Graceling (Graceling Realm #1)(16)
“I’m not going to wear a red dress,” she said.
“It’s the color of sunrise,” Helda said.
“It’s the color of blood,” Katsa said.
Sighing, Helda carried the dress from the bathing room. “It would look stunning, My Lady,” she called, “with your dark hair and your eyes.”
Katsa yanked at one of the more stubborn knots in her hair. She spoke to the bubbles gathered on the surface of the water. “If there’s anyone I wish to stun at dinner, I’ll hit him in the face.”
Helda came to the doorway again, this time with her arms full of a soft green silk. “Is this dull enough for you, My Lady?”
“Have I no grays or browns?”
Helda set her face. “I’m determined that you wear a color, My Lady.”
Katsa scowled. “You’re determined that people notice me.” She held a tangle of hair before her eyes and pulled at it, savagely. “I should like to cut it all off,” she said. “It’s not worth the nuisance.”
Helda put the dress aside and came to sit on the edge of the bath. She lathered her fingers up with soap, and took the tangled hair out of Katsa’s hands. She worked the curls apart, bit by bit, gently.
“If you ran a brush through it once every day while you were traveling, My Lady, this wouldn’t happen.”
Katsa snorted. “Giddon would get a good laugh out of that. My attempts to beautify myself.”
That knot untangled, Helda moved to another. “Don’t you think Lord Giddon finds you beautiful, My Lady?”
“Helda,” Katsa said, “how much time do you suppose I spend wondering which of the gentlemen finds me beautiful?”
“Not enough,” Helda said, nodding emphatically. A hiccup of laughter rose into Katsa’s throat. Dear Helda. She saw what Katsa was and what she did, and Helda didn’t deny that Katsa was that person. But she couldn’t fathom a lady who didn’t want to be beautiful, who didn’t want a legion of admirers. And so she believed Katsa was both people, though Katsa couldn’t imagine how she reconciled them in her mind.
———
In the great dining hall, Randa presided over a long, high table that might as well have been a stage at the head of the room. Three low tables were arranged around the perimeter to complete the sides of a square, giving the guests an unobstructed view of the king.
Randa was a tall man, taller even than his son, and broader in the shoulders and the neck. He had Raffin’s yellow hair and blue eyes, but they weren’t laughing eyes like Raffin’s. They were eyes that assumed you would do what he told you to do, eyes that threatened to bring you unhappiness if he didn’t get what he wanted. It wasn’t that he was unjust, except perhaps to those who wronged him. It was more that he wanted things the way he wanted them, and if things weren’t that way, he might decide that he’d been wronged. And if you were the person responsible – well, then you had reason to fear his eyes.
At dinner he wasn’t fearsome. At dinner he was arrogant and loud. He brought whomever he wanted to sit with him at the high table. Often Raffin, though Randa spoke over him and never cared to hear what he had to say. Rarely Katsa.
Randa kept his distance from her. He preferred to look down on his lady killer and call out to her, because his yelling brought the attention of the entire room to his niece, his prized weapon. And the guests would be frightened, and everything would be as Randa liked it.
Tonight she sat at the table to the right of Randa’s, her usual position. She wore the soft green silk and fought the urge to tear off the sleeves that widened at her wrists and hung over her hands and dragged across her plate if she wasn’t careful. At least this dress covered her breasts, mostly. Not all of them did. Helda paid her no attention when she gave instructions about her wardrobe.
Giddon sat to her left. The lord to her right, whom she supposed to be the eligible bachelor, was a man not old, but older than Giddon, a small man whose bugged eyes and stretched mouth gave him the appearance of a frog. His name was Davit, and he was a borderlord from the Middluns’ northeast corner, at the border of both Nander and Estill.
His conversation wasn’t bad; he cared a great deal about his land, his farms, his villages, and Katsa found it easy to ask questions that he was eager to answer. At first he sat on the farthest edge of his chair and looked at her shoulder and her ear and her hair as they talked, but never her face. But he grew calmer as the dinner progressed and Katsa didn’t bite him; his body relaxed, he settled into his chair, and they spoke easily. Katsa thought him unusually good dinner company, this Lord Davit of the northeast. At any rate, he made it easier for her to resist tearing out the hairpins that dug into her scalp.
The Lienid prince was also a distraction, no matter how much she willed him not to be. He sat across the room from her and was always in the corner of her eye, though she tried not to look at him directly. She felt his eyes on her at times. Bold, he was, and entirely unlike the rest of the guests, who carefully pretended she wasn’t there, as they always did. It occurred to her that it wasn’t just the strangeness of his eyes that disconcerted her. It was that he wasn’t afraid to hold hers. She glanced at him once when he wasn’t looking. He raised his eyes to meet her gaze. Davit had asked the same question twice before Katsa heard him and turned from the Lienid’s uneven stare to answer.