CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE REGENT’S BALL
The wind blew through the eucalyptus trees lining the lane that climbed up into the neighborhood of Highneck Rise. It moaned in the branches, wandering back and forth as if it were looking for something it could not find. Ronan hunched his shoulders as he walked along. The new coat he was wearing felt stiff around his neck. It chafed his skin. His hands felt cold and his mouth was dry, but that had nothing to do with his new clothing. A cat ran across the lane in front of him. It paused for a moment and stared at him before disappearing into the bushes along a wall.
“Good hunting,” said Ronan.
He rattled the two rings in his pocket and wondered how the prince of Harth had explained their loss to the regent or the court chamberlain or whoever it was that saw about such things. At any rate, it was not his concern. Lords and ladies and all that lot could go jump into the sea and be done with, for all he cared, though the prince was a superb swordsman. And a decent fellow, he had to admit that. The rest of them could go drown in the sea.
The sea.
Even if he never saw her again after tonight, the sea would always be there. All the more reason to go north to the Flessoray Islands. Life there was defined by the sea, outlined and delineated just as each island was hemmed about and held by the tide.
He turned down the Street of Willows and pushed through the gate outside the Galnes manor. Light shone in the kitchen window. A door opened and he could see the slim form of the girl.
Her.
The ancient sea.
“You’re hungry,” Liss said.
He said nothing.
“And it’s early yet. Come inside.”
The old cook was at the sink again, just like the first time he had been there. She turned and smiled. Her wrinkled skin seemed to waver in the light and he blinked, for he thought he saw a seal, one of the brown seals that were forever sunning on the rocks off the shore.
“I’ve made a nice casserole of leeks and eggs,” said the cook. “You’ll have to eat a great deal of it, as I don’t eat such things and my lady eats as delicately as a sandpiper fidgeting about the sand.”
“And what do you eat?” he asked.
“I haven’t fidgeted in five hundred years,” said Liss, but she smiled at the old cook.
“Fish, mostly,” said the cook, clattering dishes onto the table. “Now, eat.”
He ate, and it was good, as he knew it would be. Liss sat across from him and took three bites before laying her fork down.
“What, not tasty enough for you?” said the cook. “I’ll have you know I grew those leeks myself in the garden here.”
“Hush, Sanna,” said Liss. “Two bites would have satisfied me, but I took a third out of appreciation for you.”
He glanced up and found her gazing at him. Until that moment, he had not really looked at her. It was the melancholy of the day, perhaps, or the ache in his throat that had kept his eyes from her. Put off the moment, he thought dismally, and then it’ll never come. Then it’ll never be ended. Then it’ll never be past. I should’ve walked slower.
Liss wore a simple blue gown of a strange material that looked as if it had been woven of foam and water and slow, thick light. It floated around her wrists as though it moved on an invisible tide, and it lapped up around her white neck where it halted at a string of pearls. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a sheaf of heavy, glossy black. She was entirely beautiful and he could not be glad for such a thing, for it only made him more conscious of himself and the dull, tired pain that was him. He put down his fork.
“How shall you bring me into the castle, Ronan of Aum?” she said.
“That isn’t my name,” he said bitterly. “Just as Liss is not yours.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you call me Ronan?”
“You must take back who you are in your own time. There’s little of your past that I do not know. Remember, a drop of my blood flows in your veins.” She smiled slightly. “The sea is patient. It always returns to the land to see what might be found. Each grain of sand is known and counted, but the future is still of your choosing, even though for the rest of your life you shall feel the tide pulling you its way.” Her smile deepened.
He bowed his head.
“Two ward rings.”
The two rings spilled from his hand and clinked on the tabletop. Liss picked one up and gazed at it curiously. The ring was too big for her fingers but it settled snugly around her thumb.
“Wearing it will satisfy the wards guarding the castle that you’re not an intruder. The regent gives all such rings to his guests and to his servants. It’s similar to that—”
“Ah yes,” said Liss. “The other ring.”
“Which, in your possession, would’ve easily allowed you entrance to the castle without my assistance. Without this charade.” He was conscious of anger pricking at his thoughts. Resentment.
“Yes, I could have. Perhaps.” She smiled again and said nothing beyond that.
Liss wrapped herself in a dark cloak that extinguished the glimmer of her gown. Torchlight shone in the street beyond the wall. A horse whickered and the gate swung open under the hand of a bowing driver. The gilded shape of a carriage loomed past him. Ronan took Liss’s hand and helped her up the steps to her seat.
“A carriage.” She smiled at him. “It’s been a very long time.”
The driver called to his team, and then they were away as the horses broke into a trot. Moonlight shone in through the windows on either side. The silence and darkness of Highneck Rise slid by, all stone walls and gates and occasional lit windows seen from across the gardens and groves. The road wound higher and higher up through the night and, as they went, the manors grew larger and the walls grew higher. They did not speak as the carriage rolled along. The silence between them filled with the rolling clatter of the carriage wheels and the tattoo of the horses’ hooves. Beyond it, Ronan thought he could hear the low boom of the surf surging against the shore. He looked at Liss, but her eyes were closed.
After several minutes, the carriage eased to a halt as the lane turned into a wide drive that curved about a fountain. The door swung open and the driver bowed them out. Liss slipped one hand into Ronan’s arm. Water shot up from the mouth of an immense stone fish and splashed down into a pool. The falling water rippled with torchlight, and everywhere there was the liquid gleam of silks and satins as carriages rolled to a halt. The castle gates stood beyond the fountain. Lords and ladies drifted through the gates and past the ranks of Guardsmen standing at attention. The soldiers gazed with unblinking eyes through the nobility as if they were shadows—pleasant wraiths to be dismissed as daydreams. They looked past to the night itself, which seemed to have tiptoed as closely as possible to the windows of the castle as if it might peer inside to learn of balls and dancing and other such wonderments. At the end of the lane, the night plunged down to the city below. Lights glittered there like a thousand stars gleaming through a thousand holes pricked in a tapestry of darkness. The sky above was just the same.
“I’d forgotten the fountain,” said Liss. “How lovely.”
Ronan twisted the ring on his finger.
“Shall we?” he said.
There was one bad moment when they walked through the gate. Within the courtyard, and at the foot of the wide steps that led up to the castle doors, stood a small contingent of courtiers, smiling and bowing to the guests streaming up toward the castle. Ronan paused and Liss tightened her fingers on his arm.
“That man is the steward of the regent,” he said.
A short, squat man stood in the midst of the courtiers. He neither bowed nor smiled with the others but merely inclined his gray head politely to those who passed by. His eyes were watchful.
“His name’s Dreccan Gor and, though he’s the steward of Botrell, he’s also the advisor of the Silentman of the Thieves Guild. He’ll know me well.”
She said nothing, but merely pressed again
on his arm as if to urge him on. He could do nothing except walk forward. He wondered about the state of the regent’s dungeons. In his melancholy, he looked down at her shining hair and marveled that she seemed only a young girl, not even reaching his shoulder.
The courtiers bowed and smiled with all the elegance that comes from lives spent doing little else. They inspected Ronan’s clothes with sidelong glances. He could feel the pressure of Liss’s fingers on his arm. Dreccan Gor stood just past the courtiers. But then, out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw the question forming on the steward’s face. Liss glanced up at that moment—only for a second—and she smiled full at the steward. And then they were past and the steward was shaking his head as if he had just forgotten a pleasant dream. Ronan could smell the scent of the sea in the air.
“I shall not do that again, I hope,” Liss said quietly. “Power calls to power, and even the smallest gleam can bring attention. And bye and bye, it brings the contemplation of one unwanted.”
“Who would that be?”
She frowned. The tip of her tongue emerged as if to taste the air.
“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s one here, two perhaps. Possibly three. It is strange.”
They passed through the marble arch of the doors and into the castle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A FAMILIAR SCENT
Arodilac Bridd wandered down the corridor. Several footmen whisked past bearing platters. The aroma of roast beef floated behind them. Arodilac’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten dinner yet. Lunch had consisted of bread and cheese gobbled down as he trudged back to the castle after Guard duty. He smoothed his hands down the front of his white silk shirt and considered following the footmen to see where they would deposit the platters. But then he thought better of it, for at the far end of the corridor, just visible past a potted fern, was the profile of Bordeall. The old commander was standing with a goblet in hand and a scowl on his face. Beyond him, on the polished floor of the ballroom, couples floated by in blurs of every color imaginable, leaves of silk and satin blown by an invisible wind. They twirled and spun to the strains of an old Thulish air.
Arodilac absentmindedly hummed the song and tried to figure out why he felt guilty. The problem was, at this age, he always felt somewhat guilty. But there was something specific he had forgotten. Perhaps it hadn’t been important. Still, it might be wiser to stay out of Bordeall’s sight until he remembered what it was.
Now, what had the song been about? Something about coming home after the war? No. Not coming home after the war—that was it. He remembered it now. Most Thulish songs were melancholy like that, but hardly anyone remembered the words anymore. When he had been a child, his governess had been from Thule. She had loved to sing.
The words sprang into his mind. He could almost hear her wispy old voice.
You’ll nae find me, my love, for I’ve left thee a’ home.
You’ll nae find me, my love, for my bed’s laid alone.
Bide thee, my love, thy heart an’ thee
For I’ve ridden to war, my brothers an’ me.
You’ll nae find me, my love, for I’ve left thee a’ home.
You’ll nae find me, my love, for my bed’s laid alone.
Sleep thee, my love, thy heart an’ thee
Sleep thee by moonlight an’ sleep thee by sea.
You’ll nae find me, my love, for I’ve left thee a’ home.
You’ll nae find me, my love, for my bed’s laid alone.
An’ if ye would wake an’ if ye would search
Ye’ll find me my bed laid under the turf.
Arodilac frowned. What a dreary song. It was all well to ride away to war, but it would also be nice to ride back from war. And it would be doubly nice to ride back home to be greeted by a wife and children all standing at the door. Liss and their three sons. Perhaps a daughter or two might be nice as well.
Arodilac sighed.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder and he jumped.
“Bridd,” said a voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”
It was Bordeall. The old man tossed off the last of his wine and then, without even looking, reached behind him and placed his goblet on the platter of a passing footman. He surveyed Arodilac grimly.
“Oh?” said Arodilac. He found himself unable to meet the commander’s eye.
“Back early, aren’t you?”
“The watch changed at the gate and I came right up here. There’s the ball on, you know.”
“I’d noticed,” said the other.
“After all, I’m the regent’s heir.” Arodilac warmed to the sound of his own words. The regent’s heir had social obligations, didn’t he? “It’s my duty to dance at the ball.”
“If you came straight away here after your watch, then you didn’t have time to stop in on Lady Gawinn and the child, did you now?”
“Uh, no.”
“That’s your duty, not this damn fool ball.”
“But—”
“Get going.”
Arodilac hurried through the halls. Of all the days to forget. He had never forgotten before. It wasn’t fair. By the time he walked all the way down to the Gawinn house, made some polite talk with Lady Gawinn—all women talked overly long—and then returned to the castle, more than an hour of the ball would be lost. Bother it all!
He skidded to a halt. Hang walking. He’d take a horse. Yes! The two-year old he’d had his eye on ever since Uncle had purchased the horse last spring. A splendid black with a bright brown eye and a high step. There’d be some fun in the evening yet. He whirled and ran straight into an unyielding body.
“Steady on, young Bridd,” said someone, laughing.
“L-lord Gifernes,” he stammered. “I didn’t see you. I’m sorry.”
“No apologies necessary.”
The duke of Mizra stood smiling in the middle of the hall.
“In a hurry for the ball, no doubt?” he said.
“Um, no. I have to see about a—a girl. Just off to the stables now to get myself a mount.”
“Aha—women.” The duke drew closer and lowered his voice in a confiding manner. “Between you and me, that’s one of the main reasons I’ve come to Hearne. High time to find that certain someone, don’t you know.”
Arodilac thought of Liss and tried to look as if he did know, but then ruined the effect by ducking his head and grinning foolishly.
“Um,” he said.
The duke clapped him on the shoulder.
“I won’t detain you any longer. I know how it is. The impatience, the sleepless nights, the waning appetite. Why, I remember when I was your age, I spent a whole month trying to—”
“Milord.”
The voice came from behind the duke. It was an odd sort of voice—flat and insubstantial as if the speaker was holding his breath while he spoke so that someone—something—sleeping would not be woken by his words. A tall, thin man stood there. At his feet sat a large dog. Arodilac blinked. How odd that he hadn’t seen them until the man had spoken. One of the duke’s servants, no doubt. The man was dressed in black, relieved at the collar and the wrists with scarlet. His face was pale as if he did not spend much time in the sunlight. The man’s eyes were flat and black. They passed incuriously over Arodilac and then settled on the duke.
“Milord, shall I return Holdfast to the stables? He has not had his supper yet and he grows hungry.”
“Eh?” The duke turned. “Oh, of course. Didn’t even hear you, Cearu, creeping up like that. Yes, take him away for his bones.” He smiled at Arodilac. “Can’t have the beast roaming about the castle now, can we? He’ll be begging tidbits from your uncle’s guests and tripping up the dancing.”
The dog yawned and revealed a mouthful of yellowing fangs. Arodilac had never seen a dog less likely to be begging tidbits. If anything, the brute would take its tidbits by force.
“Go on,” said the duke. “He won’t bite.”
Arodilac carefully patted the dog on i
ts head. It sniffed at his hand and then suddenly backed away until it ran into the servant’s legs. The hound sat down and stared up at Arodilac.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir,” said Arodilac, “I’ll be off then.”
“Best of luck with your lady. I’m off to pay court to one myself. Luck to both of us!”
As Arodilac had hoped, the black was in his stall. The horse blew down his neck and stamped its hoof lightly as he cinched the saddle down. A sleepy groom stumbled up, yawning and knuckling his eyes, but Arodilac waved him away.
For some reason, the horse shied when they clattered out into the yard, but it was a well-broken horse and quickly settled down. The tap of its hooves echoed off the castle wall. Arodilac glanced back uneasily and thought he saw something in the shadow of the stable door. It almost looked like a dog. A large dog. Or maybe it was just a sack of oats leaning against the wall.
The soldiers at the castle gate saluted as he rode through, as befitted the nephew and heir of the regent, but they grinned as they did and the salutes were sloppy, for they all served alongside him. He wasn’t the regent’s heir to them; he was just the youngest lad in the Guard and an easy target for the worst duties like scouring armor and mucking out the Guard stable.
The night was chillier than Arodilac had thought, particularly with the black trotting along at such a pace. He shivered in his silk shirt and wondered if, when he returned to the castle, he would smell so strongly of horse that no lady would want to dance with him.
Liss.
He sighed and then settled himself comfortably in the saddle to examine his memories of her, like a miser mooning over a handful of coins. It was odd, but he couldn’t remember what color her eyes were. Had they been gray? Perhaps blue. Maybe green. Green went nicely with blonde hair. She did have blonde hair, didn’t she?
Beneath him, the black two-year-old snorted as if in disagreement. What did hair color or eye color matter? Could the girl run as fast as the wind? But Arodilac did not know the speech of animals, and horse and rider pounded along down the dark streets of Highneck Rise toward the house of Owain Gawinn in friendly and unwitting disagreement. Arodilac was ignorant of the horse’s opinions, and the horse, while convinced of the preeminence of such things as speed and four strong legs, might have revised its view if it had known who Liss Galnes was, for even horses dream of the sea.
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