by C. L. Wilson
“Ah, My Lady Feyreisa, a pleasure to meet you.” He straightened and cast a swift, appraising, hazel gaze around the interior of her family’s home. Ellie was glad the Fey had tidied up, because she had a feeling the Master would describe everything he saw in the minutest detail once he returned to court.
Master Fellows concluded his perusal and cleared his throat delicately. “Very quaint.”
What was she supposed to say to that? “Thank you for coming, Master Fellows.” The slender, elegant little man stood almost a full head shorter than Ellysetta, but despite his small stature, her stomach was still tied in nervous knots. This man was the chief authority on the noble graces to which all members of the royal court adhered.
“Hmm.” Master Fellows subjected Ellie to as thorough a gaze as he had the house. Even though she knew she looked her best, her knees were all but knocking as she waited for his approval. “Turn, please,” he commanded, wiggling one finger in an impatient spiral. “Hmm,” he said again. “Well, I see I have my work cut out for me if I’m to impart some meaningful modicum of the graces to you over the next few days.”
“Master Fellows.”
“Oh!” The man gave a start as Rain stepped from the shadows behind him.
“I am Rainier vel’En Daris, the Tairen Soul.” No hint of welcome softened Rain’s expression. Less than half a bell earlier, Ellie had thought him the kindest of men, but now he looked downright frightening. His steel seemed to gleam brighter—and more menacing—than usual against the darkness of his leathers. Apparently, Master Fellows thought so too, because the little man backed up several paces. “What graces, exactly, do you think a Celierian could teach the queen of the Fey that she does not already possess?”
“Uh.. ahem…” Master Fellows cleared his throat again and backed up yet another step, only to bump into the equally imposing figure of Bel, who’d come to stand between Master Fellows and Ellie. The Master of Graces swallowed. “No insult was intended, My Lord Feyreisen. The graces are an art. The manner of comportment, of speech, the language of the fans and flowers…they take a lifetime to master.”
“I see.” Rain nodded. Then he smiled, showing teeth. “You have three days.”
Master Fellows gasped like a beached fish.
“I suggest you start with the things she’ll need to know for the palace dinner we are attending this Kingsday evening. I’m sure you’ll find the Feyreisa a quick study.”
The palace dinner was to be a formal state affair where the heads of the noble houses would gather together for a reception followed by a banquet. As Master Fellows explained, that meant he had three appointments of four short bells each to teach a completely untrained woman the graces of court greetings, bows and curtseys, polite conversation, deportment, flatware, and dining.
At first, Master Fellows talked so fast he barely took time to breathe. But after he survived the first bell without being skewered on a Fey blade, he calmed down a bit. By the second bell, he had regained his composure, but his patience had begun to go missing.
“If you are to be treated like a queen, My Lady Feyreisa, you must comport yourself as one. If you think of yourself as regal, others will too. You have a lovely neck, my dear. Like a swan’s. Hold your head high. No, not that high. Let them see your lovely eyes, not your nostrils. Yes, like that. Now, spine straight. Shoulders back. No, not so far back that your shoulder blades touch one another. You’re a queen, not a prize hen.” He started to take hold of Ellysetta’s shoulders, but the hiss of Fey steel leaving scabbard froze him in place. All five warriors of Ellysetta’s quintet had unsheathed their blades. “Sers,” he complained. Ellysetta’s quintet just stared blankly at him. He turned to Rain. “My Lord Feyreisen, really. I’ve tried, but I simply cannot do this without touching her.”
“I agree,” Rain answered. “You cannot do it.”
Master Fellows’s expression—which had started to brighten with triumph—fell once more. “This no-touching rule of yours is ridiculous! You would not let me guide her through her curtseys. You would not let me show her how to use her hands in polite conversation. And now, you will not allow me to adjust the way she comports herself. How do you expect me to teach her the graces if you hobble me at every turn? This is impossible!”
“Do you shrink so easily from a challenge, then?”
“A challenge, no. But you, My Lord Feyreisen, are setting me up for disaster. Is that what you want? For me to fail and your queen to become the butt of Celierian jokes?”
Every spark of warmth fled from Rain’s eyes. “Mind your tongue, Celierian.”
“Or what? You’ll cut it out? Go on, then! You might as well. My life will be ruined in any event if Lady Ellysetta falls on her face before the entire court. They all know it’s I whom the queen tasked with tutoring her in the graces!” With a great flair of drama, Master Fellows yanked open his silk coat, baring the pristine white linen shirt below. “Go ahead, Tairen Soul! Do your worst! Slay me! Drive one of those poison Fey blades through my heart! I’d rather die than live with such shame.”
Rain’s irritation melted away. It was impossible to stay irritated while trying hard not to laugh. He didn’t like Celierians. He’d always found them to be arrogant, false, and weak. But one thing he could respect was a man who took pride in his life’s work and had the courage to defend it. Even if he was a dramatic, posing little prat.
“Let him use whatever methods he thinks are best to teach me,” Ellysetta said. “I don’t want to embarrass you or my family when I’m presented to the court.”
“You could never do that, shei’tani,” Rain replied. “But neither can I allow him to touch you.” Silently, he admitted, «Until our bond is complete, the tairen would never permit it, and I don’t want to kill this man, if only because I would regret the loss of entertainment.»
She looked shocked.
Behind her, Bel smothered a smile. «You like him.»
«I don’t,» Rain denied, then reluctantly recanted. «All right, maybe a little. A very little.» Who could completely dislike a banty little mortal brave enough to dare Rain Tairen Soul to do his worst?
Rain turned to Master Fellows. “Will you accept a compromise, Master Fellows? Permit me to read your thoughts with Spirit, and I will give you the use of my hands. You need only think what you would like me to do, and I will do it for you. Will that suffice?”
“I don’t know.” Master Fellows straightened his clothing and carefully smoothed back his hair. “I’m not sure I like the idea of having you in my head. What would it be like?”
“You would not know I was there. Simply picture in your mind how you wish Ellysetta to stand.” He plucked the images easily from the man’s mind and wove them in Spirit so Ellysetta could see, then made the smaller adjustments himself, tilting her shoulders and chin gently to achieve exactly the stance Master Fellows imagined. “Like this, Master Fellows?” He heard her breath catch as his hands touched her, felt her helpless rush of desire and the hot echo of it in his flesh. She might fear the tairen, but this much she could not deny. It gave him hope that the rest would come in time.
“Exactly! I mean”—the man coughed—“that will do nicely, My Lord Feyreisen.”
“I feel like a posed doll,” Ellysetta muttered.
“You look like a queen.” Fellows was right; she did have a lovely neck. Rain bent to press a kiss against the soft skin of Ellysetta’s throat. “You bring pride to this Fey, shei’tani.”
“Oh, but none of that,” Master Fellows objected, ignoring Rain’s frown. “Celierian courtiers may enjoy passion in private, but in public, they must observe all the proprieties.”
Ellysetta’s lessons in the graces continued throughout the afternoon. It was late when Master Fellows took his leave and hired a gentleman’s coach to carry him back across town to the palace, where he was promptly ushered into the queen’s private audience chamber to give a report of his session with the Tairen Soul’s mate.
Queen Annoura was seated on a c
arved and gilded armchair, dressed to perfection and shining with a seemingly effortless combination of luminous beauty and regal grace that Master Gaspare Fellows knew had taken years of careful study to perfect. He’d still been an apprentice when the queen had first come to these shores, and he’d helped his old Master train her to take her place at King Dorian’s side. The lessons had ended when the old Master died, but by then Annoura had already been transformed from the reserved young princess so in love with her handsome husband into the Moon of Celieria, the Brilliant around whom the entire court revolved.
Lately, Gaspare had begun noticing changes in her: a hardness that had never been there before, a cutting edge to her wit. After the last four bells spent in the fresh, artless kindness of Ellysetta Baristani’s company, the difference seemed even more obvious.
Gaspare’s gaze flicked to the bevy of Dazzles gathered around the queen, among them many a grasping, brittle beauty like that sapphire-eyed jade, Jiarine Montevero. Youngest daughter of a poor, minor house, she’d ascended beyond anyone’s expectations to claim a seat in the queen’s inner circle and title to her family’s holdings after the untimely passing of her parents and older siblings. Beside her stood one of the queen’s Favorites, the handsome Ser Vale, who for no reason at all made the little hairs on the back of Gaspare’s neck stand up whenever the man’s vivid blue-green gaze was fixed upon him.
As it was now.
Gaspare threw himself into a deep, elegant bow. The bend of his knee was exact, the flourish of his arm a perfection of grace…except for the faint tremors which he hoped no one noticed. Ser Vale disturbed him. Almost as much as the Tairen Soul had at first, only with Vale, the unsettledness never went away.
When Gaspare straightened, he focused his gaze on the queen, not allowing so much as a flicker of a glance in Vale’s direction. That helped. A little.
“My Queen, you asked me to keep you informed of my progress with the young Feyreisa.” Forcing himself to speak in confident, well-modulated tones, Gaspare related the details of his interactions with Ellysetta Baristani and the Tairen Soul.
Annoura kept her grip on the armrests of her chair light as Master Fellows gave his report. She’d hoped he would return full of sneering condescension for the woodcarver’s daughter’s attempts to master the noble graces, but somehow the girl appeared to have won him over. Oh, he was careful not to sing her praises too loudly—Gaspare Fellows was too experienced a veteran of noble society for that—but Annoura could tell by what he did not say that’d he’d liked her.
“So, in your opinion, Master Fellows,” she said when he finished, “Ellysetta Baristani will be able to master sufficient graces so as not to embarrass either the Fey or my husband, at the dinner on Kingsday?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty.”
Conscious of the Dazzles observing her smallest reaction, Annoura kept her irritation well hidden. “Let us hope you are right. I realize I’ve set you a difficult task, Master Fellows. Turning a commoner into a lady fit for presentation to the heads of all Celieria’s noble houses is no small accomplishment—and to have only three short days in which to achieve it—well, just consider that a measure of my confidence in you.”
Master Fellows bowed with impeccable grace. “Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to be worthy of your confidence and regard, Majesty.”
“Excellent. We thank you, Master Fellows.” She fixed a coolly polite smile on her face. He recognized her unspoken dismissal and, with a final bow, excused himself.
When he was gone, Vale caught her eye. He’d been gone from her court since that morning in the garden when he’d acted so impudently, and though it galled her to admit it, she’d missed him. Scarcely a year since he’d first joined the court, and already he was indispensable to her. How had that happened?
A mysterious, knowing smile lurked at the corners of his well-shaped mouth, and a tingling shot of energy raced up her spine in response. She’d seen that look before. He was hiding something, some naughty trinket or choice bit of gossip, and he was waiting for a moment alone to share it with her.
She shouldn’t let him. He’d grown too bold by half.
But she was still angry at the way Dorian had betrayed her this morning. She’d given him her love, given him years of devotion and loyalty and her tireless efforts to make him the most powerful king in the mortal world. And what had he done when asked to choose between her pride and his Fey kin? He’d chosen them. He’d thrown everything she’d ever given him back in her face.
She looked at Vale. This handsome man had made it clear in so many ways that he longed to serve and please her, that he would do anything for her.
A sharp staccato beat broke the air as Annoura clapped her hands sharply. “Out. All of you. Give me a moment.” She held Vale’s gaze for a steady, expressionless moment. His faint smile deepened—then was wiped away as he turned towards the door and exited with the rest of the courtiers. The door closed behind them.
Silence fell over the room. She drew a deep breath, her breasts straining against the tight confinement of her corset. Her heart was beating quickly. This was not wise. Dorian was not a jealous or suspicious man—she’d never given him cause to be—but many a courtier with whom she’d battled in the past would leap at the chance to disgrace her.
Nerves shrilling, Annoura rose from her chair. Across the room, the door through which the courtiers had exited beckoned. Already she was having second thoughts. She should leave. Now. Before she encouraged Vale’s improprieties any further and gave herself cause for regret. Before she gave her enemies a weapon to use against her.
She started for the door to her bedchamber.
From behind, the sound of tinkling dishes and a low murmur of voices drifted in through the half-closed door leading to the adjoining antechamber. She stopped. Drew another deep breath. Turned.
Vale stood in the doorway, elegant and sensual, thick, smooth waves of dark hair gathered in a queue at his nape, blue-green eyes vivid in his bronzed face. Expertly tailored clothes hugged his body, outlining his muscular limbs, broad shoulders, trim hips.
She yanked her gaze back from where it had wandered and gathered her composure, drawing on every lesson engraved upon her being by the stern taskmaster who’d been Gaspare Fellows’s old master. One silvery brow arched. “You wished to see me privately?”
Vale smiled. It was not the smile of a supplicant or a courtier. It was, instead, a man’s smile, brimming with dangerous promise, whispering of silken sheets and forbidden desires. “I’ve brought you a gift, My Queen.” He gestured behind him, to a small silver serving cart.
Annoura’s tension changed to irritation. “Keflee? Vale, really, my nerves are strung tight. They need no further stimulation.” Keflee, the powdered nut of the kefloa tree, was a sensory enhancer. When brewed with cinnabar water, it acted as a mild stimulant to the senses, creating a feeling of invigoration and higher mental acuity.
Vale lifted a purple silk bag from the tray, and handed it to her. “Ah, but My Queen, this is no ordinary keflee. I know you to be a connoisseur, and this is a very rare and potent blend. One I think you will enjoy. Open the bag and just smell the aroma. It’s enthralling.”
Intrigued, she loosened the braided ties holding the top closed, parted the opening of the bag, and took an experimental sniff. A rich, dark fragrance filled her nostrils, heady, dizzying. A potent blend indeed. And now she knew the reason for the wicked light in Vale’s eyes.
For a rare few, the more potent forms of keflee could cause mild aphrodisiacal effects—and occasionally even more than mild, depending on the concentration of the brew, and the imbiber’s level of susceptibility and state of mind. Annoura had never experienced those side effects herself, but Dorian had a particularly interesting response to keflee in its most concentrated form. Ever since discovering that, she’d made a point of stocking new blends, and encouraging him to try them whenever she was feeling romantic.
“I made a special trip to my esta
te just so I could bring it to you,” Vale said, pouring the steaming liquid into two porcelain cups. He added a stream of thick, chilled honeyed cream, stirred, then held one cup out to her. “I thought if my gift pleased you, you might forgive me for my earlier transgression. I cannot bear to be out of your favor, My Queen.”
She gave a brief, disbelieving laugh. “So to apologize for one boldness, you offer an even greater one?”
“Is it boldness to offer my queen a treasure I know she enjoys?”
A quick, sharp yank on the silk cords closed the purple bag tight. She tossed it on her desk and turned away, regretting the irritation and spurt of wickedness that had led her to encourage him. “You presume too much, Vale, and for your information, keflee does not have the effect on me you may think. My…ardent pursuit of the rarest blends is an interest I indulge for reasons of my own.”
“Then my gift is not bold in the least,” he returned smoothly, “and there is no reason why you should not share a cup with me.” He smiled invitingly. “Come, will you not at least taste a little? The blend is sinfully delicious.”
She started to refuse and dismiss him, but he lifted his own cup of keflee and blew to cool it. The rich, moist aroma swirled around her. Sweet Lord of Light, the fragrance alone was intoxicating…as was the spellbinding intensity of Vale’s vivid eyes. Between his look and the seductive aroma of the keflee, she had trouble remembering what was so objectionable about an innocent drink between friends.
“Oh, very well. Where’s the harm?” She took the cup from him, started to raise it to her lips, then stopped with a faint smile. “You first, though, Vale. Old habits die hard.” Growing up in Capellas, where poisons and potions were standard fare among courtiers, she’d long ago learned to be wary of gifts. Except for Dorian, she trusted no one.