by Jenna Rhodes
She could hear the whispers. “She wears armor.”
“Nonsense, it’s decorative.”
“I tell you, that’s an armored corset.”
“With barb-tongued women waiting for her entry, I don’t blame her,” the bored man said, turning away from his companion and seeking another pretty face.
Nutmeg reached out to squeeze Rivergrace’s hand. “They’re calling us shop girls,” she whispered, reporting from her side of the hall.
“But we are.”
“Yes, but . . . never mind. We are!” And Nutmeg put her chin up.
Rivergrace squeezed back. “Hosmer would never forgive us if we started another brawl.”
That brought a grin to Nutmeg’s curving mouth. They followed in the Warrior Queen’s wake, aware of stares that assailed Lariel and slid away only to end up on them. At the end of the long hallway, Grace managed a deep breath.
Three side halls adjoined the ballroom, each of those draped with banners and pennants and garlands of flowers, and holding a covey of attendees, two for the food and drink they served, and a third for a quieter place to stand and talk or sit and rest a while. Lariel headed to the third. If aware of the path that gave way to her, she did not show it, nor did she simply plow her way across the center of the room, but along the edge until she reached her destination. As she entered the room, a man’s voice rose in song.
“At summer’s last bloom, at winter’s fall, at sword blade ever turning,
The war came to an end on the banks of Ashenbrook.
Through fields of death the river ran, its waters laced with blood,
Bearing a fallen king upon its tide, carried onto his Returning.
Spring has come and gone in time, with grasses ever greening
Still the Ashenbrook flows through killing fields,
Its dark and bitter waters running through banks of clay and bone.
Only men can sing of memory, of war and its darkest gleaning.”
Bistane Vantane turned and bowed deeply to her. He wore white leather, supple pants upon a body even more supple, vest cut tightly over a shirt of the most gossamer blue, its sleeves flowing amply to end in tight and bejeweled cuffs. Rivergrace recognized the Vaelinar who had sung at the Spring fair years ago, and although she felt changed, he seemed unmarked by the time. His companion she also knew, from his calling at her father’s brewery, Trader Bregan Oxfort. He wore silks of dark brown, quiet, somber colors, although every finger on Oxfort’s hand held a sparkling ring, and heavy bracelets hung like chains from his sleeves. “Listen to that,” Bregan remarked. “Women have been flocking about us for a candlemark begging for a song, and nothing. The Warrior Queen arrives and Bistane opens up like a songbird on midsummer’s night.”
“Surely songbirds give off sweeter melodies,” Lariel murmured.
“I hope m’lady will favor me with a dance later,” Bistane said to Lariel.
“Why wait? The night is young.” She put her hand out to him and he caught it up with a grin that wiped the somberness from him entirely, and he spun her out onto the floor. Oxfort continued talking with his companions as if nothing had occurred.
“And I thought that was going to be awkward,” muttered Jeredon as he sprawled upon a chair.
“Are you asking for trouble?” Sevryn remarked to him.
“Almost anything would be better than this. On edge and bored, two things I dislike being.”
Nutmeg perched on a footstool near Jeredon. “Don’t you care for dances?”
“I,” he said to her, “much prefer hunting and riding and camping under the stars. Even more so, walking the forest and groves and . . . how can I say it? . . . listening to them.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” He took his eyes from Bistane dancing close to Lariel and looked at her.
“It’s a different voice, but it speaks all the same. I like going to the tall trees, the great red-barked ones near the seacoast, where it’s damp and the soil is nearly black with richness. I’ve been there twice, and it’s put roots in my soul. They tower higher than any building.”
“I know the ones you speak of. They are old, you know.”
“I know. We Dwellers know such things.”
“Tell me what else you comprehend, then,” and Jeredon put an elbow on his knee, and the self-mocking smile that had played on his features evolved into one of keen interest. Nutmeg leaned forward earnestly, a rare serious look on her face, talking and gesturing.
Sevryn said at Rivergrace’s ear, startling her into a tiny jump, “Would you care to dance?”
She caught herself. “Should we?”
“We were commanded to enjoy ourselves, as I recall. A queen takes commands seriously.” He held his arm out to her.
“I don’t . . . I haven’t danced very much . . .”
His mouth stayed very close to her ear, warm breath tickling her. “The music is changing as we speak. Listen. This is a country fair song, if I recall.”
“It is!”
“Fated, then. Shall we dance, m’lady?” Without waiting for an answer, he put his other hand to her waist and swung her about onto the dance floor as the music picked up and launched into a lively air. He gave her a little shake, erasing the reluctance in her, and she gave in to the music. Lively steps, and kicks to each side, and twirls and then a promenade, and then a dip, a twirl, and all over again. Fiddles and pipes and drums awakened her, and Sevryn guided her with strength until they both laughed breathlessly, weaving among the others on the floor. Many of the Vaelinars had stepped aside, not knowing the dance, watching, and joining as they picked it up, but Bistane and Lariel reigned in the middle of the dance floor, in swirls of blue-and-white leather, a flash of color as Sevryn spun her by them. Some of the attendees carried small pets on their wrists or shoulders, bright-winged or soft-furred, with collars or leashes of strung gems on gold-and-silver braids, the pets holding on tightly as their owners danced away.
The music ebbed in a slow dance, then, and he pulled her to him, both catching their breaths as he showed her how to sway and step in time with him. He said nothing, but she felt his cheek pressed to her temple, and Rivergrace lost whatever words she wished to say. Behind the tempo of the music, she learned the beat of his heart and the flow of his breathing. The dance seemed to last forever, then suddenly the sound ended.
He broke away from her. “I need to see a smile,” he cautioned her. “Lest the queen think we’re not following orders.”
“That should never happen,” and she found a smile though still a little breathless.
“Excellent.” He listened as the musicians struck up again, a full band this time, with horn and more strings and even bells. “Ah. Now this one is a little more difficult, but it’s easy if you remember the steps in a box. Like this . . .” And he put both hands on her waist to guide her.
After a few missteps, she caught the pattern. She saw other women holding their skirts up in one hand, with the other placed on their partners’ shoulders, and did the same. Freeing her ankles made following Sevryn much easier, and they fell into an even more intricate configuration on the dance floor among the others.
A swath of black silk tapped on Sevryn’s shoulder. He stopped, pulling Rivergrace with him from the stream of couples to face the elegant Vaelinar woman. A diadem of cut obsidian bound her dark gold hair from her forehead and then freed it to tumble down her shoulders and back. The severe colors did not hide her, but allowed her to spring forth from the shadows, like the dawning of the sun itself, and her eyes of verdant green flecked with smoke and leaf green ruled a face of sharp planes. Her beauty looked as if it could cut.
“Tressandre.” Sevryn bowed slightly.
“I claim a dance.” Her gaze passed over Rivergrace, dismissing her. Rivergrace tried to contain a shiver.
“Would that it were possible, but I am escorting at the queen’s orders. Perhaps another time.”
“We will always have another time.” Tressandre ild Fal
lyn curved her lips as she smiled, but no warmth entered her eyes. She traced her hand languidly over Sevryn’s shoulder and then down his flank, as if reminding both of them she knew what lay beneath the civilized cover of clothing. Dropping her palm to the butt of the riding crop at her hip, she sauntered off without another look back. Sevryn watched her go, his jaw tight.
The music went on and then stopped, and then gathered again before he moved, taking Rivergrace’s wrist and holding her lightly for a slow but sprightly dance. He said nothing for an even longer time. When they finished, he told her, “I think we need a cooling drink,” and led her to the hall filled with tables groaning under the refreshments.
She put her hand out to halt him, to tell him that he need not squire her around, but she missed his wrist, stroking her fingers across his rigid torso instead, and he let his breath out in a hiss.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Quench fire.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“Never mind. Here, a pastry or two, and some light wine with juice?” He gathered a drink and treats for her without waiting for her answer and pressed them into her hands, before serving himself.
She bit into the small, flaky object, and the goodness of the crust hid a sweet-and-nut concoction that pleased her tongue as she ate. She hoped that Nutmeg would be able to smuggle a few of them out to Hosmer, for he loved sugary things. The wine soothed her thirst, and she gulped a second draft, bringing Sevryn’s mouth to her ear again, saying, “Not too fast, aderro, that can be very intoxicating. If you thirst, I’ll draw you some water.”
Embarrassment warmed her. She began to stammer an apology when a tall Vaelinar with a cane limped their way and clasped Sevryn’s shoulder.
“Introduce me, Dardanon, for I do not know this young lady,” as he looked upon them both.
“Rivergrace Farbranch, guest of Queen Lariel, may I present Tranta ild Istlanthir, famed cliff climber and cliff diver of the Kingdom of Tomarq.” Sevryn lifted his glass to the other.
Tranta took her hand, pastry and all, bowing deeply over it. She could not help staring at him, with pale blue skin and dark blue-green hair, towering over Sevryn and herself. He straightened. “Remind me to commend Lariel for inviting exquisite guests.”
Sevryn shifted weight. “I understand Tressandre is looking for a dance partner.”
Tranta brandished his walking stick. “I thank the Gods that I am unable to fulfill her needs.” He did not take his eyes off Rivergrace. The three of them might have been the only people in a hall growing ever more crowded as dancers came in search of drink for parched throats. “I feel I should know you, m’lady Farbranch. The name, however, does not speak to me of our people.”
“I’m Dweller.”
Tranta laughed heartily. He balanced himself on his cane as he caught his breath to respond. “Did no one ever tell you that humor is one of the more tantalizing qualities, m’lady?”
“Tranta,” began Sevryn, but the other waved him off, telling him, “Tiiva is looking for Lariel. It seems the queen sent her for something, and she’s found it.”
“Then Tiiva will find her, I’m certain.” He put his arm out to Rivergrace. “Though perhaps we should help.”
“Of a certainty, you should, Sevryn, but why the young lady? I can dance a bit, after a fashion, if the music is slow and you allow me to lean on you a bit.” He gazed down at Rivergrace, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Perhaps you weren’t hit on the head hard enough,” Sevryn told him.
“Only death could keep me from the company of such a lovely person.” He also offered Rivergrace an arm. She stood in hesitation between the two. A tension spun out between the three of them, like a spider setting its anchoring strand in a web. She turned as someone called Lariel’s name, entering the area with a rustle of fabric and a click of heels upon the tiled flooring before sweeping into a deep curtsy.
The herald’s call echoed her entry. “Presenting Seneschal Tiiva Pantoreth.”
The woman rose without seeming ever to have been bent in subordination, and held out a cup. “Found, m’lady queen.”
Lariel beamed. “And in good time. I won’t keep you further, Tiiva, I know you’ve kin waiting and dances promised.”
“Indeed.” A faint smile played over the other’s face.
“My apologies for sending you questing about like a servant.”
“None needed. What would you have done without it?”
“Depended upon my avandara here.”
Her escort made a movement of surprise, looking down at Rivergrace, and then his mouth went tight as if holding back words. Lariel touched Bistane as if to soothe him, but he did not voice his thoughts.
That seemed to disconcert the elegant woman more than anything else that had been said, but she merely curtsied again silently and left after giving Nutmeg and Rivergrace a curious sidelong glance. Nutmeg returned it, nudging Rivergrace as the seneschal left the dancing floor.
It did not slip past Lariel. “Something untoward?”
“She reminds me of a shop customer, Lady Galraya.”
“It would be the skin. Copper is one of our warmer and more rare tones. Galraya is her sister-cousin.” Lariel took up the cup, a tankard of blown glass, painted with gilt and blue, meant to be fastened upon a belt or girdle. A slender stemmed flute, it hung more as a decoration than a drinking vessel, with stonework gleaming within. She tapped it and it rang with a clear, hanging note, the tenor changed by the stones inlaid at the bottom.
Rivergrace had never seen anything quite like it. “Why are there gems inside the cup?”
“For my protection. They will turn color if the drink is poisoned. I shall drink more freely than I dance in tonight’s crowd, I think.” Unconcerned, Lara twisted a wayward strand of hair shaken down by dancing back into place. “In fact, a libation sounds good. Bistane?”
“A drink might do us both good.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken, flowing about Grace like the Silverwing, dimming sound and light, drawing her into a current which would carry her away to an unknown destination as her gaze stayed upon Lariel.
She heard the Warrior Queen’s voice, light and clear, answering something asked of her, as she moved toward the tables and ordered a drink, Bistane with his arm about her waist as she did. She handed over her goblet to the veiled server across the tables and waited as the androgynous waiter filled it with sparkling water before retreating into anonymity behind the casks and kegs. Lariel curved her arm to move the glass to her lips after a quick glance within, and returning her attention to Bistane. The fluid within moved sluggishly as if muddied.
Time slowed and pooled as the summer waters swirling into her beloved cove on the Silverwing, although Rivergrace saw Lariel with a crystal clarity in the midst of it. Her slender fingers lifted the glass and it sparked Grace’s eyes with the cut brilliance of faceted quartz yet it held a dark and bloodied heart within it, a flawed shard that made her shiver in repulsion. Without thought, she flung her arm out to dash it from her lips, crying, “Don’t drink that!”
“What?” Lariel turned in confusion toward her, the glass continuing its slow journey to her mouth.
“You can’t!” She flailed, knocking the goblet from Lariel’s hand, the beautiful object arcing away. Bistane caught it neatly in the air, barely letting a drop spill. He swung about and grabbed a tiny furry creature sitting upon the shoulder of the Vaelinar behind him. It squeaked in startled protest and Bistane dribbled a bit of the drink into its mouth.
The little thing blinked with wide eyes even as its owner shouted in dismay, then it coughed and gagged and spewed, and died shuddering in Bistane’s hand.
“Poison.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
RIVERGRACE GAVE A SOFT CRY and moved toward Lariel. Sevryn moved with her, but not toward the queen. His target was the last person who’d touched her, the veiled Vaelinar servant beyond. He hurdled
the table, drawing his blade from his left sleeve as he did, and the servant bolted.
He heard Bistane’s flat declaration of “Poison” as he lunged over the table, rolled, and came up running after his prey.
The Vaelinar ran as if its life depended upon it, shedding bits of clothing as he/she skirted the crowd, Sevryn close behind. The ripped veil floated on the air before descending on a bust of a former mayor of Calcort in an alcove. The servant’s gown came off next, thrown into the dancers and causing a crash of bodies as they tangled in it. Sevryn leaped over thrashing arms and legs and curses.
His target now ran, swift and lean and clothed in black, out of the Great Hall, bowling over guards as he descended into the quad, into the depth of night, and a mass of people.
“Kobrir!”
His shout rang over the celebrating commoners, but the figure neither slowed nor veered. With unerring direction, the assassin cut through the booths and eateries, and into a ring of dancers, who with a shout, closed him off.
Sevryn burst into the circle, and onlookers tightened about both of them, a wall of curious and unmoving flesh.
“Fight! Fight!”
Kobrir dropped into a stance. Under his Vaelinar veils, he wore a mask of thin gauze, dark as a moonless sky, hiding his face. The only thing light about him were the knives in his hands, catching a glint of the orange gleam of fire-light and torchlight.
They circled one another, and then closed in a dance of another kind, quiet, skilled, deadly.