"If I know Nessa, then she hasn't asked for help. Thank you for what you're doing. And thank you for saving her life when I wasn't there." Bryva nodded to him, and left through the door behind the stairwell.
Uncertain what to do, Dorian watched her leave. He could sense Elsie's slumbering form just on the other side of the door. His Magic felt her exhaustion, the fret underlying her worried sleep. Something had happened in his absence. He thought for a moment about forcing the lock but stopped himself. While there was quite a bit he wanted to say - mostly along the lines of her insanity and urging her not to go through with the arms deal - Bryva's words cut into him.
He stared at the library door for a long while, flexing and releasing his fists, breathing. The damned woman was right and he knew it. Eventually, somehow, he would hurt Elsie.
He'd been haunted by Lorelei for a long time now, mostly by choice. Society swept her death aside and smiled, trying to keep all attention away from the scandal. Artimus would never care about the fact that he'd murdered her. Someone had to keep her memory alive. As he walked back up to his rooms he shoved a hand through his hair and sighed.
This was his penitence. He was her memory. And for the first time in thirteen years he wished he didn't have to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The opening ceremony of Winter Tournament was held at twilight within the innermost bailey of Castle Lorant. Every year it was different, depending solely on the previous years' winners. For instance, last year Gaetan Feverrette and Alois Orzebet won the teams' division of noble combat. Together they had been required to set up the decorations, opening festivities, and such - with the help of their families of course. The significance of them being the former winners did not escape Elsie. They would take it as an added insult that Dorian was here. She became ever-grateful that Schroder agreed to her scheme of altering Dorian's contracts.
Thinking of the Father made her cringe. She had sent Forvant on an immediate mission back to Delgora to save the man, but even she doubted there was enough time. Travel alone would take half a month. Reonne might be puzzled by the ghost-boy of Witch-Eater Lake but she would not keep her patience for long.
Fates! She wished she could bend time and travel there, rescue Schroder and be back before the arms deal. But she was only an Heir Apparent, not a House Witch. She was not Talented enough to use the transport spell, even if she had managed to use it once.
Lady Leona cooed, pulling Elsie's attention back to the ceremony. Everything in the bailey was glistening with white and silver, from the sparse trees to the giant walls that enclosed them, it appeared that Feverrette and Orzebet had spared no expense for this moment. Leona's gown stood out all the more against the paleness of their surroundings. The rich, dark blue was warmth in the middle of so much cold and Elsie smiled again as the girl pointed at something in the distance.
At Leona's side was Callen Beroe, nodding his agreement to whatever she had said and looking every inch the gallant Hemic Knight that he was. He was a strong man, built just above average and just below what Elsie would consider to be too large. His hair was sandy and even, hidden beneath his three-point hat. And his garments were immaculate. Though, his garments had always been immaculate. From the moment Leona had introduced them Elsie had seen this.
Well-dressed men were not exactly hard to find.
Perhaps that was why Dorian had annoyed her so much. All that terrible green, she remembered.
The object of her thoughts walked into her view, flanked by his two friends and a woman. Elsie had not seen Dorian since he'd taken his jacket the night before. She'd been forced to leave early, arranging for Forvant's swift departure. A part of her was almost disappointed in that. She'd been so worried for Schroder that his comfort would have been welcome.
"Good people!" Lady Lorant spoke from the stage and the crowd fell silent. "Good people, we wish to thank you for visiting this year's Winter Tournament."
The crowd rallied a response of appreciation that made the Lady smile. Chestnut colored hair traipsed around the Lady's waistline, twinkling in the light with many woven pearls. The pearls were an exact match to the embroidery around her wrists and collar, and Elsie smiled. One day she hoped to meet that woman's seamstress. Every year there was something impressive about Lady Lareena Lorant's garb.
"Before we begin, Magic has requested to speak to you all."
The bailey took a unison gasp of breath. Elsie, who had been trying hard to stay unnoticeable in the crowd, faltered and nearly tripped on her own skirts. She moved closer to Leona, watching the stage as she did so. Magic Himself only rarely made an appearance at Winter Tournament. The Immortal Ancestor of all Talented, Magic was both elemental and man, a part of every Witch-Born. He made himself known only at the Ascension of a new House Witch. Elsie had heard he'd been present seven years ago, but at the time she'd been too busy with one of Leona's garments and had missed the opening ceremony.
"Hello, Nessa," Winslow murmured from her left side, and she jumped in surprise.
Dorian, Bartholomew, and the woman had made their way to Leona, who was greeting them all with hushed excitement. The woman was curled up to Bartholomew in such a way that it was unmistakable who she belonged to. Dorian pulled Winslow to the left, inserting himself beside her instead and eyeing Winslow. Elsie smiled up at him and he winked in response.
"Magic Himself?" Leona whispered.
They turned their attention back to the stage.
Magic was, by all accounts, the most handsome man Elsie had ever seen. His eyes were as green as Delgora grass, his face smooth, strong and distinguished. Ashen hair fell about his head like an afterthought, wispy and echoing the sense of power that suddenly washed over her. His body was fit, held together nicely by a set of garments that were made of a royal purple material she had never seen before.
"People of Magnellum," Magic stated in a voice of silk, "I have come as a mere herald today. It is my love Fate who wishes to speak to you."
The crowd, including Elsie, was struck dumb. While Magic made the occasional appearance, Fate was never seen. It had often been rumored that she could not, given the state of her personage. Magic turned aside, holding an arm out to the person who began to walk to the front of the stage. She was three people in one; it could be seen as she walked. The first step was the Maiden, young and bright and smiling, followed by the Mother, whose smile was more reserved and finally the Crone, who didn't smile at all. There was nothing fancy at all about her garments, which disappointed Elsie a bit. But then, the Fates never wandered about in human form and fanciful gowns might distract from whatever business she had to say.
At the last step the Fates chose to present themselves as the Mother, who began to speak in a voice that was young and aged at once, "Good people of Magnellum," her eyes were black, gazing out at the crowd as she made her speech. "Winter Tournament is a breeding ground of valor, a place to display your Talent, to show your courage and to make political moves. But more importantly, it is a place of training. You train to win but you also train to live. I come to tell you that the time is coming when the Wards will fail."
Everyone gasped.
"It is not today, but it is soon. A day approaches when you will be forced to fight against the people of the Wild, whom detest our existence." Her eyes searched the crowd and Elsie flushed as her gaze settled on them - on Dorian and herself. Dorian's body stiffened in response. "Do not be afraid," Fate said. "We have given you what you need."
And then she turned, walked off the stage, her figure blurred by the Three. Magic followed behind her and Lady Lorant made a flustered move to the center of the stage again. The moment they were gone the crowd grew restless with worried murmurings. Elsie didn't bother to listen as the Lady continued the announcements for the opening ceremony.
"What could she have meant?" the woman beside Bartholomew asked. "Dorian, was she looking at you? I swear, it looked like she was staring right at you."
"Well don't you know, Sister?" Dor
ian said with a bravado that sounded faked, "I've been with the Fates for ten years now. That's how I knew I could return to Society."
The woman gave his arm a light smack, "Do not joke about the Fates."
"Come now, Caresse. You can't actually think I would know the answer. I've been scrounging about the shadows, hiding from the Bedim."
There was a warmth to Dorian's person as he spoke to his sister. Elsie could feel the subtle change in him. His shoulders were more relaxed, even his laugh sounded different. Caresse's dark eyes grew wide at the mention of the Bedim and she glanced around the crowd in paranoia.
"You don't think they'll try anything here, do you?" she asked.
"Relax," Dorian turned, one hand going to Elsie's elbow, "I have a feeling I won't need to worry about that anymore."
She could feel the heat of his palm through her sleeve. It was distracting enough that she almost missed the question sent her direction.
"And who is this lovely young woman?" Caresse asked.
"This is Nessa Gelgova," Dorian presented her with a polite inclination of his head.
"Arguably the best tailor in Magnellum," Bart said.
"Oh, she really is," Leona chirped.
"Oh," Caresse kept a polite smile, but she blinked once, slow and Elsie could almost read her mind. The fact that she appeared to be Untalented did not bode well for the situation. No doubt the younger Feverrette Lady would think Dorian had chosen to go beneath his station. And if Elsie had been raised in polite society she might even have thought along the same lines. But Elsie was a conundrum to the noble society, or she would be once she had ascended. A part of her wondered if she was even prepared for her Ascending Day. The day that her very private life would suddenly become public, open for scrutiny among the elite nobles of Magnellum.
The conversation had moved on and Elsie hadn't noticed. Suddenly Leona and Caresse and Callen were turning away from them, the two ladies excited about something as they hurried across the bailey. Dorian's hold on her arm had not released, telling her that he meant to speak with her at some point and that she needed to remain. Given the fact that she had already seen to Forvant's move back to Delgora and that Bryva would not have her first rounds for the Hemic Tournament until midday she was content to let him lead her about the bailey.
A large obsidian and gold fountain took up space in the very center of the rounded bailey, heated water bubbling and sending a cascade of steam through the air. As many times as Elsie had seen it she still found herself humbled by it. Shaped like the morphing Fates, all back to back and facing outward, the structure was at least double her size. Each face was carefully crafted, echoing Mother, Maiden, and Crone so well that Elsie thought for a moment they might come to life. Water and heat poured from their outstretched hands, falling calm and steady into the black basin below.
The rest of the decorations in Lorant were a poor comparison to the fountain, though not for lack of trying. Colors splashed bright and vibrant against the snow-covered background and pale stone walls, most of them adorning the five-foot long tapestries and flags draping the place. Every House had their heraldry here, signifying decades of tradition.
"We can go to the Agoston house," Winslow was saying and suddenly he trailed off, his eyes following a woman with hair like platinum and rosy cheeks as she passed them by.
The girl made a flirtatious smile his direction before Bartholomew grabbed his shoulder and turned Winslow away, "Easy now, Winifred."
"That cannot be Missy Broska," Winslow's body turned but his head was still facing the woman in question.
"It is. And she's already notorious. She'll give you the skivvy disease." Bart's nose wrinkled. "And you know how long it takes to heal that."
"By Fates! It might be worth it," Winslow finally turned around and noticed Elsie, who lifted an eyebrow at him. His cheeks turned a particular shade of red, and he managed an abashed smile. With an uncomfortable clearing of his throat, he began directing them out of the bailey, "This way. We can have warm drinks and good conversation without being so rudely interrupted this time."
"Did your father ream you something terrible?" Bart asked Dorian. "I was worried when they took you away."
"Took you away?" Elsie asked.
Their feet made a subdued crushing sound in the packed snow. She felt her foot slip on a patch of ice and Dorian's hand settled more firmly on her arm. "Indeed," he explained, "my brothers decided I needed a good walloping to show me I didn't belong here anymore."
"You were the only one doing the walloping," Winslow laughed. "I've never seen Gaetan's eyes so round with surprise."
"Bart did his share of walloping," Dorian smirked over at his friends.
"It was a cheap shot," Bart said. Elsie could see that his ears were flushing and not from the cold. "I caught Alois by surprise is all."
"Ha!" Dorian laughed. "As if the man was not Witch-Born and couldn't have moved on his own."
"I was in his peripheral vision," Bart defended as they began the trek around the tournament circle outside of the fortress.
Winslow led them to an ivory colored four-story house. The shutters were all a pleasing cadet blue color with matching draperies viewable through the windows. The valet welcomed them all with a bow, pausing when he saw her. He had an expressive face that hid none of his curiosity. Bushy eyebrows hiked up at the sight of her, his prominent mouth twitched at one corner just before he gave her a polite smile.
"Young lady," he said with no small amount of scorn, "where is your escort?"
"I am her escort," Dorian said, helping her remove her cape.
"Cecil," Winslow made a point of handing over his own cape to the valet, "Mind your own business, will you? She's a seamstress and I want to have something made for my sister."
"Of course, Sir," Cecil took the chastisement without a flinch.
Winslow nodded and brought them all into the front drawing room. With a wave of his hand he used his magic and lit all the braziers and the fireplace, flopping down on an old, ratted brown chair positioned against the west wall. Several windows patched the walls, all of them open to allow for light. Bartholomew eyed Winslow for a moment before turning an apologetic smile to her and gesturing to one of the sofa's near the fire. Elsie smiled and held back her laughter, moving to sit on a creamy-colored couch of crushed velvet. Undoubtedly Winslow had decided Dorian's territory encompassed her person and no further amount of decorum was required of him.
"I don't suppose you have any brocaded material, do you?" Winslow asked.
Dorian settled beside her on the couch, his body uncomfortably close for public view. She gave him a surprised look before answering Winslow, "I have a little."
"Ah, good. To keep that pestering servant of mine satisfied could you make something of it? Laura adores anything made of brocade."
"I can see to that," Elsie tried to pull herself away from Dorian.
"I say, Winslow," Bart threw his jacket at him; "Your manners are atrocious. Stop your pouting and remember that she is a free lady."
Winslow caught the jacket and dropped it aside. "I am not pouting."
But his words were ignored as Bartholomew crossed to the fireplace. "Why were you in Delgora, Dorian"
Elsie wondered what Winslow would be pouting over but became more interested in the look Dorian shot her way. He made an uncomfortable shift on the sofa and cleared his throat.
"I was hunting," he said but his eyes stayed on her. "There was a botched Bedim attempt on my life in Basten and I found an odd poison on one of her weapons. It didn't take long to locate the plant that such a poison could come from."
"Let me guess," Winslow slouched in his chair. "The plant only grows in Delgora."
"Correct," Dorian looked away from her, rested his elbows on his knees and heaved a sigh. "I was tired of being the prey so I took matters into my own hands. I even announced myself at Delgora Court and said I was there to meet with the Heir Apparent."
"Folly on both counts," Bart hu
mmed in consideration. "You put yourself as the bait, which was dangerous without anyone there to help you."
"I had Gremor."
Bart grunted at that before continuing, "And the Heir Apparent for Delgora has been dead for some years." He paused. "Come to think of it, the Ascension day should be close now. I'm surprised I haven't heard the squabbling of the Houses over who will get which piece of the land."
Elsie almost held her breath. Dorian would not be foolish enough to relay her existence to these men. Though she had not gotten any oaths from him that spoke against sharing her secrets they shared an intimacy, a silent partnership. He couldn't betray that.
"Have either of you been to Delgora recently?" Dorian asked.
"No."
"Well, it should surprise you to hear that the braziers are still lit."
She'd been right when she first saw him, bowing low to Reonne, smiling that ridiculous smile, wearing that insipid green. He really was an imbecile.
Bartholomew and Winslow glanced at each other.
"That's impossible," Bart said.
To her surprise it was Winslow who caught on first. He looked at her, his eyebrow cocked up in question, the corners of his full mouth twitching with humor. Elsie lifted her chin and ground her teeth together, trying hard to keep from strangling Dorian. Then Winslow threw back his head and barked a loud laugh.
"Fates, Dorian!" Winslow laughed some more. "That's positively brilliant. I would never have known."
Bartholomew turned, very slowly, to gaze at her with new understanding. After a moment his brows pinched and he asked in a quiet and concerned voice, "What would force a Witch-Born to go into hiding?"
Elsie had no intention of speaking. In fact, the only intention she had beyond murdering Lord Saldorian Feverrette was to get as far away from these two men as possible. She didn't know them. She couldn't trust them with the lives of the Delgora people. She glared at Dorian in silence, who seemed either not to notice her wrath or not to care.
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