Courting the Witch

by M. J. Scott

Oh, she wanted to believe him. What would her life be like if she could believe him? But it seemed impossible. "This is fast, Jean-Paul," she said. "I need time. You need time. We've barely met."

  "As I said, we have time. There doesn't have to be a grand announcement yet. No betrothal ball with half the city in attendance. But I would like to try, Imogene. I think that together, we would be a force to be reckoned with. And that apart neither of us will be truly happy."

  "How would we do that?" she asked, knowing she—despite all the protests of logic and reason—wanted to say yes. To throw her life onto a completely new path so she could walk with him.

  His smile was pure joy. "As to that, Lieutenant. I came to invite you to a ball."

  Chapter 21

  Imogene still wasn't convinced she wasn't dreaming when she found herself once more waltzing with Jean-Paul in the emperor's ballroom four nights after her return from Cylienne. It had been a dizzying week, between continuing her work with Ikarus and Jean-Paul discreetly putting himself in her path at every opportunity. She hadn't yet returned to his bed. She was trying to be smart. To wait a little and see what happened when they got to know each other better.

  But with his hand holding hers and his body close enough for her to feel the heat of him, she wasn't sure how long she could resist.

  She tried to distract herself with the other dancers, to enjoy the whirl and spectacle of them. Her third imperial ball in a month. Hardly what she had expected when she had returned from Reyshaka. The Imogene then would have laughed at the thought of taking so much as a step in the direction of a duq-to-be, let alone agreeing to contemplate marrying one.

  But she couldn't regret choosing Jean-Paul, even if she was baffled as to how exactly he had come to lodge himself so deeply into her affections in so little time. The simple truth was that her heart lifted with joy every time she saw him, and she liked him more with every moment they stole together. Those might become harder to steal. He had said he would introduce her to his parents tonight.

  The thought of that was enough to make her palms clammy, and she was grateful when the music came to an end, giving her a chance to catch her breath.

  "You're thinking too loudly again, Lieutenant," Jean-Paul said as he escorted her off the floor. "And though I find your face deep in thought enchanting, I would like to see your smile. It's a ball. You're wearing a gown that I find deeply fascinating." He cast a quick glance toward the swooping neckline of the emerald brocade dress she was practically stitched into. "Let us enjoy the night."

  "That's easy for you to say. You're not meeting my father tonight," Imogene said. And even if he had been, her father was unlikely to express the same concerns as to his suitability that she knew, despite Jean-Paul's assurances, his father would have about hers.

  Just thinking about it made her stomach flip.

  [Patterns.] Ikarus's voice was a rumble in her head.

  [What patterns?] she replied, attention still half in the ballroom.

  [Humans. Music.]

  [Dancing?] Then she halted. [Wait. You’re here? We discussed that.]

  [You said not be seen. Not to stay away.]

  She flushed. That was true. She should have been more careful with her words. She wasn't part of the Imperial Guard, and they were the only people who could call a sanctii in the emperor's ballroom without causing an uproar. Of course, if a situation arose where the Imperial Guard needed to summon a sanctii, there would be an uproar regardless.

  [You must not be seen,] she reiterated in her head.

  A snort of agreement, as though telling her he knew very well how to behave, was all the reply she got. It wasn't entirely what she had expected, this sanctii business. There was more give-and-take. More...friendship.

  Friends with a sanctii and engaged to a duq. Strange days.

  Her attention came back to the ballroom, and she realized Jean-Paul was leading her toward the imperial party. The duq was not the only important man she would meet tonight. She was to be formerly introduced to the emperor—she couldn't quite bring herself to think of him as just Aristides, as Jean-Paul seemed to—as well. But that didn't feel quite so intimidating.

  And sure enough, when she curtsied for the emperor and empress and rose again, she felt far calmer than she had been expecting to.

  "Lieutenant Carvelle," Aristides said, his voice smooth. "We are pleased to meet you." His gaze flicked to Jean-Paul, who stood behind her. "The major speaks highly of you."

  He looked somewhat entertained. Was he pleased that Jean-Paul was...involved? Would he remain pleased if he knew one of his future duqs wanted to marry someone like her? And what in the name of the goddess had Jean-Paul been saying to the emperor? It would be a horrendous breach of protocol to turn her back on the emperor and roll her eyes at Jean-Paul, but she was tempted. But she resisted the urge and offered a murmured "Thank you, Your Imperial Highness."

  She caught the gaze of the empress seated beside her husband. She also looked amused, a dimple flickering in her cheek. Her dress was the shade of a new anden leaf, a color that flattered the bright green of her eyes. It was draped to hide her stomach, and the gold leaves rioting over the bodice were placed to draw the eye away, too, but there was no mistaking that there would be another imperial prince or princess sometime in the fall. The crown prince was not yet eighteen. His youngest sister only six. Five children. Imogene couldn't imagine it. And yet Liane looked younger than Aristides, though they were close in age. Perhaps she had a touch of the illusioner's art.

  "Your dress is lovely," the empress said.

  Kind of her, Imogene thought. Her dress was beautiful, but simple, relying on line and drape and the beauty of the floral brocade to overcome the lack of expensive lace and embroidery and jewels that decorated the gown of the nobles. Imogene's mother's clothier was very good, but there was still a limit to what any dressmaker could do without the unlimited funds required to produce gowns like the empress wore.

  "Thank you, Your Imperial Highness." She curtsied again and back up a few steps, hoping Jean-Paul might join in the conversation. She could think of nothing just then that seemed like suitable conversation for an empress.

  He seemed to take the cue and moved to stand beside her. But before he could add anything to the conversation, there was a slight commotion from behind the emperor. A door opened in the wall behind them, and three black-clad Imperial Guards walked through ahead of a group of four Andalyssians. Including, Imogene saw, her stomach sinking, the Ashmeiser.

  Chapter 22

  "Damn," she muttered under her breath. Part of her wanted to turn, and leave. But she stood her ground. The emperor knew who she was. She'd been approved to attend the ball. And she knew she had done nothing wrong.

  Still, she hoped the Ashmeiser might fail to recognize her.

  No such luck. The man had no sooner straightened from his bow to the emperor and empress, his robes still settling back into their elaborate folds, when he caught sight of Imogene and raised a blond brow. He looked from her to Jean-Paul and then moved to join them.

  "Lieutenant...Caravalle?" he said, pausing before them.

  She curtsied. "My lord Ashmeiser. It's Lieutenant Carvelle."

  "Close," he replied. He had unusual eyes for an Andalyssian—the color of frosted water. A light blue gray that held no hint of human warmth. "Illvyan names sound similar to my ears. You will forgive my poor grasp of your language."

  His grasp of Illvyan was excellent. She knew that from experience. Still, she managed to drag the Andalyssian equivalent of "No need to apologize" from the depths of her memory.

  The words only gained her another assessing look. "You are keeping exalted company, Lieutenant. You are not on duty, I think?" He turned to Jean-Paul. "Are you and the lieutenant friends, my lord?"

  "We are," Jean-Paul said firmly. "I thought your delegation had decided to rest tonight rather than attend the ball, my lord."

  He sounded somewhat exasperated to Imogene’s ear. And not bothering to t
ake much care to hide it. She tried to gather her thoughts, to pivot from meeting the empress to being the diplomat she was learning to be. But the Ashmeiser's robes carried that faint mossy salt-smoke aroma she associated with their court. Here in Illvya it seemed even earthier. Almost...unpleasant. The storm of memories it conjured threw her off her stride.

  "We changed our minds," the Ashmeiser said. "We have been finding your balls so entertaining, after all, my lord. It is helpful to learn of the traditions of Illvya more thoroughly so we can use that knowledge to build a bridge more strongly between our two countries.”

  Imogene doubted the Ashmeiser had ever found a ball entertaining in his life. No, he seemed more like the type who might take pleasure in dissecting some small helpless furry animal. Or an enemy. The back of her neck crawled as the smoke filled her nostrils. If they hadn't been invited to join the ball, why had they? It was somewhat rude. For one thing, the servants would be scrambling now behind the scenes to make sure the arrangements for the supper that would be served later included options for the Andalyssians. Not to mention redoing most of the seating order.

  She could only hope she was seated away from the Andalyssians. Because the smoke smell of the Ashmeiser was making her stomach roll.

  Thankfully the Ashmeiser turned back to join the rest of his countrymen. Imogene caught the empress's eyes, and Liane grimaced behind the Ashmeiser's back, the expression so fleeting, Imogene thought she might have imagined it. Apparently she wasn't the only one who disliked Andalyssians. A comforting thought.

  She looked up at Jean-Paul. He was watching the Andalyssians, paying attention to their interactions. She had to learn to enjoy this, she realized. If she married Jean-Paul and joined the court, she had to find meaning in the politics, a way to work for good with it, or she would go mad. Perhaps a start would be to view tonight as an exercise the tutors in the Diplomatic Corps had set her to study. How to meet an emperor, the embodiment of an old failure, and your future father-in-law all in one night, and emerge unscathed.

  She rather thought that seemed an unfair degree of difficulty for one night. But there she was. Still smelling smoke and ash, still not ready to meet the Duq of Saint-Pierre and somehow manage to convince him she would be a good match for her son.

  But then Jean-Paul looked back down at her and smiled, and she remembered why she was doing this. Which made her want to roll her eyes at herself even as she acknowledged the emotion.

  "Would you like to dance again before I find my father?" Jean-Paul murmured. "Encounters with the Ashmeiser require a palate cleanser, I find. Normally I would choose ilvsoir, but it's early in the evening to start drinking hard liquor." He smiled again. "Besides, you are far more intoxicating than ilvsoir in that dress."

  As he was intoxicating in his evening clothes. But she wouldn't have said no to a slug of the sharp sweetness of ilvsoir to take the sting of smoke out of her throat either. Why was it lingering? The Ashmeiser really hadn't smelled so strongly of it.

  A memory twinged. A religious service in Deephilm. Priests of earth performing magic and ritual she hadn't understood. She'd tried to watch what they were doing, but the power was blurry to her eyes, half hidden in fog. But she remembered how sharp the taste of ash had been in her throat as they’d worked their rite.

  Wait.

  She swung back toward the Ashmeiser, opened her eyes to the magic, reaching for the ley line beneath the palace. The Ashmeiser blurred before her eyes, as though there was a veil of smoke around him. Was he using magic? Here, so close to the emperor?

  Even as she watched, he stretched an arm toward Aristides, hand held at a peculiar angle.

  "Stop!" Imogene yelled, fear spiking through her. And before she could even form the next thought, Ikarus appeared, wrapping one large hand around the Ashmeiser's arm and dragging him away from the emperor.

  Everything dissolved into chaos. Guards appeared from every angle. People started yelling, the Ashmeiser one of them. The emperor, she noticed, had moved first to put himself between the empress and the rest of the room, though his gaze was on the Andalyssians. Other than that, the details grew distance as she stared at Ikarus, feeling as though she was witnessing something not quite real.

  Until Jean-Paul said, "Imogene, could you ask Ikarus to let the Ashmeiser go, please."

  As she did so and Ikarus vanished from sight, everyone turned and began shouting at her.

  Chapter 23

  "What were you thinking?" Jean-Paul said, raking a hand through his hair until long strands broke free of the ribbon confining it. He'd stood by Imogene’s side as the storm had broken over her head, but after the emperor had eventually said, "Enough," and turned to start placating the Ashmeiser, he hustled her out of the ballroom and into another of the endless small meeting rooms lining the corridors. The silence in the tiny room was startling. Her breath rang in her ears, and she could hear Jean-Paul breathing hard, too.

  "Imogene?" he repeated. "Answer me."

  Imogene bristled. "I was thinking that the Ashmeiser was using magic in the emperor's presence. And he was hiding it." Her cheeks were hot, but the rest of her was ice. Shock, she supposed. She'd called a sanctii into the emperor's presence without permission. The Ashmeiser had put on a grand show of outrage that he'd been treated so badly. There was no evidence he'd done anything at all, nothing to warrant the emperor pushing the boundaries of diplomatic protection. She'd made a mistake, it seemed. A terrible mistake. In front of the emperor. In front of Jean-Paul. Who, instead of trying to help her, was yelling at her as all the others had. Her eyes stung, and she gritted her teeth. She would not compound her error.

  "Their magic is different," Jean-Paul said. "It feels different."

  Was he actually going to lecture her on Andalyssian magic? "I know," she said, wrestling her voice to calm with an effort. "I have been to Andalyssia. I have studied their ways. So perhaps you could grant me the courtesy of not talking to me like I am a child, Major."

  His brows drew down. "I'm not—"

  "You are," she said. "And I don't appreciate it."

  "You made a mistake," he said. "Even if he was using magic, calling Ikarus was...hasty."

  He was trying to be calm, it seemed. To talk rationally. But she could see the muscle clenched at his jaw and the fire in his eyes. He was angry. And somehow his emotion only amplified hers.

  "Perhaps. I breached protocol, certainly, and I'll wear the consequences of my actions. But I won't be condescended to by you. If you want a wife to talk down to, then I am not the woman for the job."

  He scowled at that. "You called a bloody sanctii in the middle of the emperor's ball. You assaulted a diplomat. Allow me a moment to catch my breath."

  "No," she said sharply. "I won't. Because you haven't allowed me to catch mine. You said you protect what's yours. So do I. I'm sworn to protect the emperor. Maybe I made an error of judgment tonight, but I'd do it again if I had to. I made a mistake, yes, but I would remind you that I wouldn't have been in the position to make that mistake if you hadn't pushed me to be here tonight."

  Part of her knew that was an unfair charge to bring against him. But part of her also knew there was truth to it. He was pressing her. Hurrying her. Attempting to sweep her off her feet, to shape the world his way.

  "You're saying this is my fault?" It was close to a shout, disbelief and frustration warring in his voice.

  She threw up her hands. "I don't know! But you're pushing too fast. And I can't think. And I won't make a choice this way, Jean-Paul. It's not fair of you. Or to you. Or to me."

  "What are you saying?"

  "That I need some time. Alone. I need you to leave me alone."

  "You cannot be serious about that girl." Andre du Laq stepped into his son’s path as Jean-Paul reached the entrance to the ballroom.

  "Father, now is not the time." He was in no mood for a lecture, still reeling from watching Imogene stalk away from him after their fight, fury clear in the rigid line of her back and the swish of her
skirts. And getting into an argument about her with his father would only make this night more of a disaster.

  "It is," Andre said tightly. "I was willing to indulge you in this, to meet with this lieutenant who seems to have snared your attention somehow, but I must put my foot down. The girl has no control. A duquesse needs finesse. Tact. Judgment."

  "Imogene has all those things."

  "Yet she called a sanctii in the midst of the emperor's ball?" Andre sounded incredulous.

  Jean-Paul hid a wince, thinking of how he'd said as much to Imogene only minutes ago. "She's young. She's only just bonded the sanctii. You know that can be difficult to navigate."

  "Yet you thought it was wise to bring her here tonight. Maybe she's not the only one who lacks judgment." Andre frowned. "Did she tell you she intended to bond a sanctii?"

  "No. And that is irrelevant." She had thought they had no chance when she'd made that choice. Perhaps she'd been right.

  "Do you want a wife so impulsive? One who is a stronger mage than you? That's a dangerous thing, Jean-Paul."

  "I want a wife who is a partner," Jean-Paul said. "Whose strengths complement mine. And one who I hope I would never inspire to use her strengths against me."

  "Best try not to startle her, then," Andre snapped. "I need you to use your brain here, my son. Stop thinking with your cock and consider your legacy. The responsibilities of a duquesse are vast. Noblewomen are educated from birth to take on such positions. What does an ingenier's daughter know of running a great house? Of duty and tradition? Of politics? You need a girl like Celadin. And yes, I understand that she may not be the one for you, but she is not the only suitable girl at court. Be smart, Jean-Paul. Pick one of them."

  "And if I don't? What will you do, Father? Disown me?" He was trying to rein in his temper, but he could feel it sliding from his grasp. He curled a hand into a fist at his side, trying to calm himself. Imogene had left. He had said stupid things. She had done something reckless to incite them, yes, but he could have handled it better. Because she'd left. And she'd asked him not to follow her. Or speak to her. So why was he even fighting with his father at all? Why risk fracturing this relationship, too, when Imogene may have just taken herself out of his life entirely? He didn't know.