I.
i want your ugly
i want your disease
i want your everything as long as it’s free
i want your love
love love love
i want your love
“Birgit, how lovely to see you.”
Birgit tries not to grimace; of course Queen Katrina is the welcome mat they roll out for her to walk on. The years haven’t been kind to the king’s wife—she’s pale and drawn now, her copper hair wispy and frizzing out of her lady’s maid’s attempt to arrange it fashionably. There are purple half-moons under her eyes, which are explained when she mentions that her youngest child Andrin was up all night being ill.
“But how are your children?” Katrina asks, after detailing her own brood’s various ailments.
Birgit smiles a little, despite herself. “They’re very well.” Nolfavrell and Maris have grown into handsome, sensible, responsible adults with a love of adventure and new experiences. Robin is now an independent, precocious fireball with a spicy temperament she clearly inherited from her mother. Feeling something more must be added, she says, “Nolfavrell’s wife is due this winter. They’re hoping for a son this time.”
Katrina takes Birgit’s arm to lead her out of the castle’s entrance hall and back toward the guest wing. “How wonderful for them. And you a grandmother before you’re forty!”
“Don’t remind me,” Birgit says stiffly. She was married young and had Nolfavrell almost too soon after her marriage for it to be quite decent, which means that the term “grandmother” is now applied to her before she considers herself old enough for it. She’s never been comfortable in the role of matron; her quiet life in Carvahall, while her husband still lived, frankly bored her to death. Chasing pirates and knocking heads together (usually in a metaphoric, judicial sense) is the life she glories in; being a widow is more enjoyable than being married ever was.
The guest suite prepared for her arrival is too lavish for her taste: feather pillows, a down quilt, and silk sheets imported from gods-know-where—and that was only the giant four-poster bed. There are also dwarf-wrought tables, a chaise lounge upholstered in Fanghur leather, and her own private bathing room with a porcelain bathtub and a painted china pitcher-and-basin set.
“Gaudy,” she remarks to her maid, Hilde, who—although she was handpicked for sensibility and levelheaded intelligence—is gawking at the furnishings in awe. “I certainly hope these are left over from the Traitor King’s reign. If Roran allows his staff to decorate in this manner, my faith in his abilities is gone.”
She’s right, of course, though she has no way of knowing it—the expensive, overwrought furnishings were left over when Galbatorix and his loyal minions were ousted. It is only because of Roran’s servants that they were not taken out behind the castle and burned. They explained to him, a little condescendingly, that guests to the castle couldn’t very well sleep in a haystack. Roran, at the time still used to sleeping on the ground with a naked sword by his side, couldn’t see why not; but since the servants knew more about running a castle than he did, he let them have their way.
Hilde shakes her head, as if to shake off her momentarily foolishness. “My lady, did not the queen say that dinner is in half an hour? You need to start preparing immediately.”
“Of course.” Birgit strides over to the trunks that preceded her into the room. “I suppose the green gown will do,” she muses—a decision made mainly because said dress is the one packed at the top.
Hilde shakes it out, tsking at the wrinkles. “It needs pressed, my lady,” she says.
“So it does.” But there’s no time to make it perfect. Birgit turns to Hilde for help with the long row of buttons reaching from her nape to the small of her back. Her travel dress, a bland, unpretentious gray-blue thing, falls to the ground, and Hilde tosses the green gown over her head.
It takes some shimmying to get it in place; since she had it made for her brief stay at court just after Roran’s coronation, she has had a fourth child, and her breasts and belly have expanded accordingly.
“Goodness,” Hilde says, eyeing the gown’s neckline. When it was made, it was not meant to be modest, but neither was it meant to push up quite as much cleavage as it now does. “I think I had better arrange to have these let out a little, my lady.”
“I think you’re right,” says Birgit with a grimace, looking into the full-length mirror next to the bed. She entertains no delusions about the figure she sees there; her body bears the signs of both childbirth and seafaring adventure, neither of which make it beautiful. Unlike some women, she makes no effort to hide her flaws. If people find her scar ugly, they don’t have to look at her.
“Sit down,” Hilde orders. “I’ll need to do something with your hair. You can’t just braid it for court.”
Birgit’s auburn hair, now tinged with silver at the temples, was once her glory, the crown of her beauty. Lately she’s taken to braiding it out of the way, knowing any effort at arranging it is wasted—nice hair can’t make up for flogging welts, stretch marks, and a knife scar.
Tonight, though, she succumbs to vanity. “All right then,” she says, sinking into the chaise. “Work your magic.”
***
Birgit descends for dinner with her chin held high and her newly dressed hair defying gravity, steeling herself against the murmured comments and strange looks. But she’s not prepared for how many of the courtiers at dinner are old friends.
Each of the Carvahallers were offered a place at court, and while many declined, choosing to return home and rebuild, a fair number of them still reside here in the castle. Birgit sees brothers Baldor and Albriech first, and though they comment on her scar, they seem intrigued by it rather than repelled. Neither of them accepted the ruling positions Roran offered his loyal followers after the war—instead they chose to take up residence in Ilirea (the former Uru’baen) and find jobs. But even though they’re not technically ruling class, they’re frequent castle guests—the king considers both of them good friends.
Angela, the odd herbalist that Birgit befriended in the Varden camp, is there as well. “Birgit!” she exclaims. “About time you paid a visit! This lot are so full of themselves now. I can count on you to be interesting.”
“Likewise,” Birgit says, flashing the witch a knowing smile. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for court life, Angela.”
Angela shrugs. “I like being unpredictable. And I’ve always liked being where the action is.”
“And right now, it’s here?”
“So say my mysterious witchy divination devices,” Angela says with a wink.
She turns away, and at that moment, Birgit catches sight of Roran for the first time in nine years.
He’s roundabout thirty now, in his prime. He has thankfully trimmed that wild, disgusting beard of his soldier days to a tame square patch framing his mouth. His curly hair is greased into submission and combed to one side, crowned with a plain gold circlet. Although his clothes are finely made, they’re as plain as current fashion will allow.
Birgit can’t keep her eyes off him.
“Dinner is served,” someone calls. This is the cue for everyone to walk to their assigned spot. Birgit hangs back, waiting to find a vacant spot. Then she catches Katrina’s eye. The queen motions to the seat next to hers.
Self-conscious and hating herself for it, Birgit sits next to Roran’s wife—two places down from the king himself.
Catching her eye, he smiles. She immediately senses that it’s faked. “Welcome back to the castle, Birgit,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”
“That it has,” she says, allowing a smile in return. She resolves to play her cards carefully. Roran has never just been any old acquaintance—never mind that now he’s king—and she knows he’s wilier than he pretends.
“I always enjoy your letters,” Roran says, picking up his spoon and starting on the soup course. “You have a… unique way of seeing the world.”
“A cynical way, you mean?” Birgit asks. “Or a pragmatic one?”
“Both.” Roran smiles slyly. “I assume you’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You assume right.” Birgit sips her own soup. It’s more of a stew, thick, with plenty of meat and potatoes. Good. She’d be disappointed if the farm boy king let his kitchen serve fancy dishwater. “And what have you been doing these nine years, Stronghammer? I get only the occasional terse reply to my cynical, pragmatic letters, so I’m forced to fill in the rest through common gossip. Is it true there’s a secret revival of Dragon Riders going on in the Spine?”
“Of course not,” Roran scoffs. “Eragon’s Saphira and Nasuada’s Eden were the last of the dragons, and they will not be returning in our lifetime. If you really care to know, I’ve spent most of my time studying law and history.”
“You can read now, eh?”—teasing him.
“So can you, I imagine.”
“Touché.” Birgit inclines her head toward him. “I learned, yes, but it makes my head hurt. I usually dictate my letters.”
“I can afford no such luxury,” Roran says wryly. “A king must be learned. I’ve become quite the scholar. Would rather be out hunting or riding, of course, but I never seem to have time.”
The conversation continues well into the dessert course, dancing on the line between friendly small talk and teasing flirtation. Katrina only interjects twice, and the second time it’s to ask Birgit to pass the salt.
Birgit finds that, against all expectations, she thoroughly enjoys their talk. Roran has come a long way from the reckless, unsophisticated farm boy she knew in Carvahall. In essence he’s still the same, with an enjoyment in simple pleasures and a preference for straight-talking honesty; but there’s more to him than is clearly visible, and this new depth intrigues her. He is more an adult than when last she spoke with him, and she feels they are finally on the same level.
***
It’s hard to sleep that night. Birgit feels uncomfortable in the fine silk sheets, and Hilde is snoring so loud that she can be heard even from the adjoining room.
Not one for counting sheep, Birgit gets out of bed and slips into her least uncomfortable shoes. She puts on her coat over her nightgown—these castles get so drafty—and quietly steps out into the corridor, shielding her candle’s flame with one hand.
Wandering through her townhouse when she can’t get to sleep is a long-established habit, but one that she will have to break while she’s staying in Castle Ilirea. The castle’s cold corridors are nowhere near as comforting as the familiar shapes of her furniture and her sleeping cats. Soon she’s more awake than she was when she left the room.
Just as she’s about to turn back, she hears approaching footsteps. The castle nightwatch? I’m probably not supposed to be out here. A thrill zips up her spine, the kind of delicious fear of being caught she remembers from childhood games of hide-and-seek.
“Birgit? Is that you?”
She turns. It’s the King. Belatedly, she realizes she’s wandered into the corridor just outside the royal suites.
“Evening,” she says, attempting a nonchalant smile.
After a wary pause, Roran returns the smile. “You couldn’t sleep either?”
“No.” She shakes her head, aware that her hair has come out of its elaborate updo and is now a mess. “I confess, your rooms are too fine for me. I prefer a simpler bed, one without stifling curtains and clingy silk sheets.”
“Ah, silk sheets.” He winces. “Can’t stand ‘em. Had them banned from my chamber when I took up residence. Good sturdy cotton is good enough for this king.”
“Then what keeps you up tonight, if not your bed linens?” Birgit inquires archly.
He groans, putting callused fingers to his temples. “You don’t want to hear about my problems.”
“Perhaps I do,” she murmurs. “Have you anyone else willing to listen? Gods know I haven’t, and some days it’s unbearable.”
“No, I don’t,” he admits.
Their eyes meet. The flickering candlelight is reflected in the mud-brown of his iris, and Birgit is suddenly reminded of the saying about what happens to people who play with fire.
His decision is swift. “Walk with me,” he commands, “and I’ll match you grievance for grievance. Tell me your problems, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Birgit holds his gaze. “As you wish, my King.”
(lovegame intuition play the cards with spades to start
and after he’s been hooked i’ll play the one that’s on his heart)