“Those…those things.” Shiv licked his lips. “Your demons. Call them off or I’ll cut you. I’ll kill you, I swear. I got nothing to lose.”
“You’re talking about those…those monsters?” Han asked, his mind clearing. “I can’t call them off. I don’t even know what they are.”
“So it’s coincidence, is it, that we beat you up in the street, and right after, they come hunting me?” Shiv tried to sneer, but sneering’s not easy when you’re as scared as Shiv seemed to be.
Han shook his head. It was like the Maker’s hand was pointing at him all the time. He’s the one. Blame him.
“I don’t know who they are,” Han said, lowering his voice. “I just ran into three of them, north of here.”
“And you come out of it alive?” Shiv forced a laugh. “Fought ’em off, did you?”
Han just shook his head wordlessly, keeping his eyes on Shiv’s blade, his hand on his own.
“I can kill you, you know,” Shiv said wildly, cutting the air with his knife. “I’m better’n you with a blade, one on one.”
Han knew Shiv was right, but he was not about to admit it. “I don’t want to fight anybody,” he said, and that was the absolute truth.
“Why would you? You got demons to do your fighting for you.” Shiv swung his head from side to side, as if the monsters might suddenly appear. “The Southies, they’ll turn on me, you know. Give me up to save themselves. There’s eight dead a’ready, and they…” His voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, as if he’d said more than he meant to.
Han regarded his enemy with more sympathy than he’d ever have imagined possible. “Maybe you should leave,” he suggested. “Hide out somewhere until things…cool off.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Shiv snarled, on the defensive again. “All of Southbridge under your lordship.” He raised his scarred hands, spreading his ringed fingers, indicating their surroundings. “I built this,” he said. “I fought for it. It’s my turf. Mine. I got no place else to go.” His voice actually broke at the end.
Han recalled the demon’s snakelike hiss, and shuddered. “There’s some things you can’t fight,” he said softly.
Shiv stared at him a moment, his eyes narrowed. “What is it about you? People can’t stop talking about you. Telling stories. It’s all I hear about. Cuffs Alister this, Cuffs Alister that. It’s like you’re golden.”
Han was speechless. Golden? He’d just faked his own death and was sneaking out of town with the Guard on his heels. He couldn’t even support his mam and little sister.
Shiv rattled on. “I need to know. How’d you do it? Conjure them demons? Did you sell your soul to the Breaker? Did you make some kind of…of deal?”
Shiv looked desperate to make a deal of his own.
Han was growing impatient, eager to bring this awful encounter to an end. “Look, it don’t matter how many ways you ask it; I got no idea what’s chasing you.”
Shiv stared at him defiantly for a long moment, then his body kind of settled, almost shrunk into itself. “All right. You win.” He took a deep breath, then fell to his knees in the streaming street. He looked very small amid the shadows of the buildings. Bowing his head, he extended his knife, hilt-first, toward Han.
“I, Shiv Connor, pledge fealty to Cuffs Alister as streetlord of Southbridge and Ragmarket. I…pledge my loyalty and my blades and weapons to his use and place myself under his protection. I promise to bring all takings to him and to accept my gang share from his hands as he sees fit. If I break my promise, let me be torn apart by…by…” Here his voice faltered.
If it was possible to feel more miserable, Han did. “I can’t protect you,” he said. “I’m sorry. My advice is to run.”
He left Shiv kneeling in the rain.
C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N
PARTY
WARFARE
There was a spate of name day parties in June, because most who shared Raisa’s birth year preferred to avoid competing with the princess heir’s festivities in July. Some, perhaps, hoped to secure matches before the stakes were raised by her entry into the marriage market, while the more optimistic among the boys might be saying, “Why not me for royal consort?”
The gifts still came thick and fast, and it gave Raisa a fierce pleasure to redirect them to her father and, through him, to the temple school. Not that it was easy. Queen Marianna was most displeased with her husband, following Raisa’s supposed “visit” to Demonai Camp. She made it clear that Averill was not welcome at court in all the various ways available to queens.
So even though her father was back in the Vale, Raisa didn’t see as much of him as she would have liked.
Would her own marriage be like this, Raisa wondered—this constant sparring, shifting alliances, hidden agendas, the gaining and losing of ground? She loved both of her strong-willed parents, but it wasn’t easy to be caught in the middle.
If Raisa had felt trapped before, she felt stifled now, the cage of expectations closing tightly around her. She was almost never alone, and there were always spies, servants, lords, and ladies ready to carry tales. Queen Marianna meant to make sure her headstrong daughter took no more unauthorized excursions.
Often Amon fell into the role of courier, ferrying messages and trade goods to Averill. Raisa worried about that, knowing she shouldn’t be encouraging the Queen’s Guard to go behind the queen’s back.
It set a poor precedent for when she came to the throne herself.
The queen even ordered Magret to sleep in Raisa’s room, which made it difficult for Raisa to meet Amon in the garden. She was able to slip out a few times, when Magret drank sherry for her aching bones and fell fast asleep. Once, though, Raisa emerged from the closet to find Magret awake and peering under the bed, looking for her lost charge. Raisa made up some story about drifting to sleep while fondling her new dancing shoes.
The only other name day party to rival Raisa’s in extravagance would be the one thrown by the Lord and Lady Bayar in honor of Micah and Fiona. The fusion of magical and political power, glamour, and hints of wickedness was not to be resisted. Parents used whatever influence they had to make sure their offspring were included. Those invited were ecstatic; those not so favored were socially ruined.
Lady Bayar issued word that all guests were to be attired in black and white, in honor of her striking children. Tears were shed, plans and wardrobes scrapped, homes were no doubt mortgaged, and every bit of black and white cloth in the Vale was snapped up.
Dressmakers and tailors were called in from all over the queendom, and silks and velvets ordered from Tamron Court and We’enhaven, despite the price gouging caused by the wars. It was whispered that the fabric for the Bayars’ clothing came from the Northern Isles, and had sorcery woven right into the cloth.
“What if I wore purple and green pantaloons,” Raisa said, as she submitted to the final fitting. “Do you think they’d bar the door against me?”
“Hold still,” Magret said, teeth gritted around the pins in her mouth. She stood on one side, the dressmaker on the other, pinning out the extra fullness in the hips. When they’d finished, the black dress fit like a second skin, and Raisa wondered if she’d ever be able to squirm in and out of it.
Secretly, Raisa was pleased with the fashion mandate. Approved colors for boys and girls on their name day were spun-sugar shades of blue, pink, and green. Black and white was deemed much too sophisticated for them.
She’d not been alone with Micah since their argument outside her room. They’d been at table together in the dining room, surrounded by courtiers, exchanging stiffly polite comments on the food and the weather.
He’d continued to ply her with small gifts, notes, and proposals, but she’d never responded. She often felt the pressure of his eyes across a crowded room.
Holding a grudge against Micah had grown tedious, though. She’d decided it was time to forgive him, in honor of his name day. Her heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again, of
sparring with him in conversation and the possibility of stolen kisses. Life was much more interesting with Micah Bayar in it.
She was also pleased because it would be another opportunity to see Amon. Though there was no love lost between Micah and Amon, the Bayars wouldn’t dare exclude the cadets.
Many of them were younger sons and daughters of the prominent nobility. Name day parties were a chance for them to connect with a fortune through marriage.
“Your Highness, it’s nearly time,” her comber complained. “And I need to get at your hair.”
Raisa backed onto a high stool and sat while her comber coaxed her hair into a cascade of ringlets pinned high on her head.
Raisa heard a commotion in the corridor outside her room; then the door flew open and the queen swept in, resplendent in white satin sashed in black, wearing a necklace of pearls and black onyx.
Queen Marianna walked all the way around Raisa, inspecting her from every angle, a small frown on her face. She poked disapprovingly at Elena’s battered ring, which hung on its chain above Raisa’s bodice. “You don’t mean to wear this.”
Raisa shrugged. “Well, I thought I…”
“What about the diamond pendant, Your Highness?” Magret said, rummaging through Raisa’s jewelry case. “Or your pearl choker, that’d be lovely.”
“What did the Bayars send for your name day?” Queen Marianna asked. “Jewelry, wasn’t it?”
“Here we are!” Magret pounced, seizing a velvet box. She opened it and turned it toward the queen. It was the emerald and ruby serpent necklace.
“Perfect!” Marianna said. “You can wear this in their honor.”
“Well,” Raisa said uncertainly. “Maybe I could wear both together.” She’d grown used to the weight of the ring settled between her breasts. She liked having it there.
“Nonsense,” Queen Marianna said. She lifted the chain over Raisa’s head and set Elena’s ring on the dressing table, then circled Raisa’s neck with the emerald pendant, fastening the clasp with cool, dry fingers.
“You look lovely, darling,” Queen Marianna said, kissing her on the forehead and slipping her arm through hers. “Now, let’s be off; your father and Mellony are already waiting in the carriage.”
There were times that Raisa thought all would be well between her parents if only her father’s work as a trader didn’t so often keep him away from the Vale. They complemented each other—he with his wiry, powerful build, wind-burned skin, brown eyes set under thick dark brows and silver hair, and she with her cool reserve and tall spare figure. He could always make her laugh, and the queen’s cares seemed to fall away when he was home. When he was home, she seemed grounded. When he was gone, she was like one of the aspens on the slope of Hanalea—swaying and trembling in the political winds.
Tonight Averill wore clan robes, long black and white panels of rough-spun silk replacing his usual brilliant colors, and heavy rings of silver and onyx on his hands.
The royal carriage was bracketed on all sides by the Queen’s Guard. Neither Amon nor Edon would be riding with them, since they were also guests.
A long line of carriages snaked up Old Road, which led up Gray Lady. Where the way broadened, other carriages pulled aside to let the Gray Wolf pass.
The Bayar estate nestled in the skirts of Gray Lady, named for a queen so ancient her name had been lost to the mists of time. Further up the mountain stood the Wizard Council house, frowning down on the city. From here wizards had once ruled the Vale.
The clatter of hooves on cobblestones said they’d arrived. The footmen swung open the double doors of the carriage and placed the steps. Averill emerged first, then turned to offer his arm to the queen.
The entire front of the Bayar mansion was ablaze with torches. Wizard lights pricked the darkness along the paths in the gardens and tangled in the trees, creating a fairyland. Servants in the Bayars’ Stooping Falcon livery clustered in the entries, collecting wraps and directing guests.
Lord and Lady Bayar waited in the entry hall, resplendent in black and white. Raisa and her mother entered together, as was protocol, with the consort and Princess Mellony trailing a few yards behind.
Lord Bayar swept down into a deep bow as his lady curtsied. “Your Majesty,” he said. “And Your Highness. This is indeed an honor. Micah and Fiona will be so pleased you’ve come. You’ll find them in the ballroom.” Lord Bayar nodded courteously to Averill. “Lord Demonai, welcome back,” he said. “From everything I hear, your business is prospering.”
Raisa wondered if this could be a dig at her father the tradesman, but if so, there was no evidence of it on the wizard’s face. Indeed, Bayar continued, “I’m hoping we can do some business in the coming weeks. I’ll send my factor around, shall I?”
“It would be my pleasure, Lord Bayar,” Averill murmured, inclining his head.
The familiar ballroom had been transformed from a cold marble-floored room into an elegant space lined with dimly lit, cozy retreats. Servants circulated with platters of food and drink, and the room was fronted with tiers of small dining tables enclosed with black and white screens and centered with candles and black and white lilies. Falcon banners in black and white lined the walls.
“This…this is beautiful,” Raisa exclaimed, enchanted. “I’ve never seen it like this.”
Queen Marianna surveyed the scene, biting her lip, no doubt comparing it to her own plans for Raisa’s name day.
Micah and Fiona stood at the far end of the room, greeting a procession of guests. As usual, they complemented each other. Micah wore a white coat that fit closely over his lean frame, black trousers, boots, and a rich black stole bearing the falcon crest. His black hair hung shining to his shoulders. Fiona wore a long black dress slit to her hip, black gloves, and a white stole of her own. Diamonds and platinum glittered around her slender throat and wrists.
Raisa couldn’t help comparing her own small frame to Fiona’s elegant height.
As they entered the room, the crier was announcing the arrival of other guests.
“Lady Amalie Heresford, Thanelee of Heresford, in Arden,” he intoned.
Lady Heresford was a plump girl of Raisa’s age with red hair, creamy skin, and a sprinkling of freckles, dressed in the covered-up southern style. With her flat black dress and black lace pinned into her hair, she might have been one of the professional mourners the wealthy sometimes hired for funerals.
She kept her head high, eyes straight ahead, like an old painting of Hanalea walking through the field of demons.
Raisa’s heart went out to her. She looked scared to death.
Following after her, unannounced, was a tall, bulky woman upholstered in black, and a tall man shrouded in priest’s robes. His face was twisted, as if he smelled something bad.
In the Fells, there was a saying, “Sour as a flatland priest.” Well, Raisa thought, that’s right on target.
“This is unusual,” Averill whispered to Raisa. “Southerners sending their women north with only a governess and a priest for protection. In the south, marriage to a wizard would be scandalous. But it shows how desperate things are. Lady Heresford’s father, Brighton Heresford, was executed by Gerard Montaigne, one of the contenders for Arden’s throne. She’s the heiress to Heresford Castle, but needs to marry someone strong enough to help her hold it. She’s a catch for the right person.”
Raisa nodded, grateful to her father for the information, but thinking it should be her mother providing it.
“Her Royal Highness Marina Tomlin, Princess of Tamron,” the crier said. “His Royal Highness, Liam Tomlin, Prince of Tamron.”
“Ah,” her father said, nodding. “Tamron is hoping for an alliance with the Fells, as some protection against Arden. They’ll begin negotiations with the Bayars, but nothing will be settled until after your name day. They could match Liam with you, or Marina with Micah Bayar. Failing that, Liam could marry Fiona, and Marina will make a match in the south.”
Raisa surveyed the Tomlins with inte
rest. They were tall, copper-skinned, and graceful, fine-boned as race horses. Liam Tomlin had dark curly hair, a strong nose, and a brilliant smile. He wore lots of silver with his requisite black and white.
In their way, the Tomlins were as striking as the Bayar twins.
Now it was their turn. The crier went ahead of them announcing, “Queen Marianna ana’Lissa of the Fells, and her daughter, Raisa ana’Marianna, the princess heir.”
To either side, courtiers dropped into bows and curtsies, like a field of black and white grass felled by a sharp blade.
Raisa and her mother swept forward, their skirts swishing over the marble floor. Behind them she could hear her father and Mellony announced. Ahead, Micah and Fiona knelt side by side in a nimbus of light, like a god and goddess come to earth.
At last they reached the front of the ballroom.
“You may rise,” Queen Marianna said, and there was a rustle of silk and satin all around them.
Micah came gracefully to his feet. Queen Marianna extended her hand, and he lowered his head to kiss it.
He turned to Raisa; his eyes lingered for a long moment on her face, then traveled down, pausing again at the top of her bodice until her face grew warm with embarrassment.
“Ah,” he said. “You finally wore it, Raisa. I was afraid you didn’t like it.”
“Of course I like it,” she said, fingering the necklace. “It’s beautiful. Is it a family heirloom?”
“Yes,” he said, still looking at her with such intensity that she grew a little flustered. Micah was always forward, but tonight he’d shed his usual mocking edge.
She thrust out her hand. He pressed it to his lips, still looking into her eyes. His kiss burned against her skin, and she felt a little dizzy. “Am I finally forgiven, Raisa?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her cheeks burning. “You’re forgiven.”
“Would it be bad of me to claim every dance?” he asked, still keeping hold of her fingers.
She withdrew her hand reluctantly. “You are the guest of honor,” she said. “And you know you have a job to do. Winning the hearts of all the young ladies is the easy part. You’ll need to dance with all the old ladies, and the aunts and grannies and mothers. Maybe even some of the fathers, now you’re in the marriage market.”
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