throwing soft shadows upon his face. The bookshelves behind him were black with darkness, all life beyond the study reduced to a profound silence by the lateness of the hour. “How often I forget,” he said, almost fondly, “that you are so different than I was at your age.”
“You had a squire early.”
“I did. I’ll admit, it was a sure way of keeping our friends close.”
Zahir knew, of course, who Jonathan’s squire had been. And though the two of them had never exactly approached the subject, he had pieced together enough to know that his feelings on the matter were complicated, and perhaps better left unexplored.
“I think a solitary existence will appeal to me for quite a time yet,” said Zahir, swiftly leaving those troubling thoughts behind. He stretched his arms above his head, enjoying the way his tired body protested the movement. “And for quite a time after that,” he added, “if the pages continue to grow smaller with each passing year.”
That brought another round of laughter from Jonathan. Zahir smiled.
The conversation moved onward, from palace rumour to court politics and back again. Zahir suspected that his former knight-master was being careful to keep their late-night meeting light-hearted, but he truly would not have cared either way; these past months he had been alone more often than not, and despite his need for solitude, the company of friends could never be regretted. Still, there was a heavy ache behind his eyes that tempted him with sleep.
“Now that we’ve quite determined that there is no squire in your immediate future,” said Jonathan, before Zahir had even begun to excuse himself between stifled yawns, “I have an offer that might interest you.”
This was, clearly, the reason why the subject had come up in the first place. Zahir wondered at that.
Jonathan leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, weight balanced upon his knees. His blue eyes, almost black in the dimly-lit room, held Zahir’s.
“King Maggur remains at war, despite the loss of his killing devices and the poor morale of his troops. While it is realistic to talk of his eventual defeat, we can’t predict how long the Scanrans will resist for. It is necessary to look to Tortall’s allies, and reinforce the goodwill between our countries.”
Jonathan paused, allowing Zahir a moment to catch up.
“You’re referring to Galla,” said Zahir finally. The pleased expression that spread across the king’s face warmed him, as it always had.
“Gossip can’t be helped,” Jonathan continued. “When it was first discovered by our spymasters that Blayce the Gallan was the one crafting Maggur’s killing devices, there was the inevitable speculation that he was not acting alone. Our continued friendship with Galla is vital, no matter how the war should end.”
“There is evidence that Blayce was acting alone?”
“The royal family have asserted as much, since the very beginning.”
Zahir didn’t consider himself the type of person to question his king. Yet he couldn’t help but harbour some misgivings. A man is not an honest man because he calls himself so.
But Jonathan was no fool.
Zahir allowed himself a small smile, and spread his hands. “You may consider me interested.”
***
The conclusion of their meeting saw Zahir more awake than he had been earlier, his mind caught on all the plans and possibilities that a delegation in Cría presented to him. His thoughts were still occupied as Jonathan led him to the door, and as a result the hushed conversation—quickly cut-off at the sound of their approach—was nothing more than irrelevant noise and he was entirely surprised when the door opened upon two young royals.
Prince Jasson—for it was Jasson, Zahir having learned quickly how to tell the two younger brothers apart during his time as a squire to their father—was dressed in simple breeches and shirt, Princess Vania in only a nightgown. Zahir averted his eyes politely from the latter, though not before he noticed the pale expanse of her neck and the fleeting, amused smile that seemed to result from his attention.
“I seem to be at the very height of popularity tonight,” said Jonathan with raised eyebrows.
“We were starting to think you would never come out of there,” Jasson said.
Zahir looked at Jonathan sidelong, but could register no significant reaction to the appearance of his two children, aside from pleasure. His own memories of his father were few, and faded with every passing year. There had been plenty of time to dwell on the themes of guilt and regret, but not nearly enough knowledge of the man to know how applicable they were, if they were at all. If Zahir envied the Contés, it was for this: for having a family, a father, and not one of them making waste of it.
When he turned his attention outward once more, he was disconcerted to find the princess’s eyes on him, an enquiry in the upward tilt of her chin. An unpleasant warmth prickled his skin at having been observed while acknowledging such thoughts, if only to himself. But the Conté children were not gifted with the Sight, and when Jonathan addressed his daughter she answered him without hesitation, leaving Zahir to set aside the instance as unimportant.
“She insists on my taking all my best dresses, leaving little room for much else,” Vania was saying. “My travelling case will have so much rumpled silk by the time I arrive that I may as well wear a potato sack.”
“We wouldn’t want the duke to mistake you for a sack of potatoes,” said Jonathan, with appropriate seriousness. Jasson ducked his head, hiding a smile.
Zahir didn’t think there was much chance of that happening in any case: the combination of Jonathan’s blue eyes and Thayet’s striking features had produced a pleasing result in the youngest princess, though at fifteen she still retained that child-like quality which made her merely pretty instead of a beauty. He knew little of her general character except that, like all of the Conté children, she was well-liked and level-headed. And, apparently, inclined to roam about the palace in her nightgown.
“He should be happy with me however I appear,” she said, a little crossly. “And I’m sure he couldn’t care less if I packed at least one pair of breeches.”
“I’m afraid I have no control over your maids, Vania. You must learn to be firm with them.”
It was obvious that the princess had more to say on the matter, but she bit her lip and nodded, her forehead wrinkled in thought.
Jonathan turned to him, then, and Zahir realised that he was supposed to now excuse himself for the night. Inclining his head to the three of them in turn, he said his good-nights and began along the hallway, delayed exhaustion creeping over him once more, and much for him to think about.
Three years later
Zahir returned to his assigned quarters late in the afternoon, opening the shutters and welcoming the cool mountain air into his lungs. From his window the remains of the great fair were barely visible over the cascade of rooftops, tents deflating and disappearing slowly from view. He had spent the better part of the day at the fair, admiring the horses: though much of the horseflesh presented for sale came in the form of Galla’s shaggy, hard-working ponies, there were also some gems to be found, sleek creatures built for racing or breeding.
A servant had come and gone during his absence, judging by the envelope that sat on his small desk. In the few years he had been away from Tortall there had never been a shortage of correspondence, despite the fact that he had few friends: from Roald there had been numerous letters, with news of the ongoing war, his sister’s marriage, the cancellation of his other sister’s betrothal, and other such goings-on in Corus and elsewhere that the prince had thought may be of interest to him; from the Wildmage, one unsolicited letter addressing general topics about Galla and its capital, which he had found quite useful and had felt compelled to write a thank-you note for; from King Jonathan, brief notes about the current political climate and whatever else he thought to include. Zahir had even received a letter from his former training-master, Lord Wyldon, who offered him a position should he need one on his return.
Zahir watched the envelope from his place by the window, the breeze ruffling his hair and the sleeve of his shirt. Only a week ago he had had a letter from Roald, saying that he and Princess Shinkokami were expecting a child, so it seemed unlikely to be from him. When he moved closer the seal was obvious, however, and upon opening the envelope and unfolding the single page within, he was greeted by Jonathan’s familiar handwriting.
After he was finished reading, Zahir realised that he had been staring at the desk-top, the letter still in his hand. He moved to the narrow bed and sat down, eyes skimming over the words a second time to ensure that he hadn’t misunderstood the king’s request. It was quite clear.
There was no reason for him to feel unsettled, or to feel anything at all.
The letter was folded and returned to its envelope, then placed with its fellows in the desk drawer. Arrangements would have to be made. The date—he had made note of it, already filed in the back of his mind as something to be remembered—was in two days’ time. The other members of the Tortall delegation would need to be informed, though he assumed that they had received letters of their own. The Gallans, of course, would already know.
There was little he could do but wait.
***
Their two parties met at the border in the middle of the day, which Zahir regretted as being terribly impractical. He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead and between his shoulder blades; beneath him, his horse shifted impatiently.
Finally the group from Corus finished organising themselves, and three young women separated from the rest to walk their horses across the border and into Galla. Zahir could have recognised her from a much greater distance by her posture alone: though her female companions were surely of noble birth, Princess Vania held herself with confidence, and he predicted—correctly, he saw, when the ladies drew nearer—that there would be the same upward tilt of her chin that he remembered, perhaps a little too challenging to be confidence alone.
He could not help but notice the subtle changes that three years had wrought in her. When she reined her horse in beside him, he thought for a moment that he caught sight of that amused quirk of a smile, but if it had been there it was gone just as quickly, replaced with a polite look and nod of the head to the other members of his party. Then, in a manner not quite befitting a princess, she turned and shooed the Corus group away.
None of them bothered to dismount for a formal greeting, but nudged their horses back into a walk straight away, for which he was grateful. The princess had positioned herself on his right, and her ladies fell into line behind them. “Well,” she said wryly, “let’s hope this one sticks better than the last one, shall we?”
Zahir watched her tip her head back with a short laugh, and could not think of any reason why it should not.
***
“I must admit that Galla is already far more appealing to my tastes than Maren,” said Vania as the inn came into view.
Her two ladies were out of hearing, leaving Zahir to assume that some manner of response was required of him. “Why is that, princess?”
In response she raised her hand, indicating the blue-grey mountains that rolled majestically in the distance, a carpet of forest stretched out before them. The inn was nestled in the edge of the trees, and white tufts of cloud completed the picture. She turned back to him with a look that clearly said she had proved her point.
Zahir had to concede that the landscape was worth its fine reputation. Living three years in Cría had obviously dulled his acknowledgment of it, though not his appreciation. “Surely Maren is much the same?”
The rest of their party had begun to dismount and gather their belongings; a portly man who Zahir recognised as the innkeeper was approaching to welcome them. Princess Vania swung herself down from her bay with a ruffle of skirts—he had failed to notice that she had been riding astride rather than side-saddle—and looked at him across her horse’s back with an expression that he found unreadable. After a moment, her face softened and her lips curved into a smile. “I suppose one mountain is much the same as another,” she said, “and all the difference is in where you are standing.”
He was busied with the task of introductions, then, and making arrangements about their horses. It was not until he had been shown to his room on the upper floor that he realised Roald had not made any mention in his letters of why his sister’s betrothal to the Marenite duke had fallen through.
***
The evening was cool by the time they gathered in the common room after dinner, but not so cold as to require a fire. Zahir sat in an armchair, feeling well-fed and satisfied, watching quietly as the young court ladies persuaded the others to join them in a game of ‘charades’.
The group consisted of two men of the Tortallan delegation and one Gallan sent with them from the palace, a noble of some description who was of high enough regard that no offence was taken at his not being a member of the royal family. Zahir had frowned at the slight at first, but considering a formal betrothal was yet to be arranged between the two countries—the idea of a marriage, Jonathan’s letter had communicated, was still only that: an idea—he could not find fault in the absence of a suitor if the princess herself did not.
“A dragon,” said the lady Clarice, bouncing on the edge of her seat.
The Gallan shook his head with a grin. “Not a dragon, but it’s close.” He scratched his bearded cheek for a moment, then resumed flapping his arms again, teeth bared in mock fury or bloodlust.
Zahir shook his head, not sure what to think of such behaviour. Amongst the laughter and enthusiastic tumult of the game, the Gallan’s wild efforts at being understood, the lady Clarice’s encouragement, and the other lady’s guesses, his gaze fell on the princess where she sat across the circle from him, laughing along with the others and intermittently clapping her hands in delight. She was dressed still in her riding gown, the dusky brown hue a subtle complement to her dark hair and fair skin, the slim cut of the jacket drawing his eyes to her waist.
During the next turn of the game—‘wyvern’ having been guessed successfully at last—and the swapping of Clarice into the middle of the circle, Zahir dared a glance across the room once more and was caught by a pair of blue eyes. His heart seemed to falter his chest as he felt himself suddenly pinned.
Though mere seconds passed, it felt longer by far. A commotion in the game finally interrupted his line of vision and he could tear his eyes away. His face felt hot, suitably chastened for being caught staring so. He did not look in her direction again.
Sleep tempted them all eventually: one of the Tortallan gentlemen was already dozing silently in his chair. The remaining Tortallan and the Gallan took it upon themselves to see the princess’s ladies safely upstairs, the four of them still smiling and laughing to each other about the evening’s game. Zahir watched them go, until the stairs fell quiet again and the common room even more so.
For a very brief moment, he considered going to bed himself, but chivalry won out in the end; he could not very well leave the princess alone—well, practically alone, the sleeping gentleman aside—at such a late hour in a foreign inn. Yet after a prolonged silence he was no longer sure if such a decision had been based on politeness of mere foolishness.
He had been rehearsing the best manner in which to make his excuses and say good-night when Princess Vania rose abruptly. His eyes went to her face; hers to the sleeping Tortallan, then back to his with a smile. “It seems our friend is quite settled for the night,” she said, then bent to pick up the riding boots which she had evidently slipped off earlier, hidden beneath her skirts. She straightened, and raised an expectant eyebrow. “If you would be so kind as to see me to my room, Sir Zahir.”
There was nothing to do but comply. He allowed her to precede him out of the room, then waited a second or two as she took the stairs in front of him. The brown material of her riding attire appeared more shabby up close, as though it had been worn frequently and in all varieties of weather. Resolutely, he kept his eyes on the bannister as his hand slid up it.
Reaching the landing, they walked along the narrow corridor to the end room. The princess put her hand upon the door handle—a soft noise, probably one of her ladies’ snoring, was already coming from inside—and she turned to him with a brief smile. The top of her head was of a height with his eyes; she had to tilt her chin up to look at him.
“Thank you,” she said, already opening the door behind her.
Zahir inclined his head, and waited until the door had shut—with the princess on the other side of it—before heading back down the corridor to his own room.
***
I do love the idea of Roald and Zahir being friends. Since we know that Roald tried not to snub anyone and sat with so many different groups during meals, I like to think he had some kind of influence on Zahir back then, and contributed to Zahir growing out of Joren. And I'm actually kind of relieved that you liked Vania's characterisation! There was less banter and sauciness than Vania/Zahir usually has, I think, so I'm glad it worked. Her love for the countryside was inspired by the fact that (according to the wiki) Galla's famous for its mountains and forests. I really imagined her as loving riding and such, so that fit very well.
