The great hall of House Isalka was flooded with light from spring until winter, until there was no light. On the white nights of midsummer the stone columns were illuminated by the multitude of tall windows arching to the ceiling. On the first day of spring (by the calendar's telling), snow still thick on the ground made the hall blinding.
"And how does she progress?"
"Our Myatska Runa is accomplished in all that she pursues, but is not a woman. Her impulses are untamed." His posture begged patience. "She still plays, my lady."
"With dolls?"
"Only recently did she stop."
"And has she bled?"
"This month, for the first time."
Marga Isalka drew up in her throne, contemplating the girl she had last inspected as a match for her son. Her invalid son. There had been other girls, other Houses perhaps more worthy, but Marga found Runa contemptible even in bare feet and pigtails. Some combination of features, the sound of her voice -- Marga wondered if she reminded her of a childhood adversary, of some sycophant handmaid or a Lord's consort plucked from the gutter of the brothel-theatres blemishing the capitol. There was no conclusive association, but the result was the same. Her son would be wed to the girl most easy to hate.
"She has been kept in the nursery too long." She waved her hand, sipped her wine. "We will travel to Belorien. Show her what is to come. When she can sit beside him without shuddering, we will set a date."
"I have no doubt that if she shows revulsion, it will be short lived. She is a child, but her vanities are pretense. Judgement does not come easily to her."
"I trust you." Her eyes met the paladin's, the dais of her throne hardly raising her above his eye level. "I have always trusted your judgement in these matters." In matters of the lithe maidens of each house, particularly those fine boned and young enough to be his daughters.
"Thank you, my lady. Shall I make arrangements? No doubt the coming festival shall provide a warm welcome."
"I shall go where diplomacy demands. Accept King Eland's hospitality." Fingers fearlessly circled steel, staining the rim of her goblet red, sanguine as her smirk. "But if you could find a quiet set of rooms befitting his station and a handful of patient nurses for Grigoriā¦"
"Of course. If there is anything e-- "
Ivan fell silent as she lowered her eyelids and extended her hand for that chivalric gesture that served as caesura for all their interactions. Her skin was white as he idolized in his boyhood. Age had parred her down to her basest forms, leaving elegance unmarred by eroticism. She was the stark mountain, resplendent and snow veiled on the first day of spring.
He kissed her knuckles. Once she upturned her hand, he licked the crease of her palm like a dog.