Steam rose in thin threads from the porcelain. The silver did not clink, the cloth did not wrinkle, even the morning light seemed to enter more carefully there, filtered through pale curtains and reflected on the dark varnish of the furniture.
"The young voroir, despite the circumstances, seems to have potential, my lady," said Astrid, finishing the alignment of the tray. "I heard from the servants that he won a sparring match."
"Against a fylkirn," Alva replied, without lifting her eyes from the hand mirror. "The minimum expected of any voroir." The answer came out dry, but not empty. She knew very well what that meant, she also knew the value of pretending she did not.
Her family had built its fortune on iron, escort and routes that remained open only because men marked by the Star marched before the caravans and remained standing where others fell. Trade enriched the house, the voroir kept it alive. A family without a voroir for too many generations ceased to be a family and became a memory instead, a name still spoken at table only out of courtesy or pity.
To produce a voroir, however, was costly and the methods were old, obscure and guarded with the zeal of those who sold hope. They increased the chances enough that no one dared give them up, to nearly every serious aristocratic family clung to the same miserable logic; have children in abundance, invest more in the best among them, and pray that one of them would be touched by grace before ruin arrived.
Alva set the mirror down and took up the cup. "My brothers are trying to negotiate with Hakon," she said, blowing over the tea before tasting it. "And you expect me to go to this... cripple?"
"Voroir, my lady," Astrid corrected. "One of the blessed."
"I did not know you were devout," Alva replied, twisting her mouth slightly. "Too sweet."
"There is no faith in me, my lady," she corrected. "But there is power in it as a whole. Just as there is power in the voroir." She paused briefly, then took up her own cup, poured for herself and drank. "And the tea is at the proper point."
Alva turned her face slowly to look at her. That was one of the most irritating things about Astrid, her cousin had always known exactly how far she could go without making punishment worth the scandal. She spoke truths with the posture of a servant, but with the blood of an equal running beneath her skin. Had Astrid been born from a humbler womb, Alva would have stepped on her more easily, but blood recognized blood.
"You speak far too many truths, dear Astrid," said Alva. Taking up the teapot, this time she poured the tea herself, adjusting the sugar with her own hand. "It is a tiring quality."
"It is a useful one," Astrid replied. "The boy is young." She emphasized
One of the many problems with aristocratic families having too many children was that sooner or later, some had to step downward so that others might remain above. Not all inherited name in equal measure. Some married well, some were sent to distant posts dignified enough to look honorable, and what rest served greater houses and called that continuity.
Astrid had been one of those continuities.
Alva by comparison, had been luckier. Her father had been less ambitious with his wives' wombs than many men of the inner circle, and so had produced fewer children to compete beneath the same roof. The problem was that the few who had come were all competent in their own way. Her older brothers had a talent for numbers and political dealings. She had beauty, name, and intelligence enough not to be cast aside and then there was Hakon, the youngest, the little pest.
Eighteen years newly completed, and elevated before anyone had time to decide what ought to be done with him. That had not been a miracle, it had been an inconvenience. "As is Hakon," said Alva, taking another sip, now satisfied with the taste. "And he as it seems is the great prize of the season."
"Hakon is different," Astrid replied, adjusting a nonexistent fold in the tablecloth. "He is wellborn, and was educated for this, taught to recognize traps."
Alva raised an eyebrow. "Then you suppose me a woman of traps?"
"I do not suppose, my lady." Astrid finished aligning the last spoon. "I would not dare." Then she lifted her eyes. "I know you are."
Alva smiled. Not because she was amused, but because she would not give Astrid the reward of seeing her irritated."And yet," she said, setting the cup upon the saucer, "you came to advise me."
"Because your brothers are already doing the obvious." Astrid took the tea cart in both hands. "And the obvious is rarely enough."
"Explain,"
"Hakon has name, blood, instruction, backing, and now blessing. Your entire house is already moving around that." Her fingers tightened slightly around the cart's handle. "The other one does not. He is young, newly arrived, is wounded and displaced, it's not a man who knows very well where he ought to tread."
"A commoner, then."
"An elevated commoner," Astrid corrected. "One who may be shaped before someone cleverer decides to try the same."
Alva let her gaze drop to the papers set aside beside the tray, the files were thin, with little verifiable origin, almost nothing there inspired confidence, still less prestige. A poor wager, but poor wagers were sometimes the only kind available to those who did not have the luxury of inheriting the better board. Those elevated young and backed by an old name rarely remained available for long, not for serious alliances. The other one, however... the other one came with gaps, and gaps at times, were doors.
"You are telling me," Alva murmured, "that I should waste my time on a boy with no clear past, no refinement, no established position, and one arm less, because perhaps no one has yet explained his own value to him."
Astrid inclined her head. "I am saying that men like that tend to learn quickly, my lady. And they tend to remember who taught them."
Alva let out a short breath through her nose. If it worked she would gain precedence where no line had yet formed. If it failed, she would have lost time, dignity and perhaps something worse, the chance to aim at a safer target while the others moved. Even so, Hakon's name displeased her more. She had never gotten along with her youngest brother and she would not begin now, simply because the Star had decided to touch him and raise him above where he ought to be.
"You speak like someone very confident for a servant," said Alva.
"And you listen like someone far too intelligent to waste advice," Astrid replied. Then she gave a short curtsy insufferably correct. "By your leave." Alva watched her leave without calling her back.
When the door closed, the room seemed larger, she took another sip of tea and drew the papers closer. She examined the name again and she did not like what she saw, there was no guarantee there, nothing that recommended enthusiasm. But there was power and power was the only virtue that in the end, survived ridicule.
"A young voroir," she murmured to herself. She turned to another page to find little information again. Plenty of room for disaster or... for advantage. Alva rested her finger upon the name as though that might tell her something the reports did not. It would be a risky wager, one she would not make if she had other means, more freedom or brothers less eager, but she did not. What remained to her was the space between the possible and the necessary. "Well," she said to the empty room. "Let us see what an ignorant commoner is worth."