by Ben Cassidy
The Ghostwalker glanced up as a hawk sailed by to their right and gave its screeching call. “There’s…someone else?” he asked quietly.
She lowered her head. “Yes.”
Kendril didn’t look at her. “Who?”
Serentha swallowed. “I don’t know if he has the same feelings for me.”
Kendril leaned against the part of the wall that connected back to the main castle. There was a deathly silence, broken only by the wailing of the wind as it cut across the battlements.
“It’s not about love,” he said at last. His voice was stretched and thin. “It’s about duty. You have to do what’s best for your people.” He turned. Serentha was looking at him.
“You really think that?” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her.
Kendril took a deep breath. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
Serentha’s eyes pierced into him. “Yes, it does.” She looked away, and stared out across the stretch of cliffs to their right. Her voice trembled slightly. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Kendril. I need to know how you feel about me.”
He clutched at the wall. “I don’t have any feelings for you,” he managed at last, his voice hoarse.
Serentha turned her head. “Then look me in the eyes and tell me. Tell me you feel nothing for me and I won’t say a word about any of this again.”
Kendril opened his mouth, but no words came out. His hand suddenly trembled on the rough surface of the wall. He didn’t look at the beautiful young woman.
“Tell me,” she repeated.
He closed his eyes.
She looked away. “You can’t, can you?”
“What do you want me to say, Jade?” Kendril turned, his face strained and pale. “I can’t even touch you. You have a duty to your people, and to your country. I have my penance.”
“For how long?” The princess turned her head back, the wind catching her hair. “When exactly do you receive your redemption, Kendril? What do you have to do to earn it?”
A shadow fell over the Ghostwalker’s face. “I don’t know.” He looked back up the walkway to the castle wall. “I’m sorry, Jade. I wish this could be different.”
“It can be different,” she pleaded. She stepped down from the parapet. “You can choose, Kendril. Leave your cloak behind, and your penance with it.”
He looked over at her. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
She took a step closer, reaching out a hand. “I know you, Kendril. I don’t care about whatever you did before.”
The Ghostwalker clenched his hand against the wall. “You don’t know anything about who I am,” he murmured. “You only think you do.”
Serentha opened her hand. “I know who you are now. Leave your past behind.”
He turned his head toward her, and she was startled to see tears in his eyes.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice barely audible. He turned away, his face to the wall once again.
Serentha dropped her hand.
A figure suddenly appeared on the upper walkway, coming slowly down in their direction.
Kendril leaned both his hands against the parapet, looking out towards the distant hills.
“Serentha?” Lord Whitmore came into the circular battlement, and glanced uncertainly at Kendril. He took his hat off, holding it in his hand. “I thought I might find you here. I’m not…interrupting anything, I hope?” He looked over at Kendril again. The Ghostwalker didn’t turn around.
“No,” said the princess, quickly turning her head and wiping her eyes. “No, you’re not interrupting at all.”
Lord Whitmore cleared his throat nervously. “I’m leaving in an hour or so with my regiment. Some of the clans are causing trouble along the border, and Bathsby wants me to take care of it.” He tapped the brim of his hat anxiously, looking down at the ground. “Nothing very dangerous, I’m sure, but I thought you might like to know.”
“Thank you,” said Serentha. She didn’t look up.
Whitmore plucked at the edge of his hat, giving Kendril one last glance. “Right. Well I should be off, then.” He turned to go.
“Lord Whitmore?” said Serentha suddenly. The nobleman turned back around.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
She raised her head. “The answer to your question is yes. I will marry you.”
The lines in Lord Whitmore’s face vanished. “That’s—that’s splendid. Absolutely splendid,” he said happily. He put the hat back on his head. “We can tell your father together when I return, if you like. This is marvelous news, Serentha.”
The young woman forced a smile onto her face. “It is indeed, Lord Whitmore.”
Kendril turned abruptly from the wall, raising his hood over his face. Without a word he brushed by Lord Whitmore, and walked quickly up the passage back to the eastern wall.
Whitmore watched the Ghostwalker go with a startled glance. He looked back at Serentha, his face confused. “Is everything all right?”
She watched Kendril until he disappeared behind the far parapet. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Everything is just fine.”
Chapter 6
“This punch is absolutely marvelous. Have you tried it, Kendril?”
“No,” came the Ghostwalker’s taciturn reply. He stood with his back against the wall, and scanned the crowded ballroom. His hood was up, casting a shadow across his face.
“You should,” Maklavir said, taking another long sip. He frowned, and brushed some lint off his newly purchased clothes. “There won’t be much left for long.”
Kendril rolled his eyes. “I’ll manage.”
The ballroom they were in was huge, like everything else in the palace. Three separate chandeliers hung over the expanse of the dancing floor. Long windows on one side looked out on the pond, though it was mostly dark outside. Inside the ballroom lights burned everywhere, bathing the participants in a warm glow. There was a low hum of constant chatter that rose even above the playing of the string orchestra.
Maklavir set his empty cup down on a nearby table, and glanced over at his friend. “You seem more morose than usual. Everything all right?”
Kendril grunted, his eyes flitting back and forth across the ballroom. “Someone’s missing.”
The diplomat raised his eyes in surprise. “Someone missing? Who?”
The orchestra switched to a waltz, and several couples joined together on the dance floor. The Ghostwalker watched them quietly.
“Lady Bronwyn,” he said.
Maklavir shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.”
“Black hair, pale skin, amber eyes,” Kendril said without taking his eyes off the crowd.
“Ah, yes.” The diplomat nodded, picking up his empty cup. “I generally make it a rule not to get involved with courtesans. Would you like some punch? I’m heading over that way.”
Kendril shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Maklavir twisted his way through the crowd, whistling softly in time to the waltz.
“He’s awfully happy,” commented Joseph as he joined Kendril against the wall.
“He’s got a girl over by the punch bowl.” He glanced over at Joseph. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
The scout leaned against the wall. “It’s been a rough day,” he said. “A girl, huh? I think I met her this morning, briefly. Assuming it’s the same one, of course.”
Kendril sighed, his eyes switched towards one of the entrances to the room. “That would be a big assumption.”
Joseph smiled. “I’m betting it’s one of the kitchen maids. How about you?”
“Five coppers says it’s one of the handmaidens.”
The scout shrugged. “Done.” The smile vanished. “I went to the jail this morning. Kara was gone.”
Kendril looked over in surprise. “Gone?”
“Escaped.” Joseph looked down at the ground. “Sometime last night, I think.”
Kendril f
rowned. “She didn’t waste any time, did she?”
The scout sighed. “I spent all day trying to track down what happened to her. No one seems to have any idea.”
The Ghostwalker looked back out at the dance floor. “Hopefully she’s out of the city by now.”
Joseph crossed his arms, the weariness showing on his face. “I thought you said you didn’t care what happened to her.”
“I don’t.” Kendril’s gaze fell on a woman dancing near the head of the ballroom.
Joseph gave a bitter chuckle. “You’re a real humanitarian, Kendril.” He followed the Ghostwalker’s gaze across the room. “What about her?” he asked carefully.
Kendril watched Serentha sweep around the room in the arms of some nobleman, her glistening white dress trailing behind her. “What about her?”
The scout lifted a hand. “All right, I get it. Sorry for bringing it up.” He glanced out at the dance floor. “Well, we’re a couple of real wall flowers, aren’t we? At least Maklavir seems to be making out well.”
Kendril watched as Maklavir took the hand of a pretty brunette over by the punch table, and led her out onto the floor as the next waltz started up.
“Yeah,” he said.
Serentha stopped for a moment to catch her breath. Sir Tobias bowed low and kissed her hand.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Highness.”
She smiled, her face still flushed. “It was my pleasure.”
“I assure you,” he responded, “the pleasure was all mine.” He bowed again, and moved off.
Serentha stepped away from the dance floor, her eyes falling over the throng of people in the room. She suddenly realized that she was looking for someone in particular, and the thought brought up an ache in her chest. Turning away, she stepped towards the punch table.
“I hope Your Highness is not too exhausted for another dance,” came a calm voice from behind her.
Serentha turned.
“Why Lord Bathsby,” she said with a smile, “I would be delighted.”
The nobleman smiled, holding out his hand. “You honor me, Your Highness.” He pulled her forward, just as the orchestra began another flowing piece.
They moved out onto the floor. Bathsby moved smoothly, leading her with confident steps. The orchestra quickened their tempo. Serentha twirled as Bathsby swung her into the forefront of the dance floor.
“You dance well, Your Highness,” he said. His eyes roamed quickly down her neck to the emerald necklace that rested at her breast.
“As do you,” she said, but felt a sudden and inexplicable feeling of discomfort. She grasped her skirt with her left hand, and leaned her right on Bathsby’s shoulder.
“I had hoped to dance with you tonight,” he continued, his conversation uninterrupted by the procession of steps. “It gives me great pleasure.”
Despite the flurry of steps, Serentha felt a slow chill spread up her spine. A grip like panic seemed to seize her. For some reason she couldn’t quite grasp she wanted nothing more than to escape from his grasp. His hand around her waist seemed suddenly cold.
“I—I don’t think I’m feeling too well,” she said abruptly. The dance floor began to spin around her. The feeling of panic increased.
Bathsby smiled disarmingly. “Your Highness would certainly not deny me the chance to finish this dance?” He spun her again on the third note, her skirt swishing the floor. “We’ve only just begun.”
She said nothing, closing her eyes as the nobleman led her across the floor. Around her the other nobles of the court danced and laughed. No one noticed her.
“I wanted to speak with you,” Bathsby continued in an almost casual tone. “About Lord Whitmore.”
They turned, the music flitting on in the background. “What about him?”
Bathsby whisked her around, the smile never vanishing from his face. “I have heard he intends to marry you.”
Serentha felt the pit of her stomach drop. She needed to stop this dance, but she didn’t know how.
The music rose to a crescendo. Lord Bathsby held her left hand tightly. “Is that true, Your Highness?”
She tried to respond, but her mouth was completely dry.
A black-gloved hand clapped down on Bathsby’s shoulder. The nobleman halted, and turned around.
Kendril stood behind him, smiling amiably. “May I break in, Lord Bathsby?”
For a moment a spark of something like anger crossed Bathsby’s face, but he quickly composed himself, and his smile returned. “I didn’t know you danced, Mr. Kendril.”
“It’s been a while, but I think I remember the basics.” The Ghostwalker moved forward, holding out his gloved hand to Serentha. “Your Highness?”
She nodded, a wave of relief spreading through her. Kendril took her hand. They moved out together onto the dance floor just as the waltz ended. The orchestra readjusted their instruments, ready to play again.
With a frozen smile, Bathsby melted back against the wall, his gaze still on the Ghostwalker and the princess.
“You looked like you could use an interruption,” said Kendril with a shadowy glance in Bathsby’s direction. He bowed to Serentha as the orchestra started a slower waltz.
“Thank you,” she managed. They faced each other, and Serentha put her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what came over me. I was just—” she struggled to find the words to properly describe it.
Kendril nodded, and took her left hand with his right. “I think I know what you mean,” he said.
The beautiful strains of the music drifted over the floor as they danced, the crystal chandeliers sparkling above them.
“I wouldn’t have thought you knew how to dance,” said Serentha.
Kendril shrugged. “I’m just full of surprises.”
She smiled, then seemed to remember herself, glancing down at the floor. “Kendril, about Lord Whitmore--”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “What about him? You’re doing the right thing. The best thing for Llewyllan.”
Serentha glanced off towards the side of the ballroom, but she couldn’t see Lord Bathsby anymore. “I don’t know if I care what’s best for Llewyllan anymore,” she said in a quiet voice. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. Jade? Serentha? Does it even matter?”
She leaned her head forward, resting it on Kendril’s shoulder as they danced.
“Don’t worry,” she said in a bittersweet tone, “I promise I won’t touch you.”
“Jade—” he began, his voice uncertain.
“Don’t say anything,” she said again. “Just let me be, all right?”
Kendril started to respond, but gave a short nod instead. “All right.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Serentha closed her eyes.
They danced in silence, the music filling the hall.
Kara stopped at the end of the small hedge, crouching as low as she could by the side of the palace. The hilt of the knife she had stolen earlier that day pressed into her side, stuck into the belt around her waist.
The pale moon hung low in the sky, gleaming off the large pond to her right. Music sailed out on the evening air from the nearby ballroom. The golden light from the long windows reflected in the water.
Kara paused for a moment and rubbed her hands together against the slight chill in the air. The sky was clear, and against the million pinpricks of stars she could see several guards patrolling the walls on all sides. By the gatehouse several guards lounged around idly, sharing jokes and playing cards.
She had been dodging soldiers in town all day, using every thieving skill she possessed to stay unseen. Only when night had fallen had she been able to duck into the castle itself, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the large number of nobles arriving at the same time. She knew it was crazy to crawl like this into the midst of the lion’s den, but she still had one item of unfinished business.
Sir Reginald still had to pay for the death of her brother.
Kara waited in the bushes for what seem
ed like forever. Her legs began to burn with the pain of the continual crouch. She was just about to move on when two men came out of the ballroom and walked over to the patio railing. She caught her breath as she saw the face of one of them in the light from the windows.
It was her brother’s murderer.
“You look glum, my Lord. Surely all is well?” Sir Reginald stepped up next to Lord Bathsby with a greasy smile on his face.
“All is well,” said Bathsby tightly. He glanced over the patio railing, past the bushes that lay directly below them. “You look particularly smug tonight. Tortured another helpless animal to death, have you?”
Reginald grinned. “Please, my Lord, you wound me with your words.”
Bathsby grunted. “I’m sure.” He gave the empty patio behind them a furtive glance. “Is everything ready?”
Kara felt the cold handle of the knife against her palm. Now was her chance. She started to rise from her hiding place, but something stopped her. Above, the two men continued their conversation.
Sir Reginald took a drink from his glass of punch. “If the witch does her part. I can’t say I really trust her.”
“Of course not. I don’t trust her either. There’s no doubting her talents, though. She’ll get the job done.” Bathsby gave Reginald a sharp look. “And Whitmore?”
The nobleman took another sip of the punch, and smacked his lips. “Marched out this afternoon from the South Gate.”
Bathsby narrowed his eyes. “With the Royal Guard?”
Sir Reginald gave a weary nod. “Yes, yes. All the men who were on your list.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Poor fools. I actually pity them.”
Bathsby gathered up his cape. “Pity is for the weak-minded, Sir Reginald. All true progress requires sacrifice. By morning we’ll be running Llewyllan.”
The nobleman raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Lord Bathsby gave him a wintry glare. His attention was quickly diverted by two chattering women who passed close by. He lowered his voice. “Just make sure the men are ready. There can be no mistakes tonight.”
Sir Reginald drained his glass. “There won’t be on my end.”
Lord Bathsby nodded, his eyes searched through the open patio doors into the ballroom. The orchestra had finished their piece and rested their instruments to one side. “Make sure there aren’t,” he said, “and by tomorrow you’ll be a general.”
