by Mark Anthony
“Pardon me, Your Radiance,” said a young lord.
An earl, Grace guessed by his fine but relatively uncomplicated clothes.
“Can I have one of the servants get you something to drink? I imagine your journey to Calavere was a long one.” A sly light crept into his eyes. “Or was it not so very long at all? Let me see, the road you would have taken from Beckett is …?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t come by any road,” she said.
The young lord acted as if she had slapped him, and he skulked away. Apparently he had forgotten about her drink. Grace was sorry. She could have used it.
Several other nobles pressed forward to take his place. Boreas had been right. Simply being here was enough to make the lords and ladies talk. Their questions all seemed polite and innocuous enough, but it was obvious all of them wanted to find out who she was, where she was from, and what her agenda was.
A short man in a gaudy tunic of crimson and gold approached, and by the way the other nobles parted he was of a higher rank. He sketched a half bow in Grace’s direction. It was doubtful the significant girth of his waist would have allowed anything more.
“I am Lord Olstin.”
He pronounced this as if Grace should know immediately who he was, and after some thought she found she did. Aryn had told her the names and ranks of the various representatives of the kings and queens who would be coming to the council. Olstin was seneschal to King Lysandir of Brelegond.
“My lord,” Grace said.
Olstin fidgeted with the empty goblet in his hand. His plump hand was cluttered with rings. “King Boreas did not tell us he would be hosting other noble guests at Calavere during the council.” His voice rose, so that all around might hear. “What else, I wonder, has he failed to tell us?”
The other nobles looked on with interest.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Grace said.
Olstin’s beady eyes glinted. With his free hand he stroked the short beard that speckled his jowls. “Is that your stance on the matter, my lady?”
“It isn’t a stance, my lord. It’s simply the truth.”
A murmur rose all around, as if she had just uttered some biting insult. Grace resisted the urge to groan aloud. Couldn’t she say anything?
Olstin opened his mouth to make some reply, but Grace beat him to it. “My lord, I will take my leave now. I don’t wish to keep you from your pressing appointment with another goblet of wine.”
Olstin’s jaw dropped, and the onlookers gawked. Grace did not wait for further reaction. She turned and moved away, feigning great purpose. Only when she stopped did she realize she was trembling.
“A drink, my lady?”
Grace looked up. The speaker was a tall, elegant man clad in a pearl-gray doublet. He looked to be forty, by the silver at his temples and the chiseled lines around his mouth. A thin scar ran along the length of his right cheekbone, but the effect was striking rather than detracting. He steadied her with a strong hand. She accepted the goblet of wine and drank. Her encounter with the nobles of Boreas’s court and with Lord Olstin had been more of an ordeal than she had thought.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
He smiled and took the empty goblet. “That was skillfully done, my lady. How did you know Olstin is a drunkard? There are some few of us who do, yet it is something he goes to great lengths to keep a secret, even from his liege.”
“His eyes,” Grace said. “The whites were yellow. That told me his liver isn’t functioning well. The broken blood vessels on his nose are another sign. It was enough to tip me off, along with the bad teeth—wine is acidic, and that’s how I guessed it was his preferred habit.”
“You have great knowledge, my lady.”
“Not really. I just see it all the time in the …” She caught herself. “… that is, I’ve seen it before.”
The man gave a deep bow of appreciation. Warmth flushed Grace’s cheeks—the wine must be stronger than she thought. The stranger offered her his arm, and they walked through the hall.
“Lord Olstin is an ostentatious fool,” her companion said. “Of course, he’s a Brelegonder, so that’s very nearly a requirement on his part. Yet he does voice some concerns that others of us share.”
“Concerns?” Grace tried to make the question sound natural.
“I would not wish to place you in an awkward position with your host, my lady.”
“He’s your host at the moment as well, my lord,” Grace pointed out.
He laughed, a rich sound that thrummed in Grace’s own chest.
“Truly spoken, my lady. Very well, then. It is simply that no one is certain of Boreas’s motives in calling the Council of Kings. The missive he sent to the other Dominions was far from forthcoming. My queen was quite … distressed by this.”
Grace suspected this was a milder word than he might have chosen. “Couldn’t she—your queen, that is—couldn’t she simply refuse to come?”
“No, my lady. There is much custom and history bound up in the calling of a council. Even Boreas, quick to anger and action as he is, would not call the council lightly. And for a Dominion to refuse to come would be an act of war.”
Grace thought about his words. They seemed important somehow, but she wasn’t certain exactly why.
With a deft motion he slipped her arm from his. “I must take my leave, my lady. There are others I must speak with this night. Though none, I fear, as charming as yourself. I trust we will meet again.”
Grace opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out, which was probably just as well. He gave an elegant bow, then started away.
Panic gripped her. “Wait! I forgot to ask you your name.”
A flash of white teeth. “Logren of Eredane.” Then he was lost in the throng.
Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was her little victory over Lord Olstin, but after that Grace started to feel positively brave.
Once she had a moment to think, she knew who Logren was. Aryn had mentioned his name, along with those of the other representatives. Logren was high counselor to Eminda, Queen of Eredane. It was a fortunate encounter. Or had it been chance at all? Grace wandered on, and soon she had spoken with nearly all the representatives of the other six Dominions. There was no need to seek them out. They seemed to find her first. And each, to one degree or another, echoed Olstin of Brelegond’s concerns: They all wondered at Boreas’s true motive for calling the Council of Kings.
Still, despite all her encounters, there was one noble Grace did not see, though she looked for him more than once.
A trumpet fanfare sounded, signaling that the feast proper was to begin. At once people took their places at the trestle tables. Uncertain exactly what she was supposed to do, Grace sat on the nearest bench.
It was a strategy she might have thought through a little more thoroughly.
“You can butter my trencher anytime, my lady, if you know what I mean,” said the lord seated to her left with a leering wink. He was a grizzled man with lank hair and fewer teeth than fingers, of which he had something less than ten. His tunic was stained with grease, and a fetid atmosphere hovered around him.
Earlier that day, in preparation for the feast, Aryn had given Grace a crash course in table manners. Two people customarily shared a single wine goblet. One did not use the tablecloth to blow one’s nose. And it was expected of a lady to sprinkle salt from the bowl for the gentleman on her left. However, there had been nothing in the lesson about buttering trenchers, or putting up with lewd suggestions.
She reached for the wine goblet. “You know,” she suggested a moment later, “we might find drinking more convenient if we tried it one at a time.”
“Ah, but it wouldn’t be nearly so fun.” He tightened his three-fingered hand around hers, so that she could not let go of the goblet.
A note of alarm rose in her chest. For the first time that night she felt she was truly in danger. He started to lift the goblet.
“Come, my lady, let us drink tog
ether and—”
His eyes bulged in their sockets and went dull, then he slipped beneath the table.
“He must have dropped something down there,” spoke a gloomy voice.
Grace looked up and felt a surge of relief. “Durge!”
The Embarran knight had traded his chain-mail shirt for a smoke-gray tunic, but she would have recognized his drooping black mustaches and melancholy brown eyes regardless of what he was wearing.
Durge made a solemn bow. “I believe you are wanted at the king’s table, my lady.”
He offered her a hand, and she gratefully accepted it. She wasn’t certain just what the knight had done to her dinner companion, but she was happy to leave Lord Seven Fingers to sleep it off under the table.
“That’s twice now you’ve rescued me,” Grace said.
“I’m afraid I hadn’t been counting.”
They made their way to the long table that rested on the dais at the end of the great hall. Logren, Olstin, and the other visiting seneschals and counselors were all seated there, as were Aryn and Alerain. Grace might have liked to sit with the baroness, but the seats to both sides of her were occupied. Olstin leaned over to speak something in Aryn’s ear, and she gazed forward with a pained expression. Grace felt a pang of sympathy, but there was nothing she could do.
Durge guided her to the two remaining chairs at the far end of the table. “I’m certain you would prefer better company than me at table, but I’m afraid these are the only seats left.”
“On the contrary,” she said, and took one of the chairs. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather sit.”
Durge raised an eyebrow in a bemused expression, but there was nothing for the knight to do save sit. Pages brought platters of meat to the table, and the scent elicited a growl from Grace’s stomach. As Aryn had instructed her to do, she split the trencher of hard bread that rested between her and Durge, placed a few slices of meat on her half, and placed a good number more on the knight’s.
Durge nodded to her in thanks. “I trust you have been enjoying your stay in Calavere, my lady?”
“Yes, very much,” she said, and was startled to realize it was the truth. Despite the strangeness of it all, despite her fear at meeting so many new people and not knowing what she was supposed to do, she felt more alive than she could ever remember.
She took a sip of wine from a goblet, then used a napkin to wipe the rim so Durge might drink. He did.
“I never had the chance to thank you, Durge, for finding me in the forest and bringing me to Calavere. You never came to see me after that.”
“I asked Alerain daily how you fared, my lady. There was no need to disturb you with my presence. I am certain the Lady Aryn was far brighter company.”
So Durge hadn’t forgotten her. This made Grace smile. “Your presence would never disturb me, Durge.”
His look was skeptical, but he was plainly too polite to disagree.
Pages approached the table with more platters of food: whole swans cooked with their feathers still on, lampreys floating in thick sauces, steamed puddings of blood and raisins. And those were just the things Grace recognized.
Once the food was served, two men—one gray and stern, one broad-faced and smiling—moved down the length of the high table. They paused before each platter, raised their hands, and spoke a single, peculiar word: Krith.
“Who were those men?” Grace asked after the two had departed.
“They are the castle’s runespeakers,” Durge said. “I had heard Boreas kept some men of the Gray Tower at Calavere. It’s good to see he pays attention to the old ways.”
“But what were they doing?”
“I believe they spoke a rune of wholesomeness over the food,” Durge said. “It is a small magic, to be sure, but a useful one. One is more likely to die from a bit of rotten meat than a robber’s sword.”
Runes. Grace thought of Hadrian Farr’s words back in the police station in Denver. Hadn’t Farr said the ironhearts were interested in runes? Yes, but they were a world away … weren’t they? She touched the pouch that contained her necklace and could not suppress a shiver.
As the feast progressed the entertainments began. Jugglers, fools, and minstrels all plied their trade before the king’s table, then wandered around the hall. Desserts were served, including a kind of paste that had been sculpted into all sorts of fantastical forms. Durge called them subtleties. As far as Grace could tell, subtleties consisted mainly of sugar and lard, and were surprisingly reminiscent of the stuff in the middle of an Oreo cookie. She ate two unicorns and half of a castle.
After that, she let her gaze wander across the hall. She halted when she caught two glints of emerald. Kyrene. The countess sat at a nearby table. She raised her goblet, as if in toast, and treated Grace to a knowing look. Grace felt a prickling on her neck. She turned in time to see King Boreas scowl at Kyrene. The countess’s smile merely deepened as she returned her attention to the handsome lord seated beside her. Grace could feel Boreas’s scowl turn on her, but she did not meet his eyes. There was some contention between the king and Kyrene, and Grace had managed to land herself in the middle of it. She had grown bold during the course of the evening, but now she realized how dangerously little she understood about the politics of this place. She let out a troubled breath.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” Durge said.
Grace made a decision. “I’m supposed to find out where everyone stands on the Council of Kings, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at being a spy.”
“I see.”
She went on before she lost her nerve. “I’ve spoken with the counselors and seneschals and advisors here, and they’ve all told me what they think about the council, but it still doesn’t seem like I’ve learned anything.”
“Truly?”
“No. Yes. I mean, everyone seems to think King Boreas has some hidden reason for calling the council. I suppose that’s something. But it doesn’t really tell me where anyone stands. After all, they had no choice but to come to the council. Logren said that to refuse would be an act of—”
Then it hit her. She looked at Durge.
“—an act of war,” he said.
She nodded. The thought was so disturbing she almost didn’t want to think it. What if Boreas had hoped one of the other Dominions wouldn’t come to the council?
Durge stroked his drooping mustaches. “I can’t say I know much about being a spy. However, I suppose the first rule is to be suspicious of everyone. That includes me, of course.” Now he frowned. “Which means, I suppose, that you really shouldn’t listen to my advice.”
Grace shook her head. “No, it’s good. Your advice, I mean. You’re right—if I’ve learned one thing tonight, it’s that I can’t trust anybody.” Even King Boreas, she added to herself.
“You mean I was a help to you, my lady?”
She touched his hand. “Yes, you were.”
After this the feast began to wind down, and Grace found herself yawning. The sounds of conversation turned to a low drone in her ears, and the smell of smoke made her mind dull and hazy. She sipped her wine and stared absently at a heap of evergreen boughs in a corner.
The heap of evergreen boughs stared back.
Grace sat up straight in her chair. There, among the tangled branches—a pair of nut-brown eyes gazed straight at her. Something moved and shook the branches. She caught a glimpse of a round, bearded face and small hands. However, that was not the strangest thing. For face, hands, and beard alike had all been as green as the boughs of fir themselves.
Grace turned and grabbed Durge’s arm. “Look!” she whispered. “Over in the corner!”
But even as she turned back she knew it was gone. The heap of branches was still.
“I see nothing, my lady.”
She shook her head. “I’m certain it was there. A small man, with brown eyes and green skin.…”
Even as she said it she realized how absurd it must sound.
“Perhaps it was sim
ply the wine,” Durge said.
Grace sighed and gripped her stomach. “Maybe it was the subtleties.”
Either way she decided to call it a night. She bade Durge good-bye, gave her farewells to the king, and found a page who was willing to take her back to her chamber.
And all that night she dreamt of subtleties shaped like small green men.
50.
The day after the fire at the mad lord’s house, Travis received his first lesson in runecraft.
They left the glow of the burning manor far behind and rode all the remainder of that night. Shortly after dawn, weary from the night’s ordeal, Falken decided they should stop to rest, but then Beltan rode back from scouting ahead. The big knight had seen a robed procession of men and women approaching on the Queen’s Way. The others exchanged frightened looks. Perhaps the Raven cultists were on the road by chance. But perhaps not—for Travis had told the others of the hot brand Sebaris had tried to use to mark his forehead. The four travelers hid in a tangled thicket beside the road and watched the cultists pass. Some carried staves decorated with black feathers, and all wore the sign of the Raven traced in ashes on their foreheads.
When the way was clear they emerged from cover, then rode south all the rest of that morning and well into the afternoon. At last they came upon a talathrin hidden in a hollow beside the road. The cool scent of alasai was a balm to their fire-scorched lungs.
“The Raven priests will not trouble us here,” Melia said.
Travis was not sure if she meant this was because of the innate goodness of the Way Circle, or because of something the amber-eyed lady had arranged herself. Either way, when they dismounted and entered the tangled circle of trees, his fear receded.
They made camp and ate a small meal in silence. They had just finished stowing away the cooking gear when Falken spoke the words Travis had been dreading all day.
“I think it’s time we had a talk, Travis.”
Travis didn’t need to look up to know Melia’s gaze was turned in his direction. Beltan sat a short way off. The knight sharpened his sword with a stone, a task that appeared to absorb him, but from the way his head was cocked it was clear he was listening.