24. Twenty-Four
twenty-four
"This is far more elaborate than necessary, surely." Neira did her best to stand still as the seamstress pinned the last swath of fabric into place.
The queen's chambers, while not to her personal liking, boasted not only separate rooms for hosting guests, sleeping, and bathing, but also an entire room dedicated to nothing but clothing – and everything that came with it.
Such as the high, wide windows making up the western and southern walls of the room, flung open wide so their artfully stained glass wouldn't muddle the colours of the fabric the seamstress' assistants had carried up here, and the round stool that Neira currently stood on top of.
The seamstress gave a non-committal hum; she was an elf of deep brown skin and cream-coloured hair, her teal eyes narrowed on the pin she was fastening. Only when she was satisfied did she deign to answer.
"A wedding must be grand. One only marries once, your Highness. Fates willing, that is." She gave Neira a sly little grin. "And if there is need for a second wedding, well… certainly the second will be even grander."
Neira found herself laughing, so startled by it herself that she cut herself off sooner than the mirth faded. "What's your name?"
"Syndra Emaris at your service, your Highness."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Emaris. Even if you are turning me into a monochrome puff pastry."
The elf barked a laugh, climbing to her feet. "Just Syndra, please. And don't you worry, you will look beautiful."
Neira wasn't convinced. The large, polished mirror was reflecting back a very pale woman dressed in off-white scraps, with pins digging into her skin whenever she dared move. "I don't think this is my colour, truly."
"It is not, that's for sure," Syndra chuckled. "This is just to get your measurements. The finished dress will be so grand the court will forget how to breathe."
"That sounds unhealthy."
"Nonsense, your Highness. You are the first queen to be crowned in over half a century, you know. It must be a momentous occasion."
"The former king was not married?"
"He was." Syndra's voice lowered to a pitch that promised delicious gossip. "But he never crowned the lady – some of the elderly ladies of the court, her former peers if you believe it, say that she cursed him for it, and that is why he never spawned an heir. From the way their stories have spiralled over the years, you'd think the woman an alchemist! If you ask me, she was very justified in anything she chose to do to him. The disrespect!"
"Alchemists are still feared here, then?"
"Oh, yes, Highness. Yes, very much so. The nobles think it a fun accusation to throw around when their pampered lives become dull." Syndra rolled her eyes. She bustled around Neira and tugged at her pinned neckline. "Mind, we haven't had an execution for it in such a long time. Not that there still are alchemists, of course. The last sects were destroyed many, many decades ago, and even those were all just pretenders running around in their drab little robes, scrawling runes that never did a damned thing."
Runes. Neira made an interested little sound to keep the woman talking, but her mind was racing – if her father truly had been an alchemist, perhaps that had been the reason Brightmere was so cut off from the rest of the continent. But how would he have managed to use alchemy, when for centuries no one else had been able to? Alchemy was lost, everyone knew that, the true alchemists wiped out centuries ago and all of their knowledge destroyed along with them. They were nothing more now than a frightening bedtime story for children.
"And a shame it was, too, if you allow me the impertinence. Their alchemic solutions lacked magical power, of course, but made for such beautiful dyes, some hues that even Farn magic just can't get right. Never mind boiling onions for yellow."
“Of course.” Neira took as deep a breath she dared with pins all over the place. She had started her day as she had the last few – tottering between seething fury and deep melancholy. Syndra, though, with her easy stream of chatter, was dragging her out of that exhausting mood quite effectively. "Where are you from, Syndra? Were you born in Duskport?"
"Stars, no. I'm Vellian. Grew up right outside of Vilmar. Tiny little village, utterly unremarkable. But talents like these…" The elf twisted some fabric, pinned it, and grinned broadly. "Well, they would have been a waste so far north. Artisans must go where the coin is, and the only place that has more coin than here would be Green Harbour."
"Island life is not for you?"
Syndra scoffed. "Have you been? It's loud, and rowdy, and I could never leave my beautiful Malvea. Sweet Navir would never wish to leave, either. My wife, you see, she's very attached to Duskport. Owns an art gallery, if you can believe it."
So many facts about Syndra's life, so freely given. Neira made it a point to remember them all, just in case, even if she could never be as open about her own life, not with the many concerning revelations every new day seemed to unearth.
"I see." She shifted a little, eyeing herself in the mirror. "My old court… my home. There were no noble ladies at all. The regiars didn’t have wives, or daughters."
"That why you're hiding in here?" Syndra asked, not unkindly. "They're not half as scary as you might think. You'll be their queen, of course, but it's also a good idea to be their friend, if you can stomach their bland gossip." She slid behind Neira to adjust the fabric there, too. "Beg pardon, Highness, for speaking so frankly or presuming to give you advice. Three hundred years in this city, and yet I've never learned the genteel talk."
"Don't apologise. I enjoy your frankness, and am grateful for the advice."
"So, the only lady, hm? You must have been popular with the guards."
Your court hated you.
Erqis' voice rang in her mind. Neira forced a smile. "You know, I never thought about it much."
"Well, no matter now, I suppose. You did pin the beautiful young king down. Ah, if I was any younger… and not married… must be a culture shock, though, to come here."
"It is."
"What was home like?" There was that tone of voice again – Syndra was fishing for something juicy.
If only she had something to give her.
"Colder, I suppose. Not as crowded." Neira sighed. "A little lonely. But it was home."
Syndra's teal eyes met hers in the mirror and, for once, the elf wasn't grinning. She looked sad, sympathetic. "Well. You know, that's exactly how I feel about my little village. It will always be home." She patted Neira's hip. "Now, what is your favourite colour?"