by E. J. Beaton
“This marriage will go ahead,” Vigarot snapped. “Valderos will keep its distance.”
“Tell me: once Ariane’s son realizes he’s your puppet, how long do you think it’ll take him to cut the strings?”
This time, Dante’s words were only loud enough for those nearby to hear. Lysande’s muscles tensed. Vigarot looked at Dante, his blue eyes gleaming. His smile had gone. He put a hand to his sword, but hesitated. “Threaten me once more,” he said, “and I’ll have you taken out to the stable-yard and whipped. I make the rules in this palace.”
Dante looked back at him without a hint of fear. “For now.”
Lysande did not like the tone of that remark, but before either man could move, a great wave of applause rolled through the enclosure. She turned to stare at the platform.
Mariana was guiding Jale onto it: the prince waved a hand, as if to say that they could all relax now, and the band struck up another tune while Mariana led Jale through the first steps of the lyrianesque. Jale put on a smile that would have been convincing to a stranger. Lysande had studied him long enough to know the difference. Soon, other couples flowed onto the platform to join them, falling into the movements.
Vigarot smiled triumphantly, and turned to find Dante gone.
Lysande passed her plate to an attendant and slipped out from the queue, moving slowly and glancing at the crowd, yet not finding any glimpse of an attacker. She cut through two tables, her eyes focused on a group of Rhimese guards on the far side of the enclosure. As she surveyed the group, she barrelled into the chest of someone coming the other way.
“Councillor Prior!” Dion Ferago cried, his arms encircling her.
“My lord.” She extricated herself. “I had not hoped to embrace the east quite so literally. I hope you will forgive me.”
It was cunningly risqué, the Bastillonian princely garb: only when you saw it up close did you realize how thin that material was. Someone like Luca could have worn it to devastating effect. On Dion, the upper garment hung slightly loose, as if it were not quite fastened at the collar.
“My father asked—that is, I thought—” He looked down at his feet. “I was wondering if you would do me the honor of a dance.”
Lysande glanced at the platform. The couples were performing the sensual Lyrian passedanse, and several of them had drawn so close that there was scarcely any space between them.
She looked back at Dion; took in the waterfall of blue and white silk that poured over his body, and noticed the sword-hilt that poked out at his hip. Searching the tables, her eye fell on the Rhimese crest on a soldier’s breastplate.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but the fact is, I’ve already committed to dance with Prince Fontaine.”
“And here I am. Ready and at liberty, Lysande.”
Luca had crept up without making a sound, and he was standing at her side. The thought dropped into her head—like a polished stone—that he had used her first name.
He took her by the arm and steered her away, toward the platform, his hand slipping into hers. The pressure was firm, but she squeezed back, making sure she matched the strength of his grip.
“Don’t think of running off to your devotee over there,” Luca said, jerking his head in the direction of Derset.
“Whatever makes you think I’d try to run from you?” She risked a glance at her table. None of the group were looking her way. Her free hand clenched.
“Good. That should make this a lot easier,” Luca said.
And stopping before the last two tables, he waited, and waited, until she led him onto the platform and into the dance.
Thirteen
The band switched from a slow tune to a fast one as they walked down the middle of the platform. Luca placed his hand on Lysande’s right shoulder, and she placed her hand on his right hip, in the style of the desert haute-dance. For the first few minutes, she concentrated on going through the motions, and once she had mastered them, she looked up and met his stare.
She had observed him many times before, over a table or across a room, but as they moved together, she realized that they were the same height; he did not look down at her, like Dante, or up at her, like Jale, but straight into her eyes.
“This is the only place we can talk without being overheard,” he said. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll get to the point: I think it’s better to do away with pretenses, now.” He led her in a circle, clasping her by the arm.
“I don’t follow you.”
He let go of her as they passed down the line of couples, and they rejoined when they reached the end. She could feel the stares of the crowd upon her. This time, she steered him through one of the dance’s swerves, and when she gripped him a little more firmly than was necessary, a half-smile returned to his lips, matching the sudden brightness of his gaze.
“I know exactly what you are. I guessed the day Malsante came into my suite in Castle Sapere and told me Sarelin Brey had chosen someone called Lysande Prior as Councillor. I speak Old Valderran too,” he said, following her lead. “Did you know that while ordinary foundlings are named any which way, elemental bastards are named after an element?”
“What?”
“Prior. Fire. Just like you told those gawping fools in the Room of Accord . . . only I expect none of them had heard of magical customs.”
Lysande was silent. He’s lying, she told herself, her legs moving automatically as her mind swirled. She couldn’t have missed something that obvious, all this time; not obvious to most people, of course, but to a scholar who had all manner of esoteric books at her disposal, and who had grown up around a girl who had once blasted a sunsnake into the air . . . well, there was no point in self-chastisement now. She pulled him into the next turn, and the next.
“Whoever found you knew more about you than you gave them credit for,” Luca said. “When I saw you wincing, my guess strengthened. There were all those other little flinches that followed. But it was your stay in your suite that confirmed it. Heatstroke for nine days, Prior? I’m not a physician, but that’s stretching belief.”
It was a good thing that the dance separated them again, because she did not trust herself to speak. Keep your cool, she thought. Be composed, like Three.
“I’m afraid you’ve let your imagination gallop downhill,” she said, when they were close again, their palms pressed together. “I was stricken with red fever as well as heatstroke. That’s why I was confined so long. Perhaps you should’ve given me more of your remedy.”
“The concoction I gave you doesn’t work on red fever. Did you know that? It relieves the pains of elemental maturation.”
“I . . .”
“Don’t worry, Prior.” He laughed. “If I wanted to expose you, I could’ve turned you in to the others straight away—the thought of Sarelin Brey picking an elemental to choose her successor is rather amusing, since she beheaded plenty of their number. But I want to work with you, not kill you.”
“Why do you want an alliance?”
The words burst out of her in a jab. Luca’s countenance was all superciliousness. He coiled close to her and stepped back in time with the music. “I’m of the opinion that no one can rule Elira securely while they’re wasting the talents of the most dangerous people in the realm by chopping their heads off. Locking them up won’t be enough, either. This is a difficult game, Prior. Until we find a way to get elementals on our side, no leader can win against the White Queen—and I mean to win.” He leaned forward so that she could lift him into the air and down again. “Why else do you think I put you on the Council?”
It sounded like a potent strategy. She would be the bait, to bring other elementals over. Yet she forced herself to remember the ball of fire rushing at her on the Grandfleuve, and the way he had wiped the blood off his hands after killing the assassin.
Never trust a snake. How many times had Sarel
in said that?
And yet dancing with him was so easy . . . like breathing.
The song wound to a close. In front of them, Jale followed Mariana from the platform, smiling brightly. While the dancers rearranged into new couples, Luca guided Lysande from the back of the platform and onto the palace steps. She reached beneath her cloak and grasped at the hilts in her dagger-belt. Luca laid a hand on her arm and said, “A little privacy, perhaps?”
He accompanied her onto the final stair, guiding her by the forearm, and smiled at the Lyrian guard at the top. The other couples were beginning the next dance. She laid out the situation like a puzzle in her head, trying to think logically. If she undid her cloak now, she might draw a dagger, but would he slash at her before she could throw it?
He moved quickly into Rayonnant Palace and pulled her to the left, down the corridor. They entered a closet lined with bookcases, and his fingers slipped over hers. She felt trails of warmth on her skin as he let go. Up close, she saw the length of his eyelashes for the first time—how was it that a man could have such lashes and yet a spikiness to him, like a queensflower?
“Listen to me. This might be our last chance to talk.” He closed the space between them and a scent of orange blossoms stilled Lysande. “You’re elemental: that means you’re a danger to the White Queen. A magical woman in power who isn’t her creature . . . who knows what you might achieve? Show a little kindness, and you purloin her followers. Fiddle around with the laws and liberate elementals, and then who will be angry enough to help her?”
“The thought had occurred to me, too.” Even as she said it, it became clearer. Nobles did not want to change the system. They wanted to climb to the top and perch there; and that was why it mattered that Mea Tacitus was a Brey, Lysande understood, as she faced Luca. All that time serving her cousin had hurt the young Mea, the way it could only hurt a silverblood who believed a grand destiny was rightfully hers. Threads of reason rose inside her and twined, knotting and unknotting, weaving into patterns that shone. That silent sword had been stamped with a picture of a chimera for a reason, logic dictated to her; that chimera brand on the assassin, too: her mark: a crest, of sorts. This was what she could use. This was how to really fight the White Queen. Let her focus on dynasties and glory, while there were other, less burnished things that she could put to use.
She was glad, now, that she had sent Pelory off on her mission.
“I can see it in you,” Luca said, quietly. “Jails are only the first step. You want more. A mind like yours won’t be content with anything but a big change. I’d bet she can see it, too. Call me sentimental, but I wish to warn you, Prior; you’re likely to be targeted if there’s an attack tonight.” He looked into her eyes. “Whatever you do, you mustn’t let one of the city-rulers lead you away during the ball.”
“One of the other city-rulers, you mean.”
“Oh, very good. Interminably witty. I merely point out that I can only protect you if you’re in my sight.”
“And what makes you think I desire your protection?”
The White Queen told the Umbra to win me over. And here we are, alone, after a dance. If she asked Luca outright where his allegiance lay, perhaps she could catch him off guard. His discretion could not be infinite. Lysande felt a surge of the strength she had been building for weeks, the raw audacity that she had begun to draw upon since Sarelin’s death.
“Forgive me for the imposition.” He shrugged. “I thought you needed help.”
“You’re forgetting I was raised by Sarelin Brey. She took me hunting. And she always made me wait until the deer was in my view: never trust the sound, she said, only trust what you can see with your eyes. I find that holds true for you, Fontaine.”
“Ah, Sarelin Brey.” Luca shook his head; color suffused his cheeks. “She was an exceptional warrior, which is why she was such a middling queen. She had no interest in any of those pesky legal reforms that better the realm. Killing was easier than ruling. And she made no effort to understand those who were different.”
She could smell orange blossoms again; their sugared scent was laced with a sharpness, everywhere on his skin, and she leaned instinctively toward him.
“I know the tiers that divide this land,” she said. “I know what she stood for. But I also know that Sarelin had more valor in her little finger than you do in your whole body.”
“Valor. I have heard it spoken of. Was valor the part where she allowed magical citizens to have their heads chopped off? Or the part where she threw even those elementals who refused the White Queen onto dungeon stone?”
“She stopped a tyrant from taking over Elira.” Lysande could feel the heat rising in her body and tried to pull herself back toward logic.
“And let tyranny flourish on her own soil. You ignore her weaknesses and praise her strengths. But I’d expect nothing less of someone who was raised by the Iron Queen.” His half-smile had crept back. “She did a good job of glorifying herself—I’ll give her that.”
It was hard to say whether her mind controlled her hand, or the other way around. All she knew was that she was slapping Luca across the face. He stopped, inches from her, rubbing the spot where she had hit him.
A red mark bloomed on his cheek. She felt a little jab of guilt but not enough to apologize. Surprise flared in his eyes, yet his lips formed a smile, and this time, it did not disappear quickly. The sight arrested her. Lysande was not sure if a prince could be pleased to be slapped, but she had a sudden and unreasonable desire to find out.
“That’s not very friendly, Prior. You know, I like you very much, whatever you may think. You have wit, and a good deal of vigor, and a mind that I find very—very interesting. But you need to let go of your loyalty to your precious Iron Queen. It holds you back from the truth.”
It was crucial to choose the moment carefully. He closed the space between them with assurance. This is it, she thought. She waited until he was upon her before reaching beneath her cloak and drawing a dagger from her belt, holding it still.
When he moved again, Lysande rushed close to him, just as Sarelin had taught her, and thrust it under his jaw. The blade pressed against his skin.
Luca’s smile disappeared, yet his eyes stayed trained on hers.
“Go on,” he said. “Do it.”
“Do you admit to betraying the Council?”
“I admit to having one parent with a burnished name, and one who was cast out with nothing. I admit to reading and writing and building things. And I admit to being a bastard.” He placed his hand over her own: the hand that was holding the dagger. “Those are my crimes. If you think them bad enough, use that blade. Later, you can say it was valor.”
She held the weapon still for a long moment. Too long, it proved, for he pushed her hand back and snatched at the dagger’s hilt.
Lysande darted to the side and grabbed his collar, and with all her strength, whirled him around and slammed him against a bookcase. Volumes rained down over their heads. Some of the books hit the floor and fell open, splayed; others landed shut and made a heavier thunk, like bricks, and the sight of so many poetry collections smacking the floor made her pause, giving Luca the chance to grab at her dagger.
He managed to pry it loose. Lysande kneed him in the stomach, and he staggered to the side. She felt a hot current of anger rushing through her. While she was wrestling the weapon back, he took hold of her wrist. Arms locked, they toppled onto the books and rolled across them, the corners poking into their backs. By the time he was lying beneath her and she could make another pass for her dagger, his rapier was at her throat, and something in her subconscious kicked and twitched.
There was a curious look in his eyes, and as Lysande’s fingers pushed the tip of the sword away from her neck, he did not stop her. One of his hands wrapped around her back and rested between her shoulderblades. She pressed a hand under his jaw. This might be the last opportu
nity she had to prompt a confession, yet her lips would not move, and as she lay on top of him, she dug her left hand into his hair.
His rapier clattered to the floor. Her own dagger fell. She smelled the orange blossoms with their slight bitterness, the scent on his skin a falling sweetness, fading but lingering . . . if she needed to kill him, her dagger was right there, within reach.
Something closed over her hand. It was his palm. His soft fingers moved her hand and pressed it into the side of his neck. She looked down and met the quietness of his gaze.
She became aware of the warmth of his body under her; of the pulse beating under her fingers. She recognized the thing twitching in her consciousness. It had been there on the ship, when she reached out to his neck and wrapped her fingers around him, and it responded to his yielding now, with a quicksilver rhythm that she did not seek to restrain, nor constrain, nor subdue. With her free hand, she ran a nail down his cheek.
He shivered, and Lysande luxuriated in the reaction.
The art of reading a present was also the art of reading a person. Just days ago, he had left a gift with her guards, in a bag of black velvet. She had read a meaning in it, later, turning over her interpretation while wrapped in her soft Lyrian bedsheets, and she had decided, at last, that she had a right to be angry at his presumption: that she would teach him how ill-matched his desires were to her own. Yet even a scholar could misread another’s intentions, and he was not flinching away from her. He was leaning into her touch.
You could throttle a man from this position. You could do other things, too. As she grabbed his hair tighter, she felt the pulse increase, and saw his eyes darken with something that was not displeasure.
“Your Highness,” a man’s voice said, behind them, “King Ferago—”