by Sharon Shinn
“You would be instantly dead,” Halchon scoffed.
“But not before the blade went home.”
“I am not afraid of a King’s Rider,” Halchon said, swinging his attention back to Senneth. “Or a mystic with unreliable powers.”
Kirra found her voice and made it sound breezy. “But are you afraid to incur your hostess’s wrath? The dinner bell has sounded, and everyone else has gone in to eat.”
In fact, the room was only about half empty, as dozens of Mayva’s guests lingered to gawk at the little drama being played out at one end of the room. Mayva herself was one of them, standing at the door between the rooms, wringing her hands, and appearing to argue in a low voice with her husband. Kirra had no idea how long Lowell had stood beside Senneth, listening to her trade insults with Halchon Gisseltess. She had not noticed him leaving. She had had no attention for any but the principal players.
Halchon took his wife’s hand and laid it on his arm. “Indeed, yes, let us go in to dinner, Sabina,” he said. “Senneth. Casserah. I am sure I will have the pleasure of talking with both of you later. Perhaps you will each save me a dance tomorrow at the ball.”
“I won’t,” Kirra said.
“I don’t dance,” Senneth said.
He gave them both a savage smile. By the expression on Sabina’s face, his fingers had just tightened painfully over her hand. “Then we will have to content ourselves with more pleasant discourse,” he responded. “I will look forward to the hour.”
Finally, finally, he stepped away from them, trailed by the three other members of his party, who looked dazed and a little worried. Kirra blew out her breath in one long, unladylike whuffle and turned to share her astonishment with Senneth.
And found herself even more astonished. For there, in the middle of Nocklyn Towers, in full view of twenty or thirty exalted guests, the serramarra of Brassenthwaite had melted into the arms of a King’s Rider and was allowing him to hold her as if he was the only thing keeping her from dissolution. Kirra could not see Senneth’s face, buried against his black vest, but she could see Tayse’s. She turned silently away and walked alone across the width of the room.
CHAPTER 26
DINNER conversation was interesting, to say the least. Kirra had been set among a handful of high-ranking nobles, including marlords Rafe Storian and Martin Helven and their wives. Rafe, as usual, felt no qualms about speaking his mind.
“Casserah! By the Lady’s silver tears, what was that all about? Is that Halchon Gisseltess? I thought he was confined to his estates! Were you and that Brassenthwaite girl trying to arrest him in the name of the king?”
Before answering, Kirra spared a moment to savor his description of Senneth as that Brassenthwaite girl. “Well, no, but we did express surprise at seeing him here,” she replied. “What is Mayva about, to invite such a man to her house? The king will be gravely displeased.”
“It’s not Mayva. It’s her husband,” Martin said. He was a heavy, balding man whom Kirra had always considered both smart and likable, if a little too cautious to suit her impetuous style. “He’s Gisseltess kin. He probably extended the invitation.”
“Does it matter? He’s on Nocklyn land, and Nocklyn shall pay the price,” Kirra replied.
Clera Storian leaned forward and her topaz pendant swung forward just far enough to reveal her housemark. “But who cares about boring old Halchon Gisseltess,” she said. “Did you see? Senneth Brassenthwaite flung herself into the arms of a Rider! Is there a scandal brewing there?”
“Senneth Brassenthwaite,” Martin repeated. “I haven’t seen her since—she could only have been a child. Who could ever have predicted she would—well. She’s led a strange life, has she not?”
“Missing for close to twenty years!” Clera exclaimed. “And she comes back and turns out to be some kind of strange mystic—and you just know her poor father must be cursing in his grave—and now she’s consorting with soldiers? With common men? Kiernan will have to lock her up! Or she’ll destroy the reputation of Brassenthwaite.”
Kirra toyed with the stem of her glass and tried to decide how much Casserah would say. For herself, she wanted to throw the water in Clera’s smug face and stalk to a different table. But she kept her voice cool, even uninterested. “It’s difficult to lock Senneth up someplace she doesn’t want to stay,” she said. “And I don’t think Kiernan feels like trying. Go ahead and ostracize Senneth if you like—she won’t mind. She’s only here to protect Amalie. She doesn’t care for approval from—from anyone, really. Certainly not from the Twelve Houses.”
“But Casserah,” Clera said urgently. “A King’s Rider? And a serramarra? Even if she is the most disreputable serramarra in the history of the realm?”
Kirra’s fingers tightened on the glass, and then she took her hand and folded it in her lap. “The most amazing serramarra in the history of the realm,” she said. “My father and the king honor her highly. You might choose to remember that.”
Rafe Storian shook his head. “And yet these are perilous times for the king himself,” he said, lowering his voice and looking around. “I am happy to see his daughter here with us tonight, but I have to wonder: Is that enough to quiet the doubters? What happens next?”
Fortunately, the uneasy state of politics interested everyone—except Clera Storian—as much as Senneth’s breach of propriety, so talk turned to other topics. Kirra listened, but when she heard nothing new in their prattle and gossip, she let her attention wander to the other diners. Yes, a good number of them appeared to be whispering together and then cutting their eyes in Senneth’s direction, their faces showing shock and dismay. A few of them looked between Senneth and Amalie, then whispered some more. It didn’t take much imagination to guess those conversations: Can a woman with so little judgment be trusted to guard the princess?
A few—only a few—seemed more amazed by the appearance of Halchon Gisseltess in their midst than in the inappropriate behavior of a serramarra. Most of the people present were from the southern Houses, of course, and all of them had a long history of flouting the king, at least on minor matters. They were probably amused that Halchon had disobeyed an injunction. Many of them would probably head to his side tonight and ask after his health and perhaps make a deal or two. . . .
Possibly an hour of the dinner had elapsed before Kirra allowed herself to look for Romar Brendyn and try to assess his reaction. She always put some effort into not looking for Romar, but inevitably, before any meal or ball was ended, she had located him in the assembly. Tonight, he was seated between Amalie and Mayva, with Valri and a handful of other notables at his table. His face was thunderous. Kirra could see Mayva’s mouth moving very fast as she attempted to either distract him or convince him that she had meant no treason. Lowell, sitting at the opposite end of the table, watched his wife with a closed expression and did not appear to be making any attempt at conversation with the women seated beside him.
Kirra wondered if Romar could order the king’s guards now accompanying Amalie to escort Halchon back to Gisseltess. But even if he could, she thought he probably would not. Amalie’s safety was more important than Halchon’s disobedience. And they had ample reasons to worry about Amalie’s safety. . . .
She looked a little longer before she found Senneth, sitting so quietly at her own table that she had almost managed to disappear. The lords and ladies who’d been seated next to the erring serramarra all wore the careful expressions of people attempting not to appear outraged. While she watched, though, Kirra saw no one turn to speak to Senneth, even to offer her a plate of bread.
For a serramarra who cared for the goodwill of her fellows, it appeared to be the gravest offense in the world to show public affection for someone outside the nobility. Kirra had never thought she would be able to do it. To love a soldier or a smithy or a serf—to be cast out of society forever—would she have the courage? She chafed at the responsibilities of noblesse oblige, and her magic put her on the very edge of respectability
for virtually everyone in this room, but so far they had all continued to accept her, to allow her to step into their houses and sit at their tables. But if she were to marry a poor man, a tenant farmer, a tavernkeeper’s son, she might never be permitted to cross these thresholds again. Could she throw so much away for love? Did her place in society matter to her so little that she would never rue her bargain?
Was any love so great that it was worth ruining a life for? Was she capable of a love that grand?
Her eyes went back to Romar. Not a serf, of course, but just as ineligible in his own way. But, oh, so attractive in every other! For so many reasons, she would be a fool to fall in love with him—more foolish than Senneth had been to fall in love with Tayse. But she did not know, in this case, if she would be able to govern her heart. The consequences would not include banishment from her social circle, but she suspected they would be even more devastating in their own way.
She was better off avoiding love completely. She did not seem capable of making intelligent choices.
“What would your father say, Casserah?” Rafe Storian was asking her. She had absolutely no idea what conversation had gone on around her while she had sat there thinking of impossible lovers.
But she smiled anyway and picked up her fork. “No one ever knows what my father would say,” she replied. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
AFTER the meal, they were all shuffled into yet another adjoining room to indulge in the arts. Mayva had imported a trio of very fine musicians who played complex and accomplished pieces on a variety of instruments while the guests circulated around the room admiring a collection of paintings and statues. Between musical numbers, a plainly dressed young woman stood on a small stage and recited rather grim poetry. Kirra thought Mayva got points for creativity at her little soiree, but she still didn’t enjoy the evening. From the expressions on the faces of the people near her, no one else did, either.
She was making desultory conversation with the people who showed any interest in speaking with her, and wishing she had Senneth’s knack of vanishing, when Romar Brendyn caught her attention again. Or maybe she was looking for him, even though she was pretending she wasn’t. But she saw him turn politely away from one discussion, place a wineglass on a servant’s tray, and step to one side as if to engage someone else in conversation. And then he stepped beyond that group and beyond the next likely group and so made his way by gradual stages to the wall and then the servants’ entrance. With one quick backward glance, he slipped out the door and disappeared.
On the instant, Kirra decided to follow him.
She made her way with equal circumspection to the exit and glided through. The hallway was dark, as no one wasted much illumination on servants, but it was pretty easy to tell where he had gone. Ahead and to her left was a door that led to the kitchens and the sound of women arguing; the door across from it appeared to open onto the gardens. Romar had no doubt gone outside, making his nightly escape from the close and disagreeable company of the gathered nobles.
Kirra stepped through the side door and found herself in a vegetable garden, surrounded by the pungent smell of ripening tomatoes and tall, ghostly stalks of corn. Romar was nowhere in sight. She hurried through the neatly kept rows and pushed past a tall wooden gate, still swinging as if someone had just walked through. She was far enough from the house now that no light from the windows lit her way, and the fragment of moon overhead was not much help. Was that a man’s shape twenty yards in front of her, moving purposefully away from the house? Or was that just the shadow of a shadow, some odd condensation of darkness, and nothing she cared about?
But she was only a few minutes behind him. He could not have gotten far. She was taken by the notion that he had come out here for some sort of rendezvous, and not just for his usual evening constitutional. With whom could he be meeting? Mayva’s husband, Lowell, to deliver in private a furious condemnation of his lapse of judgment? Rafe Storian, to discuss how one of the middle Houses intended to show its fealty to the throne?
One of the lovely young women with soft black hair and creamy white skin who didn’t mind Romar’s brusque manners because she was enchanted with his blond hair and quick smile?
He didn’t seem like the sort of man for idle dalliance. But, of course, Kirra knew better.
She could not help herself. She had to know. She stood for a moment, hands down at her sides, concentrating, feeling her muscles soften and shift, feeling her bones grow hollow and light. Her clothes melted away. Her skin was coated with feathers. When she opened her eyes, she was a snowy owl, and she could see everything.
Lifting off silently, she cruised low to the ground, following the direction of that mysterious shadow. It didn’t take very long to catch up and discover that it was indeed Romar, moving steadily toward what was undoubtedly an appointment of some sort. Soon enough, he left the manicured grounds most closely surrounding the manor and veered off toward a wooded area on the back end of the property. Kirra grew more cheerful as she decided no gently bred serramarra would follow him this far, on foot, at night, just to flirt by moonlight. If he was meeting someone, it was another man.
Indeed, once she followed him into the stand of woods, where it was even darker, she caught the first rumbling sound of male voices. She flew ahead, dodging outflung branches and trailing vines, to find a small convocation gathered around a tiny fire. Ten or eleven men, it looked like, none of them easy to see in the uncertain light. From what she could determine, three were wearing fine silks and a variety of small gems; they were lords of some degree and had probably been eating dinner two tables over from her earlier in the evening. The other six were more plainly dressed in darker colors with flatter textures. She wondered if they had entered the compound in stealth, without passing the checkpoint at the gate. Not too reassuring, if such a maneuver was easily accomplished. She listened to their low conversation and realized that all the accents were those of cultivated men.
Romar was coming to an impromptu meeting with members of the Thirteenth House.
Kirra settled soundlessly on a convenient tree limb a few moments before one of the lords spotted Romar. “I see someone. Do you think that’s the regent?” And then, more sharply, “My lord? Is that you?”
“It is Romar Brendyn,” he said, not hesitating to identify himself as he stepped out of the dark overhang of the woods into the firelit clearing. “I have come as you asked.”
What a fool, Kirra thought, even as she admired him for his courage. This was a man who had been abducted while close to his own lands, attacked while the guest of a prominent noblewoman, and only spared by unforeseen circumstance from the fate of being burned alive in a wayside inn. And yet, solitary and unafraid, he attended a secret conference in an unguarded place attended by men he probably could not name. She was astonished he had lived so long. It seemed impossible he would survive his tenure as regent.
The very thought made her small heart cold. She shifted on her perch, trying to hear every word.
“We are all busy and expected elsewhere,” said one man in a brisk voice. Kirra thought it came from one of the more well-dressed participants—no doubt one of Mayva’s most favored vassals accorded the high privilege of being invited to the ball. “Let us get straight to the point.”
“I am listening,” said Romar.
“What can you offer the lesser nobility, as our patrons choose to call us?” said another voice, teasingly familiar. The speaker was a dark, large shape that did not come near enough to the fire to be identified. He wore the plainer clothes that indicated he had not been among the revelers. “We are tired of being judged inferior. We want equal voice, equal honors. We want rights and powers that are given to our brothers and cousins of the Twelve Houses.”
“You would take lands away from their hereditary owners?” Romar asked.
“I would. They have held it long enough,” said another man, but other voices spoke over his.
“We would take nothing from a
nybody,” said the heavyset man. “But we want our own property, given to us outright and not to be disposed of at the whim of a marlord who might be small-minded or stupid or vindictive. Why should there not be twenty Houses instead of twelve? Some of us would be willing to consolidate. Others would intermarry. We ask for only an equal place with our brethren.”
“You realize I cannot guarantee such a thing,” Romar said. “I can promise to carry your request to the king. I can promise to advocate for you if Amalie ascends the throne while I am regent. But I have no power to decree such a change.”
“You have the power to tell the king of our demands,” growled one of the men. “You can tell him of the trouble we will cause if he does not listen to us.”
Romar looked steadily into the darkness where the speaker stood. “I do not think you will get far with Baryn if you speak of ‘demands’ and ‘trouble,’ ” he said. “He is a reasonable man, and he expects others to act with civility.”
“We have been meek and civilized long enough,” said the heavyset man. “We are almost out of patience.”
