Except for Tabitha herself. As always, she looked gorgeous. Her traditional Thendal dress had a funnel collar, high waist, long sleeves, and a floor-trailing skirt. It was also, like her gloves, completely white in the front and completely black in the back, which was not at all traditional but was definitely enticing. Gold and silver wire sewn into the fabric made both sides flash and sparkle as she danced, and crystals shone in the black silk cap and white lace veil covering her hair. The bracelet he had given her as a Solstice gift did not match; he had chosen dark purple pearls instead of either black or white. But she was wearing it anyway, around the cuff of the glove on her right hand.
He and she had been a couple for almost three months, but he still found himself staring at her in disbelief that any girl could be so beautiful.
When the music paused, Graegor hoped that Tabitha would touch his mind and invite him to partner her for the next dance, but the silvery cords of their bond did not stir. He thought about calling to her, but decided against it. She had made it clear to him that this was a very important night, since it was the first party she had ever hosted, and the risks involved in upsetting her were higher than usual. He could only watch as she was swept up by the next black-clad gentleman, the Adelard ambassador to Maze Island. Graegor saw him nod to Ferogin as they passed each other, but Ferogin didn’t nod back. He was prowling past the dancers to reach Koren as her prior partner bowed his thanks and left her at the edge of the floor.
Graegor never spoke to Ferogin if he could avoid it because he always ended up wanting to punch the Adelard sorcerer right in the mouth. Tabitha would not be happy with him if he made that kind of scene. But this was at least the third time Ferogin had slunk up to Koren after she’d returned from a dance, and no matter how cold a shoulder she showed him, he wasn’t giving up. Graegor really wanted to intervene, but he didn’t know how to do it without risking trouble.
It would have been a good mission for Jeffrei. Jeffrei would have cheerfully interfered with Ferogin’s plans, no matter what they were, all evening long. But the only non-Thendals invited to this traditional celebration were sorcerers, ambassadors, and archpriests. Most of those had already taken their leave as the midnight hour had come and gone, and the overwhelming majority of the remaining guests were Thendal magi, Thendal nobility, Thendal rich, or all three. He wasn’t sure why Tabitha had been so strict with the guest list, but he suspected that it had more to do with the capacity of Natayl’s supper table than anything else. That could have been doubled if she had decided to forego the dancing and use both of the large ballrooms as dining rooms, but that, of course, had been out of the question. He had only made the suggestion because so many of the guests were magi, and magi so seldom danced. But the gloves that were part of traditional Thendal formal wear allowed the magi to avoid skin-to-skin contact, and they were dancing and enjoying themselves now as much as the non-magi were.
Graegor wished he could join them. Most of the Thendal dances were not much different from those he knew. But he had to stay off the floor because of an obscure Thendal custom which dictated that Tabitha, as the host, must dance at least once with every male in attendance, but also that Graegor, as her sole recognized suitor but not her husband or betrothed, could not ask any other girl to dance at this party.
“Not even your friends?” he had asked.
“Especially not my friends,” she had answered. Graegor didn’t know if that meant her friends disliked him, or liked him too much. He’d never been able to tell by talking to them. They all seemed to regard him as an awkward visitor.
He glanced behind him at the row of small tables set up against the back wall. His friend Logan sat at one with two other Academy students under a curl of tabac smoke, with goblets and dice and cards. The empty chair was Graegor’s, but he had sat there for the last hour and felt restless. He now stood close to the musicians, who were numerous and varied enough to be called an orchestra. Tabitha had gone to great lengths to ensure that everything at this party was bigger and better, from the twenty-course supper to the lavish hothouse flowers to the brand-new chandelier. That was why Graegor had to stay away from Ferogin; any unpleasantness would ruin the party, and he wasn’t going to do that after all her efforts.
But Ferogin and Koren were not standing very far away from him, and though Graegor’s eyes naturally lingered on Tabitha, his gaze returned to them often. Ferogin was talking at Koren, undeterred by the fact that she was facing forward without nodding or looking at him or giving him any encouragement whatsoever. Graegor could not see her face—only the edge of her profile—but he thought her jaw might be clenched. Her Thendal cap and veil were white with black ribbons, and the high waist of her white dress was cinched with a wide black sash. She didn’t look very different to him, but he’d never seen Ferogin pay such avid attention to her.
Lord Pascin had already left, which made this more difficult. Graegor wouldn’t have hesitated to seek him out and ask him to rein in Ferogin, but he didn’t have a telepathic link with the elder Adelard sorcerer. Contare did, of course, but he and Josselin had also left the party to go to the beach house just after the epic poetry performances had finished. He had made a point of telling Graegor not to call to him until tomorrow, and it was likely Josselin had told Koren the same thing. He thought about asking Logan to interfere with Ferogin’s pursuit, but quickly decided against it. Logan wasn’t like Jeffrei—no one was like Jeffrei—and it would be really crass to ask him to do something that Graegor was unwilling to do himself just because of the reaction it might provoke in Tabitha.
A young Thendal magus approached Koren and began speaking, presumably asking her to dance, but Ferogin glared at him so hard that he withered back and fled before Koren could answer. Graegor could see the tension in her shoulders under the drape of her veil, and he wondered why she was still here. Contare had told him that Koren’s telepathy was so strong that the mental noise made by so many magi in an enclosed space grew overwhelming for her, so she left most large parties early if she could. She was the only Khenroxan here by now; was she afraid of insulting Tabitha if she left? Solstices were celebrated all over the world, so Tabitha had extended invitations to all the sorcerers, but without the expectation that any but L’Abbanists would attend. When Contare and Josselin, and then Pascin, had all taken their leave tonight, Tabitha hadn’t been offended. Why would Koren think Tabitha would mind if she did the same?
Ferogin suddenly leaned close to Koren and whispered in her ear. Koren didn’t move, but Graegor felt the deep green of her presence in his mind flare with sudden emotion. It was gone quickly, but Graegor was sure he had felt it, and he was sure that it had been fear. Whatever Ferogin had said, it had scared Koren enough that her mental shields had slipped.
What could frighten a sorceress?
What could sicken a sorceress? Koren had been sick at the Equinox celebrations, Contare had said. Were the two related? Did Ferogin know, and was taunting her?
At that repulsive thought, Graegor started moving through the crowd toward them, but halfway there, he hesitated. He usually made mistakes when he tried to anticipate what a girl would do, say, or feel, so it would probably be a good idea to make sure that Koren actually wanted him to intervene. He seldom tapped his telepathic link with her, since Tabitha didn’t like the fact that he even had one, but right now it was the least intrusive option. “Koren?”
She did not answer immediately, but when she did, no fear colored her courteous tone. “Yes?”
He went straight to the point. “Is Ferogin bothering you?”
Her courtesy twisted into disgust at Ferogin’s name. “He’s always a bother.” As with most telepaths—including himself, apparently—her mind-voice had much less of an accent than her speaking voice did, and her fluency in Mazespaak was better. “Like a giant wasp.”
He grinned. “Can I squish him?”
“Only if you can scrape him up from the floor afterward.”
“I won’t make a scene. I’
ll just start talking to him and you can slip away.”
“Away where?” she snapped, and then her presence in his mind blanked completely. Startled, Graegor looked past the magi milling between them, trying to see her, and even took another step in her direction before the link opened again, dark with embarrassed regret. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Girls were unpredictable, even the ones who were normally as easy to talk to as boys. He made his suggestion mildly. “I was thinking that you could join my table, take my seat. If Ferogin keeps bothering you, he’ll be bothering other guests too, and then I could tell Tabitha. She could ask Natayl to ask Pascin to tell Ferogin to stop being his horrible self.”
Koren paused. “Maybe,” she allowed.
“But you know that you can just leave if you want to, right? I’m sure Tabitha doesn’t expect everyone to stay all night.”
A complicated swirl of green pushed briefly against his mind, but Koren again swiftly snuffed it out before she sent any words. “No, I need to stay.”
He wanted to ask her why, but he didn’t think she would answer. “So, I’ll distract him, and you can go to my table. It’s the fourth in line from the musicians’ side.”
“No, it’s all right.”
He knew it wasn’t all right. He knew Ferogin had frightened her. But he didn’t want to say so and embarrass her any more than he already had. “But I really want to squish him,” he sent instead, like an eager child. “Please?”
After a moment, her edges softened. “Try to limit the splatter.”
“Hurroo, hurroo!” Graegor sent her a Khenroxan cheer as he started making his way through the magi again. He was a couple of paces away when Ferogin noticed him. The Adelard sorcerer gave him a warning look, but Graegor grinned broadly and walked right up to them.
“I’m surprised to see you still here,” he said to Ferogin, breaking Tabitha’s rule about not using Mazespaak at the party. The Thendalian phrases that she had taught him were not nearly advanced enough for this. “I heard that you find Thendal celebrations ‘dreary’. Maybe you should leave.”
“Is that some sort of threat?” Ferogin asked with a lifted eyebrow. “If so, you’ll need to shave that mange off your face before I can take you seriously.”
Without thinking about it, Graegor rubbed the bristles on his chin and jaw. He kept the beard short, and it didn’t itch as much anymore, but it still startled him whenever he looked in a mirror. “Sorry, I can’t. It’s the style around here. Besides, the lady likes it.”
“Not all of them.” Ferogin looked at Koren, who had eased a step away from him. “Koren, be honest. Do you think Graegor looks more like a buffalo or a goat?”
Koren frowned at him, and Graegor pulled Ferogin’s attention back with, “I don’t think you’re getting into the traditional Thendal spirit of the evening. If you’ll look around, you’ll see that all the men have beards.” Nearly all, at least. “Is it because you can’t grow one? Is that something else you can talk about but can’t do?”
Ferogin flicked his fingers at him. “Shoo, whisker-boy. I know you’re bored, but that’s not our fault. Take it up with your lady and leave me to mine.”
In the pause that followed as Graegor and Ferogin glared at each other, Koren took a step closer to them and said softly, “Don’t ever call me that.”
Ferogin ignored her. “There’s no such custom, you know.” He nodded at the dance floor. “Why don’t you ask Tabitha why she lied to you?”
There’s no such custom. A few people had given Graegor strange looks when he had told them why he wasn’t dancing. He’d thought he’d mistranslated the explanation. “I think it’s time you scuttled back under your rock.”
Ferogin lifted one eyebrow. “Or, I could tell Tabitha how valiantly you seek to protect another sorceress from my company.”
“I’d protect everyone on earth from your company if I could.”
Ferogin lowered his eyebrows, and Graegor could almost see a shadow settling over him. He knew he was thwarted. If he insisted on bothering Koren, Graegor would insist on bothering him. “Seriously?” Ferogin said, as if he could not quite believe it.
“Like you said, I’m bored.”
“You piece of shit.”
Graegor smiled maliciously. “Eat it.”
Ferogin sneered. “Eat this.”
A flash of pale purple light cracked through Graegor’s shields hard enough to snap his head. Pain jarred through him, and he lurched a step while everyone standing nearby scattered back. He tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth—he must have bitten his tongue. He pulled power into his shields as another flash burst from Ferogin’s hand, but Koren suddenly spread her arm, and the flash rebounded directly back at Ferogin. He stumbled, and by the look on his face, he had not expected his own power to hurt like that.
The music squealed and stopped. Graegor swallowed the blood, squared his stance, and met Ferogin’s glare. Koren stood beside Graegor, holding herself ready, but he could feel anxiety from her so intense that she should have been shaking with it.
“Graegor!” It was Tabitha, and she was quickly moving closer. “What are you doing?”
“STOP!” a voice boomed, and there was no mistaking that Thendalian word. Everyone turned toward the grand entrance to the ballroom. Sorcerer Natayl stood between the double doors, dressed all in black, his eyes like two spears pointed straight at Graegor.
Tabitha reached Graegor’s side in a flow of glittering white as Natayl marched toward them. “What happened?” she demanded silently as she put her gloved hand on his forearm.
Graegor didn’t know how to answer her, but he didn’t have time anyway. Natayl had arrived, and he loomed over them like a tower. His voice rumbled the Mazespaak words: “How dare you duel in my house!”
Ferogin bowed. “My most sincere apologies, my lord.”
Belatedly Graegor imitated the bow and started to explain, but Natayl cut him off. “In a room full of people! Are you insane?”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Graegor said. At his left, he could feel Tabitha’s confusion along the silvery lines of their bond. At his right, he could no longer sense Koren at all, but he did hear her swallow.
“I as well, my lord,” she said softly. “If—”
“Sorry?” Natayl bellowed at Graegor. “You’re sorry? You’re stupid! Tell me why I shouldn’t throw both of you out of my house right now!”
“You should,” Ferogin said with a grim smile. “Just tell us where to go to finish this.”
Frozen silence held the ballroom as every man and woman stared at the sorcerers with unconcealed fear. Natayl’s raptor eyes studied Ferogin. Tabitha’s hand clutched tighter on Graegor’s arm, and he liked it, but it was distracting. Something was happening here that he was missing, and that was never a comfortable feeling, especially when Ferogin was involved.
Natayl gestured sharply. “Come.” He turned and strode toward the door, and the black and white ranks of the guests who had filled the space behind him sliced apart again. Ferogin followed, and Tabitha kept hold of Graegor’s arm as they followed too, with Koren right behind the black fall of Tabitha’s long skirt.
“Were you dueling?” Tabitha sent.
“No.” Ferogin had hit him, and he’d had no chance to hit back, so it wasn’t a duel. But when Ferogin had asked Natayl where they could go to “finish this”, did he mean finish a duel?
And now Natayl wanted to speak to them privately …
It’s true, he realized. That’s where Contare was.
Contare had come home one night weeks ago waxen-faced with exhaustion, but had refused to give Graegor a single word about why. It seemed obvious now that he’d been fighting. Dueling. Dueling Natayl, if the rumors were right—rumors that Graegor had staunchly denied when he’d been asked.
Past the double doors, Natayl led them down and around lamplit corridors and corners before opening a door leading to a cozy room with comfortable chairs. It already had a fire burning, and
Natayl walked straight up to the hearth and glowered into the orange flames as the younger sorcerers filed in. The door shut itself behind them with a thump.
Natayl turned around, and when he saw Tabitha and Koren, his frown deepened, if that was possible. “Girls, please.”
Tabitha lifted her chin defiantly as she held Graegor’s arm, and Koren stood very still as she stared back at Natayl. Finally Natayl shook his head in disgust. “Fine. Stay. You.” He pointed to Ferogin. “Explain.”
Ferogin inclined his head politely. “I deployed a magnokinetic lash specifically targeted to Graegor’s shield pattern. Since it’s not a purely kinetic wave form, no one else was in danger.”
Natayl gave him a long, level look. “Thank you for the what,” he said sarcastically. “Now explain the why.”
Ferogin shrugged. “He finally pushed me too far. But, as I said, no one else was in danger. Deflection only sends it—”
“Merciful God, shut your mouth.” Natayl looked at Graegor. “Do you think you can tell me what happened? Succinctly?”
Succinctly. Graegor knew that Tabitha would not like this. “Koren wanted Ferogin to leave her alone, but he wasn’t listening to her. I joined them, and he hit me.”
Tabitha dropped her hand from Graegor’s arm. He didn’t need the contact to feel her anger. Koren said, “Graegor was only trying to—”
“It was none of your business,” Ferogin told Graegor.
“‘Twas mine!” Koren nearly shouted. Her face was red, and her fists were clenched at her sides, but she held herself very straight and still as she spoke more softly, looking directly at Ferogin. “I didn’t want to dance with you again, and I didn’t want to leave with you. I said ‘no thank you’ over and over. I was polite because I didn’t want to make a scene.” She turned to Tabitha and added, “I’m sorry.”
Natayl snorted. “So you called in reinforcements?”
“No,” Graegor answered before Koren could. “I saw that he wouldn’t leave her alone, so I went and talked to him. That’s all.” He looked at Tabitha, but her eyes were fixed on Natayl and her mouth was set in a hard line. She had proven extremely sensitive about other girls getting anywhere near him.
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