by Shea Godfrey
The guests had been arriving by coach for nearly an hour, passing through the main gates in a steady stream. The guard set upon the main gate was Longshanks’s own staff, their dress blacks offset by swords and baldrics.
Within the palace the Blooded society of Arravan was fast turning out. Lords in their finest clothing or the uniforms of their chosen service. Swords were worn and daggers as well, many ornate and purely for show, though all of them were the thin rapiers of gentlemen.
The women held to the arms of their escorts and traveled about the room with a purpose, clearly leading their men in a dance of casual mingling. Their dresses were of the finest materials, many of the skirts wide and sweeping, some bearing short trains of lace that fluttered above the polished floor. Every neck was adorned in some way, either by jewels so precious they had been passed down for generations or by subtle tokens purchased for the occasion. Hair was curled and held with pins or delicate ribbons, or straight and falling in lustrous waves, some ladies revealing their locks in their full length, more than one head of hair cascading well below the waist.
Serving men circulated about the room offering pewter chalices of wine—a delicate spring red that was light in its flavor—and narrow tankards of ale both light and dark. As the night reached the appointed hour the musicians began to play, a simple composition that introduced each instrument’s song into the air fast becoming crowded with conversation and perfume.
Cecelia moved along the wall behind the dais, her hair pinned loosely behind her neck and falling between her shoulders, her dress of ivory and blue whisking about her legs. She spied Margery Tuanna, the Queen’s lady, and lifted her chin with a smile.
“Have you seen Darry?”
“No, my Lady,” Margery said. “I’m told she rode in earlier today, though, looking as if she were wearing the road from here to the Green Hills. And she did not come alone. She brought Lord Greyson home, my Lady.”
Cecelia laughed. “Damn her to all seven hells, why didn’t I think of that? I shall have to apologize to Grissom Longshanks now, I should think. He must have had a hand in that one, for all he sat there and didn’t say a word while I carved him a new ear.”
“There’s Emmalyn now,” Margery said as the music gained in volume. Emmalyn entered on the arm of Lord Royce Greyson. “I must see to the kitchens, mum.”
“Thank you, Margery,” Cecelia said, her heart giving a delicate tug at the joy on Emmalyn’s face as she held to Royce’s arm.
Emmalyn’s dress was dyed the deepest emerald and all the more beautiful for its simple lines. Her hair was piled atop her head and spilled in curls down her neck in flames of rich color. Royce stood beside her as if he were the happiest man in Arravan. His black trousers and suit of silk were offset by his simple white tunic and the silver-studded belt and scabbard that held his sword. Cecelia recognized the outfit as belonging to her son, and he wore it almost as well as Wyatt did.
“Wyatt,” she whispered. She would speak to Owen about bringing him home. He was scheduled to arrive for Jacob and Alisha’s wedding, but a week or two early seemed like a splendid idea.
Amongst a cluster of men near the throne room upon the opposite side of the dais, Owen and Armistad Greyson greeted Emmalyn and Royce. Cecelia found Malcolm near the main arch, his First Councilor Marteen Salish by his side. They were both in their dress uniforms of black, though Malcolm’s vest was a deep blue silk. He stood among his peers and their ladies, Marteen’s sister Melora and her husband among them. Lord Boris Greeves was there with his wife Serina, yet another of the infamous Greeves men making an appearance. Cecelia knew that if she were to look about she would find nearly every child of Lord Silas Greeves present.
The Lord Serabee El-Khan stood off to the side in his black clothes, his shaved head shining in the lamplight and his dark eyes prowling about the room.
Prince Trey-Jak Joaquin stood within Malcolm’s close-knit crowd as if he were an intimate confidant. The Princess Jessa-Sirrah stood beside her brother and Cecelia let out a breath of admiration at her beauty.
Jessa’s dress was a unique mixture of both Lyonese and Arravan fashions. Cecelia was impressed at the beauty of it and wondered if Jessa had made it herself, for it was a style she had never seen. A rich, cream-colored silk, dyed in its fabric was an ocean of glorious blues that spilled down her shoulders and poured over the bodice. From the top of the neckline it was very much in the style of the saris she was wont to wear, but as it moved down her body it changed in an understated manner into a fuller skirt of Arravan’s latest fashion.
Cecelia noticed then the way Jessa kept her eyes to the floor, only raising them when she was spoken to. Lord El-Khan stood very close to her at all times, his eyes falling occasionally to her hair and the tanned skin of her neck, a curious look passing over his face when he did so. Everything about his close attention bordered on offensive, yet he never crossed that line. It seemingly made Jessa uncomfortable, though she accepted his presence with the same quiet grace she displayed in everything.
Always so tentative, Princess. Cecelia tried not to stare. And you do not look very happy to be here, a lamb among jackals, trapped in a conversation that interests you not a whit, no doubt. And within arm’s length of the man who will be King of Arravan and perhaps your husband, at that.
Cecelia crossed the floor before the dais and moved through the spill of music. As she neared the opposite side of the floor, Emmalyn fell in step beside her.
“You look bloody smashing, Mother,” Emmalyn said. “Shall we rescue our stunning guest?”
Cecelia took her arm. “Royce looks rather happy to be here.”
“I believe he is, yes.”
“I shall take care of the Prince if you would but spirit her away,” Cecelia said. “Where is Alisha?”
“Here, my Lady.” Cecelia looked to her left as Alisha stepped close. “I shall take care of Melora, for no doubt she’ll curry favor and follow poor Jessa about the room.”
“Sweet Alisha,” Cecelia said, “you’re smarter than my son, which makes me somewhat nervous about the grandchildren you shall give me.”
Alisha laughed. “You’re not the only one nervous on that account, my Lady. No doubt I shall be over my head from the start.”
“Into the breach, girls.”
Jessa straightened as Cecelia drew near, noticing her determined smile even as Joaquin tightened his arm upon her hand. The guests around her parted to allow Cecelia entrance into their clique, and Malcolm’s talk of hunting the Green Hills faded as he greeted his mother with genuine affection.
Joaquin pulled his arm away and stepped back, giving a bow.
Jessa felt the heated presence of Serabee and a spear of nervousness pierced her stomach. The Queen was speaking of the musicians and asking if Joaquin would perhaps dance a Lyonese galliard, when a hand slipped into her own.
Jessa found Emmalyn’s eyes and they were filled with warmth, so Jessa pulled smoothly to the side in a deft maneuver that avoided both her brother and Serabee, affording her an almost casual exit from those of Malcolm’s circle.
“I never leave a friend behind,” Emmalyn said as she guided them back across the room, breaking into the open near the dance floor. “Don’t look back.”
“Thank you, Princess.”
“Emmalyn, remember?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Princess,” Jessa replied, trying to find her balance after being freed from both her brother and Serabee. “No…I mean I’m sorry, Emmalyn.”
“No apologies. Try again.”
“Bless you to all the gods you love, Emmalyn,” Jessa replied with absolute sincerity, glad for her veil beneath so much attention. “Vhaelin essa ahbwalla.”
“And now for some wine while we wait for Mother and Alisha to return from the war.”
They loitered near the doors to the solar and Emmalyn took hold of two goblets from one of the servers, handing one to Jessa as they searched back through the hall. Boris Greeves laughed with Cecelia, and Alisha n
odded as Melora gestured to the musicians.
“How did you find our Melora?” Emmalyn asked as the woman in question smoothed at her burgundy skirt. The auburn-haired Melora was beautiful as always, but it was a clever beauty without warmth.
“I was wishing that she had not been found.”
“Your sentiments are not unique, you must trust me.”
“Your court is extremely large,” Jessa said. The difference between Bharjah’s court and Arravan’s staggered her. “I hadn’t thought there would be so many people…even though I expected there would be.”
“Not to worry, Jessa. We shan’t let them run you to ground.”
“Thank you.”
“Here come our comrades.” Emmalyn smiled as her mother and Jacob’s future wife moved across the dance floor. “No doubt your brother and mine will be talking blood sport more openly now.”
“Wine, quick now,” Alisha said as she approached, Jessa lifting her untouched drink and offering the chalice. “Thank you.”
Cecelia called out as she neared and a tray of wine was brought immediately. Cecelia took up two goblets and handed one to Jessa. “All better, my girl?”
“Yes, thank you, my Lady.”
“Where is Darry?” Alisha asked.
A murmur of voices rose as if in answer and rolled through the hall, starting in the crowded foyer and spreading inward. Someone gave a shout and the mass of people about the entrance began to part.
The Princess Darrius Lauranna moved beneath the arch as the throng gave way, Lord Bentley Greeves on her right a single step behind and Lieutenant Arkady Winnows at her left as the three moved in unison.
“Blessed Gamar!” Cecelia exclaimed.
“Holy seven hells.” Emmalyn smiled. “Not a bloody dress, Darry.”
Jessa’s breath caught within her throat, her heart pounding in a sudden rush. Darry’s hair fell in shining golden curls onto her shoulders, completely free of ties or combs. Her black jacket was of the deepest silk Jessa had ever seen, the material so dark and shimmering that it made Darry’s movements seem all the more sleek. Her white silk tunic was open at her neck and plunged down her chest until it disappeared beneath a golden vest of gypsy silk. The unique fabric was washed through with tendrils of black, a lovely smoke of darkness captured in the opulent gold material. If not for the close-fitting vest her tunic would have breached every rule of etiquette. The cut of the garment was so blatantly sensual that new rules would no doubt be discussed in the weeks to come.
At her neck she wore the gold medallion of her family on a thick linked chain that flamed as she moved. On the left arm of the jacket, stitched by the finest of hands, a golden mountain panther seemed to climb from the flared cuff at her wrist up the entire length of the sleeve, its image filled with detail and melting colors the likes of which Jessa had never seen until this instant. At Darry’s waist was a belt studded with gold. Darry’s left hand rested on the hilt of a fine-blade rapier with a golden hand guard, the elegant metal twisted in a thin, ornate design. Her trousers were of the same material as her jacket, and as the long coattails fell to the backs of her knees her boots rose in their high polish, the toe caps made of gold and soaking up the light.
On each side of Darry, Bentley Greeves and Arkady Winnows were dressed in the same stunning uniforms, though the panthers that adorned their jackets covered the left shoulder and climbed down onto the chest, the animal caught in attack above their hearts. Bentley’s blond locks and neatly trimmed mustache were a match to Arkady’s flaxen hair, which was combed short and neat about his clean-shaven face.
“That’s Damascus silk,” Cecelia whispered. “She’ll have emptied the bloody treasury.”
Bentley seized two goblets of wine from a tray as they moved to an empty space at the end of the dance floor, staking a cavalier claim. Darry accepted her drink with a smile, the gesture open in its affection for him. She took a drink and turned to Arkady, handing him her chalice, which he drank from.
“Oh, well, that was entirely too bold.” Alisha chuckled in a wicked manner. “Is she allowed to do that?”
“No,” Emmalyn said, trying not to laugh and failing miserably.
Owen observed his daughter and held his back a tad straighter, his shoulders stretching his black dress uniform.
Bentley spoke in Darry’s ear, causing her to flash a rebellious grin. The three of them were beyond appealing, and though the cut of Darry’s tunic caused Owen a surge of discomfort, he could not deny that the three of them were altogether exquisite.
“Let us watch our Lyonese Prince,” Armistad Greyson said.
“Malcolm ignores her,” Owen replied as Malcolm looked anywhere but at his sister. Or at least you try, my boy. If you’d but learn to respect her, you might have an easier time of it.
“Aye, but Joaquin doesn’t.”
Owen let out a huff of amusement. “Look at him bristle.” He glanced back at his daughter and her escorts. “Good Gamar, the sun has shone only for them.”
“Aye, my Lord, they are a sight. I forget sometimes how beautiful Darry is.”
“Yes,” Owen said. “She has the look of my mother, with her hair like that.”
“The hair. Queen Marget’s hair, you’re right.”
“I do believe that my daughter is taking up a piece in the game. Though it’s different from Mal’s, or what mine must be.”
“And what piece will it be?”
“She’s taken up the gauntlet.” Owen laughed softly. “She means to wield the blade before our enemies. Look to our young guest.”
Joaquin’s hand had fallen to his sword, his ringed fingers gripping the hilt as his body tensed. He clearly recognized the challenge of another warrior’s presence and his stance had changed accordingly. His shoulders stiffened and his legs were braced as if he would draw his sword at the slightest provocation.
Darry stood flanked by her escort, smiling in such an open and sensual manner that Owen felt surprise at first. He raised a brow as Arkady Winnows leaned much too close, whispering into her hair as she stared across the room toward the arch. It was an intimate move and not Darry’s way with her men. There was true love between them, impressive and unto death, but that was not the power she now wielded. This power spoke of all manner of things at her disposal: the power of death that a warrior has, and the power of life that a lover might hold.
Owen realized that Darry still suspected Joaquin of using the latter without thought or care as to the lover, and he did not disagree with her assessment. The man had a sense of malice about him, and though it was slight, it was always present. This was but a continuation of their clash at the dinner table, and Darry was clearly winning.
“They begin to flock,” Armistad said.
The attention Darry commanded was undeniable, and her challenge was open to the Lyonese Prince and anyone else who cared to see it.
The music from the dais stopped and the players readied for the first official tune, drawing everyone’s attention. The floor cleared in response and the singer stepped forward as the strings began to rise around her. The bodhran sounded, its beat rolling softly at first and then laying claim to the center as the sticks beat and the pipes deep and rich pulsed within its beat. A single fiddle cried out its challenge.
“The Mohn-Drom!” someone called, and scattered applause moved about the room along with the sound of voices rising in surprise and excitement.
Armistad laughed. “An impossible dance to begin with!”
“Darry,” Owen said as the singer gave a slight nod. He turned just in time to see Darry smile in answer as Arkady Winnows took her hand and led her forth, their entourage parting and shouting the challenge.
The Mohn-Drom was the most suggestive and sensual of all the courtly dances, and rarely was it played at such a function. It was also the most difficult and intricate dance that Arravan had ever produced, and only the most natural and talented of dancers could complete its turns and complex footwork. It was a dance meant for lovers, an
d its many clinches and patterns were meant to imply and mimic the most heated of moments between them.
Someone called out to Darry and she laughed, unhooking the sword from her belt. She tossed the weapon and its sheath to Bentley, who reached out in an absent manner and caught it, after which he took a drink of his wine. A cheer went up and laughter moved through the crowd as Darry sent him a scathing look.
Cecelia turned to Emmalyn but found her eyes captured by Jessa instead, and her comment died upon her lips.
Jessa stood as straight and still as if she were made of stone, though the veil that hid her face moved as she breathed, short and quick. She stared at the dance floor with a startling intensity, though the veil still hid the deeper truth of Jessa’s expression. Cecelia stepped closer in concern and followed her gaze as the singer’s voice pierced the air and the bodhran beat low with its bass sound. The strings flared hard within the call of the pipes as the Mohn-Drom began.
Darry swirled gracefully onto the center of the floor with Arkady close upon her hip, her arms above her head and then behind his neck as he stepped close and dipped her backward. Darry’s hair caught the light and flamed with a life of its own.
They moved, executing the complex steps of the Mohn-Drom with grace and confidence. Their bodies touched in a bold manner. Arkady’s hands were lower than Blooded custom would dictate on Darry’s hips as their legs intertwined and they circled tightly about the center of the floor. The music swelled and flowed over them, allowing them entrance into the realm that only music can create.
They twirled, Darry ducking beneath his arms and spinning, then she was pulled close and Arkady’s lips brushed her neck. He caught her hand and spun back into her arms, normally a move played by the woman, but his elegance was undeniable as he relinquished control of the dance and Darry changed her steps with flair. The mandolins and the lute increased their melody as the singer sang notes but no words, the pace increasing. And then Arkady was in control once more, leading them in an intricate pattern as they spun as one, and the crowd sent up a cheer.
