“What bet?”
“That you can turn any woman into the next queen of Yavarid.”
Frederick hesitated. Had he really just said that? Sure, he’d learned how to play the court, and his skills and charm had been enough to land him Vyvyan in the first place, but this? If Vyvyan wanted to become the queen, surely any of these other women would as well. It did mean gold and power and a life of ease. There were probably handmaidens to help find King Harry’s dick, after all, so surely someone could provide some conversation in lieu of Quilliam’s blather.
Frederick stood and contemplated Voss’s hand a moment longer. Voss was nothing if not competitive, and though he wasn’t a mage like Frederick, magic had manifested in his lineage. Some humans used words to cast more passive enchantments. “What’s the catch?”
“I get to pick her,” Voss said quickly, “And if you fail, you forfeit your magic to me.”
Frederick balked, and before he could say anything, both twins shouted from behind him how that was impossible.
“Is it?” Voss never looked away from Frederick.
Magic, the kind that Frederick had at least, was the only thing Voss had ever coveted. He was well-trained, arguably a better swordsman than any of them, but without the ability to manipulate aether, to add a layer to his defense or extra power to a blow, he was always, and sometimes quite literally, a step behind. But he could manipulate words, much like his sister if only in a different way, and at that he was very good.
Frederick had seen Voss enter into magical binds with others, and never once had the terms failed to be met by some unseen, serendipitous force. Once he had made a deal with a merchant who sold silks: he would pay twice the cost for a specific blue dye provided the color be unavailable to anyone else. When others at court started showing up in that same blue, the color ended up running, staining everything else it touched, and the merchant was ruined. But this—forfeiting his magic—it couldn’t be feasible, could it?
“And if I win?”
“My land,” Voss said as if it were nothing, “The whole Barony of Ewestead.”
Was he mad? Surely he didn’t think he was going to inherit anything from his mother’s new husband, even with his shiny new title, the Duke of Comerant had nephews. Ewestead was all he had. That and his knighthood. Which, Frederick realized, he too had.
Frederick grinned and thrust his hand into Voss’s as the twins, and even Legosen, gasped. “Any highborn lady,” he amended, “can be queen.”
Voss’s eyes widened, falling on their shaking hands, and from the looks of it, he too felt the shock that zapped through Frederick’s palm. “That does it,” he said, breaking into an even wider smile. He pulled Frederick up off the bale and swung them both toward the entrance to the barn. “Then who shall it be?”
With Voss’s arm draping casually over his shoulders, Frederick looked out at the sea of women marching back up to the castle on the muddied pathway. Suddenly his stomach flipped over. “You’re choosing now?”
“Why not?” Voss gestured toward them, “It’s only fair to give you the whole moon, eh? How about Samantha?”
Barely five feet tall but busty as a milkmaid, Samantha was the daughter of a merchant and had dallied with just about everyone in that barn at least twice. And Quilliam knew it. Frederick swallowed. “We said highborn.”
“Ah, right, right.” Voss snickered.
“Lady Aowen,” Legosen suggested, coming to stand beside them, gesturing to a tall, raven-haired woman. “She comes from a very wealthy family, has a pleasing countenance, is demure and kind. I believe she meets the criteria.”
Voss gave him a withering look. “I don’t think you understand this game.”
“Hey!” Jayceb knocked into them and pointed across the field. “Why not Caryna?”
Like a shadow moving beside the rest, Caryna was always draped in layer upon layer of black lace. She smudged charcoal all around her eyes and even over her lips, looking as if she were mourning her own passing. Voss contemplated her a moment. “Clean her face up, get her a new dress? Too easy.”
Cayleb popped up on Legosen’s other side. “Lauraine?”
He’d left off the moniker the court typically followed her name with, The Chaste, as she’d very publicly let them all know she’d devoted herself to the virgin goddess, Va’ye. Voss tipped his head to the side. “If she thought she had a chance to spread her message to the rest of us, she might take it. No, no, I’ve got a much better idea.”
The twins started rattling off more names, trying to guess as Voss craned his neck to look for his intended. Frederick had already come up with quick plans for every lady who had been suggested. There surely wasn’t anyone in the castle who was highborn that stood no chance at all, and he relaxed under Voss’s arm.
“There.” Voss squeezed his neck as he pointed out across the field. The crowd had thinned, and a tall woman and her elderly nursemaid were trailing the rest of the court as they headed back to the castle.
Even from behind, he could tell Lady Rosalind immediately. It would be a bit tougher, he thought, getting her to walk more femininely and convince her to keep her face clean, but not impossible. “If you choose Rosalind Corning, then so be it. She already meets a number of the virtues, and—”
“No, no.” Voss stopped him. “Not that the troll wouldn’t have been an inspired choice, but I’m picking her little friend.”
Not a nursemaid at all, though Frederick had been deceived by the coarse, grey strands pulled into a low bun at the back of her head, it was actually Lady Elayne, the Exiled of Heulux, stomping along beside Lady Rosalind, clinging to an old tome about gods knew what and hunching her shoulders. An ear poked out from that mess of hair, revealing half her ancestry, but nothing else about her betrayed she had an elven parent. A nose that extended far too long and ended in a bulb with an ever-present boil drew one’s attention first. Eyes that were a muddy shade of manure sunk back under a single, heavy brow, and pock marks dotted her forehead, cheeks, and chin. Finally her mouth, with lips like they’d been stung by a whole hive of bees, had the potential to be her face’s saving grace until she smiled to reveal two over-sized teeth fit for gnawing carrots and not much else. Though to be fair, she rarely smiled.
Frederick was stunned into silence. Of course the prick had chosen Elly.
“Too hard?” Voss leaned into his ear. “Can’t do it? Gotta admit Vyv might just have one up on at least her?”
“No way,” Frederick heard himself saying. He couldn’t back out of the bet even if he wanted to, but the mention of Vyvyan renewed his confidence. “Lady Elayne it is. Fine.”
Elayne stumbled then and fell face first into the muddiest patch of the path. The boys in the barn fell into laughter, but Frederick could only stare after the girl as she tried picking herself up and slipped back down into it. If nothing else, this would certainly piss off Vyvyan, and if he were somehow, someway successful? He might even have her back.
CHAPTER 3
To make perfectly spiced sargason stew just like my mother used to make, you must first take the meat of a cow’s ribs and chop into small pieces, but not too small, then boil in clean water, but not too clean as the beef should have been washed in it first; then take some cinnamon, cloves, mace, ginger, peppercorn, corrasintine, brisone, minced onions, parsley, sage, and nifolia, not too much, of course (as we all know too much will kill a man), but also not too little (as we all know too little will disappoint a man), and let it all boil together; then add the broth of one boiled loaf of not less than one but not more than three days old bread, and let it stew with the addition of any root vegetables except parsnips, beets, yams, or turnips; and when it is nearly done, add one small maiden’s handful of spinach, and then let boil once, taste for seasoning and finally add a pinch of sargason picked between the wettest and driest day of that moon cycle and serve forth.
- from Mastering the Art of Yavarindi Cooking by Julya Kin, pub. 1302 PA
Elayne wiped at her nos
e, the faint smell of manure still lingering there no matter how many times she scrubbed her face.
“I’m telling you, it’s gone,” Rosalind insisted as she took another bite of meat straight off the bone into her already full mouth. Her friend had gravy dribbling down her chin and a starchy substance in her braid, so Elayne was dubious, but picked up her spoon anyway and tried to put the fall out of her mind.
They were sitting at the far end of a long table in the back corner of the great hall, their typical spot away from everyone else. Most took their meals here, and it was more packed than usual with so many visitors preparing for Quilliam’s nameday and coronation. The squires sat in the center of the hall where they could be called upon by most everyone, stuffing their faces on the free moments between requests. The older knights, fat and lackadaisical from years of unneeded service, exchanged few but loud words, eyeing the points of entry at the hall’s ends. The unwed highborn ladies seemed to have a hierarchy all their own, sharing their portions and coveting the spots closest to the head table as decorum would allow. Down by the front of the hall, the younger knights who had their titles bestowed specifically by the crowned prince, sat sprawled out, their jokes and laughter rising up to fill the high ceilings of the place. But save for the nervous Baron Grieg when he was not feeling ill, which was typically only two or three days a moon, and some of the merchant daughters and sons until they found a more suitable group to glom onto during their short stays at Yavarid Castle, Elayne and Rosalind’s corner of the great hall was rung by empty benches and silence.
The excitement of the afternoon tourney was still humming through the hall. Elayne regretted leaving her book in her chamber when Rosalind brought it up again. “That was really something.” She was staring dreamily at the ceiling as if rewatching it in the reflection of a candle-laden chandelier. “Someday, El, I’ll be out there. And I’ll beat them all. Even the prince!”
It wasn’t likely, Elayne knew, even if her friend were stronger or better skilled, she wouldn’t be allowed to spar with the men let alone show them up on the tourney field. Female mages were certainly rising in the ranks, but all of the non-magical soldiers were men, and unless the military suddenly needed dinky conjurers on the field, Rosalind was out of luck. And no one would ever beat the prince, even Rosalind had to know that. Still, Elayne smiled from the side of her mouth. “I sure hope so.”
“Maybe I can petition the king.” She pointed her half-eaten chicken leg at Elayne. “It’s not so much to ask. Maybe I’ll just see if I can take part in an archery competition to start.”
“You don’t shoot, Ro,” Elayne said slowly. Sometimes she needed reminding of facts.
“Not yet!” She grinned and picked at a piece of meat stuck between her teeth. “But I can learn before the next one. The king’s sure to get totally wasted on Quilliam’s nameday. Seems like it’d be a good time to ask.”
“Oh, don’t remind me.” Elayne dropped her forehead onto the table. The whole moon cycle would be filled with festivities as courtiers traveled in from all over Yavarid. Prince Quilliam would finally be old enough to take the crown, and the king was more than willing to hand it off, preferring eating and drinking to ruling. “There’s going to be a ball.”
“Balls are fun,” Rosalind said, and Elayne chuckled into the table. “There’s music and drinking and lots of food!”
“And dressing up and dancing and flirting. You hate all that.” The pit of her stomach turned at the thought as she sat back up.
She waved the thought away. “It’s not so bad if you focus on the good things.”
Elayne scrunched up her face: it would be hard to focus on anything if she were tripped and teased throughout the night. Even having Rosalind as a friend didn’t seem to help. She was taller and more muscular than even some of the men, but they knew she couldn’t really touch them, and in truth Elayne didn’t want her friend to get into any scuffles on her behalf. She could, of course, skip the whole thing, but getting on Quilliam’s good side was something everyone wanted to do before he took power, even Elayne. She was, after all, living off the crown entirely, her home and fortunes gone, and he could decide at any moment to cut her off. Living in Yavarid Castle was hard enough with her face, she couldn’t imagine what would happen to her beyond the castle walls.
“What’s this then?” Rosalind dropped her chicken leg, her eyes looking passed Elayne.
“What?” She twisted in her seat. Many of the diners had left, the king and prince not gracing the hall with their presence that day, but the younger knights were still sprawled around their table, and they were looking right back at Elayne. She turned away quickly, just catching sight of Frederick making his way right for them.
He wasn’t actually headed to them, she told herself. Sure, they were the only ones in their dark, little corner, but he definitely had something better to be doing. Elayne could see Rosalind’s eyes widening as they presumably followed the knight’s path. Why didn’t she look away? What on gods’ Maw could he possibly want with them?
Sir Frederick placed his bowl beside Lady Elayne’s. “Ladies, would you mind extending me the pleasure of joining you for dinner?”
She’d heard him speak but didn’t really believe the words. Freddie was asking to sit with them. Them.
“Sure!” Rosalind beamed at him. She was so dumb. “Hey, listen, you were great out there today. You gotta show me that thing you did with the green glowing fire stuff!”
Frederick held back a chuckle as he took a seat next to Elayne. “Why thank you, my lady. Of course, if you’re interested I would be honored to demonstrate for you.”
“That’d be great!” Rosalind stuck a finger in her mouth and sucked the gravy off it. “I was really impressed with your footwork too.” She pointed her spit-covered finger at him. “I can tell you really pay attention to the fundamentals.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you,” he said in a voice too formal to be natural.
“What do you want?” Elayne was staring down at her stew, her arms tucked in tightly at her sides, back straight. She could feel his presence even when she scooted to the far edge of the bench, and she didn’t like it.
“Uh, well,”—he cleared his throat—“can we not share a meal as friends?”
“No!” Louder than she meant, she snapped her head to look at him, then gasped at herself. More quietly, she turned her eyes away again. “You wouldn’t come over here if you didn’t want something.”
Rosalind had stopped eating. She had listened, hard, and suddenly narrowed her eyes. “Oh yeah, El might be right. Spill it.”
Elayne could see that Frederick’s face had flushed just slightly from the corner of her eye, likely a totally new experience for him. He glanced back at his friends, and Elayne followed his gaze. Sir Voss was holding back laughter, and the twins weren’t even trying to hide it.
“Oh, I see.” Elayne sighed. “You want to play a trick on us? Well, go ahead.”
“What?” Frederick looked back at her.
“Dump your bowl on my head or whatever.” She was doing her best to study the grain of the table. “Just get it over with.”
Frederick faltered. “Uh, no, that’s not…why would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” She almost laughed. “Why does anybody ever?”
When he said nothing, she risked glancing over at him. When she met his green eyes, she could see something there, not amusement or coldness, but something else, something like pity, and that was somehow worse.
And yet, there was a familiarity too, and Elayne felt as though she could continue staring back at him forever and be perfectly comfortable, which is the kind of thing that would make anyone extremely uncomfortable.
Frederick rubbed the back of his neck and broke eye contact. “Well, I suppose I should admit that I do have an ulterior motive.”
“Aha!” Rosalind picked up another chicken leg. “El’s real smart, you can’t pull one over on her.”
The knight nodded. �
��I know.”
Elayne narrowed her eyes at him. He did know, he remembered, and the sincerity in his voice made her want to punch him.
“So, the proposition, if I might?”
Elayne waited, and when he didn’t go on, she rolled her eyes. “You’re already here.”
Frederick sat up a little straighter and grinned as if the discomfort they’d all just experienced had never even happened. He cleared his throat and looked her straight in the eyes. “Lady Elayne, as you are likely already aware, all knights must complete one great task to be considered for senior knighthood. With no war on currently and nothing on the horizon, my opportunities are, in a word, bleak. But there is a shining beacon out amongst my murky waters, Lady Elayne, and that beacon is you.”
She blinked back at his self-satisfied smirk, confidence oozing out of him like the pus of one of her boils. He’d come a long way, that was for sure, even when he was bullshitting. “Doubt it,” she said, “but I’d love to hear why.”
He swallowed and blinked but didn’t looked away. “I would endeavor to break the Heuluxian Curse.”
Elayne inhaled sharply and choked on the air. The curse. He’d said it aloud.
“You mean a quest?” Rosalind’s fork clattered across the table. “You want to take El out of the castle on a quest?”
“Yes. To rid Lady Elayne of what has befallen her.”
“So you’ve got to go on a quest to become a senior knight?” Rosalind leaned over her plate, and her braid fell into her mash. “Is there like a point system for that?”
“Uh, sort of?”
Elayne had been staring down at her bowl, but she saw right through it, through the table, her feet, the ground, right to the boiling core of Maw itself. She focused her anger there, holding onto it as best she could. It was hot in her mind, and it was traveling through her, slowly, to her hands. The voice in her mind was quietly telling her to stay calm.
She's All Thaumaturgy Page 3
