by Ellyn, Court
When the dance drew to a close, the pipes and bells made way for the troubadour. In a garish red and violet cloak, he provided an interlude while the dancers caught their breath. Kieryn escorted Princess Rilyth to Erum, bowed over her hand and kissed her fingertips.
Returning to his hiding place beside his brother, he glimpsed a train of wine-red silk slipping out the door. As if his feet no longer belonged to him, he followed.
Peering into the Great Corridor, he saw Lady Genna, flirting with one of the Falcon Guard, whose stance against the wall had gone lax. To the right, far down the narrow passage that ran before the Hall, the swishing red skirt vanished out the garden door. Kieryn pursued cautiously, peered around the doorjamb, but the immediate paths were empty. He chose the raked gravel lane that led down the center of the garden. The troubadour’s voice rose and fell in haunting muted notes beyond the lighted windows. The chirp of the furred crickets and the squeak of Kieryn’s new boots were more insistent. Creeping past the fish pond, glimmering with pink scales and translucent tails, he began to feel half a fool. The Lady Rhoslyn was not a fawn to be stalked by a hound. Yet, why shouldn’t Kieryn come here to take the cool night air just as she had? He proceeded more casually past rows of yellow roses and the splashing fountain. Passing under the vine-covered arbor, he saw her.
Rhoslyn sat among the night blossoms, her skirts wide enough to take up the length of the stone bench. The blood-red petals on the shrubs had opened fully by this time, releasing their heady perfume. On wedding nights, the petals were often strewn over the marriage bed as an aphrodisiac. Rhoslyn had plucked one from its bush and twirled it under her nose.
Kieryn swallowed hard, but decided Kelyn wouldn’t let anything stop him from … well … but he was only here to speak with her, after all.
Stepping from the arbor’s shadow, he said casually, “This is Lady Alovi’s private garden.”
Rhoslyn’s eyes snapped toward his voice, then raked him up and down in a critical manner that threatened to unnerve him. A delicate crease developed between tawny eyebrows, and as she approached, Kieryn feared she would continue past, offended by his jest. But she looked him straight in the eye, wrapped her hand around his nape, rose onto her tiptoes, and kissed him with that garnet mouth.
Kieryn’s legs lost all substance. A delicious fire ignited along every inch of his body. Ah, the perfumed silk of her cheek; the golden shimmer of a single strand of hair against her brow.
She released him—oh, too soon—and peering through golden lashes, she whispered, “Am I trespassing?”
Kieryn’s head seemed to float free of his neck; his brain couldn’t connect with the words. At last, he managed, “N-no.”
Rhoslyn’s lips broke into a smile and she drifted away. “Do forgive me. I just … I remembered you. From Bramoran, when we were little. I always liked going to Bramoran. I had a serious infatuation, you see. I had to know if it survived the years.”
Unbelievable! He ran a nervous hand through his hair; he had lost his ribbon somewhere; he must look a mess. Rhoslyn twirled the night blossom against her lips and peered up at him coyly. Trouble, indeed, Kieryn thought. “Are you sure you don’t think I’m Kelyn?”
She shook her head, eyes dancing. “I know the difference. Kelyn was mean and arrogant and liked to play pranks on me. He was just like every other boy I knew. The meanness later turns to lust, sometimes for my bed, always for Father’s title.”
Kieryn felt as if he blushed as deep a red as the night blossom in her fingers. “And I’m not like that?”
“You were the nice one, the quiet one, the mysterious one. You kept to yourself. You hardly ever said a word to me. I remember asking silly questions, just to see if I could get you to talk. When you did answer, you were always polite. So I’ve taken you for a gentleman.”
Reluctantly Kieryn admitted, “Well, as I remember, I was the one who invented the pranks. Kelyn was just the one who carried them out.”
“Oh, no,” Rhoslyn laughed. “Don’t disillusion me now. You mean you’re a rogue just like the rest of them?”
Kieryn shrugged in a weak defense, happy to be placed in a class with Kelyn for once.
Rhoslyn added more heatedly, “But I wouldn’t compare even Kelyn with the likes of Rorin of Westport.” She returned to the bench, swirled and sat in one motion and the wine-colored skirts fanned widely. Light from the moons gathered in the silver threads, the garnets and the pearls. “He’s the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.” She spoke loudly, as if she meant Rorin to hear. “Do you know him?”
Kieryn was cautious with his reply. “Only from Assemblies. I’ve learned to avoid him.”
“I wish I had that luxury. All the way from Evaronna, Rorin attached himself to me like a midge in my skin. He assures me—in not so many words—that no one is better suited to be the next Duke of Liraness, as if my father were already dead. Very careless of him.”
“That does make Rorin sound … rather dense.”
“Dense? Ha, I like that. And so he is.”
Rumors and scandals, and now slander of a man Kieryn hardly knew. He felt as if he’d been born to the wrong class of people. But Rhoslyn was speaking openly with him, as if they had always been the closest of friends, so he had no intention of walking away.
“I think I’ll send out a decree,” she pondered playfully. “I’ll tell every suitor that unless he’s already a duke or a prince, he’ll never gain more by marrying me. That should thin them out fast enough.”
“And what makes you so certain that I didn’t follow you here with similar intentions, my lady?”
“You, Kieryn? I never would’ve kissed you had I thought you owned such ambition. And I’ll never kiss you again if you tell me I’m wrong.”
He bit a grin off his face. “May I assume, then, that your infatuation survived?”
She lifted her eyebrows in a noncommittal reply and concealed a smile behind the blossom. If that was an affirmative answer, it was conditional and well-calculated. She had called him ‘different.’ Perhaps Rhoslyn had learned that Kieryn’s ambitions lay with matters other than political arenas or familial alliances and the attainment of power through such things. As a scholar, he didn’t pose a threat to her. He was safe. Like sickly Drem. He wasn’t certain the realization hurt or prided him.
Putting the matter aside, Kieryn wandered into the shadow of a giant andyr tree, the crowning glory of his mother’s garden, and leant against the broad trunk. The waxy-leafed canopy created a low roof, dark and snug, that curtained him from the keep’s windows. Rhoslyn followed, hands clasped behind her back in a casual fashion, but she stopped just outside the deep moonshade, as if she lingered on a threshold.
Kieryn asked, “How does your father fare?” He reconsidered as soon as he uttered the words and added, “You’ve probably answered that question a hundred times already.”
Rhoslyn lifted aside a low-hanging branch and joined him in the shadows. He could scarcely make out her face, but the garnets at her throat and in her hair snagged stray bits of light and blinked darkly at him, like secret stars. Rhoslyn whispered, as if afraid of stirring the moonshade, “He can’t sit up on his own anymore. He was stricken, the physicians say, though I can’t imagine what he’s done to anger the Mother-Father. He’s not getting better. I felt wretched leaving him, but he insisted.” Pale hands caressed the smooth bark of the andyr. “I’m afraid, Kieryn … I’m afraid he’ll leave me before I’m ready. Since the day I was born, it seems, I’ve listened to Father settling merchants’ squabbles and condemning pirates, and I’m comfortable with those things, but this Assembly … presenting our needs to His Majesty …”
“He’s your cousin.”
“He’s the king, and I think it’s more than I have courage for.”
“Surely your father doesn’t expect you to solve Evaronna’s problems by yourself this very week.”
“No, of course not, only to bring him word of whatever’s decided among the lords.”
�
��Then what have you to fear?” He searched for her eyes. They dimly sparkled, so close to him. “If you’re worried about Rorin or anyone else, Kelyn and I will keep them off you … um, away from you.”
Rhoslyn giggled, then laid her head against his shoulder.
Trouble, Kelyn? he wanted to say, I’m sunk. His glance roamed up through the branches, growing heavy with green nut shells. The moons tried to peer through the leaves at their hiding place—Thyrra with her unblemished silvery face, and her brother, Forath, red and glaring, so near his sister that he was hidden halfway behind her. “The world’s in accord tonight,” Kieryn whispered, and Rhoslyn followed his gaze.
“I really have nothing to fear?”
“No.”
“Then ask me to dance. I think I’m refreshed enough to take you up on it.”
~~~~
The Hall sweltered with body heat, laughter, and gossip. Kieryn escorted Rhoslyn in on his fingertips. They slipped into line behind Athlem and Bysana of Locmar, barely creating a ripple in the flow of the minuet. Kieryn found his brother standing open-mouthed among a gathering of arguing squires. Kieryn smirked back, cheeks hot with something besides humiliation. Kelyn shook a warning finger at him, but the tempo changed and Kieryn swept Rhoslyn into a small private circle and Kelyn was forgotten.
Rhoslyn was trying to don a prim, bored mask, but it was a fragile one, and a mischievous smile flipped one corner of her garnet lips. She floated like a breath of wind in his arms, the touch of her fingertips as light as an autumn leaf, and yet in her eyes, green and dark gold, was a hint that she had allowed him to capture her … at least for the space of a dance.
Someone tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me,” said a voice, piqued, as if Kieryn had stomped a toe and scuffed a pair of shined boots. Glancing to his right, Kieryn recognized Lord Westport. Rorin’s sculpted goatee made his face long and pointed, an effect which wasn’t helped by the feathers in his satin hat. He wore ivory silk and diamond studs in his earlobes, and from the tilt of his nose, Rorin might’ve been a foot taller than Kieryn, but was easily a foot shorter. He kept pace with Kieryn and Rhoslyn as they traipsed in the wide, collective circle.
Rhoslyn’s smile had vanished. “Go jump in the Avidan, Rorin.”
“In good time, my lady. But at present, this lad is in my place.”
“You look like a dog begging for leftovers,” Rhoslyn exclaimed.
“The opportunist takes what he can get, sweetling.”
Kieryn had resolved to step aside if only to avoid a scene, but suddenly Rorin tumbled to the floor. His feathered hat went sliding under the dancers’ feet, and Kelyn gushed with apology, “Why, my lord, I can’t imagine how …”
By the time Kelyn dragged Rorin to his feet, Kieryn had swept Rhoslyn to the center of the floor where the circles of highborns fenced them in.
Rhoslyn choked on laughter. “Maybe I misjudged your brother. That was quite gallant.”
“Not for Rorin.”
“You do look up to him though?”
“Rorin?”
“Kelyn, silly.”
“I don’t have to look up to him. I’m a finger-span taller.”
The music drew to a close. The dancers applauded the musicians, and Rhoslyn’s fingers slipped away. “I’m impressed,” she said. “In spite of my—ha!—shadow’s interruption, you handled yourself better than I expected. You missed my toes anyway. Now,” she added, the bored mask rebuilding, “if you would be so good as to escort me to His Majesty?”
Dismissal. Kieryn wanted nothing more than to return to the cool shadowed solitude of the garden with her, but Rhoslyn wasn’t quite so willing to risk her reputation. Kieryn surrendered, taking her hand on his arm. “You shouldn’t let Rorin call you that, you know.”
Rhoslyn sighed as if the question burdened her, but her words were reassuring: “He thinks calling me ‘sweetling’ gives him a claim. But even my father can’t abide him.” She curtsied low before King Rhorek. He stood from a padded bench and set aside a glass of brandy to accept her hand. He teetered slightly and blinked as if weights were attached to his eyelids. The Black Falcon was drunk! Keth hovered at the king’s side and cast his son a narrow warning glare. What did Da think he would do? Laugh at the king?
Rhorek managed to speak clearly. “First you dance with my sister, and now my cousin, eh?”
“Er, yes,” he answered and might’ve blushed, but the furnace in his face seemed to have burnt out after a hard day. “The women in your family are especially lovely, sire.”
Whether or not the compliment pleased Rhoslyn, she merely raised an eyebrow in reaction.
“And what of my other cousins, my father’s sister’s daughters?” Rhorek pursued.
Princess Mazél’s daughters were nowhere in evidence, likely finding more amusement in the gatehouse with Captain Maegeth than here with dancing fops. “The ladies Maeret and Genna are lovely as well—in an intimidating, martial sort of way.”
“Not your type?” chortled the king.
“And hardly my age, sire.”
“Rhoslyn is?”
The furnace fired up one last time and heat bloomed across his face. The blush must’ve been as obvious as his stuttering silence, for Rhoslyn came to his rescue as gallantly as Kelyn had: “M’lord Kieryn and I are old friends, Your Majesty. We used to play pranks on each other at Bramoran. But he’s become quite the gentleman. Very reserved and polite.” Kieryn might’ve thanked her, but she spoke the two words as if they were strikes against his character. Did she approve of him or not?
“And quite the dancer, too,” Rhorek added. “He made you the envy of every lady, cousin.”
Kieryn snorted and said, “My mother’s doing completely. She’s an excellent teacher.”
“Ah, yes.” Rhorek sighed wistfully. The smell of brandy was a fume spouting from his gullet. “I remember well the day your father met the Lady Alovi. It was in Leania, of course, at King Bano’en’s wedding to your mother’s Aunt Pa’ella.” He peered askance, where Keth pretended not to listen, then whispered, “Your father couldn’t tap a foot with rhythm. All week he watched Alovi dancing with a dozen other suitors. And how lovely she was—still is—but in those days, she was the most lovely lady in all Leania. We were all mad with love for her. But when she saw the dashing—yet clumsy—Falcon of the Guard, she never looked at anyone else again.” Rhorek tossed a grin at his old friend, and Keth’s complexion reddened. He looked more like Kieryn than he would ever admit.
~~~~
“Oh, my feet,” Alovi groaned in the privacy of her chamber. She eased off her dainty silk shoes and stretched swollen toes. Young Laral, a commendation to Alovi’s domestic training, was ready on hand with a basin of cool water. Alovi hiked up her skirts, dipped her feet into the basin, and sighed. Laral sprinkled in a dose of silverthorn powder, and Alovi swished her toes around until it dissolved. She was getting too old, she decided, to stay awake half the night dancing.
Laral returned the box of silverthorn to the apothecary cabinet. Alovi asked him, “Your father was happy to see you?”
“Oh, yes, m’ lady,” he replied. “Father was happy, but Mother was elated. Kieryn taught me that word. I wish they had brought Ruthan with them. I missed her birthday. But Mum said she’s too shy for all these people, and too young.”
Alovi could feel the swelling going down. “Your sister turned five?”
“Six,” the squire said. “Need anything else? Do you want me to send for Esmi?” Alovi’s handmaid would be asleep by now, and if awakened would probably fumble with Alovi’s dress stays longer than Alovi could unfasten them herself. “Not necessary. Get to bed. You’ve a long week ahead of you.”
Laral bowed and nearly collided with Keth on his way out the door.
The War Commander collapsed into a chair beside his wife, and enviously eyed the silverthorn solution. “Well, no fights yet,” he said.
“Were you hoping for a good brawl tonight, love?”
“Ach, tomorrow will
be more to my taste. Dinners and dances only exist so we can take a measure of one another. See who’s grown fattest or fittest over the past year.”
Despite her exhaustion, Alovi couldn’t help laughing. “I noticed Rhorek had grown broader in the belt.”
“I told him as much, and he said his new mistress had kept him abed too long this winter.”
Alovi sighed in disgust. “When is that man going to marry a woman of better repute and father some legitimate children?” She saw the gears of Keth’s brain slip into motion, and true to his nature, when he began to think, he had to move. He dropped to the floor beside her, lifted one of her feet from the basin, and began to knead her toes. She smiled languidly and went limp in the chair. Eyes closed, she asked, “What else did Rhorek tell you?”
“Nothing. He made jests.”
“Isn’t that his way?”
“What, to make his advisers feel comfortable before hitting us with a hammer?”
“That’s not how I was going to put it, love.”
“How else then?”
“Rhorek loves you. Why should he place a burden on your shoulders when he’s determined to have a good time?
“That’s my job, Alovi, to worry about the king.”
“You’re not in the Guard anymore.”
“I should be. I’m beginning to think Jareg incompetent.”
“Jareg got Rhorek here safely the other night, did he not?” Seeing that her attempts at consolation were fruitless, Alovi changed tactics. “Who do you think is behind it, then?”
His fingers worked faster and he was silent a long while. “Highwayman or traitor,” he said at last, “we should pray the threat is domestic.”
“But you suspect differently.”
“If an assassin was sent across the border … ,” he paused, sighing, “… I’m no longer in love with war, Alovi. My hands have gone soft. Swinging away with a swords is likely to give me blisters.”