“You’re tired.” Raine stroked the jewel-toned scales on the dragon’s horned head. “I’ll see you tomorrow after the games.”
Flame is going to the games with Morven?
“No, Flame. I’m sorry.”
The other monsters are going. Gowyr says even the remnants are invited, but Flame cannot go? That is not fair.
“I know, and I’m sorry, but there haven’t been dragons in Tandara for a very long time, and people might be frightened. What’s more, you’re too big to fit in the stands, where Morven will be.”
Flame hates being alone.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll come stay with you after the games, I promise.”
The dragon was silent.
Raine got to her feet. “Well, good night. See you tomorrow.”
The dragon blew out a puff of smoke and turned his head.
Raine left him sulking and went back to the stable yard. She found Tiny sitting on a huge stone trough, his tree-trunk legs spraddled. Carr danced in front of the giant, his sword drawn.
“The trick is, you see, to keep ʼem guessing,” Carr said, slashing the air with his sword. “And proper footwork, of course.”
“I can see that,” Tiny said, marveling. “Quick as a gnat, you be. You’ll do fine at the games tomorrow.” He saw Raine and waved in greeting. “Ho, Rainey, there you be. Flame doing a’right?”
“He wants to go to the games, and I told him no,” Raine said.
“He be fashed?”
“Yes.”
Tiny shook his head. “That be hard, I know, but a dragon at the games would get the runties in a pucker, fer sure.”
“That’s what I told him, but it’s more than that,” Raine said. “Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but the fewer people who know about Flame, the better.” She thought of the baby rock bear, separated from his mother and abused by the trapper. “I’m terrified something might happen to him.”
“Aye, you never can tell about squiggies, beggin’ yer pardon, Roark.”
“I agree,” said Carr. “I’ll ask my father to post extra guards at the stable during the games, just in case.”
“Would you?” Raine said, giving him a grateful smile. “That would ease my mind.”
Carr swept her a deep bow. “Then consider it done.”
“Don’t he gots pretty manners?” Tiny pulled out a grimy handkerchief and blew his nose. “I wishes me mam be here to see it. Right taken wiv the roark, she’d be. Allus after me to wash, and such. ‘Tiny Bartog,’ she says, ‘you keep yer trap shut when you chews and yer mutton in yer mouth, where it belongs.’”
“I’d like to meet your mother one day,” Raine said.
“She’d be plum tickled to meet you, too, Rainey,” Tiny said. “She be a good egg, Grytta Rimefeld.”
* * * *
That night, Carr escorted Raine to the banquet. She wore a gown of dull gold brocade, matching slippers, and rubies in her hair from the stash of jewels Gertie had given her. She paused at the entrance to the Great Hall with Carr and waited in line to be announced. Raine looked about for familiar faces, and spotted Mauric. He sat at table on the dais, flirting shamelessly with Seratha. The Durngesi tribeswoman was dressed in a severe red gown that accented her dark beauty. Head tilted, she regarded Mauric like some sort of oddity, perplexed by his attentions.
Raine scanned the rest of the tables on the dais, searching for a familiar dark head.
“Looking for Raven?” Carr murmured.
Raine blushed. “No such thing.”
“Just as well, ʼcause he’s not coming. Sent the queen his regrets.”
“Oh.” Raine swallowed her disappointment. She’d seen little of Raven in the past few weeks. He always seemed to be busy elsewhere. “He has other plans? Not that it matters.”
“I’m sure he does. Quite the dab with the ladies, m’ brother.”
“Oh,” Raine said again. She lifted her chin. “The hall is lovely.”
“Tro, it had better be. My mother’s turned the fast inside out. Determined to put on the dog for our special guests.”
Two days earlier, Queen Balzora of Tannenbol had arrived, followed shortly by Durkin, the head of the Gambollian Council, and Deneos, the King of Valdaria. Raine had yet to meet them; they’d been in conference with the rowan almost from the moment of their arrival. Had Glory informed the rowan of the Council’s deal with Glonoff? Raine did not know.
Raine surveyed the Great Hall. Though it irked her to admit it, Hedda had outdone herself. The long chamber was hung with greenery and festooned with snow lilies and plump blue roses. Fires blazed on the hearths along the walls, and fragrant herbs scented the air. Lords and ladies in their best finery crowded the hall, and the musicians could scarcely be heard over the drone of conversation. The rowan and Hedda had yet to arrive.
“Where are your mother and the rowan?” Raine asked, noticing the empty seats on the dais.
“They’ll be along presently,” Carr said. “Mother likes to make an entrance.” He pointed out a petite young woman with honey-brown hair already seated on the dais. “See that woman in the green dress? That’s Queen Balzora of Tannenbol, and the awkward, stocky fellow in the putrid yellow doublet? That’s Jelf, the new Cargal of Fiffe. The former Cargal was stripped of rank and thrown to the pigs.”
“Good heavens,” Raine murmured, eyeing the tiny queen with misgiving. “Whatever for?”
“Balzora caught him stealing from the crown. There was quite an uproar when Jelf was named the new Cargal. The Tannish nobles got their noses out of joint, Jelf being a simple farmer, but Balzora’s got a mind of her own.”
Raine turned her head, staring at him. “You’re a font of knowledge. And you know this how?”
Carr grinned. “I’m a dutiful son and visit my mother’s salon often. She and her ladies are fond of gossip. Tedious, I know, but I pick up a thing or two.”
“Such as?”
Carr leaned closer. “Rumor has it Jelf is in the running to be Balzora’s consort.”
“You mean her husband? But she’s so young.”
“She’s eighteen,” Carr said, “and the Royal Council is champing at the bit to see her wed and the succession established. Several counselors have already presented themselves as candidates, and I’m told the Tannish noble families are falling over one another, offering up their sons on the political altar. ʼTwould behoove her to choose Jelf as her consort. That way, she avoids aligning herself with either faction.” He straightened. “Ah, here we go.”
The herald called their names, and Raine proceeded down the center of the hall on Carr’s arm.
“Your Majesty,” Carr said, bowing to Queen Balzora when they reached the king’s table. “Allow me to present the Lady Raine, recently under the rowan’s protection.”
Balzora gave Raine a searching look and inclined her head. “Lady Raine.” She indicated the sturdy man to her right. “May I present Jelf, the Cargal of Fiffe?”
Jelf jerked his attention from a troop of jugglers. “Milady,” he began and faltered. “Rebe,” he said, staring at Raine. “She looks like the coins.”
“Yes, Cargal,” Balzora said. “She’s the Gograh Hara’s twin. I told you, remember?”
“Yes, I-I,” he stuttered, a painful flush spreading up his muscular neck. “That is, I beg your pardon, milady.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cargal,” Raine said, taking pity on the flustered man. “Are you looking forward to the games tomorrow?”
“Indeed, I am,” Jelf said, regaining his composure. “I’ve signed up for the hammer toss.”
Balzora patted the empty seat to her left. “Sit beside me, Lady Raine, so we may chat. That is, if I may steal her from you, Lord Carr?”
Carr bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty. I see Lady Asta and her daughters. I shall pay them my respect
s.”
Carr led Raine to the seat beside the queen of Tannenbol, and drifted down the table to speak to Luanna, exquisite in pale pink, and Tyra, who looked very pretty in a turquoise gown with gold lacing.
“You really are lovely,” Balzora said to Raine. “Small wonder Hedda’s hens hate you.”
Raine started. “How did you—”
Balzora waved her hand. “My maid, of course. She keeps an ear to the ground. She tells me they are exceedingly rude to you. Pay them no mind. They are small minded and vicious.” Her gaze sharpened. “Bree tells me you are an adept?”
“Bree was being kind,” Raine said, shaking her head. “He’s tutoring me, but I’m pretty hopeless at it. He despairs of me, I think.”
Balzora gave an unqueenly snort. “Good. I hope you give him fits. That man is vexing, really quite vexing.” She glanced down the table. “Deneos is coming this way. Don’t let his seeming lethargy deceive you. He’s sly as a fox.”
A broad-shouldered man with dark wavy hair and heavy-lidded brown eyes rose from a chair farther down the table and sauntered up to them. He was dressed in purple and gold, the colors of Valdaria, and the light from the candles sparkled on the jewels on his long fingers and at his throat.
Deneos swept them a bow and raised Balzora’s hand to his lips.
“Two fair damsels to delight the eye,” the king of Valdaria said, surveying Raine from beneath curved lids. “The golden beauty of the dawn enthroned beside the splendor and mystery of the night. Surely, the gods have smiled upon me this day.”
Two red birds flew into the Great Hall and landed on the stone floor in front of the rowan’s table.
“Surely, I am going to be ill,” Brefreton said, materializing.
Gertie appeared beside him. “I see you’ve met Deneos, pet,” she said to Raine. “Be careful. He’s slick as a baby troll’s behind, and just as full of surprises.”
“Actually, the gograh and I have yet to be formally introduced.” Deneos smiled at Raine. “Perhaps you will do the honors, Ancient One?”
“Deneos? Raine.” Gertie jabbed a claw at Raine. “Raine? Deneos.” She glowered at the Valdarian king. “Satisfied?”
Turning, she stomped off and took a seat at the end of the table, well away from Hedda.
“Still as astringent as rough wine, I see,” Deneos murmured in amusement.
“That’s Glogathgorag you’re referring to, Deneos,” Brefreton snapped. “You’ll speak of her with respect, or not atall.”
“I meant no offense.” Deneos raised his brows in mild surprise. “Gertie is a frequent and welcome visitor in Valdaria, as are you, Revered Brefreton. But for your green magic, the Great Blight might never have ended.”
“Roon the Rhymer?” Balzora said. “I read about him in my lessons as a child. That was what…a thousand years ago?”
“Saucy chit,” Brefreton said, smiling at Balzora. “Things are well in Tannenbol?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it,” Brefreton drawled. “How goes the husband hunt?”
“Splendidly.” Balzora tossed him a tight little smile. “The number of men throwing themselves at my feet grows by the day.”
Brefreton’s upper lip curled. “Tottering at your feet, more like. The Royal Council is a bunch of senile old fools.”
Flags of color spotted the queen’s cheeks. “Not every man vying for my hand is decrepit. Someone crushed by antiquity once cautioned me to marry a man nearer my own age. I decided to take his advice and abandon the idea of marrying an older man.” Giving Brefreton her shoulder, Balzora addressed Jelf. “Cargal, please escort me to my chambers. I find it hard to breathe in here with all the hot air.”
“But the banquet has yet to start, Your Majesty.”
“Return, then, if you like, Cargal.” Balzora rose. “I, for one, have lost my appetite.”
“As you wish.” Jelf rose hastily and offered the queen his arm.
Balzora turned to Raine. “I hope to see you at the games on the morrow, milady.”
Head high, she left the dais and swept from the hall.
“Pardon me.” Deneos bowed. “I find that I have the unaccountable urge to…er…throw myself at Balzora’s feet.”
He hurried after Balzora and Jelf.
There was a loud burp behind Raine. “Deneos seems smitten with Zozo,” Gertie said, taking a swig of ale. “What do you think, Bree? A union between Tannenbol and Valdaria would have interesting political implications, would it not?”
Brefreton muttered something under his breath and stomped away.
“Oh, my goodness,” Raine said. “He’s in love with her.”
“Noticed that, huh?” Gertie lifted her head. “Ah, here’s Gorne at last, and about time. I’m ravenous.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“This is not new. I’m a troll, and trolls like to eat.”
Chapter 21
Holgunnatt
The rowan and Hedda entered the Great Hall on a golden shrill of trumpets. The queen was resplendent in a gown of wine red with silver trim, her pale hair elaborately coiffed and curled around a sparkling tiara. Standing at her side, the rowan was stern and imposing in black velvet with silver lace, his long, graying hair held back by the crown of Finlara. Raine searched his face. There were no flaws in his guise. Finn the Crafty had perfected the art of dissemblance over thousands of years, and he appeared every inch the aging but still vigorous monarch.
The royal couple processed down a long carpet unfurled by six of Hedda’s ladies in waiting. A cluster of small boys strewed blue rose petals in their path to the accompaniment of three minstrels strumming on lyres.
“That’s a mournful song,” Raine said to Gertie. “What is it?”
“Ulfin’s Lament. Hedda plays it to nettle Gorne.”
“She’s wasting her time,” Raine said. “I don’t think he’s listening.”
The rowan’s handsome face was set, and the expression in his eyes was distant and strained.
“He does seem distracted,” Gertie said. “Wonder what ails him?”
Holgunnatt, Raine thought. He’s thinking of Raven’s mother and the curse. He’s wondering if she will come to him tonight.
“Still, you’d think he’d notice that damn racket,” Gertie mused. “Gorne loathes that song. Ulfin caused him no end of grief.”
“The rowan hanged Ulfin for treason,” Raine said without thinking, “and the queen is a Korek. I can see how that would be awkward. Nobles are beheaded, and hanging is for common criminals.”
The troll turned her head to stare at her. “ʼTis an insult the Koreks have yet to forgive, though I don’t recall mentioning Ulfin to you.”
“Must have read about him in the library.” Me and my fat mouth, Raine thought, wishing she could take her words back. “I’ve…um…been spending a lot of time there, lately.”
“I’ve noticed, and Raven’s made himself scarce, as well.” Gertie cut her eyes at Raine. “Particularly since Carr came home. Are you and Carr an item?”
“What? No way. Carr and I are friends.”
“Hmm,” said Gertie. “I don’t doubt Hedda would like you to be more.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think on it, pet. You marry Carr, and the two of you go north to his estate. You’re no longer under the rowan’s wing, and the Koreks control something Glonoff desires, namely, you. They can name their price.”
“Yay. That’s a comforting thought.”
“Denial is a fool’s choice. Turning a blind eye to the truth will get you dead, pet. We still don’t know who was behind the attack at the gates.”
“Maybe no one was behind it. Maybe it was a one-time thing.”
“Someone killed the man Raven captured—he didn’t crush his own windpipe—and instructed the o
thers to swallow poison,” Gertie pointed out.
The rowan and Hedda reached the dais and took their places at the center table. When the musicians finished their set, the rowan rose and raised his glass.
“Joyous Trolach,” he announced in his deep, rich voice. “May Trowyn bless you in the coming cycle. Let the feast begin.”
“Thank Kron,” Gertie said, rubbing her paws together in anticipation.
The rowan sat back down, and there was a happy rumble of conversation as the first course was served: a thick pottage, jugged hare cooked in red wine and juniper berries, mashed parsnips with butter, carrots cooked in beer and seasoned with honey and dill, a haunch of venison, roast chicken stuffed with herbs and mushrooms, and a loin of veal. When that was done, the second course was piped out on a huge platter, two enormous pies shaped to resemble Finn and the Troll. The pies were broken open by none other than Chef Valmer, wielding a huge knife. Inside the tender crusts was a filling of venison, gosling, capons, pigeons, and rabbits in a savory gravy. The third course was a suckling pig, the fourth, poached sturgeon, and the fifth course consisted of herons stuffed with parsley and dried grapes, plums stewed in rose water, and roasted peacocks.
The rowan ate little and drank deeply, his expression wooden. He paid little attention to his wife and guests, or the entertainment, which included mummers, musicians, a troop of dancers, and an amusing little man dressed as a frog who leapt and cavorted around the room, much to the delight of the guests. When the last course was served—candied fruit and cheese—he excused himself and strode from the room. Queen Hedda watched him leave, her mouth drawn tight in an expression of fury.
She stood abruptly. “Since our venerable liege has departed, I will bid you good e’en as well. Until tomorrow.”
She murmured something to Lord Korek, and he escorted her from the hall.
“The queen looks unhappy,” Raine murmured.
“Hedda’s always up in the boughs about something.” Gertie sprawled in the chair, her gaze scanning the room. “I see Carr’s hanging about Lady Asta’s table. A beauty, Luanna. Reminds me of Tekla with that silvery hair. Personally, I like the younger gal. Always up to a challenge, that one, and good with a bow.”
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