Perhaps tonight he should seek out Beltran, make his apologies and explain to his foster brother why he had been so sharp with him… His outraged pride cringed at that thought. But a serious and unmended quarrel with the prince could damage his own career, and if some of the king’s councillors were already wondering if Bard stood dangerously close to the throne—he was, after all, the eldest son of the king’s own brother—then he had better make sure that Beltran did not perceive him as a threat!
But before he could put his resolve into action, avoice at his shoulder said genially, “A good festival to you, dom Bard.”
Bard turned to face the elderly laranzu. “And to you, Master Gareth. Ladies” he acknowledged, bowing to Mirella, lovely in her pale-blue gauze draperies, and to Melora, who wore a low-necked gown of green with a high collar; the dress cut as loose as a pregnant woman’s, and indeed, her heavy body made her look very much as if she were pregnant, but the color showed the high color of her clear skin, made her red hair glow.
“You are not dancing, Master Gareth?”
The old man shook his head with a rueful smile. He said,
“I cannot,” and Bard saw that he leaned on a stout walking stick. “A memory, sir, of that fight with the Dry-towners.”
“Why, such a wound should be long healed,” Bard said, with concern, and he shrugged.
“I think perhaps there was poison on the dagger; had it not been diluted by many other fights, I should have lost the leg,” Master Gareth said. “It has never healed completely, and now I begin to think it never will. Even laran has not sufficed. But it does not keep me from the festival,” he said, courteously dismissing the subject.
The young son of Hammerfell’s duke came up and said shyly, “Will the Lady Mirella dance with me?”
She glanced at her guardian for permission—Mirella was too young to dance at public balls except with kinsmen—but evidently Master Gareth considered the youngster far too young to represent any threat; they were obviously children together. He gestured approval and they moved away together. The boy was not nearly as tall as Mirella, so they made a somewhat incongruous partnership.
Bard said to Melora, “Will you honor me, Melora?”
Master Gareth raised his eyebrows slightly at the informal use of her name, but she said, “Certainly,” and held out her hand. She was, Bard reflected, probably several years older than he was himself, and he was surprised that she was not yet married or pledged.
After a moment, as they danced, he put the question, and she said, “I am promised to Neskaya Tower. I dwelt at Dalereuth for a time; but they set us to making clingfire, and I feel it very strongly—that leroni should be neutral in wars. So I am bound to Neskaya, where the Keeper has pledged to neutrality in all wars among the Domains.”
“That seems to me an ill choice,” said Bard. “If we must fight, why should leroni be exempt from battle? Already they do not carry weapons, even in battle. Are they to live at peace when the rest of us must fight for our lives?”
“Someone must begin the fight for peace,” Melora said. “I have spoken with Varzil and I think him a great man.”
Bard shrugged. “A deluded idealist, no more,” he said. “They will burn the Tower of Neskaya about your heads, and go on making war as always. I only hope, Lady, that you may not share in their fall.”
“I hope so, too,” she said, and they were silent, dancing. She was singularly light on her feet, moving like a breath of air.
He said, “Dancing, you are very beautiful, Melora. How strange, when first I saw you, I did not think you beautiful at all.”
“And now that I look at you, I see you are a handsome man,” she said. “I do not know how much you have heard about leroni—I am a telepath and I do not look much at people, what their outward aspect may be. I had no idea even whether you were fair or dark, when I talked with you on campaign. And now, you are the King’s banner bearer and a handsome man and all the ladies envy me because you do not dance often with them.”
From any other woman, Bard thought, this would have sounded unendurably coy and flirtatious. Melora stated it simply, like any other fact.
They danced, silently, the old sympathy beginning to build up again between them. In an isolated corner of the room, he drew her to him and kissed her. She sighed and allowed the kiss, but then, regretfully, drew away.
“No, my dear,” she said, very gently. “Let’s not allow this to go so far that we cannot part as friends, and no more.”
“But why not, Melora? I know that you feel as I do, and now we are not hindered as we were after the battle—”
She looked straight at him. She said, “What we might have done, had occasion offered, in hot blood and after the excitement and danger of battle, is a thing apart; now, in cold blood, you know and I know that it would not be suitable. You are here with your promised wife; and the Princess Carlina has been most gracious to me. I would not step on the hem of her robe before her very eyes. Bard, you know I am right.”
He did, but in his outraged pride, he would not acknowledge it. He flung at her, wrathfully, “What man except some sandal-wearer wishes to be only friend to a woman?”
“Oh, Bard,” she said, shaking her head, “I think you are two men! One of you is heartless and cruel, especially with women, and cares nothing how you hurt! The other is the man I have seen, the man I dearly love—even though I will not share your bed this night, nor any other,” she added firmly. “But I hope with all my heart, for Carlina’s sake that it is always this other man I know that you show to her. For that one, I shall cherish all my life.” She pressed his hand gently, turned away from him, and quickly lost herself in the crowd of dancers.
Bard, left alone, his cheeks burning with outrage, tried to follow her green-clad form through the crowds; but she had hidden herself from him as completely as if she had vanished right out of the hall. He had the faint prickling sense of laran in use and wondered if she had thrown a mantle of invisibility over herself, as he knew some leroni could do. His rage and wounded pride knew no bounds.
Fat, stupid woman, probably she had cast a glamour over him so that he wanted her, because no man before had ever done so… Well, Varzil of Neskaya was welcome to her, damn him, and he hoped the Tower was burned over their heads! He went back to the buffet and wrathfully drank another glass of wine, and another, knowing that he was getting drunk, knowing King Ardrin, himself an abstemious man, would not approve.
Nor did Carlina; when she met with him again, there was gentle reproof in her voice.
“Bard, you have been drinking more than is seemly.”
“Are you going to make me a henpecked husband even before the wedding?” he snarled at her.
“Oh, my dear, don’t talk that way,” she said, flushing to the neck of her green gown. “But my father will be angry too. You know that he hates it when any of his young officers drink so much that they cannot behave in a seemly manner.”
“Have I done anything unseemly?” he demanded of her. “No,” she admitted, smiling a little, “but promise me not to drink any more, Bard.”
“A ves ordras, domna,” he conceded, “but only if you will dance with me.”
It was a couple-dance again, and, with the license allowed to a handfasted pair, he could hold her tightly, not at the decorous distance required of most couples. Geremy, he noticed, had been given the privilege of dancing with Queen Ariel, at a most respectful distance indeed. Beltran had (probably at Carlina’s request) chosen to dance with the ungainly Lady Dara. She too was graceful on her feet, as much as Melora, was it so common for ladies who were over-plump to dance so gracefully? Damn it, he would not think of Melora now! She might dance with the friends from Zandru’s hells, for all he cared! He drew Carlina vengefully close to him, aware of her thin, bony slenderness in his arms. A man could be bruised on those bones!
“Not so tightly, Bard, you are hurting me…” she protested. “And it is not suitable…”
He let her go, stung wi
th compunction. He said, “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Carlie. Anyone or everyone else, but never you.”
The dance ended. The king and queen, with the more elderly and dignified ladies and lords of the court, were withdrawing, so that their presence might not inhibit the younger people at their revels. He saw that the young son of Hammerfell was being taken away by his governess, and that the pretty Mirella was being folded into her cloak by Master Gareth. King Ardrin made a little speech, wishing the youngsters a merry festival and bidding them dance till dawn if they wished.
Carlina stood beside Bard, smiling as her parents departed. She said, “Last year I, too, was taken away at midnight when the elders and children were sent to bed. This year, I suppose, they think that as a handfasted bride I am in no danger, with my promised husband to guard me.” Her smile was merry.
And, in truth, Bard knew that midwinter revels sometimes grew a little rowdy. They were certainly noisier, after the old people and children departed; there was more drinking, many boisterous kissing games, and the dances grew wilder and less decorous. As the night moved on toward dawn, more and more couples slipped away into the gallery and side passages of the castle, and once Bard and Carlina, dancing past a long passage, saw a couple closely embraced, so intimately so that Carlina quickly turned away her eyes. But Bard steered her into the galleries.
He murmured, “Carlina, you are promised to me already. I think already most of the couples here who are pledged or handfasted have gone apart—” He drew her into his arms, straining her close to him. “You know what I want of you, my promised wife. It is midwinter, we are handfasted, why not make it complete now, since the laws permit?” His mouth fastened over hers; when she twisted away to breathe he murmured thickly, “Even your father could not protest!”
She said softly, “Bard, no, no.” He could sense the rising panic in her, but she spoke in an undertone, trying desperately for calm.
“I have resigned myself to this marriage, Bard. I’ll honor my father’s wish, I promise you. But not—not now.” He sensed, and it struck pain deep into him, that she was fighting hard not to show her dismay and revulsion. “Give me time. Not—not now, not tonight.”
It seemed that he could hear again the threatening words Beltran had hurled at him: roses will grow in Zandru’s ninth hell before you take Carlina to bed!
He snarled at her, “Has Beltran made good his threat, then?”
Melora had refused him, too, though a scant forty days before she wanted him. Melora was a telepath; she must have been aware of the quarrel with Beltran, knew Beltran could poison the king’s mind against him; a liaison with an out-of-favor courtier could do Melora no good… Beltran had turned Melora against him, too, and now Carlina…
Carlina said, her voice shaking, “I don’t know what you are talking about, Bard. Have you quarreled with my brother?”
“And if I had, would that change your mind about me?” he demanded, bitterly. “So, you too are like all women, you will tease me as if I had no manhood! You are my promised wife, why do you draw away from me as if I meant rape?”
“You just now said,” she replied, staring up at him with bitterness as great as his own, “that you would never want to hurt me. Does that hold only when I agree to everything you want of me? Do you think it would not be rape because I am your promised wife? I love you as foster brother and friend, and if the Goddess is merciful to us both, a day will come when I will love you as the husband my father has given to me. But that time is not yet; I have been promised that I shall have till midsummer. Bard, I beg you, let me go!”
“So that your father may have enough time to change his mind about me? So that Beltran may poison his mind against me, have you given to his own minion?”
“How dare you say that of Geremy,” she demanded furiously, and somehow the name ignited the last reserves of Bard’s wrath.
“So, you are so careful of his honor, that ombredin, that half-man—”
“Don’t speak that way of my foster brother,” she said in a rage.
“I’ll speak as I choose, and no woman shall prevent me,” he flung at her.
“Bard, you are still drunk; the wine cup speaks, not you,” she said, and his own fury blazed up, the last vestiges of his self-control flaring. He had let Melora go out of respect for Carlina! How dared she refuse him now, as if he were nothing to her? He would not be un-manned twice on midwinter night by some damned woman’s whims! He dragged her into the gallery, gripping her so hard that she cried out, and forced his lips down on hers, ignoring her struggles. Mingled wrath and desire flamed high in him; for the second time, a woman he wanted and felt he had a right to have had denied him, and this time he would not submit to her meekly, but he would impose his will on her! Damn it, she was his wife, and tonight he would have her, willingly if she chose, but in any case he would have her! She struggled in his arms, in growing panic, exciting him unendurably.
“Bard, no, no,” she pleaded, sobbing. “Not like this, not like this… oh, please, please…”
He held her, fiercely, knowing that he was hurting her with the violence of his grasp. “Come to my room, then! Don’t make me force you, Carlina!” How could she possibly be indifferent to this raging torrent of desire in him? Somehow, he must make her feel it! What he wanted was for her to want him as fiercely as he wanted her, to match his own desire and need with her own, and here she was fighting and struggling against him as if she were an unkissed child who did not even know what he wanted of her!
A hand alighted on his shoulder; tore them apart.
“Bard, you are drunk, or completely out of your mind?” Geremy asked, staring at them in dismay. Carlina covered her face with her hands, weeping with relief and shame.
“Damn you, how dare you interfere, you half-man—”
“Carlina is my foster sister,” Geremy said. “I won’t have her raped at a party, even by her promised husband! Bard, in the name of all the gods, go and slosh your face with cold water and apologize to Carlina, and we’ll say no more of this; and next time, stop drinking while you can still master yourself!”
“Damn you—” Bard advanced on Geremy with fury, his fists clenched; Beltran seized him from behind. He said, “No, you don’t, Bard. Carlina, you didn’t want this, did you?”
She sobbed, “No, I didn’t,” and Bard said angrily, “She is my promised wife! She had no right to refuse herself to me this way—you did not hear her crying out, certainly! By what right do you assume she wishes to be released from me? She liked it well enough, until you came along to interfere—”
“Now there you lie,” Beltran said in a rage. “For everyone in this hall with a scrap of laran must have heard her cry out against you! I’ll see that my father hears of this! Damnable bastard, trying to take by force what he could never have had willing—”
Bard whipped his dagger out of its sheath. The green gems glittered in the light. He said low, between his teeth, “You meddling catamite, don’t presume to interfere in what you don’t know the first thing about! Get out of my way—”
“No!” Geremy grabbed his wrist. “Bard, you are raving mad! To draw steel at midwinter, before your prince? Beltran, he’s drunk, don’t listen to what he says! Bard, go and sober up, and I’ll give you my word of honor, the king will hear no more of this—”
“So you’re in this against me too, you filthy boy-lover, you and your minion,” Bard yelled, and sprang at him. Geremy stepped aside, trying to avoid the thrust of the dagger, but Bard, beside himself with rage, hurled himself at Geremy and they slammed to the floor, struggling. Geremy twisted his body, grabbing his own dagger. He was still begging, “Bard, no—foster brother, don’t—” but Bard did not even hear, and Geremy knew that he must fight in real earnest now, or Bard would kill him. They had fought before this, as boys, but never, before this, with real weapons in their hands. Bard was stronger than he was. He thrust up, trying to knock the dagger aside, to shove his knee between himself and Bard’s descendin
g blade. He felt his knife go into Bard’s arm, slit the leather and scrape flesh; and in the next moment Bard’s dagger went deep into his thigh, high up near the groin. He cried out, harshly, in agony, feeling the leg go numb.
Then a dozen of the king’s men were dragging them apart, and Bard, abruptly sobered by the flood of adrenalin, like a cold wash over him, stared at Geremy, rolling about in convulsive agony on the floor.
“Zandru’s hells! Bredu—” he begged, dropping to his knees beside his foster brother; but he knew Geremy did not hear him. Carlina was sobbing in Beltran’s arms.
Beltran said to one of the soldiers, “Escort my sister to her apartments, and find her maids; then go and awaken my father. I will be responsible.”
He dropped to his knees beside Geremy, shoving Bard viciously aside.
“Don’t touch him, you—! You’ve done enough! Geremy, bredu, my beloved brother—speak to me, I beg you, speak to me—” He sobbed, and Bard heard the anguish in his voice. But Geremy was beyond hearing.
One of the soldiers grabbed Bard, not gently, and took the dagger, “Poisoned,” he said. “A Dry-town dagger.” And Bard, in horror, recalled, for the first time that evening, that it was the dagger he had taken in the fight. The slightest wound from a Dry-town dagger, poisoned like this, had meant that Master Gareth had been lamed, probably for life. And he had struck Geremy, in his rage, deep into the hamstrings. Shocked, too horrified to speak, he let the soldiers take him away and place him under arrest.
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