by Jon Sprunk
She stood up. “As you will, my lord.”
“Where are you going?”
The sorrowfulness in his voice was like a knife down her spine.
“Stay and enjoy the fete.” She bent down to kiss him. “I shall join you later.”
Sybelle turned away as Erric reached for his pipe and signaled a servant to fire up another cube of kafir resin. She wasn’t thinking of the duke, or even the emissaries she had invited to forge a pact that would eventually unite the Northlands under Erric’s banner. Her thoughts were focused on a man who had thwarted her designs in another direction, a man who should be dead, and the plans intended to remedy the situation.
CHAPTER FIVE
J osey twisted the ring around her finger as she stood outside the ballroom doors. The imperial palace had three ballrooms, but this one-the largest-was reserved for state occasions. The strains of the orchestra tugged at the pain in her temples. She had cancelled her audiences again today, taken a ride through the imperial grounds, and even tried her foster father’s remedy of ground fennel root mixed in diluted wine, but nothing had relieved the headache. And now she had to contend with this infernal pageant.
Forty-two days. This morning when she woke up, she had been seized by a stranglehold of panic when she tried to conjure an image of Caim in her head and found herself grasping for details. It was the little things that she couldn’t remember, like the pattern of scars on his hands, and the smell of his sweat. She’d spent the morning locked in her bedchamber and called off the ball at least four times, and each time relented.
Josey took a deep breath that threatened to burst the seams of her bodice. Might as well get it over with.
At her nod, two footmen opened the doors. A wave of sound and light washed over her. Dozens of lords and ladies in elegant attire promenaded about the room. Crystal mirrors reflected the light of a thousand candles, and their soft glow lent the ball an air of otherworldliness. For a moment she forgot her anxiety and let the music carry her inside.
Everyone stopped and bowed at her entrance. The musicians stopped their song and began to play the imperial anthem. Josey smiled to everyone as she swept through the room. This isn’t so bad. Why was I so concerned?
Hubert came over to stroll beside her. “Put your hand down,” he whispered below the level of the music.
She nodded to an older lady in a purple-and-white gown that resembled the plumage of a strange bird. “Why?”
“Because.” Hubert inclined his head to a pair of older men in military uniforms. “You look like a farm girl on her first trip to the big city.”
Awkward warmth crept into Josey’s cheeks as she lowered her hand. “I’m a little nervous, all right?”
“No need to be. You look enchanting.”
She brushed her hands down the panels of her gown, chartreuse in tabaret with a lace decollete. “Well, thank you, Your Grace, but I don’t feel it. My head hurts, these shoes are killing my feet already, and maybe I would know what to do if you had been around today to coach me.”
“I was working hard on the behalf of your empire.” Hubert nodded to an aged duchess of some middling territory. “I have written to your rambunctious nobles, but I don’t expect a reply for some days. Perhaps longer, as they weigh their options.”
“Send another message. Command them to appear and answer for their offenses.”
“Yes, Majesty. And there is something else. I believe I have an answer to the Akeshian problem.”
“Really?”
“You’ve read the reports about food shortages across the realm. Last year’s harvest was abysmally meager, and with anarchy running rampant through the central provinces and the troubles on the border-”
“I understand, but how does this tie to Akesh-?” She grinned at him. “You want to offer the Akeshians a trade agreement. Food in exchange for peace. Very clever, Lord Chancellor.”
“Actually, Lord Parmian devised it. His plan makes perfect sense. Akeshia is swimming in grain, so they get rid of their surplus for a hefty profit. We receive the food we need and a chance at building a new relationship. Everyone benefits.”
“Except for the Church.”
“True. The hierarchs will not be pleased to see an end to the eastern crusades. There is also the matter of convincing enough ministers to support it, and then where to obtain the funds to pay for the grain.”
Josey took a cleansing breath. “I’m sure you and Lord Parmian will work out the details. Thank you, Hubert. This is the best news I’ve had in weeks.”
She hesitated before asking about the thing plaguing her mind, but then plunged into it regardless. “Any word from-?”
“No.” He dropped voice even lower. “Nothing yet. I have sent additional riders north, but none have returned so far. I will come to you the moment I hear anything.”
She hadn’t expected more than that. Still, she could not help but be a little depressed. “Thank you, Hubert.”
He started to bow, but his gaze wandered away to focus on something behind her. Josey turned and laughed in delight.
“’Stasia!”
Josey met her friend with an embrace. Pulling back, she admired Anastasia’s lavender gown, which fitted her slender frame like a second skin. Waves of golden curls framed her doll-like face.
“You look-”
“You look-” Anastasia said.
They melted into each other’s arms with laughter. Behind Josey, someone cleared his throat, and she let go.
Anastasia made a graceful curtsy to Hubert. “Duke Vassili.”
He returned with a low bow. “Lady Farthington.”
Josey looked from one to the other. What’s gotten into – Oh!
She raised her eyebrows, and Anastasia’s smile deepened.
“Lord Chancellor,” Josey said. “I believe the Lady Anastasia is here unescorted. Would you do her the honor of a dance?”
A crimson stain spread across Hubert’s face. “Ah, Majesty. I should… I mean, I would if Your Majesty… That is to say-”
“Oh, it’s just a dance.” Josey grabbed his hand and placed it under Anastasia’s arm. “There. Off you go.”
A warm feeling glowed in Josey’s chest as she watched them walk onto the dance floor. Anastasia had been devastated by Markus’s death, so much so that Josey hadn’t had the heart to reveal all the cruelties she’d suffered at his hands. Now it appeared that ’Stasia was over the past.
While the couple danced, Josey felt she was being watched. Looking through the crowd, her gaze stopped on a man staring at her from across the ballroom. Her first impression was that he was quite handsome. Almost too handsome. Rings of inky black hair. Tanned skin. Dark eyes with long lashes. He smiled, and Josey couldn’t help smiling back. She wanted to know his name. She looked for Anastasia, who would probably know him on sight, social butterfly that she was, but she was still dancing with Hubert.
While Josey greeted people, looking everywhere except the direction of the handsome man across the room, a dry voice spoke behind her.
“Your Highness.”
Josey turned around to be confronted by Lady Philomena in a hideous, high-necked gray dress. The lady bobbed an inch or two, but her head never bowed. Her eyes were like small glass beads painted with a patina of disdain.
Josey waited for her to say something. Then, as the moment stretched into an uncomfortable silence, she felt the touch of other eyes upon them. Pretentious bitch. She’s making a scene, just staring at me.
Finally, when Josey couldn’t take it any longer, Lady Philomena spoke.
“That is an interesting gown,” she said. “It brings to mind the dress I bought for my maid last Yuletide.”
Josey gathered two handfuls of her skirt into her fists to keep from punching the lady in her aristocratic nose. She tried to think of a scathing reply, but Philomena glided away before anything came to her. Josey looked around to see who might have overheard, but everyone in the area was involved in their own conversations. Which
meant, of course, that they all had heard. Hang that woman!
Moisture stung the corners of her eyes, but Josey held up her head as if nothing had happened. People did not meet her gaze as freely as before. Or perhaps that was her imagination. She fought the urge to look around for Anastasia, but she really needed her best friend.
Then a man sidled up to her. Lord Du’Quendel, dressed in a smart suit of black with silver trimming. A thick gold chain garnished with tourmalines was draped around his neck.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Allow me to say how honored I am to become your new Master of Luminaries.”
“Uh. Yes, Lord Du’Quendel. The honor is mine.”
“And may I introduce a new addition to your court.”
The nobleman turned to reveal a man standing behind him. Josey swallowed as she saw a smile of brilliant teeth set in a bronzed face. Inky black ringlets of hair. Oh heavens! It’s him!
She tripped over her own feet as she tried to stop and turn at the same time. The man moved with effortless grace to catch her with a grip as firm as stone, but gentler than she expected. She couldn’t stop staring into his eyes.
“Pardon me, Majesty.” His voice was like pure silk.
She extricated herself. “Thank you, sir.”
Lord Du’Quendel cleared his throat. “This is my cousin, Lieutenant Dimas Walthom of Your Majesty’s Light Horse.”
Josey had a hard time catching her breath. The room had become overly warm in the past few moments. “Are you enjoying the ball, Lieutenant?”
He leaned closer. “To be honest, Your Majesty, I am not much for this sort of thing. But here, in your presence, I cannot bear the thought of leaving.”
Josey’s feet didn’t want to move. Then an image insinuated itself into her thoughts, of her and Caim walking in the gardens a few weeks ago, surrounded by leafless trees. She blinked as the soldier said something.
“I’m sorry. I was somewhere else for a moment.”
His smile was easy. Practiced. “Wherever it was, I am glad you returned to me.”
Josey glanced away. Whatever she had felt a moment ago, it was gone now. She wished Anastasia would find her. Then Hubert was beside her, nodding to the two lords as he offered his arm. She took it with relief.
“We’re ready, Majesty,” he said.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She turned back to the other men. “Lord Du’Quendel. Lieutenant Walthom, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
The lieutenant bent his head, but his eyes never left her. “The pleasure was mine. Perhaps we shall speak another time.”
“Another time,” she said as Hubert led her away.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Your timing is impeccable-”
The bottom dropped out of Josey’s stomach as she realized where they were going. The musicians put down their instruments and departed the stage. It was time for her introduction. She’d had a few remarks prepared, but now she couldn’t remember a single word to save her life. Swallowing, she tried not to show the dread oozing up as Hubert escorted her through the crowd.
He climbed the stage first and helped her up. As Josey turned to the assembly, her stomach twisted to the point where she thought she might be ill. A servant appeared with a silver platter, and Hubert handed her a gold chalice. The people in the crowd held crystal glasses filled with wine.
Hubert raised his glass. “Lords and ladies of Nimea, good gentles, I present to you Empress Josephine.”
Josey forced herself to smile as she lifted her cup to the crowd. Looking out over their faces, seeing them watching her, she couldn’t think of anything to say. She considered taking a sip of wine to stall for time, but thought it would appear rude. These were her people. They wanted to hear from her.
“Good people,” she began.
A shout from the other end of the room made a few heads turn. Hubert craned his neck to see.
Josey tried to go on with her speech. “We thank you, one and all, for attending-”
A loud crash startled her. Cold wine from her cup spilled down her gown. Hubert jumped down from the stage, leaving Josey alone. On the floor, everyone faced away toward the main doors. Wiping at her bodice with her hands, and only making the mess worse, Josey couldn’t see the source of the commotion. Then a shout rang out.
“Death to the usurper whore!”
A man ran through the crowd straight toward the stage. Josey froze. People backed away, and she didn’t blame them when she caught sight of the man. He had the look of a madman, with great bulging eyes that focused on her like a coursing hound on a hare. He was dressed in some type of uniform. It took her a moment to realize it was the livery of a palace servant.
Josey backed away, fearing the man was about to leap upon the stage to assault her, but he stopped at the foot of the platform.
There, raising his left fist into the air, he shouted aloud, “Long live the Church of the True Faith! And death to the usurp-”
His words were muffled under the press of several large guardsmen. Hubert reappeared. He blanched when he saw her.
“Majesty, are you…?”
Josey looked down at the stain spreading across her bosom. “It’s just wine.”
“Thank goodness. Perhaps we should retire in light of this.”
The crowd buzzed as the agitator was dragged away. Few people were paying her any attention, and those who did wore unreadable expressions. Josey couldn’t tell if they were relieved to see the man go, or sorry.
“One moment, Hubert.”
Josey held up her cup as she raised her voice. “Some of you don’t know much about me. Most of you, in fact. But I want to remedy that in the coming days.” She cleared her throat, not sure where to go from there. Then she recalled something her foster father had once said to her. “Nimea was once a nation of culture and gentility, a nation who welcomed her neighbors and grew prosperous through mutual benefit. Those days can return. They shall return. To Nimea! Long may She stand.”
A couple of glasses went up. Scattered responses arose, and gained strength as more and more people took up the call. After a moment, the entire assembly repeated the toast.
Hubert watched with wide eyes. Then he turned to her and bowed. “Majesty.”
Taking his arm, Josey allowed herself to be led down from the stage. Guards surrounded them as they walked out. Behind them, music began to play over the thunder of applause.
Anastasia found them in the corridor. She rushed through the hedge of soldiers and hugged Josey, heedless of the wine stain. “Thank the Light! I saw everything. Are you all right?”
“I’m all right. Just a little shaken up.”
Josey looked to Hubert over Anastasia’s shoulder. She expected him to say something, but he appeared to find the floor tiles of great interest.
“It’s a travesty,” Anastasia went on. “The Imperial Guard should have put better precautions in place.”
“Everything is fine, ’Stasia. It was just someone seeking attention.”
“But the things he said!”
Josey put on a smile. “It’s nothing. Will you stay at the palace tonight?”
“I would, Josey. I mean ‘Your Majesty.’ But Father will be expecting me. He hasn’t been well.”
“I understand.” Josey gave her another hug. “Come see me tomorrow, will you?”
“Of course.”
Heaviness descended over Josey as she watched her friend depart. Hubert was watching, too, but his expression was more sublime.
“Well?” she asked.
“Majesty?”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
He ran a finger across the bridge of his nose. “Ah, nothing of import. She talked a bit about the decorations and the music. She liked the music most, I believe.”
Josey shook her head. “Decorations and music? You’re impossible, Hubert. Do you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m exhausted. Is there anything else I need to do tonight?�
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“No, Majesty.”
“Then I bid you good night, Lord Chancellor.”
Still shaking her head, Josey walked away. The climb to her apartments seemed interminable. Her bodyguards took up positions outside as she entered. A shadowed chamber greeted her. The curtains had been drawn, but the hearth was unlit. Faint light flickered across the wide expanse of the foyer.
Calling for Amelia, her evening chambermaid, Josey crossed the cold floor. She reached a round table where a single candle dripped wax into a silver reservoir. Where was everyone? Perhaps her maids had not anticipated she would return from the ball so early.
As Josey approached the doorway to her bedchamber, a warm current of air brushed her face. Smells of dust and old leather tantalized her nose for a moment. She started to call out again, but a sliver of apprehension gave her pause. Why was it so quiet? Amelia wasn’t the type to fall asleep on her duties. Josey took another step, but stopped when a soft sound reached her ears, a metallic click from behind her.
Fists balled against her sides, Josey turned around, but the darkness beyond the candle’s feeble glow was unfathomable. She was tempted to call for her guards, but what if it was the maid returning from some errand, or her mind playing tricks? A yelp raced up her throat as a hand closed on her arm, but the scream sputtered and died when a familiar face emerged into the light.
“Fenrik!” Josey shivered as the pent-up fear drained out of her. “You scared me half to death.”
With a stiff nod, the manservant walked her to the inner doorway. Her nightgown had been laid out on the bed, and there was a fire in the fireplace.
“Fenrik,” she said. “Would you ask Amelia to-?”
Then she saw the blood, a rivulet of deep scarlet, trickle out from beneath her bed. Josey watched it run across the hardwood floor to the edge of the Hestrian rug and sink into the plush fibers. She gasped as a bony forearm smashed across her throat. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. She scratched at the arm with her free hand. Strips of skin, feverishly hot to the touch, came loose under her nails; the muscle and sinew underneath were like stone. Josey struggled, but couldn’t break free.