She was just in time to see a crowd of young men, all in masks, bow themselves courteously past her father. Her heart did beat a little faster at the sight. Men in masks! She’d heard of how they would come uninvited to a party, flirt outrageously, steal kisses, and then leave—it sounded so exciting! A little dangerous . . . you could flirt back and no one would tell you that you had made a disgrace of yourself. I could pretend that one of them is Brand. . . .
“Welcome gentlemen!” she heard her father say. “You are welcome to our Midwinter fete! Nay, I do not ask you to reveal your faces; well do I remember how I once wore a mask and told tales in a lady’s ear that made her blush!” He chuckled, and turned to some acquaintance who had joined him for a moment. “How long ago was that? Thirty years?”
“Thirty years, if it is a day,” the other man said. “I have not worn a mask and played the rogue since before Prince Sedric was born.”
And just at that moment, before she could move closer to the maskers, one of her cousins, Kenteth, came to claim her—somewhat reluctantly—for a promised dance. He was engaged in intense courting right now with a girl called Betrice, and was loathe to spend any time not in that dogged pursuit. But he was a decent partner—and she was hoping one or more of the maskers would notice her if she was dancing, and choose her for a flirtation. They certainly won’t notice me crushed on the sidelines. She stepped out into the pattern with him; it was a complicated gigue, and one that she had to concentrate on. It was also a lot more acrobatic than any dance she had done thus far. There was a lot of leaping and skipping, and the musicians were playing the melody very fast indeed.
When it was over, she was nearly panting. She moved over nearer to the door where she thought the air might be cooler, just in time to see Cousin Talbot approaching Father with rage on his face.
That startled her. Talbot was hot-headed, but what could have happened that would have set his temper afire?
He looks as if he would like to slay someone!
“Uncle!” Talbot cried, clutching at his side for a sword that was not there, then shaking the empty fist in impotent anger. “Look you, over there!”
He pointed, and the crowd obediently parted for a moment to show one of the maskers. And her heart froze as someone she had never thought to see again tilted his head in a heart-breakingly familiar way. Could that be—?
Talbot’s angry words confirmed what her heart had told her. “Uncle, that is Brand! Son of Lord Kaltar, of House Raeylen and our enemy! He can only be here to insult our women, stir up our guests against us, and make trouble! Let me—”
No! No, he has done nothing! Do not let Talbot hurt him! Violetta almost cried her fear out loud. But, rather than telling Talbot to get a sword and call for his own, Father looked Brand over calmly. “He behaves like a gentleman. I’ve heard good things of him—he pays his debts, does no man harm, and holds himself in better repute than that angry dog, his father. Ignore him and leave him be, unless he starts a mischief. I would not spoil these festivities with an altercation, and Lady Leverance would not thank us to do so. This is her triumph; good manners and good sense say to let her enjoy it, and revel in the pleasure of knowing she created a fete unmarred by any ill-will or incident. Be content, nephew, and go back and pay your court to the ladies.”
But Talbot was anything but content. “This is an outrage! He will make a mockery of us all! I will not endure his presence one moment longer!” he cried, making those near the two of them look at him with alarm.
Without warning, Violetta’s father shoved his forearm across Talbot’s chest and forced him against the wall behind one of the hanging banners. It startled her a little; she had not known her father was so strong! She slipped through the crowd in an effort to get near enough to listen; for once it was an advantage that she was so small!
“You will endure what I tell you to endure!” her father rasped harshly. “Who is the master here, you, or I? You’ll cause a ruckus? Start a fight? Ruin the triumph of your aunt? And for what? To prove you are a hotheaded fool that cannot even abide the orders of your Prince for an hour? Do you think the Prince’s orders apply only to servants? Do you think that if you quarrel with this boy, he will not send you packing? And for what? Do you think this will prove you are a man? It proves you are a child! This is my house, and I am Lord of it. You eat of my meat, drink my wine, and sleep in my bed, and I say you will endure what I order you to endure! Now! I give you two choices—smile and stay, or frown and growl and fume and go!”
Father stared into Talbot’s angry face for what seemed like a very long time before he lowered his arm and let Talbot go. They continued to stare at one another as Father backed up a pace to give Talbot room to move.
A moment later, Talbot stormed off, proving that he preferred to allow his temper to rage, rather than give the appearance he accepted Brand’s presence. Her father emerged from behind the banner, dusted off his tunic, and went back to greeting his guests.
Before Violetta could say or do anything else, another of the dances that her mother had arranged began, and her partner came, dutifully, to find her. As she danced, she tried, in vain, to find Brand amid the crowd. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Her heart was aching even more now. She wanted, desperately, for him to notice her, and realize that she was not some . . . stupid little girl. And she wanted, just as desperately, for him to overlook her entirely. She craved his company. She feared his censure, or worse, his ridicule. And he could say whatever he liked from behind that mask. He could mock her even more effectively than Lady Dia had.
If he mocks me, I think I will die.
The dance ended, and she turned—
And there he was. Standing between her and escape. Her heart stopped and all the blood seemed to drain out of her. She could not have moved if the room had been on fire.
“Is this dance spoken for?” he asked, with a slight smile, holding out his hand.
She thought she was going to die with pure joy. She couldn’t speak; all she could do was smile and shake her head, then put her hand in his. Her hands were like ice! Oh, what must he be thinking?
Whatever he was thinking he didn’t seem to mind how cold her hand was. He took her hand in his, and led her into the pavane.
She felt as if her skin had become a thousand times more sensitive. She could not look away from his face, and felt her cheeks alternately going hot and chill. Her heart raced, and her mouth was dry, and this was the happiest moment of her entire life, and the most terrifying. He didn’t speak; in all of her fantasies, he had used the dance as a chance to tell her all the things she wanted him to say . . . but he didn’t say a word. And it didn’t matter. She drank in his smiles, basked in his glances. She never wanted the dance to end.
But end, it did. As she sank into the curtsey at the end of the dance, and he bowed, she wished that time would stop, right there, so that she would never have to leave that moment.
But her knees were weak and her legs were trembling as she sank to the floor, and she felt utterly unable to stand—but then his hand appeared before her eyes as if he sensed her weakness. She put her own in his, he raised her from her curtsey, and then she felt so light that she was afraid she would blow away.
“I think you need some wine. And perhaps a little air,” said Brand, drawing her out of the crowd and toward the windows. As a servant passed, he took a goblet of wine and gave it to her, then continued to draw her after himself. He pulled her into the bow of the window, and tugged a little at the draperies so that they were sheltered by curtains, where she felt as if they were completely cut off from the rest of the party—the rest of the world. Even the music seemed to come from a great distance. It was as if they were the only two people here.
He let go of her hand, but was standing so close to her she could feel his breath on her cheek. She clutched the goblet of wine in both hands, untasted, holding it just under her ch
in as if it was a shield that would protect her. And yet, to be protected was the last thing under the sun that she wanted.
“So,” he said. “You are the writer of the letter. The lady who wrote to me with such passion the night of the Court Fete.”
She felt herself grow hot from her feet to her hair, and her eyes stung. He remembered her letter! He was going to rebuke her, mock her. He was going to tell her she was a little fool, just as Dia had. He had thrown it in the fire . . . he thought it was . . . he thought she was . . .
“The words were beautiful,” he said, touching her hand with one finger. “But if I had known that the writer of those words was even more beautiful, nothing could have kept me from coming to you in that moment.”
“Oh!” she breathed. “But I would never have asked that of you. Our fathers are mortal enemies, and even masked, you have risked too much in coming here. Only the merest token, a word from your hands, would have been enough, more than enough, to sustain me.”
“A word only? And only from my hands?” He leaned closer still. “Words fall from lips as well. Would you not rather have had your words from that source?”
She could hardly breathe, and her mind swam. “You know who I am—and I know you. You are Brand, son of Lord Kaltar, and we should be enemies—”
“And who has made that decree? Your father? Mine? Why should their quarrels matter to us?” He bent—she thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her on the mouth, but his lips brushed her fingers where they clutched the goblet, and left a trail of fire where they had been. “Two old men who did not wed for love, do not understand love, and would not know love if their soul-bonded appeared before them. We are not bound by their decrees. Love goes where it will, and comes when it is not called. You know that, bright spirit, whose soul knew mine even without knowing my name.” His lips brushed her hand again. “You will see me again, and sooner than you think.”
And then he was gone, leaving her standing with her hands still clenched so hard around the metal of the goblet that her knuckles were white, but with her heart singing so loudly she was amazed that no one else could hear it.
14
Amily lost track of Violetta for a little, but before she could worry, the girl reappeared and rejoined the dancers, and she relaxed, and scolded herself for worrying too much. How could the girl get into trouble in her own house, after all?
Probably she had been having a flirtation with one of the maskers—who were bidding goodnight to Lord Leverance even now. Well, good for her; hopefully that would drive all thoughts of Brand out of her mind, one way or another.
She realized at that moment that she was getting . . . very tired of the highborn. And she was not liking them very much. She didn’t care for the way they lived their lives, she didn’t care for the way that they looked at the world, and she didn’t care for how no one was real to them unless he or she was in their circle.
Here were two grown men, who should have known better, who were continuing a stupid fight over an equally stupid insult that their grandfathers had quarreled over. And they were perfectly willing to trample over any innocents that got between them, too!
She wanted to shake them both until their brains rattled in their skulls.
But even if she ever got the opportunity to, they’d never understand why she was so angry at them. It would literally never occur to either of them that there was anything wrong with their self-centered attitude.
:You are so very much like your father,: Rolan observed, affectionately. :Now you know why I always intended to Choose you when the time came.:
:It’s an honor I would gladly have done without if it meant losing him,: she replied bluntly. :And it may have caused a lot of problems, but I am so grateful that I didn’t lose him that sometimes I can’t even breathe.:
:They are problems I am perfectly glad to weather, for both your sakes.:
:Rolan!: she said, both touched and a little surprised. :That is so sweet!:
:I have my moments.:
She turned her attention back to Violetta, who was, by all appearances, enjoying herself. She kept an eye on the girl via the sparrow, who had the best view at the moment, and turned her attention back to Rolan. :How likely is it that this feud is going to explode into something worse?:
:Candidly . . . the more fetes and parties the two sides attend, the more people are starting to take sides. Lady Leverance and Lady Kaltar are both very good at manipulating peoples’ sympathies, and aside from the maneuvering to get their respective offspring married, they have been quite active in that regard.: Rolan paused. :It would really depend on how it exploded. If it were just brawling in the street with injuries . . . people will shrug and not get involved. But if someone dies . . . well, there are already rivalries within the Court, and people will use the feud to inflate those rivalries into something worse. The problem is, there has been an entire year without anything untoward happening that involved the Court. The Karsites are not a tangible threat at the moment, there is no more Sleepgiver problem, and . . . : she got the impression of a sigh :people are bored. Bored people . . . :
:Make things up to get worked up about,: Amily replied sourly. She took a goblet from a passing servant and sipped it. :This is another thing I don’t much like about highborn . . . and some wealthy people. They don’t have anything to do, so they make up things. Intrigues. Love affairs. Conspiracies. Absolutely none of them are constructive, and at best, they are not too destructive.: She couldn’t help but think how Lydia and her circle of friends had been—carefully being constructive. Keeping an eye on the Court and the courtiers, because the adults—they had all been youngsters then—never really paid attention to anyone that still had to answer to his or her parents. In Lydia’s case, being the pretty little thing all the high-ranking Guildsmen and wealthy merchants ignored, because no girl could ever be pretty and intelligent at the same time. . . .
Amily watched the dancers moving through the intricate patterns of a contra-dance, and tried not to frown. Even here, even now, at what was supposed to be a pleasant event, you could see the signs, if you knew what to look for. People whispering, but the looks on their faces were not . . . quite right. There was a slyness to their expressions, a wariness as they tried to make sure they were not being overheard, and a hint that they knew they were doing something that just was not . . . nice. About half the people were here to have a good time. About half were here to conspire over something.
And there was no way of telling just what it was that they were up to. It could simply be malicious interference with someone else’s courtship. It could be planting equally malicious rumors about a rival, in love, in business, or in court politics.
Or it could be something more dangerous.
There was simply no way of telling, and even if she’d had Mags’ Gift of being able to read almost anyone’s thoughts, it was a terrible breach of ethics to actually do so if you didn’t have permission, if you weren’t ordered to by the King, if you weren’t sure someone’s life was in danger, or if it wasn’t a dreadful emergency.
So the best she could do was what she and Mags and her father were doing now.
:Well . . . what can we do to head things off if there’s an actual armed confrontation?: she asked.
:Let’s consider our options while you keep an eye on the Dancing Dreamer.:
—
Mags decided that the moment they entered House Chendlar, he was going to let Brand do what Brand did and stick tightly to Talbot Chendlar. It wasn’t difficult; the moment that Talbot got sight of Brand, it was obvious that he recognized who was in the mask, and he became so enraged he could have been followed by a troop of armed knights and he wouldn’t have noticed. Mags was glad that he had made that decision, after slipping in close enough under the cover of a convenient pillar that he was able to overhear Talbot’s rant to his uncle.
When Lord
Leverance laid down the law to his nephew, Mags was . . . startled. He hadn’t realized that the old man had as much of a temper as he did. He also hadn’t realized that the old man was as strong as he was; Leverance all but rammed Talbot into the wall, and held him there while he informed the younger man of exactly who was in charge of House Chendlar.
That couldn’t have gone down well with Talbot. . . .
Mags followed as Talbot wrenched away and left the Great Hall. He was hoping that Talbot would storm off out of the building altogether, but no such luck. Talbot was only heading deeper into the building . . . probably looking for reinforcements among his cousins so that they could find Brand and try and goad him into doing something the old man would find worthy of a beating. Not a good idea. Not good at all.
So he pulled off his mask and left it behind a vase, intercepted a servant coming into the Hall with replacements for the refreshments and purloined two bottles of liquor stronger than wine and two goblets. Then he went after Talbot at the run.
He managed to intercept Talbot before he got to any of his cousins, slowed down to a walk, and hailed him. “Ho! Talbot! Just the man I was looking for!” he called, as if he had been searching for the young man since he arrived.
Talbot whirled, and stared at him. “Magnus . . . Thorsten?” He looked startled, as if Mags had somehow managed to jolt him momentarily out of his rage.
Which was just what he wanted. Mags grinned. “You remember me! And here I was afraid that I was utterly forgettable! Listen, Talbot, I need your expertise rather desperately.” He took a quick glance around the tiny room where he had managed to corner the younger Chendlar. Where are we? The Tradesman’s Reception Room, I think. . . . There was nothing here but a table and a single chair. This looked like a place where Lord Leverance’s house-master dealt with merchants and the like. He looked around and spotted a window seat, and pointed at it. “Come over here and sit down, I’ll pour you something to make it worth your while and plumb your knowledge.”
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 27