by DAVID B. COE
“What about Xaver?”
“I don’t know where he’ll be. Close by, I’m sure. But your attention should be on Brienne. I want you to do your best to make a favorable impression.”
“I should think that she’s the one who needs to worry about favorable impressions. Curgh is about to take the throne, not Kentigern.”
At that, his father did look at him. “We need this match, Tavis,” he said, his voice, though still quiet, carrying a hint of anger. “Don’t do anything to muck it up.”
Tavis almost protested. He was no stranger to court occasions. He had dined with dukes, thanes, earls, and barons. He once sat at the king’s right hand for a feast in Audun’s Castle. Hadn’t he proven himself to his father over the past few years? Hadn’t he acquitted himself well at the city gate that very day?
As if in answer, it all came back to him once again, sapping him of his certitude and resolve like an unseen blow in the middle of a sword fight. His Fating, what he had done to Xaver, his behavior at the banquet that same night, of which he remembered only scraps as well, though he had heard enough. His father had every reason to caution him in this way.
“Yes, sire,” he said at last, his voice barely carrying above the echo of their footsteps. “I’ll do my best.”
Javan nodded once and faced forward again. “Very good.”
They descended a narrow, spiral stairway, walked through another small corridor, and stopped in the wide doorway leading into the hall. With the exception of the enormous blue banner on the far side of the room, which bore an image of the silver lynx atop Kentigern Tor, the crest of Kentigern, there was little to separate this grand room from the duke’s hall in Curgh Castle. It was long and wide enough to accommodate more than a dozen of the long wooden tables on which servants were piling roasts, stews, cheeses, steamed greens and roots, bowls of fruit, and large flasks of wine. It had a high ceiling, supported by great, soaring stone arches. Torches were mounted on the walls, and candles flickered on every table and on wall sconces.
Near the far wall, just below the Kentigern crest, another large table stood atop a dais. This, of course, was where the dukes and their families would sit, but for now the table remained empty. No doubt Aindreas was waiting to enter the hall until Javan and his company had taken their seats. Tavis knew that his father would have done just the same had the banquet been in Curgh, but still he saw that Javan’s jaw tightened for just an instant.
“Come,” the duke said, unable to mask the annoyance in his tone. “It seems we’re to take our places before Aindreas makes his entrance.”
“Javan, duke of Curgh!” a man announced as Javan stepped into the room. “Lord Tavis of Curgh! Fotir jal Salene, first minister to the duke of Curgh! Master Xaver MarCullet of Curgh!”
Those who had already arrayed themselves around the lesser tables looked up from their wine and food and began to applaud.
Javan forced a smile, as did Tavis, and they made their way to the dais, nodding and waving to Aindreas’s other guests as they walked among the tables. Reaching the small stairway that led up to the main table, Javan hesitated.
“Do you know where we’re to sit?” Tavis asked.
“No,” his father said, looking annoyed again. “We’ll sit where we see fit. Let Aindreas arrange his people around us when he arrives.” He started up the stairs. “Just leave a place for Brienne beside you.”
“All right,” Tavis said, following him onto the dais.
Fotir and Xaver climbed the stairs as well, sitting to Tavis’s right, farther from the center of the table. Several servants approached them bearing food and wine. Tavis had to keep himself from draining his goblet as soon as it was filled.
“Touch nothing yet,” Javan said, looking at Tavis and then past him to Fotir and Xaver. “Seating ourselves is one thing. Eating or drinking without our host is quite another.”
Fortunately, they hadn’t long to wait. No doubt Aindreas had just been awaiting word of Javan’s arrival in the hall to make his appearance. Only a few moments after he and his father took their seats, Tavis heard a flurry of whispers from the tables nearest the hall entrance. The man who had announced their arrival a few moments before now stepped to the middle of the room, commanding everyone’s attention.
“Aindreas, duke of Kentigern!” he said. “Ioanna, duchess of Kentigern! Lady Brienne of Kentigern! Lady Affery of Kentigern! Lord Ennis of Kentigern!”
The duke entered the hall, followed by his wife, daughters, and son, all of whom looked tiny beside him. The other guests began to applaud.
“His Eminence Barret Crasthem, prelate of Kentigern, Disciple of Ean! Shurik jal Marcine, first minister to the duke of Kentigern!”
Tavis barely noticed the others. With the mention of Brienne’s name, his pulse had started to race, until all he could hear was the surging of his own blood. Seeing her did nothing to calm him. She was as fair as her mother, perhaps more so. Like the duchess, she had long golden hair that fell to the small of her back in tiny ringlets. Her face was round, her cheeks and chin still slightly plump with youth. But already one could see in her features a hint of her mother’s delicate beauty; the fine nose and full lips, the large, round eyes, though Brienne’s were grey, like her father’s. She wore a sapphire gown, cut low enough to reveal the flawless grace of her neck and the beginning of the soft swell of her breasts.
“Not quite as you remembered her, eh?”
It took Tavis a moment to realize that the comment had been directed at him. He tore his eyes from Brienne and found that Xaver was watching him, a smile on his boyish face.
The young lord shook his head. “Not even a little.”
“Stand up!” Javan said in an urgent whisper. He and Fotir were already on their feet, and both of them were gesturing for Tavis and Xaver to rise as well.
They scrambled to their feet just as Aindreas ascended the steps to the dais.
“My Lord Curgh!” he said, his voice booming like a thunderclap. “We are most pleased to have you join us tonight.” He held out a huge hand, indicating the others in his party, who were joining them on the raised floor. “Allow me to present to you my daughter, Lady Brienne.”
Brienne curtsied deftly.
“A pleasure, my lady,” Javan said. “I see that you are blessed with your mother’s grace.”
“Thank you, my Lord Duke,” she said. “I am honored to see you again. Be welcome in our home.”
Javan placed a hand on Tavis’s shoulder. Tavis couldn’t remember the last time his father had touched him.
“This is my son, Lord Tavis.”
He and Brienne faced each other, and Tavis bowed, fearing as he did that he would topple over, or knock his head into her, or do some other fool thing to humiliate himself. For just an instant he wondered if a man could be thrown in a dungeon for offending a noblewoman. He thrust the thought away.
He straightened again. “My lady,” he said, not trusting himself with anything more.
She curtsied once more, smiling coyly. “My Lord Tavis. The last time we met we teased each other and fought like wild dogs. I hope we manage to get along better this time.”
The others laughed appreciatively, but Tavis merely smiled at her, searching for something clever to say in return.
“Our houses are on better terms now, my dear,” Aindreas said, beating him to it. “If Javan and I can get along, I would hope the two of you can as well.”
Once again the others laughed, and this time Tavis allowed himself to join in. But he and Brienne held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, and Tavis wondered how that homely girl he remembered from his last visit to Kentigern could possibly have grown into this woman before him.
In the next instant, the duke of Kentigern introduced them to his younger daughter, Affery, forcing Tavis and Brienne to break eye contact. The younger girl was pretty as well, though she could not have been much past Determining age. Then he presented his son, Ennis, who, though no more than eight or nine years, w
as the image of the duke, with red hair and a solid build. Finally, Aindreas introduced the prelate of Kentigern’s cloister, a tall, thin man named Barret who, like all of Ean’s prelates, had shaved his head, giving his narrow, bony face a buzzard-like appearance. He smiled at Javan, Tavis, and Xaver as he greeted them in turn, but his eyes held little warmth. He did not even look at Fotir, nor, for that matter, did he pay any heed to Shurik, Aindreas’s Qirsi minister. Nevyl, Curgh’s prelate, was much the same way. Perhaps he was a bit friendlier toward Eandi strangers, but he had little use for men or women of the sorcerer race.
“Please sit,” Ioanna said, pitching her voice so that all in the hall could hear her. “Our cooks have been days preparing for tonight’s feast. Eat freely, all of you. And be welcome in our home.”
Tavis almost sat, but remembered at the last moment to hold Brienne’s seat for her first. Then he lowered himself into his chair, accidently brushing her arm with his as he did.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, feeling his face color.
“You seem nervous, my lord,” she said. “Would you rather I sat elsewhere?”
“No!” he said, a bit too quickly.
She giggled. “Very well.”
Tavis gave a small smile. “Do you intend to keep mocking me for the rest of the evening?”
“Do I have to stop when the evening is done?” she asked innocently.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “And what have I done to deserve such treatment?”
“You don’t remember?”
His eyes widened. “Is this all about my last visit?”
“You were awful to me,” she said, though the smile lingered on her lips. “I’ve never forgotten.”
“I was ten years old,” he said. “And you were no less awful to me.”
“I was defending myself. I had to. You were merciless.”
“Then I was a fool, my lady. I obviously knew nothing of beauty or grace or intelligence. For if I had, I would have showered you with gifts and praise, rather than with teasing and cruelty.”
She blushed and her eyes lingered on his for an instant before looking away. They were the color of smoke from dying embers or of sea clouds carrying a storm.
“That was prettily said, my lord,” she told him. “My mother taught me to be wary of men who spoke so sweetly.”
He laughed. “Even the man who is to be your husband?”
“You mean the man who would be my husband.”
He stared at her, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, not knowing how to respond.
After a few moments, Brienne began to laugh.
“You don’t take kidding very well, do you, my lord?”
Tavis looked away. “No,” he admitted. “I never have.”
“You’ll have to learn if you’re to have me as your wife. I’m afraid I’m not always as staid as a court lady ought to be.”
Once more, he wasn’t certain how to respond. He was accustomed to the somber dignity of Curgh, where there was little room for mirth or gaiety. His mother and father were capable of engaging in lighthearted banter when their position in the court demanded it, but they rarely did so in the privacy of family conversation. He and Xaver joked with each other a good deal; Tavis thought of himself as having a sense of humor. But it was one thing to laugh with his friend, and quite another to trade jests with the beautiful woman sitting beside him. Yet, awkward as it seemed, Tavis liked the idea of it. It would be a complete departure from the way he had been raised, which perhaps explained why he found the notion so attractive.
“I think I can get used to that,” he said.
For the first time that evening, she gave him a smile seemingly free of irony. “I’m glad.”
Tavis reached for one of the flasks. It was filled with dark red wine, Sanbiri no doubt. As much pride as Eibithar’s winemakers took in their vintages, most agreed that there was none finer in the Forelands. He reached for Brienne’s goblet.
“May I pour for you?” he asked.
There could be no denying that they made an attractive pair. The young noblewoman, with her golden hair and her striking sapphire gown, and the boy who would be king, with his youthful good looks, his dark eyes, the color of which was almost a match for the lady’s dress, and his festive silk shirt and doublet. They looked just the way young royalty ought to look: beautiful and spirited, shining like gems in sunlight. An entire country could fall in love with such a pair. No doubt the Qirsi men and women Cadel were working for understood that. No doubt that was why he was here.
They were on their second flask of wine, but Cadel had yet to add the sweetwort to their drink. For one thing, others at the table were also drinking from the flask and he could not risk having any of them affected by the herb as well. More important, sweetwort, when mixed with wine, worked quickly, and he had no desire to see his prey fall under its influence here in the duke’s hall.
In large enough doses, sweetwort could kill, but Cadel wanted it for its narcotic qualities. A simple poisoning might work well under certain circumstances, but in this instance he needed something a bit more subtle. Sweetwort, the flavor of which could be masked by the wine, and the effects of which could be enhanced by the same, had the added benefits of being widely available and commonly used. Nearly every apothecary in Eibithar sold it, and none would think twice about doing so. Nor had he needed to buy much; the small vial he carried held more than enough for both Lord Tavis and Lady Brienne.
It was simply a matter of waiting for the right moment and slipping the extract into their wine without anyone noticing.
For an arranged betrothal, the two appeared to be getting along quite well. Before leaving his father’s court in Caerisse, Cadel had witnessed more than his share of these feasts, and rarely had he seen them lead to any sort of romance, at least not so quickly. But Tavis and Brienne had spent much of the meal whispering to each other, laughing, and gazing into each other’s eyes. The wine helped, of course. Up here, in the northern reaches of the Forelands, wine was known as the spirit of Bohdan, for the god of mirth and festival. But to the south, in Caerisse, Sanbira, and even Aneira, where the people truly knew something of making and drinking wine, it was called Adriel’s nectar, for the goddess of love. Still, even without the wine, Cadel thought that the young couple might have found something in each other to love, if only they were given the chance.
The confections that concluded the feast had been served some time before, and now a number of guests at the lesser tables started to stand and stretch and make their way slowly out of the hall. The two dukes, taking little notice of the rest of their dinner companions, were in the midst of a sometimes heated discussion of the Aneiran threat and how best to cope with it. The duchess and Aindreas’s first minister were deep in conversation as well, although their voices were pitched lower and Cadel could make out little of what they said. The duke of Kentigern’s other children had long since been bundled off to bed.
Had he been taken with a young woman and eager to slip away with her, unnoticed by their parents, Cadel would have chosen that moment. Apparently, he and Tavis had this much in common. Or perhaps he and Brienne did; it was hard to say who was leading whom when they rose carefully from their places at the table and stepped off the dais, casting furtive looks back at the two dukes. For just an instant, Cadel feared that he had miscalculated. But as they reached the door leading out of the hall, the young lovers hesitated. A moment later, Tavis looked in Cadel’s direction and raised a single finger.
Cadel smiled and nodded before turning to the table on which he and the cellarmaster had placed the wine. At the same time, he pulled the vial from his pocket, removed the small cork from its top with a quick motion of his thumb, and hid the open vial in the palm of his hand. With his back to Tavis, he glanced quickly to each side to see that he wasn’t being watched. Then he pulled the stopper from a container of Sanbiri dark and in the same motion poured the sweetwort extract into the container. In all it took him just a f
ew seconds, no more time than it should have to open a flask.
Lifting the flask, Cadel hurried to where Tavis and Brienne stood.
“Here you are, my lord,” he said. “Would you like goblets as well?”
Tavis’s eyes wandered once more to where his father sat. “No,” he said, his voice low. “This is all we need.”
He turned away, taking Brienne’s hand again.
“Thank you,” she said over her shoulder, as Tavis led her away.
Cadel made himself smile. “You’re welcome, my lady.”
It had been years since Cadel felt any regret for what he did to earn his gold. Yet in that single instant, when her eyes met his, he felt as though his heart froze in his chest and his own life stood balanced on the edge of a blade.
Then the moment was gone, and Cadel was left to consider what would come next. Tavis and Brienne would be going to the guest chambers on the southeast end of the castle, where Tavis was staying. Cadel was certain of it. He was noble-born and had spent much of his life studying the courts of the Forelands. He knew that Brienne’s quarters were too near to those of her mother and father, and too closely attended by her servants. He knew as well that Tavis’s quarters would offer ample privacy. Usually the son of a visiting duke would share his chambers with others in the duke’s company. But Tavis was no ordinary lord; he was to be king after his father. To avoid offending either Javan or the boy, Kentigern would give each his own chamber. It would mean more cramped quarters for the rest of the visitors from Curgh, but that was of little consequence next to the comfort of the future kings.
Once again there was little Cadel could do but wait. The young ones needed time to make their way to Tavis’s room and more time still to drink the wine. For now he returned to the wine table. Vanyk would expect him to help clean the empty flasks and return the unopened ones to the cellar. That was fine. Sweetwort worked quickly, but its effects lasted for hours. The later it got, the lower Panya would be in the night sky, and the harder it would be for the castle guards to see him climbing like a spider across the wall of the inner keep.