Pride of Princes - Part Three, Chapter One
Jul. 5th, 2023 06:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kalinara posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
i_read_whatSo last time, we saw Brennan have a pretty awful time that culminated in an even more awful time. Sorry dude. Maybe the second brother, Hart, will fare a little better?
So the thing about Hart is that he's got a bit of an uphill battle for me to like him. Corin too. The fact of the matter is that, while it wasn't anyone's fault that the accident happened that killed so many people at the beginning of the book, I'd still expect to see SOME measure of reflection and regret. It doesn't have to be a LOT. Certainly Brennan moved past it pretty easily. But at least a nod toward the fact that what happened was horrific and should not have happened would be good.
I'd particularly like to see it from Hart, as it was his idea to go to the midden to begin with. I understand that gambling addictions are real and very damaging to people's lives, but like any addiction, it's a lot easier to sympathize with a protagonist that's actually trying to address it and move past it.
It can be done, even in a setting that doesn't recognize addiction in the same terms, by the way. Tanya Huff's Fire Stone has a character that is clearly an alcoholic. He drinks to excess, behaves in a self-destructive - though not abusive! - manner, goes through withdrawals and tries very hard to do better, all in the context of a fantasy setting that has no appreciation of the concept. We'll see if Hart's struggles are dealt with in a similar way.
Anyway, so Hart is off to Solinde. It's kind of funny that he's being punished with the land that he's eventually going to rule, but Solinde is kind of a crap place in general:
Solinde was an inhospitable, barren land. Hart thought, until he left behind the borderlands and entered wooded hills. The wide track leading out of Homana into Solinde traded plains for huddled hills, winding like a tunnel through heavy vegetation. Thick and deep, the shadows held dominance over sunlight.
I wonder what effect the generations of invasion from Homana influenced the land development.
Anyway, it's pretty fucking cold, and Hart traded out a Cheysuli jerkin for a long-sleeved court doublet. It does sound pretty creepy though:
Hart shivered as the trees closed in, branches reaching for his face. The tunnel shrank and the shadows deepened, until he felt singularly oppressed. All around him were trunks and limbs and vines. The wood smelted of decay.
He calls for his lir, Rael, but Rael is flying high above the trees, enjoying the sunlight. Hart briefly considers flying too, but Rael points out that he'd leave his finery behind. To be fair, Hart didn't bring much. Leathers, food...and a fortune-game. Oh dear. What else does he need, he wonders.
Good sense, Rael retorted. Or am I expected to supply the wisdom while you supply the gold?
"I intend to win the gold, not supply it," Hart explained. "Sweet Solindish gold ... I hear it is red as copper, but with twice the weight and thrice the value of Homanan."
Then you will need thrice the amount of your allowance to make the games worthwhile, Rael countered. Sooner wagered, sooner lost.
"I win, lir. I win."
Do you, though?
Rael's "tell that to the Mujhar" is pretty much the same sentiment.
Eventually Hart hears the sound of a stream, and a break for water sounds very good in the "oppressive" wood. It's interesting that Hart feels that way, because it doesn't seem like a common Cheysuli feeling. It's possible that Hart feels it because of what Solinde represents to him though.
His peaceful solitude is interrupted by a rider and...oh dear:
He saw her, then, come running out of the shadows.
She was a palette of white and scarlet; hair white-blond, gown bright red, the mare unsullied white. She hunched in the saddle, bent low over the mare's neck, and the vivid mantle billowed behind as she urged the mare onward.
She's being pursued. Hart readies his bow, and when the man comes into view, he orders him to hold. The man protests, but well, an arrow aimed at his throat is convincing. He leaves.
Maybe it's just lingering distrust from the Rhiannon scenario, but maybe you should find out what's going on before jumping to conclusions. On the other hand, I can't fault a man for seeing a woman in trouble and coming to the rescue.
We get more description. The lady is hot.
The mare eyed him in alarm and shied two steps, until the young woman checked her with a rein. Hart halted at once. From closer range, the incandescence of her beauty was incredible. It unfolded like a lily in the sun, then dominated its surroundings. Ice-white hair, ice-blue eyes, with glorious, flawless skin.
"You have done me a service." Her accented Homanan only attracted him the more.
Actually, though, it sounds like things weren't as they seemed:
Hart grinned. "Saving your life, or your virtue? Aye, you might say so."
"No." Her long-lidded eyes were gray-blue. "No, he meant me no harm. What he said of his duty, his task, his responsibility—all was true. But not as you believed. He was bodyguard, not ravager. Certainly not assassin."
He stared up at her. Gods, but this woman is enough to charm the teeth out of the Lion, and he would give them willingly— He smiled. "Lady—he was not? Then what service did I do you?"
Her laughter set the world ablaze. "Freedom—you give me freedom ... at least until the others come searching for me." Some of her gaiety was banished. "And they will. They will."
The descriptions sound awfully familiar, to be honest. I'm sure that's intentional. Is that good or bad though?
Hart asked what if he'd killed the man. The woman says she'd never let it have gotten so far. So Hart decides to pursue his advantage...
He caught one of the reins, stepping closer. "And what do you give me for your freedom?"
She frowned. "Give?"
He shrugged, "I have done you a service. Now I ask payment, lady."
"If you think—"
"I do." He pulled the mare closer. "A kiss, lady. Small token of your gratitude, payment for my service." He grinned, arching suggestive brows. "Not so much, I think."
Ew. Stop being gross, Hart.
Ilsa (for that is the woman's name. We'll find out eventually. Spoiler, I suppose) wins me over for this though:
"More than you know, from me." One booted foot kicked out and caught him flush on the jaw.
He staggered back, swearing, and lost his grip on her reins. By the time he could see clearly again, the woman had spurred the mare on and was gone.
Good girl!
Hart sounds like a fucking supervillain here:
Rael, he said. "Rael!"
Not so far, lir. Mount your horse and catch up.
Dude, leave her alone! She's not into you!
I get that Ilsa looks like Electra, but you should be fucking BETTER than Carillon. Leave the girl alone!
So, this asshole decides to CHASE the woman he offended.
She had caught him squarely, snapping his head sideways toward his right shoulder; neck muscles protested in unison with the jaw. Had she been man instead of woman, she might have broken his neck.
Were she man instead of woman, you would never have asked a kiss.
Hart, swinging up into his saddle, laughed aloud as he heard the hawk's tone. No, I would wager not. He urged the chestnut through the water onto the bank on the other side. Where, lir? Which way?
Seriously, why the fuck are you chasing this woman?! You now know her life wasn't in danger. Leave her alone!
Hart muses about his advantage here: her mare is tired, and had drank too much water to sustain a gallop. His mount is rested. "he would be on them soon enough."
Seriously, why do you sound like a villain?!
Look, maybe Hart will improve, but right now I am genuinely crushed to go from a character who actually cared about a woman's well-being and consent, even if he was a bit of a chauvinistic white knight about it, to THIS behavior.
So he sees her in the distance:
The girl looked back once, then again. Her face was lost in the tangle of unbound hair; like the mare's tail it streamed out behind, a whipping pennon in the wind.
Hart, grinning as the stallion closed, saw the girl reach up swiftly and catch her hair at the nape of her neck, winding it swiftly into a single plume. And then she stuffed it beneath the neck of her gown with both hands, the mare running free, and caught reins again to pull the mare off the track into the shadows of the wood.
I'm very impressed by this girl's ability to do her own hair while fleeing on horseback. And also, dude, she's a noblewoman who clearly can't go out without bodyguards. She probably thinks you want to rape or assault her. This is NOT HELPING.
The chase continues. Hart actually has the fucking nerve to think she'll kill the mare. Well then STOP CHASING HER. But then something happens. A hare gets startled out of cover, which startles Hart's stallion, throwing Hart from the horse and knocking him out.
Oh, and look at this bullshit:
A sound. A voice: a woman's, with desperation in her tone. Telling him in accented Homanan to wake up, and then when he did not, pleading something else in indecipherable Solindish.
Solindish.
This poor woman probably thinks she killed this dude. She's trying to get to him, but Rael won't let her near. She begs him to wake up and call off the hawk. Hart tells Rael that the girl is "magnificent" and let her come close.
Rael's relief was tangible as it thrummed throughout the link. But his tone belied the truth. Was this a ruse, then, to trick her into giving you your payment?
Have you ever known me to willingly suffer so much pain in the name of a woman?
Rael lighted on a tree limb. No, he said dryly, and folded his wings away.
Is it wrong that I'm starting to wish that this girl was Rhiannon's sister or something. A bit of torture might do Hart some good.
"Alive, then," she said in relief. "Oh, I thought I had killed you."
"No." He levered himself carefully up on one arm and wished he had not; his head throbbed alarmingly and a bough stabbed him in the ribs. "Well, perhaps you did."
Tentatively he fingered his forehead. "Gods, lady, I would say you need no bodyguard, nor even my protection."
Dude, you tried to bully her into a kiss and then you chased her down. What the fuck is wrong with you???
Oh, LOOK at this bullshit.
"And my horse?" Hart looked over to where the chestnut lay. The stallion's breathing was labored. That he had exhausted himself trying to rise with his shattered legs was plain; Hart cursed aloud in the Old Tongue with as much eloquence as he could muster. "You acquit yourself well," he said shortly, and pushed himself out of the underbrush with another bitten off curse. He wavered and clutched the tree for support. But the stallion's plight was more imperative than pain; grimly he unhooked his bow and jerked an arrow from his quiver, walking unsteadily to the chestnut.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
DUDE. YOU. CHASED. HER. That your horse is dying is YOUR fucking fault. NOT hers.
She rose, skirts tangled on her boots, and came to stand beside him. "Had I the strength, I would do it myself."
Mocking: "Aye, lady. Of course." He raised the bow and drew back the string.
Fuck. You.
Brennan's section was GOOD. I ENJOYED IT. There were some slight glitches here and there, but for the most part, Roberson gave me an actually decent lead character! HOW DID WE GET FROM THERE TO HERE???
Ilsa is a far more decent person than I am, because she tells him to put his saddlebags on her mare. She offers him her horse: he can ride and she'll lead. Jesus, lady, you really owe this asshole nothing. Hart says it's not necessary.
She swept the glorious hair away from her face and showed him lifted brows. "And do you intend to fly?"
Hart laughed. "Aye, lady, I do."
She nodded calmly, plainly doubting him. "Even Ihlini cannot do that."
He looked at her sharply and recalled this was Solinde, the realm the Ihlini called home. Here they lived with impunity. "Thank the gods," he said curtly. "No, such things are for the Cheysuli."
Why are you being curt? It's not her fault that she's more familiar with Ihlini than Cheysuli!
Honestly, I think Ilsa's reaction is fairly mild and justified. God knows what she's heard about Cheysuli, and Hart certainly didn't give her a good fucking impression.
"Aye, but—" She broke off. The color ran out of her face, leaving her wan as death. She looked quickly at Rael, then back at Hart. In silence she asked the question.
"Aye," he told her, "I am. Rael is my lir."
She pulled her mantle more closely around her slender body, as if to ward off a chill, "I thought—I thought him merely well-trained, when he would not let me near."
"Lir are not trainable; they do what they will do." He resettled his bow and quiver. "And now, lady, I suggest—"
But she did not allow him to finish. "I have heard they have yellow eyes. Yours are decidedly blue."
He raised his brows. "Doubtless you have heard many things . . . some of them may be true." He smiled as he saw her frown of indecision. "Aye, most Cheysuli have yellow eyes. I do not because I am also Homanan. But the rest of me is Cheysuli."
I kind of love that she's arguing with him here. Anyway, she starts to bring up what the Ihlini said-
He overrode her. "Do you traffic with Ihlini?"
She stiffened. "This is Solinde, not Homana! The Ihlini have freedom here."
"Freedom to raise a rebellion? To rule this realm in place of those who should?"
"What is it to you?" she asked angrily. "You are a Homanan, a Cheysuli . . . what is Solinde to you? You have no stake in what happens in my land!"
"Do I not?" He smiled. "Oh, but lady, I think I do ... because one day I will rule it."
a) It is NOT HER FAULT that Ihlini are free in Solinde. There's been a viceroy since Carillon fucking conquered it. Take it up with him!
b) Homana has invaded Solinde for like twenty years. Steadily. We KNOW the invasion during Donal's time was bullshit, because the alleged Solindish assassin was Homanan. The invasion during Niall's book was innately pointless. Why the fuck shouldn't the people rebel? What reason have you given them otherwise?
c) Why the fuck do you think she'll believe you? Or that she'd welcome you, considering your people are the conquerors here.
And indeed, she doesn't. She's fucking pissed off.
"Lady, I do not lie in hopes of impressing you—"
"Oh, no?" she asked. "Men have done it before. Homanans have done it before. Why should I believe you are any different?" Icy eyes swept him from head to toe; contempt was implicit in her posture. "I think your sincerity requires practice, Homanan. You are not particularly convincing."
Hart stared at her. She was either completely unaware of her disarray, or else so angry she did not care. Or else she realizes that nothing could dull her beauty.
He wet his lips. "Lady—" he began patiently.
God, I disliked this when it was Electra, and I dislike it now. The fact that Ilsa is beautiful is not her fault and does not excuse your fucking behavior. And why SHOULDN'T she think you'd lie, YOU CHASED HER DOWN TO THE POINT YOU HAD TO KILL YOUR HORSE.
But it IS interesting to see a native Solindish point of view of the situation:
"No one rules Solinde," she said coldly. "No one. A regent sits in Lestra claiming right of authority from Homana's Cheysuli Mujhar." One arm gestured toward the city and a rigid finger divided the air. "But is that a ruler?—no. A travesty, no more. We are a proud land, shapechanger, and unused to kowtowing to a foreign Mujhar who rules out of ignorance, holding Solinde in trust for a man we do not—cannot—know. So, shapechanger, when you tell me lies for your own amusement, to impress me or otherwise, it bears no fruit at all. I am impervious to such things."
You know what? Good for Ilsa. What HAS Homana done for Solinde since she was conquered?
But Hart does have proof of his identity: his seal.
She stared at the thing in her hands. It was small for a thing of so much significance, and yet the shocked tears that sprang to her eyes belied the seeming worthlessness of it. "This is the seal," she said, "the Third Seal of Solinde!"
"Aye."
She stared at him; all the color had left her face. "The Trey was broken when the war with Carillon was lost. When Bellam was slain." Her heavy swallow was visible against the fragile flesh of her throat. "The regent has one seal, the Mujhar the other two. But—this is the Third Seal!"
He had not expected her to know it so precisely, only to know the cipher. Nor had he expected the seal to have such an effect on her, that she would stare at him in shocked discovery. He had every intention of telling her who he was, if only to prove he was not a liar, but it seemed she already knew.
She clasped the seal against her chest, shielded by pride and hair. "So." Her voice was cool, dulled by shock and hostility. "So, the Mujhar at last sends his wastrel son to sit in judgment on Solinde."
Wastrel son. It hurt. Worse than he had expected.
Oh, fuck off. I was sympathetic in Part One, because it was clear that Niall showed a bit too much favoritism to his oldest son. Fine. And I get why having an over-achieving twin could lead to a lack of motivation. Call it the Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield syndrome. I grew up on that shit.
But even Jessica knew better than to complain that she had the reputation that her own actions gave her!
And AGAIN, this woman's ONLY impression of you comes from you smugly demanding a kiss for scaring off her bodyguard, and then CHASING HER DOWN TO THE POINT OF MAIMING YOUR HORSE.
I think we can guess, from her political knowledge and her resemblance to Electra, who among many other things, had been the princess of Solinde, that she's probably a satellite member of the Solindish royal family. So no, she's not going to be happy about this, and she's not going to be impressed by you.
And honestly, you're lucky things don't go even worse:
She backed away a step, edging toward the mare. "If I took this ... if I took this with me and sent men back to murder you—"
"—you would be executed." He moved too swiftly for her, catching her hands in his own. "Aye, lady, wastrel son that I am, I am also the Prince of Solinde."
She laughed. She laughed so hard she cried, and then thrust the seal at him. "Take it! Take it! Without the other two it is nothing. Even in my hands!"
I mean, sure, having men kill him would likely be impossible, given that he could fly away before they find him. But SHE could probably kill him now. Come on, do Electra proud?
Sadly, Ilsa isn't a fighter or a witch, so she just leaps into her saddle and flees. The chapter ends with her telling him that "the battle has been joined!"
How did we get here? This book started so good! Why did this suddenly turn into Carillon and Electra 2.0, but without even Carillon's dubious good parts??
This is going to be a long fucking section.
So the thing about Hart is that he's got a bit of an uphill battle for me to like him. Corin too. The fact of the matter is that, while it wasn't anyone's fault that the accident happened that killed so many people at the beginning of the book, I'd still expect to see SOME measure of reflection and regret. It doesn't have to be a LOT. Certainly Brennan moved past it pretty easily. But at least a nod toward the fact that what happened was horrific and should not have happened would be good.
I'd particularly like to see it from Hart, as it was his idea to go to the midden to begin with. I understand that gambling addictions are real and very damaging to people's lives, but like any addiction, it's a lot easier to sympathize with a protagonist that's actually trying to address it and move past it.
It can be done, even in a setting that doesn't recognize addiction in the same terms, by the way. Tanya Huff's Fire Stone has a character that is clearly an alcoholic. He drinks to excess, behaves in a self-destructive - though not abusive! - manner, goes through withdrawals and tries very hard to do better, all in the context of a fantasy setting that has no appreciation of the concept. We'll see if Hart's struggles are dealt with in a similar way.
Anyway, so Hart is off to Solinde. It's kind of funny that he's being punished with the land that he's eventually going to rule, but Solinde is kind of a crap place in general:
Solinde was an inhospitable, barren land. Hart thought, until he left behind the borderlands and entered wooded hills. The wide track leading out of Homana into Solinde traded plains for huddled hills, winding like a tunnel through heavy vegetation. Thick and deep, the shadows held dominance over sunlight.
I wonder what effect the generations of invasion from Homana influenced the land development.
Anyway, it's pretty fucking cold, and Hart traded out a Cheysuli jerkin for a long-sleeved court doublet. It does sound pretty creepy though:
Hart shivered as the trees closed in, branches reaching for his face. The tunnel shrank and the shadows deepened, until he felt singularly oppressed. All around him were trunks and limbs and vines. The wood smelted of decay.
He calls for his lir, Rael, but Rael is flying high above the trees, enjoying the sunlight. Hart briefly considers flying too, but Rael points out that he'd leave his finery behind. To be fair, Hart didn't bring much. Leathers, food...and a fortune-game. Oh dear. What else does he need, he wonders.
Good sense, Rael retorted. Or am I expected to supply the wisdom while you supply the gold?
"I intend to win the gold, not supply it," Hart explained. "Sweet Solindish gold ... I hear it is red as copper, but with twice the weight and thrice the value of Homanan."
Then you will need thrice the amount of your allowance to make the games worthwhile, Rael countered. Sooner wagered, sooner lost.
"I win, lir. I win."
Do you, though?
Rael's "tell that to the Mujhar" is pretty much the same sentiment.
Eventually Hart hears the sound of a stream, and a break for water sounds very good in the "oppressive" wood. It's interesting that Hart feels that way, because it doesn't seem like a common Cheysuli feeling. It's possible that Hart feels it because of what Solinde represents to him though.
His peaceful solitude is interrupted by a rider and...oh dear:
He saw her, then, come running out of the shadows.
She was a palette of white and scarlet; hair white-blond, gown bright red, the mare unsullied white. She hunched in the saddle, bent low over the mare's neck, and the vivid mantle billowed behind as she urged the mare onward.
She's being pursued. Hart readies his bow, and when the man comes into view, he orders him to hold. The man protests, but well, an arrow aimed at his throat is convincing. He leaves.
Maybe it's just lingering distrust from the Rhiannon scenario, but maybe you should find out what's going on before jumping to conclusions. On the other hand, I can't fault a man for seeing a woman in trouble and coming to the rescue.
We get more description. The lady is hot.
The mare eyed him in alarm and shied two steps, until the young woman checked her with a rein. Hart halted at once. From closer range, the incandescence of her beauty was incredible. It unfolded like a lily in the sun, then dominated its surroundings. Ice-white hair, ice-blue eyes, with glorious, flawless skin.
"You have done me a service." Her accented Homanan only attracted him the more.
Actually, though, it sounds like things weren't as they seemed:
Hart grinned. "Saving your life, or your virtue? Aye, you might say so."
"No." Her long-lidded eyes were gray-blue. "No, he meant me no harm. What he said of his duty, his task, his responsibility—all was true. But not as you believed. He was bodyguard, not ravager. Certainly not assassin."
He stared up at her. Gods, but this woman is enough to charm the teeth out of the Lion, and he would give them willingly— He smiled. "Lady—he was not? Then what service did I do you?"
Her laughter set the world ablaze. "Freedom—you give me freedom ... at least until the others come searching for me." Some of her gaiety was banished. "And they will. They will."
The descriptions sound awfully familiar, to be honest. I'm sure that's intentional. Is that good or bad though?
Hart asked what if he'd killed the man. The woman says she'd never let it have gotten so far. So Hart decides to pursue his advantage...
He caught one of the reins, stepping closer. "And what do you give me for your freedom?"
She frowned. "Give?"
He shrugged, "I have done you a service. Now I ask payment, lady."
"If you think—"
"I do." He pulled the mare closer. "A kiss, lady. Small token of your gratitude, payment for my service." He grinned, arching suggestive brows. "Not so much, I think."
Ew. Stop being gross, Hart.
Ilsa (for that is the woman's name. We'll find out eventually. Spoiler, I suppose) wins me over for this though:
"More than you know, from me." One booted foot kicked out and caught him flush on the jaw.
He staggered back, swearing, and lost his grip on her reins. By the time he could see clearly again, the woman had spurred the mare on and was gone.
Good girl!
Hart sounds like a fucking supervillain here:
Rael, he said. "Rael!"
Not so far, lir. Mount your horse and catch up.
Dude, leave her alone! She's not into you!
I get that Ilsa looks like Electra, but you should be fucking BETTER than Carillon. Leave the girl alone!
So, this asshole decides to CHASE the woman he offended.
She had caught him squarely, snapping his head sideways toward his right shoulder; neck muscles protested in unison with the jaw. Had she been man instead of woman, she might have broken his neck.
Were she man instead of woman, you would never have asked a kiss.
Hart, swinging up into his saddle, laughed aloud as he heard the hawk's tone. No, I would wager not. He urged the chestnut through the water onto the bank on the other side. Where, lir? Which way?
Seriously, why the fuck are you chasing this woman?! You now know her life wasn't in danger. Leave her alone!
Hart muses about his advantage here: her mare is tired, and had drank too much water to sustain a gallop. His mount is rested. "he would be on them soon enough."
Seriously, why do you sound like a villain?!
Look, maybe Hart will improve, but right now I am genuinely crushed to go from a character who actually cared about a woman's well-being and consent, even if he was a bit of a chauvinistic white knight about it, to THIS behavior.
So he sees her in the distance:
The girl looked back once, then again. Her face was lost in the tangle of unbound hair; like the mare's tail it streamed out behind, a whipping pennon in the wind.
Hart, grinning as the stallion closed, saw the girl reach up swiftly and catch her hair at the nape of her neck, winding it swiftly into a single plume. And then she stuffed it beneath the neck of her gown with both hands, the mare running free, and caught reins again to pull the mare off the track into the shadows of the wood.
I'm very impressed by this girl's ability to do her own hair while fleeing on horseback. And also, dude, she's a noblewoman who clearly can't go out without bodyguards. She probably thinks you want to rape or assault her. This is NOT HELPING.
The chase continues. Hart actually has the fucking nerve to think she'll kill the mare. Well then STOP CHASING HER. But then something happens. A hare gets startled out of cover, which startles Hart's stallion, throwing Hart from the horse and knocking him out.
Oh, and look at this bullshit:
A sound. A voice: a woman's, with desperation in her tone. Telling him in accented Homanan to wake up, and then when he did not, pleading something else in indecipherable Solindish.
Solindish.
This poor woman probably thinks she killed this dude. She's trying to get to him, but Rael won't let her near. She begs him to wake up and call off the hawk. Hart tells Rael that the girl is "magnificent" and let her come close.
Rael's relief was tangible as it thrummed throughout the link. But his tone belied the truth. Was this a ruse, then, to trick her into giving you your payment?
Have you ever known me to willingly suffer so much pain in the name of a woman?
Rael lighted on a tree limb. No, he said dryly, and folded his wings away.
Is it wrong that I'm starting to wish that this girl was Rhiannon's sister or something. A bit of torture might do Hart some good.
"Alive, then," she said in relief. "Oh, I thought I had killed you."
"No." He levered himself carefully up on one arm and wished he had not; his head throbbed alarmingly and a bough stabbed him in the ribs. "Well, perhaps you did."
Tentatively he fingered his forehead. "Gods, lady, I would say you need no bodyguard, nor even my protection."
Dude, you tried to bully her into a kiss and then you chased her down. What the fuck is wrong with you???
Oh, LOOK at this bullshit.
"And my horse?" Hart looked over to where the chestnut lay. The stallion's breathing was labored. That he had exhausted himself trying to rise with his shattered legs was plain; Hart cursed aloud in the Old Tongue with as much eloquence as he could muster. "You acquit yourself well," he said shortly, and pushed himself out of the underbrush with another bitten off curse. He wavered and clutched the tree for support. But the stallion's plight was more imperative than pain; grimly he unhooked his bow and jerked an arrow from his quiver, walking unsteadily to the chestnut.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
DUDE. YOU. CHASED. HER. That your horse is dying is YOUR fucking fault. NOT hers.
She rose, skirts tangled on her boots, and came to stand beside him. "Had I the strength, I would do it myself."
Mocking: "Aye, lady. Of course." He raised the bow and drew back the string.
Fuck. You.
Brennan's section was GOOD. I ENJOYED IT. There were some slight glitches here and there, but for the most part, Roberson gave me an actually decent lead character! HOW DID WE GET FROM THERE TO HERE???
Ilsa is a far more decent person than I am, because she tells him to put his saddlebags on her mare. She offers him her horse: he can ride and she'll lead. Jesus, lady, you really owe this asshole nothing. Hart says it's not necessary.
She swept the glorious hair away from her face and showed him lifted brows. "And do you intend to fly?"
Hart laughed. "Aye, lady, I do."
She nodded calmly, plainly doubting him. "Even Ihlini cannot do that."
He looked at her sharply and recalled this was Solinde, the realm the Ihlini called home. Here they lived with impunity. "Thank the gods," he said curtly. "No, such things are for the Cheysuli."
Why are you being curt? It's not her fault that she's more familiar with Ihlini than Cheysuli!
Honestly, I think Ilsa's reaction is fairly mild and justified. God knows what she's heard about Cheysuli, and Hart certainly didn't give her a good fucking impression.
"Aye, but—" She broke off. The color ran out of her face, leaving her wan as death. She looked quickly at Rael, then back at Hart. In silence she asked the question.
"Aye," he told her, "I am. Rael is my lir."
She pulled her mantle more closely around her slender body, as if to ward off a chill, "I thought—I thought him merely well-trained, when he would not let me near."
"Lir are not trainable; they do what they will do." He resettled his bow and quiver. "And now, lady, I suggest—"
But she did not allow him to finish. "I have heard they have yellow eyes. Yours are decidedly blue."
He raised his brows. "Doubtless you have heard many things . . . some of them may be true." He smiled as he saw her frown of indecision. "Aye, most Cheysuli have yellow eyes. I do not because I am also Homanan. But the rest of me is Cheysuli."
I kind of love that she's arguing with him here. Anyway, she starts to bring up what the Ihlini said-
He overrode her. "Do you traffic with Ihlini?"
She stiffened. "This is Solinde, not Homana! The Ihlini have freedom here."
"Freedom to raise a rebellion? To rule this realm in place of those who should?"
"What is it to you?" she asked angrily. "You are a Homanan, a Cheysuli . . . what is Solinde to you? You have no stake in what happens in my land!"
"Do I not?" He smiled. "Oh, but lady, I think I do ... because one day I will rule it."
a) It is NOT HER FAULT that Ihlini are free in Solinde. There's been a viceroy since Carillon fucking conquered it. Take it up with him!
b) Homana has invaded Solinde for like twenty years. Steadily. We KNOW the invasion during Donal's time was bullshit, because the alleged Solindish assassin was Homanan. The invasion during Niall's book was innately pointless. Why the fuck shouldn't the people rebel? What reason have you given them otherwise?
c) Why the fuck do you think she'll believe you? Or that she'd welcome you, considering your people are the conquerors here.
And indeed, she doesn't. She's fucking pissed off.
"Lady, I do not lie in hopes of impressing you—"
"Oh, no?" she asked. "Men have done it before. Homanans have done it before. Why should I believe you are any different?" Icy eyes swept him from head to toe; contempt was implicit in her posture. "I think your sincerity requires practice, Homanan. You are not particularly convincing."
Hart stared at her. She was either completely unaware of her disarray, or else so angry she did not care. Or else she realizes that nothing could dull her beauty.
He wet his lips. "Lady—" he began patiently.
God, I disliked this when it was Electra, and I dislike it now. The fact that Ilsa is beautiful is not her fault and does not excuse your fucking behavior. And why SHOULDN'T she think you'd lie, YOU CHASED HER DOWN TO THE POINT YOU HAD TO KILL YOUR HORSE.
But it IS interesting to see a native Solindish point of view of the situation:
"No one rules Solinde," she said coldly. "No one. A regent sits in Lestra claiming right of authority from Homana's Cheysuli Mujhar." One arm gestured toward the city and a rigid finger divided the air. "But is that a ruler?—no. A travesty, no more. We are a proud land, shapechanger, and unused to kowtowing to a foreign Mujhar who rules out of ignorance, holding Solinde in trust for a man we do not—cannot—know. So, shapechanger, when you tell me lies for your own amusement, to impress me or otherwise, it bears no fruit at all. I am impervious to such things."
You know what? Good for Ilsa. What HAS Homana done for Solinde since she was conquered?
But Hart does have proof of his identity: his seal.
She stared at the thing in her hands. It was small for a thing of so much significance, and yet the shocked tears that sprang to her eyes belied the seeming worthlessness of it. "This is the seal," she said, "the Third Seal of Solinde!"
"Aye."
She stared at him; all the color had left her face. "The Trey was broken when the war with Carillon was lost. When Bellam was slain." Her heavy swallow was visible against the fragile flesh of her throat. "The regent has one seal, the Mujhar the other two. But—this is the Third Seal!"
He had not expected her to know it so precisely, only to know the cipher. Nor had he expected the seal to have such an effect on her, that she would stare at him in shocked discovery. He had every intention of telling her who he was, if only to prove he was not a liar, but it seemed she already knew.
She clasped the seal against her chest, shielded by pride and hair. "So." Her voice was cool, dulled by shock and hostility. "So, the Mujhar at last sends his wastrel son to sit in judgment on Solinde."
Wastrel son. It hurt. Worse than he had expected.
Oh, fuck off. I was sympathetic in Part One, because it was clear that Niall showed a bit too much favoritism to his oldest son. Fine. And I get why having an over-achieving twin could lead to a lack of motivation. Call it the Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield syndrome. I grew up on that shit.
But even Jessica knew better than to complain that she had the reputation that her own actions gave her!
And AGAIN, this woman's ONLY impression of you comes from you smugly demanding a kiss for scaring off her bodyguard, and then CHASING HER DOWN TO THE POINT OF MAIMING YOUR HORSE.
I think we can guess, from her political knowledge and her resemblance to Electra, who among many other things, had been the princess of Solinde, that she's probably a satellite member of the Solindish royal family. So no, she's not going to be happy about this, and she's not going to be impressed by you.
And honestly, you're lucky things don't go even worse:
She backed away a step, edging toward the mare. "If I took this ... if I took this with me and sent men back to murder you—"
"—you would be executed." He moved too swiftly for her, catching her hands in his own. "Aye, lady, wastrel son that I am, I am also the Prince of Solinde."
She laughed. She laughed so hard she cried, and then thrust the seal at him. "Take it! Take it! Without the other two it is nothing. Even in my hands!"
I mean, sure, having men kill him would likely be impossible, given that he could fly away before they find him. But SHE could probably kill him now. Come on, do Electra proud?
Sadly, Ilsa isn't a fighter or a witch, so she just leaps into her saddle and flees. The chapter ends with her telling him that "the battle has been joined!"
How did we get here? This book started so good! Why did this suddenly turn into Carillon and Electra 2.0, but without even Carillon's dubious good parts??
This is going to be a long fucking section.
no subject
Date: 2024-09-13 09:19 am (UTC)Not to mention his royal escort. Oh, wait, he apparently doesn't have an escort, does he?
Telling him in accented Homanan to wake up, and then when he did not, pleading something else in indecipherable Solindish.
Why is Solindish indecipherable? Surely he should know the language of the country he's going to rule?
Unfortunately, I don't think we can blame this incompetency on Donal. Hart's lack of preparation is probably all on Niall for neglecting it. Or Roberson, for not thinking for five minutes.
I don't want Ilsa to be Electra 2.0, because I don't want her to be a villain. Everything she's said has been right. But I also don't want her to just be the Solindish love interest who fixes Hart and makes him think about Solinde as a real place just because he starts to see her differently. And those are the only two likely options.
no subject
Date: 2024-09-13 11:33 am (UTC)At least Niall had Ian (it didn't end well, but they tried!)