by M. J. Scott
"And those are for show," Katiya said firmly. "Don't worry about me. No one's used poison that we know of since—" She broke off, biting her lip.
The Ashmeister, presumably. Chloe decided to leave that subject alone. "Well, you seem good at this, Irina. Are you sure you—"
"I have to get the bottles," Irina said suddenly. She pointed at a valve on the boiler. "If the drip rate increases, turn this down slightly." She didn't wait for either of them to reply, just bustled off.
"Did I say something wrong?" Chloe asked as Irina vanished through a door at the far end of the room.
Katiya shook her head. "No. She is very good at this. She's always been interested in plants and healing. But it's not necessarily encouraged in the houses." She sighed. "And now, with her being my sister, I fear she won't be allowed to pursue the healer's path. A strong leaning for earth is one of the few times the svasyas will allow a step away from balance. Healers are valuable. But she will be the queen's sister, and that is even more valuable than healing skill to some. Someone will want to marry her. I'm doing what I can with Mikvel and our father to make sure she isn't rushed, but she will have to marry eventually. I think that's why she pretends she doesn't care. She would be a good healer. Perhaps a great one. But she won't get the chance to follow her heart. Between that and not being allowed to use her earth sense, it's been hard for her since she manifested."
Chloe bit her tongue. It would do little good to interfere. Irina's life was here, and it would still be safe and pleasant even if she married. If she was strong-willed enough, she would find a way to incorporate the things she loved into that life. And perhaps she would even find a husband who supported those interests.
Good men existed everywhere along with the bad ones.
But Katiya looked worried.
"It's difficult. But she is smart. She'll find a way,” Chloe offered. “Perhaps she'll fall for a man with a scholarly bent of his own. You don't strike me as all warrior types." Andalyssians had to be smart to survive life in the mountains. The houses still had to make sure there was food and safety enough to go around through the winter months. The men they'd been dealing with in the negotiations mostly seemed intelligent and dedicated, with a few exceptions. But then Illvya and Anglion both had their share of men who'd rather bluster and posture than achieve any real good as well.
"I hope so," Katiya said. "I feel guilty that her choices are narrowed because of mine."
"I'm sure she wants you to be happy. And you love the king. You can't help that. Would she be happier if you didn't love him and were marrying him under duress?"
"No," Katiya said. "I guess not."
She looked up as the door reopened and Irina came back through carrying a basket of bottles. "Now, we will need to work fast."
Lucien watched the king's wedding ball growing wilder around him and wondered exactly how rowdy it would get. Perhaps this was a place for the Andalyssians to let off steam after the packed few days of pomp and spectacle that had prepared it.
Though he wasn't sure why they all didn't just want to be in bed as he did. He'd snatched a few hours here and there to meet with members of House Elannon, and so far, no one had sparked his suspicions. Other than those meetings, his days and nights had been crammed from dawn to near midnight with the various wedding rites and celebrations. He might have enjoyed it more had he been as young as the king and Katiya, but it had mostly made him feel old.
The wedding itself had been ceremony and ritual and spectacle, every second of it, he suspected, choreographed by the priests and seers who had appeared in multitudes.
The happiness of the bride and groom had been genuine though. He hadn't needed his magic to know the truth of the joy on their faces. From the looks that Sejerin Silya and the patrarch aimed in their direction occasionally, he suspected the smiles that kept creeping over Mikvel's and Katiya's faces weren't strictly in accordance with the rituals. But let the mystics be mystics. Weddings, even the weddings of kings, should be joyous affairs.
The ball was definitely joyful. Wine and spirits had flowed freely through dinner and continued to do so in the ballroom. In the last hour, servants had circulated with trays of kafiet. He had refused. The mood of the court might be one of wild celebration, but he wanted a clear head.
Chloe had accompanied him to some of his meetings with House Elannon in the last two days, but not all. She had her own wedding-related obligations to fulfill. They'd danced at the balls each night, but every time he'd asked if she had seen the man who had approached her, speaking Charl's name, she’d shaken her head. No further contact.
Which should have been a relief, but, in reality, it made a spot between his shoulder blades itch as though he was being watched. So he was watching, too, making sure she was safe. Tonight, at the largest ball of them all, that task was more difficult than usual. He took his turn at the dances, inviting a few of the Andalyssian women he'd gotten to know to dance with him. He'd even waltzed with Chloe again when Katiya and Mikvel had included a waltz in one of the sets.
She was, he thought, growing more comfortable with him. There'd been no tense wariness in her body under his hands, and he'd kept himself in check, determined to give her no reason to retreat from him once more and put her armor back in place.
Her gold-and-blue gown was one he rather thought he'd seen Imogene du Laq wear to the emperor's birthday ball the year before. Altered by an expert, as it looked as beautiful on Chloe as it had on the duquesse. It fit her like a glove above the waist before the skirts belled out in yards of fabric that floated and swirled around her as she danced, the silk shimmering. Her hair shimmered, too, braided and studded with sapphires and diamonds that possibly belonged to Imogene, too. Kind of her to help Chloe. It was a comfort to know she had powerful allies in Lumia. Doubtful that Chloe could have owned enough evening wear made to see her through the wedding, particularly when she’d had little time to prepare. But Imogene probably had entire houses filled with dresses. She was famously well dressed. And famously cool to the new Marq of Castaigne.
Which he understood. Charl had cost Imogene her best friend for ten years, and he was the nearest person to blame.
She couldn't be outright rude to him. The du Laqs and de Roches had no true quarrels and shared some business interests. Jean-Paul still spoke to him civilly, but he tried to give Imogene the distance she seemed to desire. Which was a pity. Imogene was smart and witty, and he'd liked her when his friendship with Chloe and Charl had meant their paths crossed more often.
After the waltz came more dances. More watching to see whether anyone approached Chloe. The faces of the court had grown more familiar over the last few days. He didn't have names for all of them yet, but he was good at faces. Though "ordinary" as a description left something to be desired. He could draw a more detailed description of the man from her memory if she let him use his magic on her, but that was about as likely as him making it through the current dance without Irina interrogating him about life in Lumia.
He glanced over her shoulder, trying to spot where Chloe was.
"You do that a lot," Irina said.
He almost stumbled in the dance, dragged back from his thoughts. Right. The queen's little sister. He was supposed to be making conversation with her.
"Do what, my lady?" he asked. Irina, with her sharp green eyes, didn't seem to miss much.
"Watch Chloe."
This time he did stumble. Or at least came to a halt for a second before he forced himself into action again. "No, I don't."
"You do," Irina said. "You like her."
"She doesn't like me," he retorted before he could stop himself. Damn. He hadn't had kafiet, but he hadn't been able to entirely avoid the wine and campenois during dinner, and his tongue had gotten away from him.
"No, I don't think that's true," Irina said, her expression serious. "She's angry with you, I think, but that's not the same at disliking you. Did you do something wrong, my lord?"
"A long time ago," Lucien
said. "We were friends before that. We are no longer."
Irina, cheeks flushed, said, "Friendships can be mended."
"I don't think this one can," he said, twirling her under his hand as the dance demanded. "What I did was necessary but unforgivable, I think."
"It's surprising what people can forgive when they care about someone," she said, coming back to his arms.
He frowned. Irina was not quite twenty-three. Too young to be dealing in forgiveness and wisdom in the middle of an increasingly drunken celebration of her sister's wedding. The dominas back in Lumia would probably have called her a viele ame, one wiser beyond their years. But wise or not, he wasn't going to tell her he had condemned Charl to death. Or encourage her matchmaking.
"I fear the wedding has turned your head, my lady. You are seeing potential romances where there are none."
"Who said anything about romance?" she shot back. "We were talking about friendship." She grinned at him. "Weren't we, my lord?"
Damn. Too sharp indeed. If she saw through him, then he needed to be more careful. "Let's just dance, my lady."
She snorted but didn't press. She did, however, wander in Chloe's direction after the dance finished. He made himself turn away. The last thing he needed was for Irina to tell Chloe he'd been watching her and for her to look across and find him doing just that.
Perhaps he was going to need some kafiet to make it through the night after all.
Chapter 21
The kafiet helped a little, though he had limited himself to two glasses. The clocks had traveled well past midnight and beyond by the time the king and queen retired for their wedding night and the court began to gradually disperse. Though some of them seemed intent on celebrating through the night.
He didn't intend to be among them. Nor did he think Chloe should be. He would see her safely back to her room, and then he would go to sleep and take up his dealings with House Elannon again in the morning.
Chloe, in her golden gown, was easy enough to find as the crowd thinned out. The look she gave him as he joined her was not entirely friendly. It was probably wrong-headed of him that he found her nearly irresistible regardless. Her cheeks flushed from the dancing, and her hair curled where it had come loose from its careful arrangement. It suited her, the not entirely buttoned down and in control look. He'd seen her downing kafiet with Irina earlier, but she didn't appear tipsy as she had been the first night he'd walked her back to her room. Or at least not enough to forget she didn't like him.
Damn it, what had Irina said to her?
"Lady de Montesse," he said. "Will you walk with me back to quarters?" There. That sounded professional. They were the only two Illvyans left in the room. It had become a pattern of sorts. Honore tended to retire as early as possible after the king departed and the other senior nobles left, ending the prime opportunities for politicking.
He'd seen Gilles walking from the ballroom not long after Honore left. The captain had been talking with one of the Andalyssian women, and Lucien hoped the man was smart enough not to take things further. The Andalyssians were stricter about dalliances than Illvyans. Their daughters remained chaste until their weddings—though he suspected that, of course, some of them ignored that rule—and affairs were not common. Marriage vows were a rite of balance, and cheating approached blasphemy. The last thing they needed was a forced wedding to prevent a diplomatic incident. But Theisse was an experienced diplomat and knew enough, Lucien hoped, to keep himself out of trouble.
"I know the way, my lord," she said.
Ah. Definitely short with him. "I know. But we are both heading in that direction."
"Fine." Her hand flexed. Back in Illvya, she'd be snapping a fan at him in irritation. But they didn't use fans here. If a ballroom grew too hot, all they needed to do was throw open a window.
Her skirts swayed in a staccato rhythm as he followed her out of the room. Twitching like the tail of an annoyed cat. He, sensibly, kept quiet as he walked behind her. When they reached his room, he began to unlock his door. But before Chloe could continue down to her room, he asked, perhaps less sensibly, "Are you going to tell me what I've done to annoy you?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not annoyed."
"That's a lie," he said.
"This is not a subject for discussion in the middle of a corridor."
He pushed his door open. "After you."
To his surprise, she marched inside. He followed warily, closing the door behind them and pressing his hand briefly to the wall to activate his wards. If he was going to be shouted at, he'd prefer everybody in the delegation didn't hear.
He turned back to face her. "Well?" A sensible man would back down from this discussion, send her back to her room. But it seemed he wasn't feeling sensible. Something about her anger was sparking his own frustration with the situation.
"Irina said you were watching me. Again."
"I was watching you," he said. "You are very beautiful in that gown."
That was deliberately provoking. It seemed to work.
"You're not supposed to be watching me," she hissed.
"Actually I am. A traitor approached you. If he does so again, I want to know about it."
"If he sees you lurking about staring at me, he's hardly going to do that, is he?"
"I guess we'll find out. Because I'm not going to stop watching."
"You should."
"But I won't."
"I'm telling you not to. I don't like it."
"That's a lie," he said, tongue flying ahead of him again. Stupid. But apparently some of that reckless mood of the ball had rubbed off on him. "You do like it," he continued before she could protest. "You wouldn't be so angry about it if you didn't."
Her eyes flared wide. "How do you know that? You said you wouldn't use your powers on me. Was that another lie? Well, I'm not sure what your powers told you. I don't like you. I hate you."
The anger roiled through him. Goddess damn her. She would keep pushing until one of them broke. "You can hate me, Madame de Montesse."
The words were wielded like a weapon. A reminder that he knew exactly who she had been. Who he suspected she still was. The wife of a traitor. Whose memory held her as fast as steel chains might. Trapped in the past that hadn't let her go.
"You can hate me, but I'll be damned if you will stand there and insult me. I do not misuse my powers, and I keep my oaths. I have never lied to you."
"The oh so mighty Lord Truth Seeker. And his oh so mighty truth. To be held to at the expense of all else. Even his best friend's life."
"Yes," he agreed bluntly. "Because I am loyal. But he was the one who threw his life away. His death is not my fault. Charl was the one who broke his oaths. To his emperor. To his country. To you. To all of us. You should hate him." He virtually snarled the last word.
She went pale then, as though he'd slapped her. "He's not here to hate," she said, the pain in the words cracking him in half as she turned and ran from the room.
He swore as the slam of the door came. Swore viciously and repeatedly and then, unable to stop it at the last, stalked over to the bed and yelled, "Fuck!" so loud it nearly echoed off the stones.
Fuck Andalyssia and its fucking mountain of a city.
Fuck them all.
Fuck Chloe and her insistence on blaming him for everything Charl had done.
Though, he realized as he sank onto the mattress with a groan and buried his face in his hands for a moment, he hadn't told the truth tonight. He had lied to her. Many, many times. Every time he clamped his teeth to hold back the words he wanted to say. To tell her to throw over his idiot best friend and take him instead.
He'd never spoken them. He'd told them both that he was delighted for them.
He'd tried his best to be.
But it had been a lie.
Would continue to be a lie between them, it seemed.
He straightened and dragged his hands through his hair. He hadn't meant to upset her. Hadn't meant to hurt her. He should find h
er and apologize. Or try to. She would, most likely, slam another door in his face. Really, he wouldn't blame her.
So. He would go. Try to apologize. Be more discreet in his mission to make sure she was safe. And then they would try, once more, to keep things civil until they returned home.
Chloe knew who it was when the knock came at her door.
For a moment, she contemplated not answering. But she'd been unfair to Lucien. She owed him an apology.
She wasn't entirely sure why she felt that way. Surely she owed him nothing? Perhaps. But nor should she hurt him. It wouldn't bring Charl back. And at this point, it seemed it would just make things harder.
Goddess. She had no idea what she wanted to do with him. He'd told the truth, even if he had only guessed at it. She did like his eyes on her. Or she had tonight. Every glimpse of him catching her gaze across the ballroom had made her skin hot and her dress feel too tight. When they'd waltzed, she hadn’t wanted him to let go of her. In fact, she’d wanted him to pull her closer.
Infuriating man.
She climbed off the bed she'd flung herself down on and crossed to the door, opening it carefully to avoid any noise. "What do you want?"
"I came to apologize. Let me in."
She wasn't sure why she stepped back, why she did as he commanded.
Why she felt suddenly adrift.
He stepped into the room, and her heart began to pound.
He opened his mouth, and she knew that if he spoke—if he said sorry or he took it back—if he said he didn't think she was beautiful, or said he wouldn't watch her anymore, then she was going to come apart.
She'd have to kill him, or...
"Impossible," she muttered, then stepped forward and pulled his head down to hers, pressing her lips to his as though she was drowning and he was the only source of air in the world.
Maybe he was. Or something more potent still.