by Max Irons
Iven nodded. “That’s their ambassador, Kolvein Mord. Keep your temper in check.”
King Balen ascended the dais, and all present bowed low. Iven quickly turned around and followed their example. Galeron did so as well, but he kept his head elevated, eyes never leaving Kolvein’s face. A man could never trust a Delktian, not this far south. The king sat down, and the crowd stood straight again. Lonni shifted closer to Galeron, to the point that her shoulder pressed against his steel pauldrons. As King Balen brought his court to order, she tilted her head toward him.
“The lord Iven spoke with,” she whispered. “The fat one. That’s who the apothecary mentioned.”
“Right,” Galeron mumbled. “I don’t know what to do about it yet, but at least I know his face.”
“The court welcomes Iven Porter, youngest of Anchises Porter, as the newest head of his line,” King Balen said. “Lord Porter, it does us honor to see you present in this hall. Many feared that you would not return.”
Iven really has a reputation around here. Not unjustly, at any rate. Iven hadn’t been one for the stern leadership that a man might expect from a major lord. However, the rest of the nobles were in for a shock if they thought Iven could be pushed around.
Iven bowed low again. “Your majesty. I could not abandon my familial duties to suit my own wanderlust, for the weight of responsibility due a lord of Raya is great indeed…”
Galeron kept his face locked stone-blank as Iven continued, but his insides quivered with checked laughter. Dianna had written that speech, no doubts there. Iven would never have used words like “familial” and “wanderlust” himself, and it certainly sounded as if he were reading from parchment. His voice came out flat and, to all who knew him, annoyed at his own words.
As Iven plowed on, King Balen’s gaze clouded, and his eyes shifted from the archer to a spot far behind them. Perhaps even kings grew bored with their own court. Galeron twitched as the whites of Balen’s eyes grew. The king held his mouth closed, but the muscles about his jaw bulged.
Galeron snuck glances at the woman to the king’s right and the other nobles. No one appeared to notice Balen’s diverted attention. Perhaps Iven’s speech lulled them into a stupor. Balen fixated on something high and behind them. Galeron slowly turned his head and angled his eyes. He couldn’t be sure where Balen had been looking, but the only thing he could see was dust floating in a beam of sunlight.
Returning to stare at the king, Galeron blinked. Balen’s face had returned to focus on Iven, all signals of fear or unease wiped from his expression. Had he imagined Balen’s distress? Surely not, but the king looked as if nothing had happened.
Galeron let his eyes shift to Kolvein Mord, who, with narrowed gaze, watched Iven as he spoke. A sneer split his thin lips, displaying white but uneven teeth. Hot liquid raced through Galeron’s guts, and a hundred images of bloody battlefields, ice-encrusted mountains, and smoking corpses reared in his head. He shut one eye as he beat down the images. They were in the past. They could do nothing to him. The war was over.
Yet, a Delktian was in the Rayan court, and the long-honed urge to strike, to kill, roared in his chest like some fanatical beast. He swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead, and his limbs shivered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Lonni.
Galeron took a deep breath and exhaled. “Nothing.” He took another breath. “I’ll be fine.”
Lonni glared at him, but she didn’t get a chance to speak. Iven, having apparently knelt and taken his oaths while Galeron had been fixated on Kolvein, stood and extended a hand back to the two of them.
“Your majesty, this is the paladin of house Porter, Galeron Triste,” Iven said. “The woman next to him is Lonni Tomkin, a personal friend we met on our travels.”
The court inhaled almost as one at the mention of Galeron’s name. He frowned. His reputation, such that it was, hadn’t extended that far. Even if they knew the stories of the Deathstalker, his name in particular was never attached to it.
“A Broton?” bellowed one of the men in the crowd. “Such a thing cannot be allowed. He insults the princess’s memory, your majesty.”
“Purgers of magic,” grumbled another.
“Enough,” said the woman next to King Balen, her voice deep and cold. “There are no strictures regarding a paladin’s appointment. If Lord Porter were so inclined, he could make his horse the paladin.”
“Madness,” said the first man.
“It is the rule of law,” countered the woman. “If you and the other house lords despise his choice, then convene and change the rules. It is well within your rights, but as it demands unanimous agreement from all seven of you, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“As you say, Queen Tulia,” he grumbled, looking at the floor.
Kolvein strolled from the king’s left hand and approached, a swagger punctuating his walk. “I think, great king, that there’s something else we ought to consider.” His voice came out icy smooth. “You see, the adoption of a Broton paladin is in poor choice, to be sure…but when that same Broton is a killer of mages, then that suggests something else entirely.”
The crowd shifted and muttered. King Balen frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Kolvein stalked a circle around Galeron and Lonni. He tensed his muscles, but stared straight ahead. A flat, metallic taste coated his tongue, and his fists itched to shatter that pointed nose. Lonni watched Kolvein, her head swiveling to keep him in view.
“Your majesty, surely you heard the tales out of Azura of the mortal man that hunted Atreus Luccio, of the Deathstalker’s return,” Kolvein said.
“Broton myths of the war,” sniffed Tulia. “A mortal kill a mage? The very idea is ludicrous.”
“Yet this is he,” hissed the Delktian. “The man who slew the necromancer.”
“How do you know this?” asked Tulia.
“A simple matter.” Kolvein stopped directly in front of Galeron. “The necromancer’s scion battled him until the cowardly hunter smote him upon the mountainside.” His dark eyes burned into Galeron’s. “He lived, though, and told me the tale. His account matches the soulless daemon before us.”
“Those are heavy accusations,” Tulia said. “They matter little. The wars are over.”
“So they say,” hissed Kolvein.
Galeron’s knuckles popped.
“I would be wary of him, my king,” he continued. “Some men do not know when the fighting is done. War does things to a man’s mind, and there are those who enjoy the slaughter. We know the Broton appetite for mage blood. Lord Porter may do as he wishes, but his iron paladin bears watching.”
Kolvein turned away, and then whirled around, fist slamming into Galeron’s nose. Reflex tears sprang in his eyes, and a stunning pain spiderwebbed into his forehead. He rocked back and sprang at Kolvein. That was the excuse he needed. Time to wrap his hands around that scrawny throat and wring the life from him. Steel hands wrenched his arms behind him.
“Not here,” Iven said. “You haven’t got a weapon.”
Galeron snarled, the sound almost bestial in his throat. “I don’t need one.”
His vision clouded with a red haze. Iven had to let him go. The world would be better off with one less Delktian. He struggled, but Iven clamped down hard and shoved him back behind him.
“No,” he said. “I need you with me, not rotting in some dungeon.”
Galeron breathed heavily, his gaze still on the smirking Kolvein. Some part of his mind recognized Iven was right, but the rage didn’t care. The only cure for the Delktian disease was death.
“You see, my king?” said Kolvein. “He is little more than an animal. The Broton blood lust has not been overstated.”
A softer touch emerged on his bicep. Lonni came into view, one hand on his arm. “Galeron, don’t think with your fists.” She lowered her voice to the barest whisper. “You’re an informer, blast it, so start acting like it.”
Informer. Galeron took a deep breath and held for
a moment before releasing it. He pried open his fists and let some of the tension drain from his muscles. He’d settle the score with that blasted diplomat soon, but Iven was right. Starting a brawl in the middle of King Balen’s court wouldn’t find Fletcher’s killer. His throat tightened, but he swallowed spittle and rage.
“A pity,” King Balen said. “It’s been too long since I saw a Broton and Delktian fight.”
Queen Tulia gave him a frown but said nothing.
Kolvein bowed low. “I try my best to please my host.” He turned and spat on Galeron’s boot. “Until next time, iron paladin.”
Galeron’s eyes narrowed as Iven’s grip clenched further. “You’ve wasted your chance. I’ll have my blade.”
Kolvein laughed and returned to the king’s left hand.
“Lord Porter, the crown is certain you have much to attend to,” Queen Tulia said. “We thank you for your loyalty and give you leave to attend your business.”
Iven released Galeron and bowed again. “Your majesties are too kind.”
They left the throne hall, and, once Galeron had retrieved his sword from the legionary, Dianna began yelling at both him and Iven.
“Iven Porter, what is wrong with your paladin?” she said as they entered the carriage.
Iven sighed. “To be fair, he struck first.”
“And that made it fine for him to start a melee before the throne?” Dianna asked.
Why was she talking like he couldn’t hear her? “That paladin happens to speak,” Galeron said.
“I severely doubted it,” Dianna snapped. “Are you even civilized?”
“You’re being a harsh,” said Iven.
“He was wound tighter than one of your bowstrings when Kolvein entered. Didn’t you tell him what was expected at court?”
He glowered at her. “You know exactly where I’ve been since I got here. There hasn’t been time, and the man punched him for no reason.”
“He’s a Delktian, and he’s the ambassador,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “There’s nothing anyone can do to him. It’s part of the Tripart Accords, and King Balen likes him on top of that. He could have run your paladin through, and I doubt the king would’ve batted an eye.”
The carriage bounced as they started off. Galeron rubbed his still-throbbing nose as Iven and Dianna continued to bicker. Kolvein was going to be a problem if he didn’t move in the shadows. Vestiges of the rage still gurgled in his intestines, but the further they traveled from the throne hall, the more it decreased.
A thought wormed its way into his clearing mind. Could Kolvein fit somewhere into the mess that plagued Keenan Caffar? It certainly…wait. Am I really suspicious of him, or is this just because he punched me? No good thinking could be done this soon, and, as his eyelids started to droop, he realized he hadn’t slept properly since the last night on the Bonnie Fair.
The carriage pulled up to the Porter mansion, and Galeron, in a half-stupor, climbed up to his room, stripped off the armor, and collapsed on the bed fully clothed. Darkness overtook him before his face hit the pillows.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Iven hauled Galeron out of bed a mere hour after he’d laid his head down. Galeron rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up, scowling at the lanky archer. His nose still throbbed from the beating he’d taken, and his throat rasped like rattling parchment in the wind when he breathed. How long had it been since he’d had a drink? He reached for the pitcher of water at his bedside table and poured himself a cup. It tasted sweet, or maybe that was just his imagination.
“You couldn’t have let me sleep longer?” asked Galeron.
Iven casually tossed his green poufy hat from one hand to the other. “No. Hadrian and Phoebe are here to give you and Lonni dance lessons.”
Lonni? Galeron started, and water dribbled down his windpipe. He coughed and hacked, and Iven clapped him hard on the back.
“Why is Lonni involved?” sputtered Galeron.
Iven raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you taking her to the ball?”
“I…” Now that he’d thought about it, Iven had a point. He’d been so consumed with how to hunt for Fletcher’s killer that he hadn’t thought about the Fallen Ones’ ball. Iven’s paladin couldn’t just wander in without a lady on his arm.
A part of him wanted to scowl, dig in his heels, and grumble “just watch me,” but he shoved it back into the dark corners of his mind. Digging information out of the nobility would demand tricky conversations and awkward questions. Best to give them fewer reasons to wonder.
But still. Lonni?
Who else am I going to take?
“You could always invite one of those shrews Dianna’s been trying to set me up with,” Iven suggested. “There’s Lily with the shrill voice. Julia could be nice, but I could never get her to talk—”
“I get it,” Galeron said, getting to his feet and pulling his boots on. “Keep it together.”
He buckled on his sword, and Iven sighed. “You can’t go dancing with a blade strapped to your belt.”
Galeron frowned. “Why not?”
“Because you’ll smack the people behind you with the tip, you dolt.” Iven rolled his eyes. “How did you do this before I came along?”
“I would have been the scullery boy,” Galeron said, dropping his sword back on the bed. “Is there no way around it? I can go to the ball without a weapon, but with Kolvein roaming and looking for blood, I’d feel a lot safer with one.”
Iven pushed him towards the door. “Get down there. I’ll see what I can dig up for you.” As Galeron left the room, he heard him mumble, “Starting to wonder who’s lord around here.”
Galeron went down the stairs and checked several of the rooms, eventually finding Lonni and Hadrian in the parlor, which was cleared of furniture, save for one chair in which Phoebe sat. Lonni fidgeted with a bodice cinched over her dress. She glared at him as he walked into the room. Hadrian wore a bemused expression on his face that seemed to have been frozen there.
“Stop adjusting it, Lonni,” Hadrian rumbled. “It’s not good manners for a lady to correct her clothing in public.”
Lonni’s heated gaze turned to him. “If I didn’t have to wear this, we’d not have a problem.”
Hadrian shrugged. “It’s what women wear to balls.”
“Why?”
“It’s supposed to make you look shapely and desirable,” said Phoebe. “That’s why it’s so tight, dear.”
Lonni sighed. “It’s too loose.” She pulled it off and handed it to Phoebe. “When I wear it for real, it’s going to slip, and I’m going to share far more than I want.”
Phoebe chuckled. “We’ll get it adjusted before tonight, but you might want to consider eating something to ensure the sea breezes don’t carry you away.”
“I eat well enough, thank you,” Lonni said.
“Rand swears you’ve at least two hollow limbs,” Galeron said.
She sniffed. “Papa exaggerates. It’s only one.”
Phoebe looked from Galeron to Lonni, and, though it was only for a moment, Galeron was sure her eyes twinkled.
“Now that you’re both here, it’s time we get started,” Phoebe said.
Galeron’s heart sank. He’d been expecting this, but still. He was going to make a fool of himself, step on Lonni’s toes at least four times, and probably break something.
“Dancing really isn’t that hard,” said Hadrian, as if he could sense Galeron’s internal panic. “It’s all footwork and rhythm.”
Galeron frowned. “Sounds like swordplay.”
“Aye.” Hadrian nodded. “In some ways it is, but remember that your dance partner is your partner, not your opponent.” He nudged Lonni closer to Galeron. “First rule of court dancing; the man is the driver.”
“What?” he asked.
“In other words, you decide what the two of you do and where you go,” Phoebe said. “Just as a forewarning.”
Galeron’s guts turned to wriggling worms. “Wonderful.”
>
“It’s not that bad,” hissed Lonni.
He didn’t look at her, instead keeping his gaze on Hadrian.
“Move closer,” Hadrian said.
Galeron took a step forward, leaving only a hand’s breadth between his and Lonni’s noses. They were almost identical in height. How had he not noticed that before?
“Now, Galeron, place your right hand on her back.”
Galeron swallowed, but he reached his right arm around her and placed his hand in the middle of her back. Hadrian grabbed his hand and shifted it up, putting it closer to her shoulder blade. He then guided Lonni’s left arm around Galeron so that her hand rested in the same spot on his back.
“There we go. Extend your other arms out to the side and take hands.”
They did so, Lonni’s long thin fingers wrapping smoothly over the gap between his thumb and forefinger. Despite work callouses at the base of her fingers, her touch was incredibly soft, and she smelled of wildflowers. A deep pang in his heart pulsated through his body. He’d not been this close to a woman since Melia. Galeron beat down the image of her face in his mind. It was insignificant. He didn’t need to be thinking about that right now.
“Lead with your left foot and walk toward her,” Phoebe said. “Your right should feel like it’s going to go between her legs. Just move like that: step, step, and then sidestep left.”
Galeron groaned inwardly and could feel the heat spreading through him as he took his first lumbering steps.
“Shorten your stride. You’re not in combat,” Hadrian said.
Starting to wish I was. He did it anyway. Galeron looked down, keeping his steps much smaller than normal and adjusting to avoid bringing a heavy boot down on Lonni’s foot.
“Keep your head up,” Phoebe said. “You might crash into someone on the dance floor if you’re not careful.”
Galeron pulled his head up, and Lonni snorted, her breath warm with faint traces of peppermint. “Sounds about right for you. Ouch!”
The ball of his foot landed squarely on top of Lonni’s, and they hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Galeron’s breath caught as one of his knees struck the stone floor, a bolt of pain lancing up into his thigh. Phoebe sighed from her chair, and Hadrian’s dry chuckle reverberated around the room.