by Cas Peace
Taran’s heart fell even farther. The feast sounded like an ordeal.
“Fortunately,” she continued, “it has never, to my knowledge, been discovered in Albia, so we have little cause to fear it. Here, however, where the acquisition of power is paramount and all means used to obtain it are considered justified, it is widely employed. Including it among the silverware of a feast is just another part of the power game.
“So, gentlemen, keep yourselves tightly shielded and do not attempt to contact one another through the substrate. It is too dangerous.”
Taran returned to his dressing, feeling more nervous than ever and reflecting that his father had left much that was important out of his son’s education. The only comfort the Journeyman could draw came from the equally uneasy look on Robin’s face. The Captain’s lack of experience in such matters made Taran feel marginally better.
They had just finished their preparations when they heard the second hour strike.
“Ready, gentlemen?” asked Sullyan. “Remember, shields up, be unfailingly polite even to the most persistent and obnoxious admirers, make no promises, and do not touch the silver.”
She took a deep breath, the first sign of nervousness Taran had seen. “Shall we go?”
They left the suite and descended the long, twisting stairs. Sullyan led the way, her long gown flowing around her legs as she walked, surrounding her with an air of grace and stature. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to let the others flank her. Taran could hear music coming from the main hall along with the muted murmur of many voices. He walked beside Robin toward the brightly lit hall which, when he reached it, was packed with more people than he had expected to see.
The hall was decorated with colorful tapestries and banners, and was bright with the warm glow of countless lamps and candles. Here, Taran saw nothing of the shabby air pervading the rest of the mansion; the hall was a study in wealth and opulence. The mellow sound of minstrels blended with the noise of servants bustling among the tables.
Sullyan stopped at the doors and Taran saw her searching the throng, presumably looking for the Count. However, the Master of Ceremonies spotted them before she saw their host and struck the huge brass gong for silence. Every eye in the room turned toward them. Taran felt apprehensive as he suddenly became the object of many ladies’ scrutiny. Robin shifted beside him, clearly sharing his unease.
Sullyan appeared serene, outwardly unruffled by the attention her appearance was earning. When he risked a quick glance, though, Taran noticed the gem at her throat pulsing with the rapid beat of her heart.
The Master of Ceremonies announced them, giving their rank and Sullyan’s title, and as they followed her into the room, they were approached by a tall, thin man whom Taran thought was in his early thirties. He was dressed in maroon velvet trimmed with black and silver fur and he had very pale gray eyes with the characteristic slit pupils. Pupils that were, Taran saw, rather dilated, giving the man a febrile look. His face was pleasant in a lean, melancholy kind of way, and he was richly adorned with gold. It glinted from his ears, throat, wrists and fingers. On the middle finger of his right hand gleamed a huge ruby cabochon.
The man stepped up to Sullyan, smiling nervously.
“Lady Sullyan, my dear,” he said, as he took her right hand and raised it to his lips. “How good to see you again. Your companions are welcome in my hall.” He swept a dismissive look over the men and Taran felt Robin tense. Bull touched the Captain’s arm and the younger man relaxed.
Sullyan frowned at the Andaryan but made a small and graceful curtsey as she replied to his greeting.
“Count Marik. I am pleased to be here, my friend, despite the circumstances behind our visit. I look forward to discussing matters with you in tomorrow’s council.”
The Count appeared none too pleased to be reminded of the council meeting. Ignoring Taran, Bull and Robin, he took Sullyan by the arm and ushered her through the throng of people. “There will be time for business tomorrow. Come, my dear, there is someone who desires to meet you tonight.”
Sullyan suffered herself to be led, although she glanced in puzzlement at the Count’s eager face.
Taran, watching the noble’s back as he escorted Sullyan, could sense the air of nervous apprehension swathing the man. It was, he thought, totally out of place for a noble in his own mansion surrounded by his own people. His preoccupation with the Count’s strange demeanor consumed him and he hardly registered the faces of the other guests.
The Count led Sullyan to the far end of the hall, where a tight knot of people surrounded a tall, regal-looking man dressed in black trimmed with red and silver. A fluttering group of young ladies appeared to be hanging on his every word and they parted reluctantly as Count Marik led Sullyan through.
The man in black turned to see who was approaching.
Taran felt the shock that ran through Sullyan when she saw his face. He sensed, rather than heard, her tightly hissed whisper in his mind—Beware!—before her mental shield snapped down. With amazement, he saw the very deep obeisance she accorded this arrogant-looking lord, and watched as he took her hand with a predatory smile. A strange light glowed in his pale yellow eyes.
The Count licked his lips and cleared his throat before announcing, “Most noble and gracious Lord, may I present the Lady Ambassador Sullyan, of whom you have heard me speak many times. Lady Sullyan, it is my privilege to present to you his Grace Lord Rykan, Duke of Kymer.”
The saturnine lord gazed intensely into Sullyan’s face. She had frozen her expression in a smile but Taran could feel tension radiating from her.
“My dear Lady Ambassador.” The Duke’s voice was deep, rich and silky-smooth, and his eyes looked as sharp as an eagle sighting prey. His darkly handsome face was perfectly complemented by an aquiline nose and the very pale gold of his slit-pupiled eyes. Despite his clear middle age, his slim and powerful body positively radiated strength and virility.
He smiled, showing white, even teeth, and held fast to Sullyan’s hand as his raptor’s eyes traveled her body, drinking in her curves.
“The Count has told me of your beauty, Lady,” he murmured, “but at his most effusive he did not do you justice. You are a flawless gem among women. No one here could outshine you.”
“Your Grace is too kind,” responded Sullyan, casting down her eyes. She tried to reclaim her hand but the Duke was having none of it.
He turned, obliging her to fall into step beside him, and moved toward the highborns’ feast table at the far end of the hall.
“Marik.”
The Count scuttled nervously after him.
“Your Grace?”
“It is my pleasure to be the lady’s escort tonight. Make other arrangements for her … companions.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
With much flapping of his long hands, the Count ushered Bull, Robin and Taran to tables at the long side of the hall. Bull and Robin went reluctantly, the Captain clearly unhappy at being separated from the Major. Sullyan, when Taran glanced back at her, seemed to be coping with her shock, for she sat and talked with the dark lord while the other guests found their seats.
“The Duke of Kymer?” hissed Robin. “What the hell’s he doing here?”
Bull shook his head.
“I’ve no idea. All I know is that we’ve been warned about him before. Leaving aside our suspicions as to who’s behind the invasion, Rykan’s probably the most influential and dangerous person in the entire Fifth Realm. He has a reputation for ruthlessness and cruelty and I’ve heard he has an insatiable appetite for women.
“Coincidence it may be, and nothing to do with the raids, but his presence here means there’s something afoot. He’s got under Marik’s skin too, by the looks of things. The Count may be gloomy by nature but he’s not normally so nervy, although I’d expect him to be on edge with Rykan here. The Duke’s a harsh overlord and Marik’s not wealthy.
“Keep your wits about you, lads. Sullyan’s in no danger at present b
ut if Rykan takes a fancy to her, she’ll need all her diplomatic skills to wriggle out of it without giving offense.”
+ + + + +
There was one guest in the hall whose thoughts were not occupied by the Duke’s sudden interest in the Lady Ambassador. This man stood glaring at the floor, his unwieldy bulk quivering with anger. Lord Sonten’s fleshy face had turned purple and the bustle of the guests as they competed for seats gave him the space he needed to calm himself. The unexpected and totally shocking appearance of the Albian Journeyman—Jaskin’s murderer, the man responsible for all of Sonten’s troubles—sent conflicting emotions surging through him. He was finding it hard to breathe.
He couldn’t believe it. After days of panic and terror, and the rage of seeing his ambitions die with his nephew, Sonten had finally regained some composure. He had even resurrected his plans, altering them most cunningly to compensate for Jaskin’s death. Accepting that he would never be able to avenge the murder, he had recalled the huntsmen set to watch for the Journeyman’s return. Yet here he was, the murdering bastard, cocky as a cat. Strolling about right under Sonten’s nose, threatening to wreck his ambitions all over again! Sonten’s face flushed with outrage, for under these very public circumstances, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t afford to draw the Duke’s attention to this man and certainly couldn’t do anything that might jeopardize his Grace’s plans. He glowered at the Duke, sitting so smugly at the highborns’ table, drooling with disgusting eagerness over the young human witch.
Sonten felt sick. If the Duke’s plans should succeed –and there was no reason to believe they wouldn’t—there was a high risk of the Journeyman revealing his fatal meeting with Jaskin; even worse, Jaskin’s use of the Staff. If that happened, then Sonten’s life would be forfeit and the General knew his overlord well enough to realize that his execution for treachery would be neither swift nor painless.
He fumed. It was imperative that Rykan didn’t get his hands on the murdering outlander. If Sonten could only spirit the man away, he could ensure his eternal silence. And maybe, he suddenly realized with a jolt, just maybe he could also learn what had become of the precious Staff.
The thought sent his pulse racing and he wracked his brain for a plan. There had to be something he could do; some way of quietly removing the Albian while also avenging his nephew’s death and recovering that damned Staff before the Duke discovered it was missing!
Sweat prickled his skin; time was running out. He was sure the Journeyman wouldn’t recognize him; he had been very careful to stay concealed during the duel. Jaskin had been right to insist on that. He simply couldn’t stand here, powerless, doing nothing. It ate at his soul and he quivered with rage. Surely he could think of something? He couldn’t let the man fall into Rykan’s clutches; the risk would be too great. No matter how much Sonten might enjoy watching Rykan torture the man.
Yet those risks were not the only consideration, he realized abruptly. If he could recover the Staff, he could also revive his original plans, if not improve on them now that he had Heron to work with instead of his independent nephew.
His eyes narrowed. What if he could recover the Staff but keep it for himself? What if he didn’t return it to his Grace? Why should the Duke suspect his general even if he did discover the priceless artifact was missing? Maybe Sonten had been worrying unnecessarily. If that was so, then what advantage was there in returning the Staff to his Grace? Its possession would guarantee the success of Sonten’s plans, for no matter what Heron’s Artesan rank, even the vastly more experienced Rykan would be powerless before the mighty weapon.
These thoughts and emotions caused Sonten’s heart to contract painfully. He struggled to breathe and stared maliciously at the Albian Journeyman. He just had to get him away from his two companions.
As he fought for composure, he glanced down at the table beside him. The glitter of a silver knife caught his attention and he frowned. Then a smile twisted his thick lips as, unobserved by his fellow guests, he palmed the knife, concealing it within the folds of his cloak. If the Journeyman could somehow be maneuvered away from the throng, one stab of this knife would render him weak and powerless...
Darting around the room, Sonten’s gaze rested on a young, attractive courtesan from his Grace’s retinue. When she looked his way, he beckoned her to him. Whispering urgently in her ear, he passed her the silver knife. She slid it out of sight, her nod and silent smile accepting his commands.
As if she had any choice, he thought, his hooded gaze sliding back to the unsuspecting Albian Journeyman. Satisfied, he sat; the servants were beginning to serve the food.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Taran was distracted from his worries about Sullyan and the Duke by the arrival of the food. Suddenly, he, Bull and Robin found they had more than enough to cope with as a bevy of Andaryan ladies fluttered about them, each determined to win their attention.
Bull’s injured shoulder brought him more admiring sympathy than he could take, especially as he only had one good arm with which to fend off prying hands. Robin was trying to hold three conversations at once. Taran was turning to help the Captain when an eyeful of creamy bosom appeared before his face. Startled, he looked up at the young woman who stood smiling down at him. He smiled tentatively back and when she slid onto his lap, he realized his mistake. The soft and yielding flesh, barely covered by her low-cut gown, was now even closer, and he could smell her alluring perfume. Embarrassed, he averted his gaze and she took full advantage by trailing her hands over his body.
He found her appealing in a puppy-dog kind of way and didn’t want to offend her by pushing her away. Her caresses, though, were too intimate and her smile too lustful. She was hard to resist and, to his horror, he felt his body responding. Her delighted grin told him she could feel it, too, and his face burned with shame. He tried to gently push her off but she clung to him. Unwilling to cause a scene, he fixed his gaze on Sullyan, using the concern he could sense from Robin to distract his unruly body.
He, Bull and Robin traded frequent despairing glances. Between trying to do justice to the truly fine meal, avoiding the silverware—of which there was far too much for Taran to even try judging which was spelled, so he used his own eating knife—and trying to dislodge his admirer, the meal passed in a blur.
Of all of them, it seemed Sullyan was having the easiest time. She had only one admirer to entertain and, judging by the way the Duke held fast to her hand throughout the entire meal, he was not about to let her escape. The other ladies who had managed to secure places at his table were being well and truly ignored and if their venomous looks were anything to go by, vengeance would be sought.
Endless though it seemed, the meal was eventually over and the servants cleared the tables. Taran sighed with relief, hoping to lose his determined little temptress in the crowds. But then the musicians struck up and her adoring eyes glowed. “Oh, good! Dancing,” she gushed, and grabbed him by the hand before anyone could take him from her.
Taran’s heart fell; he was not a natural dancer and the thought of close physical contact with that shamelessly heaving flesh was almost too much. Bull and Robin had also been claimed for the first dance, both looking as desperate as Taran felt.
He had a moment’s respite when the Master of Ceremonies announced the dancing would be led by Lord Rykan and the beautiful Lady Ambassador. They took the floor and Taran thought the Major looked a little strained around her eyes. As the Duke turned to her, though, she curtseyed, displaying an easy grace that drew glares from several ladies.
He realized his simpering young escort had ceased caressing his thigh. Instead, she was watching him archly.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” she accused.
Startled, he glanced at her. “No, not really.” He indicated Robin, standing nearby with a voluptuous lady on either arm. “Besides, she’s already spoken for.”
The woman followed his gaze, appraising the Captain, running her eyes appreciatively o
ver his powerfully lithe body. She snorted and turned back to Taran.
“Him? He’s handsome enough, I’ll grant you, but he’ll be no match for milord the Duke should he decide to have her. You’d better warn him to stay clear if he values his health, or there will be trouble. His Grace doesn’t take kindly to interference.”
He heard her gasp and shot her a look. She was staring across the room but he couldn’t see the reason for such a reaction. “Come on,” she said, tugging at Taran’s arm. Resigned, he joined her on the dance floor.
+ + + + +
The evening faded into a haze of female faces, a tangle of women’s bodies. Their perfume, their greedy clutches, their aggressively amorous looks, Taran found them nearly impossible to resist. More than once he had to steer himself and his partner away from the doors leading out to the darkened balconies as all of them, and especially his increasingly desperate little temptress, seemed determined to drag him out there. If any of them had succeeded in getting him alone, he only had his imagination to tell him what trouble there would have been.
Only a handful of times did he get a glimpse of the Major, monopolized as she was by Rykan. Not even the Count, it seemed, was allowed a dance with her and no one was foolish enough to try. Eventually, and to Taran’s immense relief, the musicians finished their sets. During the polite applause that followed, servants brought seats and arranged them in a ring around the room. He, Robin and Bull secured seats near the head of the ring where they could see Lord Rykan and the Major clearly.