Lithmore is to Vavard as Arely ab Bretagne is to me. It has been said we were both beautiful, and I shall certainly not object, but if we are in any way the same, it is surely different sides of the same coin. Seahome’s delicate flower, you could as soon call me delicate as you might call her vivacious. I do not believe she ever spent more than a few moments in my presence before something distressed her or she felt faint and needed to recover.
Kaemgen ab Bretagne was one of my earlier friends in the city. If I have not written of him before, I shall surely do so elsewhere – he certainly had impact enough for a few words. But for now, I write of his sister. I remember his being so excited that I should meet her, and I remember later his asking me to confirm to others how marvellous she was. I told them that she was everything that a delicate Lithmorran flower was expected to be. Oh, and she was. Demure, fragile, and with about as much personality as a limp noodle. For some reason, they never heard what I thought behind those words.
Amdair ab Lassider, on the other hand, was someone I felt akin with. Becoming quickly friends, we could banter for hours at a time. Jei hated him, of course, but Jei distrusts anyone who speaks more smoothly than he – and it doesn’t help that there was some issue between his aunt Mirielle, the Butterfly Knight, and a Lassider. In Amdair I saw someone with the same outlook on life, enjoying it, for one, and respecting strength, accomplishment and independence. I worked with him as Baron Casterlay, a high-ranking official of the Reeves, and Admiral of the Queen’s navy, first as Grand Magnate and then later Chancellor of the Exchequer. As a friend too, I remember we secretly bid together on the Sea’s Flame, beating out Queen Charmaine and the Duke of Farin- if I’d never used it, I wouldn’t have regretted a silver of the coin put into that ship for the enjoyment of that bidding. But always, he was an ally.
I was there too when he asked Kaemgen’s permission to marry his sister. All were taken aback, surprised. We had had no notion that Amdair fancied Arely. But I felt betrayed as well. We were never lovers, Amdair and I, and I never thought to marry him. Rather, it was a betrayal of ideals. Had he secretly always only wanted a demure slip of a thing who needed protecting? I was offended at the lack of taste from someone who I had thought a like mind. And I was disgusted to see him turn into a lovesick puppy as they transformed from secret paramours to newly betrothed. The wedding was a hurried affair, managed in the last weeks before he left for the assault on Daravi. Neither was I invited nor did I attend. As a wedding gift, a bottle of fine capuan and a scandalous (by Lithmorran standards) set of house silks were delivered by mail. For some reason, I don’t expect she ever wore them, but I hoped more it made Amdair think.
Fragile, delicate – when used with ladies, one does not often recall that they mean easily broken, but Arely ab Lassider- Arely is fragile blossom who broke. I never visited her after word came from Casterlay that Amdair had been killed in a bandit attack. I doubt my condolences would have eased her pain in the least. I did hear from others that it did not go well by her. Do not define yourself by a man – even the best of men – because what are you when he is gone? I mourned Amdair’s loss. But from what I hear, Arely did not. In fact, she did not acknowledge that he had died at all. Jei reported her to be lost to eery time forgotten, living on as if she believed Amdair and her brother Kaemgen were there in the house with her. Utterly broken, down to her mind.
She was perhaps my antithesis, but never an antagonist – not to my mind. It seems she did not share my view on this. I received a messenger from Arely, who I’d all but forgotten existed. It felt immediately wrong. But I was invited to tea and decided it would be impolite to refuse. She had never invited me to anything before. I brought my bard with me, in addition to my usual attendants. It was wrong there too, everything just a shade off of right. But there was nothing wrong enough. Nothing for which I could call out a widow who looked a bit like death warmed over. Until, of course, she tried to shut me in a wardrobe and stab me, accusing -me- of stealing Amdair away from her. Thankfully, my men were close at hand. I escaped with my life and most of my dignity. Perhaps a few bruises only. And while we closed her in her suites and ran to report on the mad baroness to His Royal Majesty, she tried to burn the palace down.
For some reason, I cannot find it in me to even pity her. And she is who Amdair wanted? If I am ungenerous, then let it so be.
