When Liv’s mother had first written to her, while she was at Coral Bay, with the news that she had agreed to wed Archibald, Liv had decidedly mixed feelings. Given everything that had happened since then – the assault on the Tidal Rift, Liv’s visit to Lendh ka Dakruim, the conclave and her escape from Coral Bay, the fight at the Foundry Rift and the journey to the north, and then fighting at the Tomb of Celris, and the battle at the pass – it felt more like a lifetime had passed than a bit over a year. With the benefit of that perspective, Liv understood that it had been silly for her, even as a little girl, to hold out hope for a fantasy world in which her parents would be re-united, profess their love for each other, and give her the family that she’d always wanted. Her father and her mother came from two nearly entirely separate worlds, and it had been nothing short of a miracle that they’d found common ground long enough to come together and bring her into existence. If any one of a thousand things hadn’t happened – if her aunt had survived, if her grandfather hadn’t sent his son overland, if they hadn’t met over a song in the Whitehill gardens – those two worlds would have remained separate. Much like Liv’s life was steadily drifting away from Margaret Brodbeck’s. Liv stood behind her mother, braiding the older woman’s hair with blue ribbons and the first white flowers of spring - snowdrops, they were called. “I’m sorry that you had to wait so long,” she said. “I know that it’s my fault.” Thora had offered to help – in fact, she’d already dressed Liv, and done her hair. A series of increasingly expensive and intricate gowns had mysteriously begun to appear in Liv’s chambers, with the number increasing every time she left Whitehill, and then returned. The dressmaker on The Hill had probably been able to buy herself a new home, Liv reflected. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novelꞁire.net Still, she’d wanted at least a little time alone with her mother, just the two of them. It couldn’t be like it used to, not ever again. There would be no more winter mornings of waking up, her rag-doll clutched to her chest, with her mother’s arms around her, both of them crammed onto a bed made for only a single person. “It isn’t, Liv,” Margaret said, reaching back to place one of her hands over Liv’s. “We’d already decided to wait until you were a journeyman, so that you could come for a visit without making you miss classes. Master Grenfell, the duchess, they all told me that took two years for most students. So in a way, we’re actually doing this early.” “But even then, I’ve hardly had any time with you,” Liv admitted. “I feel I haven’t really been back - just running between the pass, Bald Peak, and Whitehill.” “That’s because you have your own life now,” her mother said. “I knew it would happen, when you left for Coral Bay. I was half-preparing myself for news that you were going to be the next Baroness of Bradon Bridge, but that didn’t turn out to be the case.” “Probably just as well,” Liv said, tying off the ends of the last ribbon. She reached for a hand mirror, and held it so that her mother could get a view of the back of her head, and how the braids hung. “It looks wonderful,” Margaret Brodbeck said. “Thank you.” She stood up from the chair, turned, and stepped away from the vanity. “Well? When I thought about a wedding as a child, I never expected I’d be quite so old. I hope I at least don’t look like a fool.” “You don’t,” Liv assured her mother. She gave a brave smile, but it had become impossible for her to ignore just how old her Mama had become. Margaret was no longer the woman Liv remembered from her childhood: overworked, harried, carrying the weight of two lives on a single pair of shoulders, but still vital. The natural beauty that must have caught Valtteri’s eye had still been evident then, if a little worn down. Liv wondered if all little girls thought their own mothers to be the most beautiful women in the world, at some point. Now, her mother’s once vibrant, nut-brown hair was streaked with gray. The texture had changed: it was more dry and fragile than it used to be, and the ends clearly more prone to breaking. Her skin, visible at both the hands and the face, had lost the glow of youth. There were lines now, around her eyes and at her mouth, and her fingers looked at once too thin and swollen around the joints. In contrast to Beatrice’s wedding dress, which had been designed to flatter her lean, fit figure, and to make the most of her cleavage, the dressmaker had fashioned for Margaret Brodbeck a wedding gown perhaps best described as ‘dignified.’ There was a high collar, and only a modest amount of underpinnings to provide structure. There were no great sweeping skirts here, but everything was of fine blue silk brocade, which Liv had sent for from Akela Kila through the waystone. The sheer, shimmering cloth was as bright as the winter sky over the mountains, and small floral designs in pale gold made sections of the dress appear nearly green, from a distance. The remnants of the bolt had been used to make matching trim for Liv’s own dress, which was otherwise all of white. “You look good,” Liv continued, after a moment’s examination. “This is the most expensive thing I’ve worn in my entire life,” her mother said, with a rueful smile. “I suppose it's only natural, with my daughter a queen now.” The gnawing anxiety which had been nesting at the bottom of Liv’s belly bloomed, just like one of those spring flowers. “I’m sorry,” she said, before she could second guess herself. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first. I understand if you’re angry with me about it – I’m sure its been all sorts of trouble. But there was just no time to come back here…” Margaret frowned. “Why are you apologizing to me over that?” she asked, raising a hand to cup Liv’s cheek. “I’m not Baroness of the kitchen, Liv. Why on earth would I be consulted about that sort of thing?” “Because it didn’t just affect me,” Liv explained. Rose’s voice echoed in through her thoughts. Did you even think about taking one moment to ask me how I might feel about you putting a crown on your head? If you’re going to be together with someone, Liv, it means you’re supposed to make a future with both people in it. “I should have thought about how the people close to me would feel, before I just went ahead and did it.” Her mother regarded her for a long moment, and then cocked her head to one side, as if examining her daughter for the first time in quite a while. “Is that what that girl said to you?” she asked. “Rosamund? I’ve noticed that she hasn’t been around since you came back from the pass.” Liv looked down and nodded. “She wasn’t wrong.” The words came out softer than she’d meant them to - almost a whisper. “I made a decision, and I just did it.” “Livy, dove,” her mother said, in exactly the same voice she’d used when Liv was a little girl. “I don’t know what happened between you and Lady Rosamund. She seemed nice enough when I met her, and like she cared about you. But whether you did wrong by her or not, it doesn’t mean you did wrong by me. I knew that I was letting you go off into the world, and that you were going to make your own choices. That’s what happens when your children grow up. You’ll find that out for yourself, one day.” Liv rolled her eyes. “I’m not so certain about that. I don’t seem to be very good at romance.” “It’s early days yet, and you have plenty of time.” Margaret laughed. “More than most! Now cheer up, dove. Today’s not a day for being sad.” The service was a small one. Where Beatrice and Matthew had filled the temple of the Trinity, and lined the streets of The Hill, this wedding was attended mostly by the people that her mother and Archibald worked beside every day: the staff and soldiers of Castle Whitehill. The footmen were there, and the maids, most of whom Liv no longer knew. Sophie and Piers, of course, as well as little Molly, who’d continued the tradition of the castle losing scullions to Master Grenfell’s tutelage. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Basil, the former Steward of Acton House, whose friendship with ‘Archie’ had formed in some nebulous adventure in Freeport, during the time when Baron Henry had gone to the capital to court Julianne, stood as second to the groom. Liv escorted her mother, and Gretta was carefully seated in the front row, where she occasionally nodded off. Master Grenfell and Mistress Trafford attended as well, though both were of substantially higher station than the servants who otherwise filled the temple. Liv’s old friend Emma came, hauling along her young children, her husband Dustin, and her father Kale. Osric Fletcher performed the ceremony, just as he had every wedding in Whitehill for as far back as Liv could remember. She wondered for how much longer that would be the case: like all of the people she had grown up with, he looked older every year, while Liv remained young. She supposed that was one of the things that separated her, and made her feel so alone even surrounded by the wedding guests. Certainly her new position contributed, as well: if Matthew and Triss had attended, she might not have been quite so much of an oddity. Still, if the Eld didn’t quite know what to make of Liv, the servants at Castle Whitehill seemed to have no difficulty: they’d been told that she was now a queen, and so treated as a queen she would be. It left her a single point of stillness, which no one else dared to approach, with Wren lurking in her shadow like a sheathed dagger. A bastard queen at the wedding of her mother, who’d spent an entire life as a castle cook. Liv couldn’t help but wonder if everyone else wouldn’t have been more relaxed were she simply not present. “Time alters all of us. The youth that you see before you will fade, and beauty does not last,” Fletcher recited. Except, of course, that it wasn’t true for everyone in the room. Did Liv only imagine that every eye there drifted to her? She tried to distract herself by wondering whether a service in Lendh ka Dakruim would include different prayers to Sitia. The language would be different, at the very least – and sentiments never seemed to translate precisely. Liv knew for a fact the Elden rites would not include such a line, though she’d yet to actually attend a ceremony to join daiverim and kwenim. If she had time, she might ask Keri and Pandit Sharma, before she left. The feast had been laid in the courtyard of Castle Whitehill, where the couple had spent most of their lives. Tables had been hauled out into the fresh spring air from the great hall, and a great canopy of fabric raised above on poles. Blue ribbons fluttered from where they’d been affixed to the corners, and for once Margaret Brodbeck had not had to do any of the cooking. Emma and her father had brought two great stags, which had been set to roast on great spits all during the service. It was too early in the year for fresh fruits and vegetables, but there was steaming hot bread, thick butter, and preserves made from all manner of mountain berries to spread over it. There were pickled vegetables, as well, and both wine and ale. None of it was suited for Liv. She could have had a special meal, all to herself, made and served, of course, but she didn’t want her presence to spoil the mood. Instead, she tried just a bit of everything, congratulated her mother, and then quietly took her leave. Wren must have caught her mood, for the hunter waited until they were alone, then raised a hand to clasp Liv about the shoulder. Keri, Sidonie, Master Grenfell, Lia Every, Vivek Sharma, and Mistress Trafford waited for Liv in Baron Henry’s old solar, as she had requested. It was Matthew’s, now, but while he was up in the ring with Triss, Liv knew that he wouldn’t mind. Save for Keri, they rose when she entered. Liv didn’t think she would ever get used to that. She took a seat, and the others followed. Liv extended her hand to Wren, who produced a sealed envelope, and she handed it on to Sidonie. “A wedding present for my mother,” she said. “If you could see to it that she receives it?” “Of course.” Sidonie set the letter in her lap. “Are you ready to go, then?” Liv nodded. “Inkeris ka Ilmari kæn Bælris is regent until I return,” she stated, looking around to make eye contact with everyone in the room, one after the other. “Keri has my complete trust to handle anything that occurs while I am gone. I rely on all of you to advise and to assist him. We’ve discussed your priorities: first, to see a good crop planted. We lost farmers to the crown raiders, and homes were burned; we lost levies at the pass. With so many refugees fleeing here from Lucania, we will need more food than ever before to make it through the winter. Use the soldiers – plant every piece of land you can.” She turned to Guild Mistress Every and Kazimir Grenfell. “Keri has access to our funds. He’ll give you what you need to build a new school at Bald Peak. I believe Duchess Julianne signed the new charter before we went south?” Every nodded. “She did. You will keep those terms?” “I will, at least to begin with. In fact, I looked over them just last evening,” Liv said. “I noticed that my adopted mother bargained for Aluth, as part of it. I had been wondering who imprinted her with that.” The acting guild mistress had the grace, at least, to look guilty. “Regardless,” Liv said. “We’re going to need to make some modifications, so that the college and the guild are prepared to welcome more Eld. I don’t know how many it will be, or how quickly, but we already have our first student in Aura. Perhaps you and Keri can have a draft worked out by the time I return.” She looked to Sidonie, next. “Do what you can to get a draft of what a small council of ministers would look like. I’m thinking one to speak on matters of war and defense, one on health and medicine, one on trade, and one for schooling.” “And one to organize your spies,” Wren said. “You’re going to need them.” “I’ll get a start,” Sidonie promised. “Alright, then. I’ll be back when this is finished.” Liv stood again, and said goodbye to them, one by one. Guildmistress Every and Mistress Trafford both offered her a curtsy, and kissed her hand, which felt bizarre. From Master Grenfell, Vivek Sharma, and Sidonie, she was much happier to receive an embrace each, in turn. Finally, she turned to Keri. “I expect you to be ready to spar with me when I get back,” she told him. “I could use some advice on taking a rapier up against a spear.” Keri laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Be safe, Liv. If I hear things are going badly, I’m going to have to come after you.” “You won’t have to do that,” she promised. She leaned down, and on impulse, rather than embrace him, kissed him on the cheek. Wren followed her out into the corridor, and then strode past her. “Kaija’s waiting for you in the great hall, with Ghveris,” the huntress said. “Oh?” Liv frowned, trying to recall if there was some last matter to deal with before they left. But rather than give her a hint, Wren was silent all the way down the stairs. The doors to the great hall were closed, but Wren strode forward and gave a great shove, with both hands, flinging them wide. Liv paused for a moment at the threshold: whatever she might have expected, it wasn’t this. Two lines of soldiers stood at attention, to either side of the corridor which led to the high table. With the benches and tables that usually filled the hall out in the courtyard, there was plenty of room. Wren stepped to one side, giving Liv room to walk forward, in between both lines. There were twenty men and women, ten to either side, all wearing jack of plate, blazoned with the white mountain of the Summersets. Rather than a green field, however, the brilliant peaks stood out against a vivid blue color. The combination was obviously meant to evoke the mountains in winter. They carried an assortment of weapons: arming swords or daggers on their hips, crossbows or Elden longbows on their backs. Each had a halberd in their left hand, with the butt resting on the stone floor of the hall, and beside it rested a steel helm. Liv recognized some of the faces, from the fighting at the pass, even where she didn’t know names; and where she didn’t even know faces, she marked the features of one Elden house after another. The brown skin and black hair of House Keria, for instance, or braids of deep, Däivian blue. “Your personal guard,” Kaija called, from the step leading up to the dais on which the high table rested. “Veterans, every one. They’ve each asked for and received release from all previous oaths of service.” Liv saw that she had painted her own leather armor with the same sigil as the rest of the soldiers wore. Liv’s eyes lingered on one of the obviously human faces – a young woman who’d lost half her ear, perhaps to a swordstroke, and whose hair was still growing back on that side of her skull. “We’ll be going to a rift, and spending a good deal of time there,” she said. Not quite a question, but Kaija answered, regardless. “All of us have been training in how to manage ambient mana,” she said. “Those who are practiced at the technique are each mentoring a student. And we’ve been gradually introducing mana-rich food into their diets.” Once again, Liv was left with the choice of whether to trust that her people knew what they were doing, or question it. “Thank you,” she said, simply. “Thank you, to everyone here. I can’t say how much this means to me.” Kaija must have given some signal, for as one, twenty halberds lifted up off the floor, and then slammed back down into the stone. The sound echoed through the hall like thunder, and Liv couldn’t help but smile.