“You’re just jealous because we can’t afford it,” said Chaudre, his friendly bearing never fading.
“Quiet,” she snapped.
One did not advertise their lack of wealth, even if it was well known.
“I must beg Lady Camdon to bring you with her on her next visit,” he said.
“I would be pleased to see your home, my lord,” Mariyah told him.
His wife tugged at his arm. “Come, Chaudre. I’ll not be seen conversing with servants.”
Mariyah struggled to contain her amusement. Speaking to household servants was looked upon as poor taste. However, she was Lady Camdon’s personal assistant. This position gave her special status. She could speak to whomever she wanted and do so freely. In a sense, her role was to be the voice of her mistress, and most treated her as any other guest. Some even went out of their way to catch her attention and would often prattle on endlessly about the goings-on of their family, sneaking in a few rumors and innuendos here and there about other nobles that they hoped would reach Lady Camdon’s ear.
In ones and twos, the guests continued to file in. Eventually a bell sounded, indicating that the final guest had arrived. This was Lord Landon Valmore. Dressed in an emerald-green thigh-length coat, together with a black open-necked shirt and fitted trousers, he looked every bit the youthful and vigorous noble. A green ribbon at the back of the head was neatly tied around his hair, the blond curls spilling out from this to just above his waist. His striking brown eyes and angular features, not to mention a strong build, were certainly the cause of many a young lady’s swooning heart. After tossing a silver-capped walking stick over to Marison, he flashed a bright smile in Mariyah’s direction.
“I see Loria has you greeting the riffraff again,” he said cheerfully.
“I wait only to see you, my lord,” she responded.
He gave a long sweeping bow. “Then I am shamed for making you wait, my lady.”
Valmore was the only noble who called her “my lady.”
He held out his arm. “If it pleases you, the bell has tolled. I would steal a dance before your mistress arrives.”
Mariyah smiled, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. “You know Lady Camdon would not approve.”
“You can tell her that I insisted. Or that you were merely accommodating the desperate pleas of a guest. Unless of course, you would prefer to decline.”
Mariyah took his arm. “No, my lord. I would be quite pleased to dance.”
She could practically feel the eyes upon them as they entered the ballroom. It was one thing to converse with a servant; quite another to dance openly with one. But Lord Valmore seemed to care nothing for what others thought or said. And given that he was nearly as wealthy as Lady Camdon herself, no one would dare say a word; certainly not when he was within earshot.
The musicians were of good quality and playing a light melody with a moderate cadence. She was grateful it was not a slower tune that forced a close proximity. Tongues would definitely wag if people saw her wrapped tightly in the arms of Lord Valmore.
“Do you enjoy your life here?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord. Very much.” He was a confident dancer, guiding her effortlessly around the floor.
He gave her a scolding look. “Must I repeat myself every time I see you? My name is Landon. Will you not honor me with familiarity?”
“It would not be proper, my lord.”
“Do I seem proper to you?”
This drew a smile. “No … Landon. You do not.”
“That’s better. I was beginning to think we were not friends.”
Her eyes surveyed the room as he spun her left, taking note of the guests as they tried to pretend not to be watching. She still found it odd how nobles made up their faces, men and women alike—though with the men it was centered around accentuating the eyes. Landon did this as well, but in a subtler way, where you were unsure that he had done anything at all unless you looked close enough.
She saw a few lustful stares pointed in her direction, taking note of each one. She had received a number of unwanted advances, but Lady Camdon had explained it away as being forbidden fruit. Mariyah was unattainable, which fueled their desires all the more. But it could be used as leverage if handled properly—a way to gain information, though Lady Camdon felt blackmail to be something only to be employed as a last resort. And she would never ask Mariyah to bed someone; that much she’d made sure was understood from the onset.
Lord Valmore was different, however. He often remarked on her beauty, yet never once did he suggest that they be anything other than friends.
“The man who captures your heart will be the envy of the world,” he said. “A shame the closed-minded fools of society will not allow it to be me.”
Mariyah smiled playfully. “A pity. But alas, I am a servant and you a lord.”
“Alas,” he agreed.
In another life, she thought, perhaps she would have considered it. But kind and charming as Lord Valmore was, her heart remained with Lem. She still dreamed of seeing him again, even though she knew this would never happen. Lem had no way of knowing what had become of her. As far as he was aware, she was still at home in Vylari.
For a moment, Valmore’s eyes captured hers. Yes. In another life, she could imagine allowing herself to feel love again. Not with this man, though. Even if one day her heart mended, he was from Ralmarstad. And that was where it ended.
“What is his name?” he asked. “The one you’re thinking of now?”
The question ruffled her for a moment. “Am I so transparent?”
“No. But I can see the pain behind your eyes. Who is he?”
“His name is Lem,” she confessed. It felt oddly soothing to tell him.
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“I see. Perhaps one day you will see him again.”
She forced a smile. “No. He is gone forever.”
“You never know what the future holds. If he lives, there is always hope.” The music stopped, though he did not make any attempt to step away. “Fate often provides the things we need, even when we are denied the things we want.”
It was Mariyah who moved back and curtsied. Valmore bowed in return, a kindly yet boyish smile on his lips. She silently admonished herself for the attraction she was feeling. Her life was not as such to allow for affairs of the heart. Besides, even if it were possible to ignore the fact that he was from Ralmarstad, he was also a noble. Most likely his words were nothing more than false adulation designed to put her off guard.
She spotted Lady Camdon looking over at them from the edge of the dance floor, clearly displeased. Valmore saw her as well.
“Oh, dear,” he said with exaggerated apprehension. “I think I’m about to be scolded. Best get it over with.”
Lady Camdon was standing near a trio of young men, all of them doing their best to start up a conversation with her. In spite of their intentions, on seeing Valmore approaching, they backed away as inconspicuously as they could manage.
“My lady!” he said, kissing her hand. “You are as lovely as ever.”
She responded with a tightly formed smile. “If you must insist on flirting with my assistant, please be discreet, Landon.”
“My deepest apologies. But the musicians were playing my favorite song, and Mariyah was kind enough to oblige my impulse.”
“So long as it is the only impulse you need obliged.”
Valmore laughed. “Beauty and sharp wit. How is it you have not wed?”
“I could ask the same of you. Surely you have better prospects than my assistant.”
“Sadly, no. A bachelor for life seems to be my destiny.”
She turned to Mariyah. “If you will excuse us, I have a private matter I wish to discuss with Lord Valmore.”
Mariyah lowered her eyes submissively. “Of course, my lady.”
Valmore flashed her another smile as she left. She enjoyed that he could match Lady Camdon in wit. He wa
s the only noble she had seen get the best of her in an exchange.
For most of the evening, Mariyah darted from one conversation to another. And as the night wore on and the wine flowed, tongues loosened and secrets began to spill out. She identified three more nobles she was sure had been compromised by Belkar’s followers, plus two others whom she suspected might be.
Lord Valmore, last to arrive, was first to depart. Though he said nothing to Mariyah before leaving, he did make a point of bowing to her from across the room in full view of Lady Camdon.
After bidding Valmore farewell, the Lady stood beside Mariyah. “I hope you don’t fall prey to that scoundrel of a man,” she remarked.
Mariyah leaned in, as if revealing a secret. “Don’t worry, we’re just friends.”
“What have I told you? Nobles do not have friends. There are allies and foes. And both are nothing more than tools to be used,” she whispered, nodding so as to appear to be talking about something entirely different. “Do not be taken in.”
Mariyah gave a small nod of reluctant agreement. “I’ll remember.”
After the last guest departed, Mariyah felt as if she could sleep for a year. She had informed Lady Camdon earlier of the nobles she had discovered who were compromised, so there was nothing left to do but dive into bed and pray the whirlwind in her mind would calm long enough to close her eyes.
Back in her room, she found that Kylanda had laid out her favorite nightgown. The girl must have been there quite recently because a pot of tea she’d left on the nightstand was freshly made and still steaming. Quickly changing, she poured a cup and slipped into bed. Sitting up with her back supported by several pillows, she gently blew away the head of steam before taking a small sip. Ubanian black tea, her favorite. She could feel its soothing effects sifting into her tired muscles, clearing her mind of pressing thoughts. It was the one thing she could think of that was superior to that made in Vylari.
She had just placed the empty cup on the tray when there was a light knock at the door.
Mariyah groaned, knowing who it was. “Come in,” she called.
Kylanda peeked in, looking embarrassingly apologetic. “I am so sorry. I know you’re tired, but someone left this with Marison for you.” She was holding a small wooden box, highly polished and with a gold inlay around each corner.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the tea as well.”
The girl smiled, then handed her the box. “It’s my pleasure.”
Mariyah was relieved when she left without another word. Usually when she came to her room at night it was to plead for stories about Vylari. The others were eager to hear them too, but Kylanda was particularly enthusiastic, peppering her with questions after each tale until Mariyah was forced to ask her to leave just to get some sleep. Fortunately, tonight she could see that Mariyah was in no mood for conversation.
She regarded the box with only mild interest—another cheap bauble from a noble hoping to win her favor. It was useful, especially when the gift came from someone married. Lady Camdon could use it as leverage, should the need arise.
She caught her breath, covering her mouth upon opening the lid. This was no trinket bought in haste or pilfered from a wife’s collection of costume jewelry, the like of which most noblewomen wore at social functions. This was something truly spectacular.
The diamond was as large as a dove’s egg, its facets cut by a master’s hand so to capture the light in such a way that it revealed the inner beauty of the stone, sending delicate rays of brilliance radiating from its center. The stone was set into a gold cradle that had been fashioned into an eagle’s claw. Mariyah held it up on an impossibly thin gold chain and allowed it to slowly turn. Pinpricks of multicolored lights covered her blanket and darted across the walls.
This must have cost a fortune, she thought, unable to take her eyes off the gift. She put it on and ran over to the dresser mirror. Who could have bought this? And why? Only one name came to mind. But that was ridiculous. Lord Valmore would never be so bold. Or would he? But … who else could it be? Only a few nobles had the wealth to purchase such a gift, and he was definitely among them.
She considered showing it to Lady Camdon right away, then thought better of it. She might insist it be returned, and that would only provoke an argument. Right now, Mariyah was far too weary for a confrontation. She would have to tell her, but it could wait until the morning. Either way, she was keeping it. Its value in gold alone could enable her to free a dozen or more people.
After placing the necklace inside the box, she climbed back into bed. If it did turn out to be Valmore who’d sent it, what would he want in return? He was unmarried and cared little about the opinion of others. There was no note with the gift, but there never was. Marison was always the one to whom such things were initially given. He would know who had left it.
In a way, she hoped it was Valmore. At least then there was the possibility it was nothing more than a simple gift to a friend. And that’s all he was to her: a friend.
Much as she kept telling herself this, the smile on her lips as she settled down to sleep suggested that maybe things were not quite as straightforward as she wanted to believe.
22
A FOOL’S PARADISE
The death bringer. The harbinger of justice. His hand holds the wrath of Kylor.
Passage from Children of the Ages—author unknown
Lem had not spoken a word in many days. There was no one to talk to. His mind had arrived at a place of calm acceptance; the walls of the six-foot square cell deep in the bowels of the Temple were to be his final home. With a pile of straw for a bed, a bucket for bodily functions, and a barred window that looked into the empty adjoining cell, it could be worse. If nothing else, the straw kept his back away from the cold slate floor at night. It was fitting accommodations for an assassin, he considered. And soon he would meet an assassin’s end.
The first two weeks of imprisonment had been exhausting. Two women accompanied by a giant of a man had interrogated him for hour after hour every day. Lem held nothing back. There was no point in doing otherwise; Farley would have told them all he knew in a vain attempt to save his own hide. The man accompanying the women was obviously there to mete out harsh punishment should he not be forthcoming. They needn’t have bothered. He was caught. He would die. Why take an avoidable beating in the process? He hoped Farley had been less cooperative. The thought of him beaten and weeping, begging for mercy, always drew a smile.
Eventually, however, the interrogations ended. They had what they needed, he guessed. No sense in wasting more time and energy. Lem had repeated himself dozens of times already. Short of recounting his childhood, he had absolutely nothing more he could tell them.
He often thought about the day he left home; the voice on the wind urging him to stay echoed constantly in his thoughts. If only he had listened, none of this would have happened. In spite of the prejudices, he would have found a way to survive. In time, perhaps the people of Vylari might have even learned to accept him for what he was. The stranger’s warning might have been a lie or a mistake. So far he had seen no evidence of the destruction he had been warned of.
He sometimes considered what might have happened if he had been able to find the Thaumas. Could they have helped him? He should have tried harder, been relentless in his search, but freeing Mariyah had overshadowed his fear of the stranger’s prophecy. He had naïvely thought he had more time.
Now it was too late, and these thoughts served only to fuel his self-loathing. His choices had doomed the two people in the world for whom he cared the most. How could he not have anticipated that they would come after him? Of course they were going to. He would have done exactly the same thing.
Stuck as he was in the semidarkness and alone, time ceased to have meaning. It could be measured only by the meals pushed through the slot in his door and whenever the waste bucket was exchanged. Even the smell didn’t bother him after … however long it had been. Not so long, surely. He almost m
issed the interrogations. It was a better way to keep track of time, and the interrogators were not as cruel as he’d expected. Certainly not friendly, but they were the only company he had. People were not meant to live in seclusion.
The groan of the door’s hinges had him sitting up as two guards entered, one holding a set of manacles.
It was time.
He had promised himself that he would not die weeping and begging, but he could feel his resolve sifting away. In that moment, every tiny measure of life became precious. All he could think about was how to extend it for as long as possible.
“On your feet,” he was commanded.
Lem tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey. Not that this was going to delay matters. The largest of the guards quickly seized his arm and snatched him upright.
Once his hands were secured, he was shoved outside the cell and into a long narrow corridor. He was filthy. The thought of dying while covered in grime was suddenly detestable, though no one else was liable to care about his feelings on this. Who cared about the feelings of an assassin?
After being led past the other cells, he was taken into a small chamber. On the floor was a washbasin, a fresh set of pants, and a clean shirt.
“Get washed and changed,” the guard ordered, removing his bindings.
Lem let out a spontaneous laugh. Was it really a last wish granted? He waited until both guards had left the room before stripping the foul-smelling rags from his body. The water was pleasingly warm, an unexpected but welcome kindness. Once clean and dressed, he sat down in the corner, taking care to first brush away the dirt from the floor with his old clothes. No need to rush.
After a few minutes, the guards returned, and his hands were shackled once again. This time, they pulled a cloth bag over his head. It was dusty and smelled of onions, prompting a short sneezing fit. He was then led by the arm back into the corridor and, after several turns, guided up a flight of stairs.
What was the point of a bag? he wondered. Whatever he saw would quickly be forgotten. The dead remember nothing. Was it some petty cruelty? A way to stoke his anxiety? If so, it wasn’t working. With each stride he took, the weakness he’d experienced only a short time ago was dissipating, and in its place came a tranquil acquiescence. He was prepared. He would not weep or beg. They would force him to his knees, place his head on a block, and in an abrupt moment of violence it would be over. The axeman’s blade would end this nightmare at last.
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