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How Emilia met Martin, Prince of Amber: The Cathedral was cold - even in high summer. The lofty white washed walls should have reflected the heat of the myriad candles in sconces along the walls and arranged around the pillars ... but in reality, they had no effect at all. Perhaps that was appropriate for so sombre an occasion as this but, in truth, many of the assembled noble guests were shivering in their summer mourning as the High Priest intoned the blessings to the dear departed. Only those in full mourning could have been warm, perhaps, and of those, the majority seemed so sunk in grief that they seemed unaware of anything external. First in importance, of course, where the King and Queen of Begma - for one of the deceased had been half-sister to the Queen. But the two mourners most closely affected, perhaps, were the dead woman's twin brother, and her young daughter. Martin watched the crowd from his place beside his father's Ambassador. The King and Queen he knew, of course, and Odelinski, the brother, he knew by reputation. The girl was just fourteen. Too young to lose both her parents, they all said. And perhaps for a girl who'd had them, it was. He let his eyes linger on the child for a moment.
The uncle and niece sat together in the long pew opposite the royal pew. Both were pale, but whereas Count Nickolai was dark and saturnine, his niece, the new Countess Rodkonski, was ethereally fair. There was a dazed expression in her eyes, as though she was still unable to grasp the enormity of what had happened. She was barely following the service ... several times her uncle gently touched her hand and drew her attention to her place in the prayer book. Then she would bow her head obediently and attempt to follow the service again. But soon those blue eyes would lift and she would gaze around the Cathedral with the stare of a trapped wild bird, desperately seeking an escape. Martin shook his head slightly at the girl's plight, and the Ambassador--husband of one of the Feldane girls, he recalled, but competent, or he wouldn't have this post--glanced sideways at him. Martin returned his attention to the droning service, resolving to watch a little more discreetly in future. When the girl glanced his way again, though, he gave her as encouraging of a smile as he thought he could get away with. Her eyes widened in alarm and she started a little, drawing the attention of her uncle. He followed the direction of her gaze with a slight frown and then - seeing who she was looking at - gave a slight, polite bow of his head. Then, gently, he directed Emilia's attention back to her prayer book. This time she did not look up again.
After the service, they were all to gather in the Great Hall of Kings in the Palace, a formal recognition of the importance of the late Countess and her husband. The Amber contingent was one of the first in the receiving line. Martin followed the Ambassador's lead; this was what he'd come for, after all. The King and Queen were first - their niece next to them, and Count Odelinski. This close it was possible to see how tired and strained the Count looked - but all accounts, he and his twin sister had been close. "Your Majesties, my father wishes me to convey his deepest condolences on your loss," Martin said. "The Count and Countess will be much missed." "Grafin," he added to the girl, taking a moment to catch her eyes if she'd let him, "I'm so sorry for your loss. Please accept my sympathies, and those of Amber." She gave a stiff little nod in response, and dropped a schoolgirl's bob of a curtsey. "T ... thank you, your Highness," she said, and her voice had the faintest quaver in it. "You're welcome," Martin replied kindly, and gave her a grave bow in return. "We are honoured that you were able to attend in person, your Highness," said the Queen in her soft, slightly plaintive voice. "Dear Emilia is still a little ... " "I'm n-not a little anything!" said the girl. "I'm very, very angry!" Martin's attention swung back to the girl. There were two bright spots of colour in her cheeks now, and she glared at Martin, as though something was his fault. "Grafin?" Martin asked. "And I wouldn't be a Grafin," she said, "if Papa hadn't insisted on taking that pair of horses he bought in Amber - even though John Coachman told him they were too spirited and not properly broken!" Ignoring the Ambassador's touch on his elbow, Martin said, "I'm very sorry to hear that Amber played any role in your loss, Grafin. I hope you will not let this experience form your only opinion of Amber. If you'll have someone send to the embassy with information about these horses, I'll look into the matter for you." "There," said the Queen. "Isn't that kind of his Highness? I am sorry," she added to Martin. "Dear Emilia is still such a child! And such a terrible loss ... " She raised a black edged handkerchief to her eyes. "Think nothing of it, Your Majesty," Martin replied, his attention still on the girl. Emilia returned his gaze calmly. She was pale, yes, and her eyes were reddened by weeping, but she seemed neither childish nor incapable of rational thought. To Emilia, he added, "My own mother died when I was very young. I often wish--" and, aware he'd said far too much, shut up. "Yes," said Emilia, with, unfortunately, all of a child's candour. "She killed herself, didn't she? That must have been awful for you." "Emilia," said Count Odelinski, a little repressively, "we do not speak of such things." "It's all right," Martin said, to both of them, and to the Ambassador, whose touch on his elbow was firmer, if not frantic. Aware that he'd been a bit rude to the gentleman, he added, "I hope you will accept my condolences, and my father's, as well, Graf." "Thank you, your Highness," said the Count, with another formal bow, drawing his heels together. "As my sister says, we appreciate your presence here today." "My father regrets that he could not attend personally. I am only sorry that this visit should be occasioned by such a tragedy." The Ambassador's touch this time was lighter. Apparently he was happy now that Martin was back on script. Martin bowed formally to the knot of royals. To Emilia, he added, "Grafin, please do let me know about the horses," and let the Ambassador ease him along.
The Ambassador, once they were clear, took out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow. "A pert, disagreeable child," he remarked. "To speak so to your Highness!" "Her whole world has just been turned upside down," Martin replied, not bothering to keep his own annoyance out of his voice. "If she wants to yell at me, I'm strong enough to bear it." "But with no cause at all!" protested the Ambassador. "When I realised the horses were Amber stock, I made enquiries. Apparently various people warned the Graf that they had not been fully broken and were not ready for driving, but he would not listen to any of them! He was always known as a proud and stubborn man - obstinate to the point of idiocy at times!" There was a sharply indrawn breath beside them. Martin half-turned to see the newcomer. "I came to apologise," said the girl. "Uncle said ... but I knew I was wrong anyway - so it was my choice to apologise. And I do. But I think you're both hateful to be talking about Daddy like that. Even if he was wrong ... oh!" And with a little gasp she turned and hurried - almost ran - from the room. "Damn," said the Ambassador ruefully. Martin gave the Ambassador a glare and followed Emilia. She was not in the corridor outside. A door, half open, at the end led to a formal garden ... Martin stepped out into the formal garden, hoping she'd still be in sight. There was no sign of her - although one of the gardeners was staring down a path that led to a little copse in evident bewilderment. Martin strode down the path at pace that wasn't quite a run, but was faster than a brisk walk. At least in her skirts she couldn't be too far ahead of him. There was a small stream not twenty yards into the wood with a little rustic bridge across it, and with several oak trees quite close. And in the clearing between them was a small black shoe. Martin stooped to pick it up without breaking stride and continued across the bridge. But there was no sign of her on the far bank ... "Grafin?" Martin called, hoping she'd answer. There was a long silence - and then a voice from the far side of the stream ... a voice that was slightly indignant. "You've taken my shoe!" "I thought I was bringing it to you," Martin said, turning and crossing back over the bridge. Now he could see her. She was sitting on a branch, some eight feet from the ground, with one shod and one stockinged foot, watching him as he approached. Martin looked up at her, and tossed the shoe into her waiting hands. "As you say, Grafin, it is yours." He added, "I believe it is now I that owe you an apology. I'm sorry." She gave a little nod. "I suppose I should curtsey," she said. "Only then I would fall out of the tree ... so I won't." "That's all right," said Martin. "May I join you?" She looked at him doubtfully. "You'll spoil your clothes." she pointed out. "I can get new ones. Unless you're worried for your reputation, of course, to be seen in company with me afterwards," he said. She gave a reluctant smile. "I don't think one could lose one's reputation up a oak tree," she said, with commendable naivete. "You should use that branch," she added. "It's quite easy." She was being helpful, as she would to some one somewhat aged and infirm - for even if she did not see him in terms of his true age, he was certainly a Grown Up to her - and Grown Ups did not climb trees. Martin took her advice, and swung himself into the tree without any apparent effort. He edged out on to the branch to test whether it would support both his weight and Emilia's, and when it proved sufficient to the task, seated himself next to her. "Thank you," he said seriously. A little sniff was his answer. Not indignation - the sniff of someone who is making a determined effort to stop crying. Martin produced a handkerchief and offered it wordlessly. "I'm sorry I mentioned your mother," she said presently. "I mean - not polite sorry. Truly sorry." She took the handkerchief and blew her little nose firmly. "It's all right," he said, and shrugged. "Really all right, not just polite all right." She nodded, seemingly taking him at his word (possibly a novel experience for an Amberite). "And I am sorry about your dad, and about that idiot of an Ambassador. If everyone who rode or drove a spirited horse deserved a bad end, I know a lot of people who'd no longer be with us. Including my own father, and me," he continued. She nodded again, a little forlornly. "But it doesn't help," she said. "And now everyone is going to worry every time I mount a horse or go hunting. "If they'll let me go hunting at the convent," she added gloomily. He started to say, "I'm sure it won't be that bad", but it was both patronizing and untrue, so he didn't. Instead, he said, "Perhaps you'll be able to visit your aunt and uncle on holidays, and ride then." "Perhaps," she agreed, without much hope in her voice. "How long will you be in school there?" Martin asked. She gave a wriggle of her shoulders. "Years and years," she said. "Until I'm grown up." Clearly this state seemed lost in the distant future to the youthful Grafin. "And a lady," she added darkly, as though she regarded this as more pernicious than selling her body on the streets. "You'll just have to learn to fake the 'lady' part," Martin said lightly. "Remember, you don't have to believe all the answers to pass the test." There was a little silence, and then she gave a little chuckle. "I suspect I shall have a hard enough time learning the answers, without believing them too." "Nonsense. You're clever enough to hide from me, and I'm *much* smarter than any silly old nun." Martin stopped himself before he added the remainder of the joke. She turned and looked at him, her expression a little quizzical. "Do you think so?" she asked slowly. "That you're clever enough to do well at school? Of course," said Martin. "I'm sure you'd rather do other things; I know I would have when I was your age. No one ever took my wishes to avoid lessons seriously either. Some of it has since proven useful, though." "Erm," she said thoughtfully. She shifted her position on the branch, swinging her legs. "They tell lots of stories about you ... some of them very strange." "Really?" said Martin, inviting her to continue. "Well ... like you were the first person ever to be able to walk the Pattern in Rebma - when everyone else who had tried it just ... died." Martin nodded. "So I'm told." Her eyes were very wide. "Weren't you .... utterly terrified?" she asked. "I mean ... it wasn't as though you had lots of relatives there to tell you what to do." "I suppose I was frightened," Martin said, a distant look crossing his face. Then he shook himself and returned his attention to Emilia. "It was a very long time ago. And I was used to being--without relatives." "That must have been ... awful," she breathed. "I don't know what I'd do without Uncle Nicki. And their Majesties too, of course." "Well, I had Aunt Llewella, and my grandmother, and Benedict came to visit regularly. It wasn't as if I were completely alone," Martin said hastily. She nodded, absorbing this. "But I still think you were very brave," she said simply.
There was a distant shout - and Emilia started. "Emilia!" Martin looked around to see who was calling for the girl, ready to drop out of the tree if needed. A figure was moving into view, coming down the path rapidly. Count Odelinski himself. Martin did drop out of the tree, then, landing gracefully on both feet. Improbably, other than a little dirt, his clothes were perfectly intact. He turned to meet the Count. "Graf," he said, "the Grafin will be down in a moment." The Count bowed, his face a little set. "Thank you, your Highness. I believe I can assist my niece from here." "Of course," Martin said. He thought of several things he could say to Odelinski and discarded them all. The Count moved forward to stand under the tree. "Jump, Emmie," he instructed. "I'll catch you." She hesitated for a moment, and then dropped lightly into her uncle's arms. He set her down immediately - and then looked ruefully at her dishevelled clothes. "Emmie ... you can't return to the Wake looking like this ... " Martin said, "Surely there's somewhere that she can retire for a moment to refresh herself? "I'm certain most of the dirt will brush off," he added, twisting reality to make it so. Emilia who had begun to dust at her clothes, exclaimed with pleasure. "Yes Uncle - as good as new!" The Count frowned. "Nearly," he acknowledged. "We can return then." He glanced at Martin. "Will you precede us, your Highness, or follow us? I think it best if it is not noticed you spent time alone with my niece." "Of course," Martin said, inwardly amused. He bowed, then, to the Count and Countess. "Grafin, it was a pleasure to speak with you, even on such a sad occasion. Please feel free to call on me should your travels bring you to Amber. Graf, your niece promises to be a great lady, worthy of the royal family." He laid a slight emphasis on the word 'lady', for Odelinski's benefit if not Emilia's. "Until we meet again." And then he was
gone. He did not look back. Jointly written
by Mel & Ginger
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