Oathbreaker

by Cara Witter

  He had to use it to protect the people he loved.

  Greghor was silent for a long moment, and Jaeme felt a spike of panic that his uncle might draw a blade on him. He could certainly best his uncle in a fight, but to have to do it would kill him. He was the only family Jaeme had left.

  “All right,” Greghor said. “You love her, and that makes her family. I’ll do what I can to help you protect her.” He looked straight into Jaeme’s eyes. “But you understand that this may put our people in greater danger. He’ll come for her anyway.”

  “I know,” Jaeme said. “All I’m asking is that you buy us some time and help me slow his reach.”

  “I will. I’d do anything for you, boy. You know that.”

  Jaeme nodded, though the lump in his throat refused to loosen. That would hopefully give him enough time to help the others finish eliminating Diamis, if Jaeme could ever do his damn job and hear the call of the bloody stone.

  It did, however, mean more lying to Daniella. But what else could he do? If Daniella knew that his uncle was cooperating with her father, she’d run, no matter what anyone said. Eventually, they’d all need to run, but right now, with his uncle’s help, this castle was the safest place for her to be. Outside these walls, Jaeme had no way to know who the spies were.

  Inside, he’d just joined them.

  Thirty-seven

  Perchaya probably should have expected the invitation to accompany Hugh at the formal tournament ball that appeared the next morning on her breakfast tray, but it still took her breath away. All the visiting nobility would be in attendance to see the final duel, and while Jaeme had secured finery for the lot of them to wear for the occasion, Perchaya still arrived at the ball feeling no less tense than she had the night before, and perhaps more so, with the tight corset restricting her breathing.

  She stood at the top of a wide staircase, observing the room below her. People milled about everywhere, chatting and sipping expensive wines, all waiting for their host to arrive so they might begin dancing. Among them, she found Jaeme’s friend Stephan laughing with a lady in a ball gown with a skirt as wide as a wagon, and the obnoxious Lord Osgoode standing with his father, both of them wearing hose tight enough to show every dimple in their thighs. She even saw a couple Vorgalian mages among the crowd wearing their standard purple hoods that came down to a peak on their foreheads, but otherwise in formal clothing like everyone else in attendance. At first she was surprised that the mages would be invited to something like this—surely they were hired mages, working in the service of one of the knights or dukes here—but then she remembered that she and Sayvil and Nikaenor and Kenton were invited, and they hardly had titles or wealth to their name. Just friends who possessed them.

  The cavernous room was two stories tall and decorated with garlands, ribbon, and metal lanterns of varying brightness and shape, so elaborate as to border on garish. The upper-story windows overlooked the labyrinthine garden that skirted the east side of the castle. Large, open doors led out onto a terraced patio where lovers could retire to get fresh air or slip innocuously into the garden. Slim white candles rested in bronze sconces located every few feet along the walls. High above, almost to the arched ceiling, banners and other knightly tokens hung proudly.

  The staircase was covered by a rich scarlet carpet and scattered across it were hundreds of white flower petals. Down on the main floor, the musicians were setting up on a small dais and all along the perimeter of the room, cushioned chairs were placed to aid fatigued dancers. Perchaya could see that several of these chairs were already occupied and harried waiters darted about to refill goblets.

  Upstairs, a balconied loft ran along three walls. The alcoves held round tables where guests could feed on the dozens of delicacies the kitchen had been preparing all week, and a room located off the balcony would house several games of chance for those who were not inclined to dance.

  So many people, and any one of them might be a blood mage in contact with Diamis.

  Perchaya gripped her skirts, a motion that Daniella had done her best to cure her of, though clearly it hadn’t entirely worked. Perchaya was beginning to think like Kenton, seeing blood mages around every corner. And while she admired his diligence, no good could come of her joining him in it.

  One Kenton in the group was all any of them could handle.

  As she stood waiting, Perchaya wished that she might slip away into the garden, away from the crowds and the thoughts of conspirators and the awkwardness of standing here alone before making an entrance. But Hugh had asked to escort her, for all that he wasn’t in sight. Daniella had assured her that it was proper for her to meet him at the ball rather than arriving with him, as she wasn’t his official courtee. She’d feared she would be late—it had taken a considerable amount of time to pin up her hair, as Daniella and Sayvil were no help with it, though they’d been somewhat more helpful lacing her into her gown. It was a crimson velvet overdress with gold piping along the edges and gold ribbons up the bodice. The neckline was square, fitted sleeves reached to her elbow, and a white silk underdress, embroidered with gold thread, peeked out through cutaways in the skirt. She couldn’t wait to see how the others would look in their finery.

  If they would finally show up.

  It was getting ridiculous. Where were they? She’d left Sayvil back in her room, but what of Kenton and Nikaenor? It couldn’t take that long to shave and get dressed. Granted, she had caught a glance of what Nikaenor was planning to wear earlier, and some of the buckles did look complicated. Momentarily, she had an image of the two men, fully dressed, standing before a mirror and primping. She laughed out loud at the thought of Kenton posing, and wondered if that was why Daniella had insisted that her entire party escort her to the ball, ignoring the raised eyebrows at the necessity of bringing her guard and errand boy along in addition to her second lady-in-waiting—the one who wasn’t going to be the official guest of a duke, of all things.

  “My lady, may I ask what is diverting you so?” a familiar voice asked.

  She turned and smiled at Duke Hughsen, who wore a fitted tunic of Bronleigh’s blue and gold. She touched the nosegay of flowers affixed to her dress. “Thank you for the gift,” she said. “Roses again.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Hugh said.

  Perchaya fiddled with her skirts again when he called her that. She was not a lady, and his insistence didn’t make it any more true. Then again, Perchaya wasn’t sure exactly what she was any more. Surely not the aspiring illuminator of Dov, who cowered against a wall during a revolt. Yet she didn’t quite believe herself to be the leader of revolutions she’d proved to be in Ithale, and certainly not the lady fit to be escorted on the arm of a duke, despite evidence to the contrary.

  “I was just imagining where the others could be,” she said. “They promised to meet me.”

  “If they knew such beauty was waiting for them, I’d wager they would hasten their descent. You look enchanting this evening.” He placed a kiss across the back of her hand before tucking it into his elbow.

  Perchaya blushed, though it was far from the first time he’d complimented her looks. “You look quite dashing yourself.”

  Hugh looked out at the ball. “Greghor has outdone himself. Grisham’s parties are always a highlight, but this is something more.”

  “I’ve never been to a ball before,” Perchaya admitted. “I’m amazed that Lord Greghor hasn’t bankrupted himself. I’ve never seen such splendor.”

  Hugh nodded at a passing acquaintance and replied, “It would take more than this to empty the Grisham coffers. Greghor is blessed by one of the most prosperous duchies in Mortiche.”

  Next to Bronleigh, Daniella had told her. She glanced up at him to find him watching her aptly. She gave him a questioning look. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I was just wondering if you would grace me with the first dance . . . and maybe the second?
” He sounded unsure, as if she might not want to dance with him. As if she hadn’t already consented to be escorted by him tonight. She had assumed this meant she would be his partner for every dance. And yet, Hugh, who was already a full duke and surely a catch many women had their eye on, still worried that she might decline.

  “I would love to,” she said.

  A nobleman pulled Hugh aside briefly to chat, and Perchaya felt a hand gently touch her shoulder. She turned to see Kenton regarding her. For a moment, she imagined he was admiring how she looked in her dress.

  “Sorry we’re late,” he said. “Sayvil was deeply entrenched in her herbs.” Kenton was striking in a black velvet doublet and knee breeches, the doublet laced up the front with a silver cord and silver embroidery along the collar.

  Behind him, Sayvil huffed at him. “It was a critical point. I needed to remove that salve from the heat just as it started to boil or the whole batch would be ruined.” She was the picture of elegance in a high-waisted indigo velvet gown with a scooped neck, long sleeves, and silver accents. Her sleek black hair was pinned up in back by thick silver netting.

  Kenton rolled his eyes. “Why you felt the need to be boiling a batch of anything in that getup is beyond me.”

  Nikaenor brought up the rear, sporting a dove-gray doublet and knee pants very similar to Kenton’s. He whistled as he looked out over the crowded ballroom, “By the Four, what a party. Come on, you two. It’s time to relax.”

  Kenton looked as if he thought it was anything but.

  Perchaya smiled at Nikaenor. “You should see some of the dishes they’ve been moving from table to table.”

  Nikaenor got a dazed look on his face and smiled dreamily, “I can only imagine. If it’s anything like that roast duck from last night, I will be leaving here a very happy man.”

  “Look,” Kenton said, pointing down to one of the trays. “Eel. How big do you suppose that one was? As long as the room, would you say?”

  Nikaenor rolled his eyes.

  Hugh returned to them from his own conversation and once again reached for Perchaya. “Now that everyone’s arrived, I think we should be descending. Greghor will be arriving with Jaeme and your friend very shortly.” He shot Perchaya a shy glance before continuing. “And I don’t want to miss the first dance.”

  Perchaya blushed wildly before taking his hand and allowing him to lead her down into the waiting throng. They were halfway descended, her friends close behind them, when a bell rang and the entire crowd turned toward the staircase. Perchaya’s heart thudded as the room turned to her, and she squeezed Hugh’s arm, unsure what to do. Hugh put his hand over hers in comfort and steered her around to look back up the stairway.

  Of course. The people were turning to stare, not at them, but at the three figures who had just appeared at the top of the stairs. Duke Greghor, wearing a suit of maroon and gold, and Jaeme in his dress uniform, looking far more formal than Perchaya would have thought possible. She had a sudden flash of Greghor bent over a body, his hands covered in blood. She drew a deep breath. They didn’t know for certain that he was a blood mage. If Jaeme would get on with finding Kotali, they wouldn’t have to be around to find out.

  On Jaeme’s arm was Daniella, in a forest-green corseted dress that fit tight through her waist, then flowed outward in gauzy tufts that billowed over the top stair, entirely covering her feet. Her long sleeves shimmered with a bit of sparkle that made Perchaya wonder if actual gold had been spun into the cloth and matched perfectly with the gold beading that descended from her neckline. Tendrils of her hair hung free from her bun, framing her face, the deep red of her hair complemented perfectly by the green.

  Gods, Perchaya thought. She’s more beautiful than us all.

  Behind them, the room had fallen silent, and from the top of the stair, Duke Greghor called down. “Welcome,” he said. “Join us now in singing the Unmovable Anthem, and then we will dance.”

  There was some murmur of approval and excitement from the room behind them, and Perchaya found herself gripping Hugh’s arm again. Jaeme hadn’t told them anything about being expected to sing, and Perchaya had never heard of this anthem, let alone the words. A harp on one of the balconies struck a harmonic chord, and Perchaya quickly realized that she wouldn’t be expected to sing. Greghor’s strong bass voice, followed by Jaeme’s tenor, rang into the room. Then the ballroom burst with the sounds of the voices of the knights, while the others in the room listened. Perchaya listened for familiar words with her limited Mortichean; it was a ballad of allegiance to Kotali, of faith and the cause of right. The harmony of deep voices echoed off the stone walls, and Perchaya found herself listening particularly to Hugh’s deep voice singing the harmony, and Jaeme’s clearer one confidently singing the melody from above.

  Perchaya had heard Jaeme sing drinking songs on the road, but he’d been underselling himself. She never would have imagined that he could sing like that.

  From the step above her, Kenton caught her eye. He looked hesitant, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t during the song. As the last strains of the singing ended, and the harp played the final notes of the song, Perchaya rose up on her tiptoes, so that she might hear what he wanted to say.

  But the moment passed, and Kenton was fidgeting with his sleeves.

  Hugh smiled at Perchaya. “Come,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

  Perchaya found herself being turned and whisked down the stairs. She looked back over her shoulder to find Kenton still watching them, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn his expression was . . . wistful.

  Perchaya turned back to Hugh, and put that thought out of her head. She was done with imagining whispers of possibility when it came to Kenton. They were friends, nothing more, and whether she was the scared girl caught in the riot, or the revolutionary, or the almost-courtee of the duke of Bronleigh, she knew better than to believe in such fantasies.

  Thirty-eight

  Watching the swirling gaiety of the ball, dancers churning around the floor, crowds of people exclaiming at each other in shrill tones while the music waned and swelled, Kenton couldn’t help but be grateful for the common blood that saved him from having to make regular appearances at scenes such as this, especially when any or all of the revelers could be in league with Diamis. He finished the remainder of his wine in one long draught and motioned for a servant to bring another, slumping back in his chair and ignoring Sayvil’s look of disgust. She wasn’t in a much better mood than he was, having agreed to dance with Jaeme only to have the dance become one in which partners were switched and she was left waltzing with an old baron, a recent widower, who she claimed smelled of goat and asked if her dowry was as impressive as her bosom. She had walked away from him in the middle of the dance and returned to sit by Kenton, muttering curses under her breath that included both Jaeme and “the mayor of goat-town.”

  “What do you think this is?” Nikaenor’s eager voice asked over the airy music. He held a piece of bread that had a dollop of some kind of black jelly-like substance on it, shoving it directly under Kenton’s nose.

  Kenton pushed his arm away. “I told you before, Nikaenor. I don’t know. Just eat it.”

  He sniffed at it. “Do you think that it’s fruit or maybe . . .”

  “I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll like it just as much as each of the other hundred pieces of food you’ve asked me about,” Kenton said.

  That seemed to satisfy Nikaenor. He ate it, barely waiting to swallow before exclaiming, “This one is even better than the last!”

  “You’ve said that every time, Nikaenor,” said Sayvil with an arched eyebrow. “What are the odds that you would have chosen the last ten items in the precise order of your taste preference?”

  Nikaenor just shrugged, with his usual affable grin. “Apparently it’s my lucky night.” Then his eyes widened. “That reminds me . . . when I was going to
get more food, one of the women told me she’d like to sample my sweet roll. Does that mean—”

  “No,” Sayvil said, at the same time that Kenton said, “Yes.” Sayvil gave him a withering look.

  Nikaenor looked confused, but his attention was diverted as a young dark-haired beauty in scarlet smiled at him as she passed. Kenton himself had gotten a few not-too-subtle comments similar to Nikaenor’s. They were drawing far more attention than Kenton would have liked. Their stories had held up so far, but the gods only knew how long before Nikaenor decided to impress some girl by showing her Mirilina. Kenton reminded himself to keep a closer eye on how much Nikaenor had to drink. It was probably unnecessary, but Kenton would take any distraction to prevent him from glaring at Greghor, as if he might be able to stare a public confession out of him. Yet, each time he tore his eyes away, they wandered to their other habitual resting place.

  Perchaya was on the dance floor yet again, stepping gracefully through the movements with Hugh. He had never seen anyone as stunning as she was, looking every inch like she belonged at galas such as these. It had taken his breath away and continued to do so whenever he looked away and then soon caught himself watching her again. It burned him to see her with Hugh, talking and laughing lightly. The longer he watched, the more he was forced to admit that Hugh showed no signs of being any of the varied awful things Kenton wished that he was.

  But what of it? If he was to stay in this forsaken castle where at least one resident—most likely Greghor, he maintained—was reporting on them to Diamis, he ought to be hard at work, teasing out proof, goading Jaeme into finding the stone so they could all head for the anonymity of the mountains in the north. He could do nothing to stop Perchaya from talking or laughing or dancing with whomever she wished, and in moments of pure, brutal honesty, he knew that if Hugh was what he seemed, he was a better choice for her, anyway.