The Court Of Stars (The Commonwealth Quartet Book 1)

by Malcolm Schmitz

  He strangled that thought and walked into the anteroom, head held high.

  Chapter Two

  The anteroom was a small room, made of thick stone and iron torch holders. Tapestries stitched with the accomplishments of one King Leonard clung to the wall. They were in the old style no one could copy, with pictures that looked as real as life.

  Christian recognized a few of the heroes of legend-Martin the Stout, William of Raleigh, and Ibrahim the Moor-doing battle against the evil witches and minions of Satan who'd once ruled this world. He wished he could have half of their strength and courage, now, against the demons that haunted him.

  He crossed himself and prayed, quietly, feeling no shame in doing so, for none could see him. This room had been made by one of the great architects of the past. Not even Rospier's spies-or the spies House Arundel had employed, in its glory days-could listen in. But because the room was so ancient, a draft came from some crevice in the masonry. The chill set his hair upright and made his fingertips feel numb.

  Christian shivered and pressed the thin cloth of his doublet closer.

  Linna, his sister, sat on a wooden bench on the back wall. Her hair was long and dark, and her eyes were dove-gray. Her face was thin and sharp, but her features were good. She was pale, but not quite as sickly-looking as court fashion would like. She wore a wine-colored gown with long, trailing lace sleeves, and her face was covered by a black lace veil that had belonged to their mother.

  When Christian came in, she looked down. It was the custom in those days for women to make a show of their submission to men.

  “Hello, sister.” Christian took her hand, raising her to her feet. “...Are you excited?”

  She nodded, looking up at him. Her expression mingled joy with terror, but her eyes were narrowed.

  “What’s he like, Christian?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.” He rubbed the back of his neck, nervously. The stubble there was rough against his fingers. His voice was gruff with jealousy, and he tried to soften it. “He’s everything you could have hoped for, I think.”

  "No, I mean... what is he like? What does he look like?" She gave him her best shy smile.

  It was all an act, and Christian knew it. Linna could charm a snake into lying still. She wasn't going to get too much from him, though; there was no way he was going to speak too glowingly of Mercadier. It'd be a breach of decorum, and if Linna talked to the wrong people, his secret would be known.

  "He's definitely a gentleman," Christian said, choosing his words with care.

  "Christian..." She sighed, and tapped her fingertips together. It was a childish gesture, and it made Christian wince. "You're not telling me anything."

  "Well, no." He shrugged. "You'll see soon enough, won't you?"

  He led her into the Receiving Room proper. It was larger, but also colder. The floor was carpeted - spoils, he thought, from one of the Moorish wars-and the furniture was upholstered in dusty green silks. This room wasn't used very often, but its shabby glamor made Christian feel even less at ease. He shifted from foot to foot, running over what was expected of him in his mind.

  The door to the antechamber creaked open.

  “Anthony Clare Piranet, tel Mercadier,” the elderly servant mumbled.

  Christian sat down, beside Linna. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and pushed back his hair with one hand.

  Moments later, he was wedged uncomfortably between Mercadier and his sister, watching to ensure her honor was secure.

  Chaperoning was more difficult than one might think. It wasn’t guarding her virtue that was challenging. All he had to do was sit between Linna and Mercadier, and, though it made him feel ill, it was no great burden to bear. It wasn't even a challenge, really, to guard his own virtue, though an accidental brush of his knee against Mercadier's sent a shock up his spine.

  The truly difficult task-especially since Christian had no talent for social maneuvering-was to keep their looks, their words, and their movements devoid of any improper meaning.

  Christian had no real control over Mercadier, but hopefully, convention would keep his friend's tongue in check. But Linna was his charge, and he had to make sure nothing she said was too forward.

  He knew he needn’t worry. Linna was a sensible girl. But even bound by propriety, he could see the light in her eyes and hear the relief in her voice.

  She was all too happy. It made him feel sick inside, watching her. He closed his eyes and quickly prayed for strength, before opening them to keep watch.

  Linna's eyes flicked to Christian, as if to gauge his approval. He couldn't give it. He kept wishing impossible things, and they set his mind churning. He crossed his legs tightly, as if to fence himself off.

  Christian tried to calm himself. The things he wanted were impossible by any standard. Even if the laws of men changed, the laws of God never would.

  He gazed at Mercadier, but he could feel his stare turning into a glare. Mercadier returned his dirty look with an amused smile, and Christian felt his cheeks growing warm again. He wanted to vomit.

  Damn Mercadier, and his blue eyes...

  The conversation wandered off, first to the weather, then to various court events. He heard murmurs of Lady Lorinet's ball, the King's recent speech, and the innumerable other soirees and functions that Christian vaguely remembered. He felt himself begin to doze more than once, and bit his lip until the pain shocked him awake. The combination of boredom and heartache made him want to flee.

  He sat, and watched, and waited patiently, doing his best to stay outwardly calm. He felt like a coward, and he knew tears were welling up in his eyes.

  At last, the interminable visit dragged to its conclusion. Linna stood, and curtseyed to Mercadier.

  “I await our next meeting, my lord,” she said.

  My lord was the way women addressed their husbands in public. She'd already married him in her head, and, in typical Linna fashion, had claimed him as her own.

  Even putting that aside, there was something about her manner that told Christian, all too clearly, he’d succeeded. Linna's movements were graceful, and suffused with joyful relief. Her smile was bright, and her gaze was fixed on Mercadier. She seemed to be sizing him up, Christian thought.

  “Milord.” Mercadier bowed to Christian. It was a courtly bow, and there was probably supposed to be some sort of meaning to it.

  Christian didn’t care. At this point he was beyond caring. His guts felt like they were burning and his throat had closed up.

  He was utterly consumed with hatred. He hated that Linna had been so lucky-how dare she find a partner she could regard with affection, when he was left so destitute? He hated Mercadier for being so perfect and so utterly, utterly unattainable.

  Most of all, Christian hated himself. He hated himself for being unable to feel in a godly manner, hated himself for having Mercadier of all people be the object of his lust, hated himself for having arranged their marriages so that he had bound the man he wanted, no, needed, to his sister—

  Christian realized he'd sat there with his fist clenched for far too long. He got to his feet, feeling pins and needles in his legs, and bowed stiffly.

  "Sir. I hope to see you again soon." It was a formula of politeness, but it made Christian want to crucify himself. The odds were high that, if he acted properly, the next time he would see Mercadier would be at Linna's wedding. He'd be giving his sister away.

  "And I you,” Anthony murmured.

  The door opened, and Mercadier left. Linna's nurse came to claim her.

  Christian was left alone with his thoughts, and they made him sick. His eyelashes were damp, his stomach hurt, and his soul quaked.

  He closed his eyes and whispered yet another prayer for strength. He felt like he was asking too much of Heaven, but the Lord knew he needed it right now. It didn't make his heart stop racing or make his hands stop shaking, but it did calm his thoughts a little. He swallowed, hard, and wiped away the unmanly tears he'd shed.

>   The elderly retainer cleared his throat, making noises like a dragon ravening over its prey.

  “Lord Arundel: Sara Marthe Rafaelle telle Verdenlace.”

  Christian straightened and clasped his hands together until his fingertips were numb and his knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath and tried to compose his face so he'd appear calm and confident. It wouldn't do for Lady Verdenlace to think her betrothed was a coward.

  God give me strength...

  The young woman who walked into the room surprised Christian.

  He’d expected a typical noblewoman: pale, polite, pretending. At very best, he’d expected a woman like Linna, who hid her intelligence behind a cloud of polite lies and formulaic phrases. At worst, he feared, he'd have bound himself to a woman like Cadia telle Severn, who had no intelligence to hide.

  Sara telle Verdenlace didn't fall into either camp.

  Though she was clad in a green gown in the height of fashion, complete with a black veil of the finest Zelionic lace, she sat with her legs apart in a most unbecoming manner, arms flopping loosely at her sides. The blonde curls on her head, styled into a elaborate mane, would have looked more impressive if her ginger bangs hadn't stuck out from under the wig.

  “Lord Arundel,” she said. Her voice was rough and husky. “This is a surprise.”

  He nodded, curtly.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, milady.”

  A white-haired old man, who she introduced as “Uncle James”, sat between them, playing the same role that Christian had played moments before. He had a long, hooked nose, and smelt strongly of aniseed. Christian cleared his throat, eyes watering.

  “Likewise.” Sara fiddled with the edge of her veil, as if wishing to throw it off. Her uncle cleared his throat and gave her a meaningful look.

  “You fought a duel for my... brother’s sake?” she asked.

  Christian nodded. He was surprised the news had spread so quickly, but he kept that concealed.

  “Why?” Sara tilted her head to one side.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Christian said. The laws of honor were an exclusively male pursuit, and women weren’t encouraged to understand the subtleties of them. Most women knew the bare minimum they needed to scold their brothers or their husbands.

  “...I suppose I ought to thank you. Honor demands it.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her, like a schoolgirl, and frowned.

  “You’re welcome.” Christian attempted to smile. There was nothing more ridiculous than women attempting to follow the code duello, but she seemed to genuinely mean it.

  Her uncle coughed, taking a white ball from his pocket and popping it into his mouth. Christian wasn't sure if he'd said something wrong, or if the old man just wanted to make him uncomfortable, but the reek of aniseed grew stronger.

  “I must ask you... “ She turned her head, trying to get the veil to settle.

  “Yes?” Christian asked.

  “Why did you defend him? Samuel can take care of himself.” She sounded peeved. “I’m glad you did, but, well...”

  “He’s family,” Christian said.

  “Oh? Why was I not informed?” she said, teasingly.

  “You were. When I asked for your hand.”

  She laughed, lightly. "Oh, I see. I am honored you'd choose a woman like me."

  Sara's uncle glared at her from under his bushy brows. Christian gritted his teeth. This had been a mistake, hadn't it?

  "Let's discuss something else," he said.

  "Such as...?" She turned her head, and for a moment, he could see her coy smile, half-hidden by her veil.

  "Well...." he began.

  He clasped his hands tightly, so that she wouldn't see that they were shaking.

  “I’m not particularly interested in talking about the weather or the court fashions...” she said. “Yet I know women are supposed to prattle. So what is there to discuss?”

  “I-I don’t know.” Christian’s voice was gruff.

  He hated situations like these with every fiber of his being, and he always would. He’d never been particularly good at speaking with women. Men and women were entirely different creatures. Men were trained in politics and the manifold arts of chivalry, and women were expected to be ladies and do nothing but please their husbands.

  There was a silence. Christian racked his brain, trying to think of what to say that wouldn’t offend a lady. Nothing came to mind.

  Her uncle's head drooped. Sara grinned.

  "Poor dotard..." she whispered. She spoke as if she were sharing an intensely funny secret. "Let's keep our voices down. Wouldn't want to wake him, would we?"

  Christian shook his head, not trusting himself to speak without laughing.

  "Have you thought of anything to talk about?" Sara asked.

  He shook his head again.

  “Then I shall prattle,” she said. “What do you think of the Fitzroy technique?”

  Christian was taken aback. The Fitzroy ‘technique’ required one to target such vital regions as the eyes and the throat with the flat of the blade. Naturally, this was against all the rules of fair fighting, and the men of the Court had hotly debated whether this should be a legal maneuver. He wouldn’t have expected a woman to know much about the fine details of swordplay, let alone be asking such questions.

  “I think it’s unnecessary,” he said, quietly. “A skilled enough swordsman should be able to disarm his opponent while causing no physical harm at all. I’ve done it many times.”

  Christian realized he was boasting. Pride was one of his greatest sins, and he tried to keep his on a rather tight rein. He'd need to talk less about his accomplishments.

  They discussed arms and armor. Christian marveled at the extent of her knowledge; she knew more about weaponry than any woman he’d met, and more, even, than some men. She was quick-witted, and had a sharp and biting sense of humor. He could see a future with her, and, while it wasn’t what he’d hoped for, it was still better than the future he’d feared.

  Then, the world irrevocably changed.

  The smell of scorched air burnt its way through everything. It was a clean smell, but there was something wrong about it. It wasn’t natural.

  Sara's uncle sat bolt upright, gibbering about demons, but Christian ignored him. He tried to listen around the man and get an idea of what was happening.

  He heard the sound of heavy, metallic footsteps, like someone walking in armor, and a high-pitched hum. Then, a scream rang through the hallway.

  “Christian!” It echoed off the walls.

  He tensed, and muttered a curse under his breath.

  “That was my sister.” Christian stood. “...Stay here, lock the doors. I’ll be back in a moment."

  “But milord-” Sara reached for the veil on her face.

  Christian pushed her down by the shoulder, gently.

  “This isn’t safe for a lady,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

  He kissed her hand, as best as he could, and ran for the doors.

  She followed him, as he'd guessed she would, picking up her skirts. He dashed through the door, slamming it behind him, and bolting it fast. Danger was nothing a woman should face, even one as brave as she.

  He heard Sara shouting through the door-he vaguely made out her brother's name-but chose to ignore it.

  Right now, he had more important matters to attend to.

  Chapter Three

  Christian rushed through the hallway. It was clear something dangerous was going on. He had no idea what was happening, and, worse, he had no time to don his armor. It was him against whatever was out there, and whatever it was had hurt his sister.

  He drew his sword, taking it in both hands. The rasp of steel on scabbard was strangely comforting.

  His blade was fairly short and thin. It was perfect for the sword-on-sword duels the nobility favored, during tournaments and as settlement of breaches of honor. The goal of such duels was to nick your opponent, and
a thin blade, paired with elegant footwork, would win easily.

  Yet Christian had been to war, long ago. It had only been for one battle, but he’d learned quite a few things about the art of war. And the lesson that had been hardest to learn, but had been drilled into him time and time again, was that the footwork that would win a man a duel would get him killed on the battlefield.

  Christian crept with his back flat against the wall, gaze crossing the hall. He'd come to an intersection. He tried to catch a glimpse of Linna’s wine-colored gown or the red-and-black livery of an Arundel servant, but to no avail. At this point, he’d have been happy to see Mercadier.

  What he did see was a very short creature, walking down one arm of the intersection. It was encased in armor like a knight, but it looked like no knight he’d ever seen. The creature had the stubby arms and legs of a dwarf. Its armor was metal, but it was an unearthly shade of metallic blue. The armor was shaped like a child's toy armor: it had too many concave parts that wouldn't block a sword’s blow.

  The creature stomped along like an infant playing soldier. It held a strange weapon, shaped a little like a crossbow, in its hands.

  Christian tried to slip behind it.

  The creature wheeled around almost as soon as he’d taken a step, raising its weapon.

  Christian ran, as he’d never run before. A beam of bright red light zinged past him, leaving a hum and the smell of scorched air in its wake. He felt no need to see what would happen if such vile magic hit him.

  He rushed around the corner, with the creature coming close on his heels. Christian wanted to get to his room, get his own armor on, but there was no time. It took hours to get armor on, and that was with his squire’s help.

  Where was his squire when he needed him? Edmund was a good boy, if ugly and a little slow. More to the point, he was a good man with a lance. Christian wished he had an armed man or three by his side right now; this strange magic frightened him.

  The room he’d entered was a long hall, filled with suits of armor worn by great kings of the past. Most of it was rusted and wouldn't protect him, even if he had time to put it on. Christian had an idea, though, and he ducked behind one of the suits at the end of the hall.