This one, however, she could use.
He had a round, trustworthy face that was crumpled in pain. Hazel eyes met hers in fear.
"What is your name, Archive?"
"F-Father Schroder."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Not l-long," his body trembled, still weak from the aftereffects of the Dellidus.
"Have you had any contact with the Heir Apparent known as Elsie Delgora?"
He shut his mouth and his eyes simultaneously, curling himself into a little ball on the floor and letting out a sob.
"I will take that to mean yes," Reonne smiled and shut the door.
***
Fridgets was a Gentlemen's Club of the highest caliber. Dorian had spent far too many days lounging in the gambling hall or one of its many private rooms in his youth. The ache of what used to be came swift, carried on the air with the familiar scent of pipe smoke mingling with lavender. There were not many windows in the place on account of the frigid weather outside, which in turn caused the odor of too many men to linger just below the senses. Lord and Lady Lorant sponsored Fridgets, supplying all of the liquor and entertainment the hall could handle. More importantly, supplying the many bundles of lavender and herbs that hung from the walls, keeping the air pleasant enough to maintain the customers comfort. This was something he'd ignored in his youth, too content to laugh with Winslow, Bart and Artimus.
He'd been blissfully ignorant of the future.
Now of course, he knew the expenses of gathering the damnable herbs. Dorian stared at one, his left eye twitching twice at the hateful little purple color. Fresh out of society, cut off from his family out of self defense and a mild sense of protecting them, he'd needed a new way to maintain his expenses. So he'd signed on as a Gatherer. Had he known what was required he would never have attempted it. Lavender and herbs grew in those strained places between the Salt Pillars, the same place where the Warders gathered their Remora Stones.
To his horror and shock he'd learned a double lesson that day. First of which was the ever-present, ever-warring hatred of the Wild attempting to enter Magnellum. Sibilant, malicious, like a constant growl, the Wild incessantly battled the Pillars, fighting to gain entry. And the Remora Stones grew out of this strain between the Wild and Magic. They were the result of millennia of fighting, a malignant dead thing that the Warders had learned to harness. Put in a sword they became a weapon capable of subduing Witch-Born Talent. But outside of that weapon they were just as terrible. Dorian barely escaped with his life.
He became aware of the crowd pressing around him, dimming the light that already fought to keep its golden glow amid the subdued maroon drapery. Winslow beckoned him to a private alcove at the back of the hall. With a sigh and a small smile for the past, Dorian wove his way through the smoke and bodies, trying to hold on to the more cautious side of his nature. This was a terrible place for him to be; too many exits to watch, too many people who could be Bedim. As he slid into the booth, plush seats reminding him that he'd just spent two weeks at sea, he tried to calm himself with the knowledge that Gremor was watching. Bart and Winslow would be too. Four pairs of eyes, three of them Witch-Born, should even the odds.
"Where in blazes have you been?" Winslow demanded as he took the seat across from him. "They said the most awful things had happened."
"I'm sure," Dorian signaled to the bartender for a drink.
"They said," Bart stated in his matter-of-fact tone, "That you had run off to elope with Artimus."
As Dorian choked on this news the bartender served their drinks and left, dropping the privacy curtain in place as he did so. He waited until the man was far away before contradicting the outlandish falsehood. "That's a lie!"
"We know," Winslow muttered. "We've been fighting that lie on your behalf these past thirteen years. Your sister ... "
Dorian's attention snapped to Winslow, "What about my sister?"
"Bart had to beg her to share your letters," Winslow finished. "I still say it shouldn't have taken that much convincing."
"I'm confused," Dorian glanced at Bart, who turned an interesting shade of red.
"I take it her letters never reached you?" Bart asked.
"I have not been reachable," Dorian gave them both a suspicious frown. "I have three contracts out on my life and the Bedim are very good at pretending to be messengers."
"Your sister," Bart took a deep, steadying breath and looked him in the eyes. "Did me the honor of marrying me."
"What?" Dorian's voice carried beyond their curtain and some of the nearby clatter stopped.
"Well don't look so offended by the news," Bart frowned at him and Dorian thought for a moment that there was a trace of real hurt in the man's face. "I would have petitioned your approval first, but you weren't here. You weren't anywhere according to your father and your mother practically begged me hunt you down myself."
"Don't be daft, man. Of course I approve of you," Dorian made a restless movement in his seat and stared down into his drink. "I just hadn't realized how long it had been."
"It was a rather large affair, Sal ... er ... Dorian," Winslow cut into the conversation. "They made sure of that hoping you would hear about it somehow."
Dorian grunted and took a long swig of his drink. The familiar taste of honeyed water slid cool and welcome down his throat. Thirteen years was a long time. He should have known his little sister would have grown up by now. She'd been nearly fourteen when he left and now she was less than three years away from Ascension.
"Your stepfather was watching for you with almost as much fervor as we were," Winslow gave his drink a sour look. "The new Tender waters the drinks down a bit."
"The old Tender watered them down worse," Bart commented, then turned back to Dorian. "Caresse and I will be walking to the opening ceremony together tomorrow morning. I know you won't want to meet us at the house, but I thought you might ... You know ... happen upon us."
Dorian huffed a small, humorless laugh. "No, I will not be visiting house Feverrette, thank you."
"Fates! Can you imagine if he did? Walk right up to old Aubin and be all pleasantries and smiles ... the man would explode with fury." Winslow chuckled.
"My stepfather isn't who I'm worried about. It's Gaetan."
"Gaetan?" Bart set his drink down. "I thought for sure it would have been Aubin to put the contract out on you."
After a long drought of his water Dorian shook his head. "No. I owe two contracts to my loving step-brothers and one to Artimus."
Winslow and Bart stared at him for endless moments, unable to fully digest his words. It would have been comical were the subject matter lighter. It appeared as though Artimus had managed to keep at least one oath. His mother, Lady Wallonia Berkuska, ordered the events surrounding Lorelei's death to remain secret. There were some small leaks of course, whispers through Society, but the truth was still safe. Lifting his drink again, Dorian toasted his friends and knocked back the last of his water. He was tempted to order something stronger, some sort of liquor like Winslow enjoyed, but he could not get himself to let his guard down.
The curtain snapped open, half-tearing under the violence of the man who'd stepped into their view. There was a light difference between their little alcove booth and the main drinking hall, so it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Alois stood there, chest heaving as though he had been running for a while; his face flushed from exertion or anger or both. His older brother had all the traits of his father - tawny, scrounged hair, sharp, angular features and a squared nose that ran just a mite too long for his face. Slanted, narrow eyes glared down at him, accusing him of every past injury the man could conjure in his mind.
"Brother," Dorian smirked and leaned back into the booth.
Another figure came into view behind Alois, this one bulkier and taller. He didn't need to look further to know it was Gaetan but he did anyway. His second older brother radiated frustrated anger all the way from his blocky, awkward boots straight up to the lick
of black hair across his severe brow.
"Brother," Dorian repeated, addressing Gaetan this time.
"Thirteen years!" Alois's voice called the entire room's attention.
"There about, yes," Dorian smiled. "I take it you missed me, then?"
"As much as I would a canker in my mouth," Alois growled. "In the name of the Fates! What makes you think you can charge back in here, drink our wine, flirt with our women and enter our tournaments?!"
"First of all, I'm drinking water, not wine," Dorian tapped his empty cup. "Second of all, I don't see any women at this table ... "
"Not that he would ever flirt with a woman, Alois, you know better than that," Gaetan sneered.
He was almost out of his seat before Bartholomew's hand grabbed his arm and stayed him. "As a matter of fact," Bart's rich, diplomatic voice would have been a salve on the situation had his words not been meant to barb, "Dorian here was knee-deep in women when we found him. Typical, I might say, for his character. We had to rescue him from their amorous affections else he might never have had a moment to rest."
"I have been meaning to ask you," Winslow lowered his glass to the table, "that black-hair pixie you were with ... "
"Nessa," Dorian calmed himself and relaxed back into the seat.
"Yes, Nessa, that one ... "
"The answer is no, you cannot touch her," he kept his eyes on his brothers.
"That's a bit uncharitable of you," Winslow said.
"Even if I were inclined to lead innocent women to your seduction, Winifred, I am not that generous." Dorian eyed Alois in particular, "As to the final accusation of entering your tournaments, I can assure you that I have done no such thing."
"Uh ... " Winslow again and the man cleared his throat, which was a bad sign because Winslow only ever cleared his throat when he was guilty of something. Dorian took a steadying breath before the confession came out. "Now, Dorian, do not be angry ... "
"Mother, Maiden, and Crone, Winslow!" Dorian ground his teeth together, fighting to keep his voice down. "What were you thinking?"
"It was Barty's idea."
The table fairly exploded into an argument, everyone speaking at once.
"Do you want to see me get killed? Did the idea of three contracts out against my life not smack reality into the two of you? Why do you think I disappeared without so much as a goodbye, you rutting bastards?" Dorian glared at them both in turn.
"Of course we don't want you dead you arrogant prick!" Winslow shouted over Alois, who had said something about the three of them conspiring together the entire time, but Dorian didn't catch it all.
What he did catch was Gaetan's smug smirk followed by a brotherly tap on Alois's shoulder, "I told you the coward would never have dared entering for himself."
Bartholomew flew out of his seat, knocking the table in such a way that Dorian had to catch it before it fell into his lap. Alois and Gaetan both took a step back, their focus on Bart because it was obvious the man meant to fight. As far back as Dorian could remember he had never seen Bartholomew Kelemen in such a state of wrath. Bart was the stable one of their group, the one who could maintain a civil hold on any conversation, who never drank too much and never offered lascivious smiles to anyone. Yet now he stood directly between Gaetan and Dorian, his fists bunched at his side in barely held temper.
The entire drinking hall seemed to hold its breath.
"Barty," Winslow's voice was low and cautionary.
Bart turned halfway, looking at the ground in front of Dorian's feet before he spoke. "Do you hear them, Sal?" he said, so quiet that Dorian felt the hair on his neck stand up. "Can you even comprehend what Winslow and I have been through these past years? Searching every crowd for your face ... trying to find some shred of evidence that you were still alive? Listening to these ignorant, self-important puppies drag your name through every insult imaginable! Well I'm finished with it." He turned to face Dorian fully, "Combat them in the Tournament and every word they've breathed against you will be forgotten."
"It's the right move, Sal," Winslow said.
"That's right, Sal," Alois said, moving around Bart to deride down at him. "Let's all face each other, shall we? It's only been ... what? ... Fourteen years since you last entered the arena. Gaetan and I should have no trouble ending this." Alois paused, put a hand over his mouth in a mock-gasp, "Oh, wait. That's right. You don't have your lover here to fight beside you anymore."
Gaetan snickered.
Winslow's shoulders tensed.
And Bartholomew bent time, grabbing Alois's hair and slamming the man's head face-first into the table.
Dorian was on his feet in the next instant, prepared for Gaetan's advance. From the corner of his eye he saw Alois stagger backward with a dazed look, blood smearing down from his nose and over his mouth and chin. Gaetan's face twisted in anger as he drew back his fist, aiming for Dorian's head. Listening to his Talent, he ducked at the last moment and jabbed Gaetan's ribs three times, hard, in succession.
"Enough!"
The authority in the voice was followed with the slam of magic against all combatants. Gaetan was thrown aside, Bartholomew and Dorian both hit the table at the same time. Alois had already gone to a knee, attempting to heal himself before the battle got really heated. All eyes went to the newcomer and Dorian gave a panting, amused smirk.
Rorant Orzebet stood at the doorway, flanked by four Warders, a dark red cape draping down the left side of his body.
"Hello, Father," Dorian straightened.
Rorant gave him an answering smirk, "Hello, Son. As you seem to be the center of all this attention I will have to ask you to accompany me." With a gesture he commanded the guardsmen to gather the instigators of the fight.
"Actually, My Lord," Bartholomew stepped forward and trailed off.
Rorant held out his hand. "You are about to tell me that you are the one who struck first."
"I am."
"Do not bother," Rorant turned to the doors again. "I've been sitting here drinking for the past three hours."
Dorian gave his friends a small shrug as he was led out of the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Elsie smiled as Leona twirled in the center of the room. After several hours of hemming and embroidery, and the gown she had finally finished. As always, Leona had insisted on trying it on right then. She looked resplendent; the velour was snug at her waist and did a very nice flowing motion as it dropped down to her ankles. The gown had felt a little too dark to keep with the black velvet that Elsie had been using for Dorian's outfit, so she'd chosen a pale sort of blue-gray to go beneath. For continuance she'd embroidered small pansies in the same blue-gray around the cuffs and collar.
"Oh, Nessa! I can't believe how quickly you got this one done! I thought for sure I would be waiting at least another week for it, what with all the attention you were giving to Lord Feverrette." Leona smoothed a hand over the skirts of the gown, a helpless smile on her face.
"I'll say," Bryva muttered at the doorway.
Elsie ignored her friend. "Yes, well, he is a very demanding patron but I would never be able to set aside your needs, Lady Leona."
"You are too good to me." Leona whooshed across the room to plant an affectionate kiss on her cheek. "I am wearing this one to the opening ceremony tomorrow. Callen will be here to call on me early in the morning so that we can find the better seats." She hurried to the door, her bare feet padding on the ground because she hadn't bothered to try it on with her shoes.
And she was gone, the rustle of her skirts following her progression up the stairs and to the main rooms. Elsie was still smiling at the door when Bryva closed it, her lips pursed in a severe line that meant she was upset about something. It was not difficult to determine exactly what had upset her given the fact that Elsie had spent a good portion of the journey to Winter Tournament in Dorian's company.
"Should I be worried?" Bryva asked.
"No," Elsie stood, stretching her shoulders and groaning in appreci
ation.
"You're certain?"
"It doesn't matter what I say, Bryva. You're going to worry anyway."
"True, but I would still like some assurances from you."
"I can't imagine what sort of assurances you're looking for," she moved to begin closing each of the trunks. It was getting late and Dorian had not returned from visiting his friends yet. There was a small amount of alarm at the idea of a Bedim being nearby but it was quickly dispelled.
Before they'd left for the Tournament Elsie had managed to contact Father Schroder. All three contracts against Dorian's life had been meticulously altered, his last name misspelled just enough that any Bedim or Archive would not be able to find them. He was, in essence, a free man now. Unless the Bedim searching was Artimus, of course. Still, one Bedim hunting Dorian was better than the entire society.
"You're falling in love with him, aren't you?" Bryva stated in a flat voice that immediately alarmed Elsie.
"I hardly know the man."
"That doesn't matter," Bryva leaned against the closed door. "You've done strange, risky things since the moment he strode through Delgora Manor. You've gone off alone with him. You've used your Talent in the middle of the road - and don't try to tell me Feverrette did it because I know better. You might be able to fool the other men, but I at least understand the Witch-Born enough to know that there's a reason every house is led by a House Witch and not a First Born Son." She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, "Only a woman can protect the Pillars and keep them in place."
"I can't deny any of that," Elsie moved to the next trunk and closed it.
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