And she laughed, because she could not help herself, and for the briefest flash his smile reached up and touched his eyes.
The orchestra were drawing their intermission to a close, and he held out his hand, pale and slim-fingered.
‘May I presume as much as a second dance, Miss Marshwic?’
She rose, and the word that rose to her lips – the unthinkable correction – was ‘Emily’.
But, before she could speak, another voice cut across their conversation. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe it must now be my honour.’
She turned, ready to deal harshly with this presumptuous newcomer, but her voice died in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Northway turn and skulk away like a shadow when the lamps are lit.
‘Your Majesty,’ she stammered.
Close to, he seemed impossibly perfect, a piece of hyperbole stepped from a storybook. His skin was smooth and flawless as fine silk, and the curve of his lips made her aware of how poor her gown was, and her provenance. His eyes, though – his eyes were the special magic. They were hypnotic, deep as seas and, like the sea, changes and tides passed over them and currents lurked in their depths. Emily felt her heart hammering, and her breath refused to come.
‘We are told that you are of the old Marshwic line, my lady,’ he said, as though she was anything more than the second daughter of a provincial squire.
She found her voice with a great gasp. ‘It is good of Your Majesty to remember my family,’ she got out. She wanted to look, to find Alice, but she could not take her eyes from the King.
Luthrian, by God’s grace the fourth monarch of that name, smiled easily. ‘You are of a rare old stock, Miss Marshwic, and your grandfather, I recall, was one of my grandsire’s Warlocks. Your family has its place in the histories of Lascanne. Loyalty and honour, Miss Marshwic, should be your family motto. Do you think a generation or two of worse luck could erase such antecedents?’
‘Your Majesty . . . ?’
‘Barlocque here tells me that you serve me still, your family fighting at the front, eh?’ The musicians were holding off, playing masterly arabesques about the opening bars of the dance, as they awaited the King’s pleasure. She vaguely gathered that Barlocque was the elder wizard, now standing at the King’s shoulder.
‘That is so, Your Majesty. We are proud to serve you in any way we can.’
‘And it shall be rewarded, in due time. All my loyal subjects who have taken arms to defend us against Denland’s aggression will receive the rewards of freedom.’
There was polite applause from the guests all around them.
‘Will you dance with me, Miss Marshwic?’ the King asked.
‘Your Majesty has only to command—’
‘I command no such thing.’ His smile broadened. ‘Here and now, you may refuse a king and lose nothing by it. But I ask, merely as a man, will you dance?’
She could hardly believe that she was still speaking. ‘But, Your Majesty, why . . . ?’
‘Why you?’ He barked out a single syllable of laughter. ‘My lady, you looked so solemn, even as you danced in the midst of all this gaiety. I confess my eye was quite drawn. I vowed to see what was amiss, that such a noble lady as yourself was moved to frown.’
Emily heard the sound of a hundred noblewomen vowing to be more solemn in the future. ‘It was some small matter, Your Majesty, and it is quite gone from me now,’ she said, quite truthfully. ‘As your loyal subject, as a Marshwic and as a gentlewoman of Lascanne, I would be honoured to dance with you.’
She took his hand, feeling the smooth metal of the rings there, touching a faceted stone with her thumb. The evening was unreal around her, the guests faceless blurs of colour against the mother-of-pearl floor. Even the music seemed to lose its thread and tone. Only the King was there for her, as he laid a hand lightly on her waist, and hers found his shoulder.
He danced as though the music had been written for him, as though music – all music – had been written for him. He danced as though motion and metre were his to command. In his arms, with his guiding hand burning hot around her waist, so did she. She felt the gloomy pall of Mr Northway being burned from her by the radiance of the King.
And yet how strange: that one is this one’s servant, the shadow that moves at the behest of the sun . . .
She had no sense, during those golden minutes, that Luthrian was showing off for the other guests, or that he was merely fulfilling a duty. He was dancing with her because he wished it, and she danced with him for the selfsame reason. They could have been any young man and his lady, save that he was the most handsome man in Lascanne, while she . . . Well, Alice teased her for being plain, but in that moment she was the most beautiful woman in the room, and she knew that the others all saw it too. While the King laid hands on her, his divine magic cloaked her and she was a princess.
All too soon, the waltz’s measures drew to a close, and she located herself in the ballroom once more, among the dancers and the guests, the musicians and the frescos on the ceiling. But still the King held on to her, and his smile almost blinded her.
‘Stay by me, my lady. I have a task to attend to.’
She nodded dumbly. The crowd of guests had formed itself into a loose circle about them, expectantly. Emily wondered what was to happen next.
‘My lords and ladies, loyal subjects all,’ the King announced. ‘I have chosen this delightful gathering of Lord and Lady Deerling to confer upon certain soldiers of my cause a signal honour and a grave responsibility. I call upon you, each and every one, to bear witness to what I ordain here, and the charge I place on them.’
Emily saw men draw themselves up straight, soldiers looking serious and loosing their holds on their wives or their newfound partners so that they could pay attention.
‘Where are your charges, Barlocque?’ enquired the King and, on cue, the elderly wizard stepped forward with his apprentices in tow. Scavian was at the end of their line, his jaw clenched tight to disguise his nervousness. At Barlocque’s signal all six of them made a low obeisance to the King, then knelt before him. Scavian’s face was gripped with such intense emotion as he gazed up at his monarch: pride, fear, resolution. There would be no going back from this step, for any of them. They would arise something more than human.
‘You are each of you born into a noble house,’ the King addressed them seriously. ‘Your fathers and their fathers have served the royal line faithfully and well, and it pleases us to see you follow them on that path. Your masters have vouched for you, despite your youth, and in this time of war we think it right that you should be made ready to serve your country and your king. Prepare yourselves.’
‘What are they doing?’ Alice had squirmed her way through the crowd and was now whispering in her sister’s ear. Emily gestured her to silence.
Along with his peers, Scavian was unbuttoning his jacket, then pulling it open inches at a time with all the elaborate care of a ritual, until it hung loose about his shoulders. Without a pause his fingers moved on to his shirt, and Alice gasped as his bare skin was exposed – collarbones, chest and stomach – until there was a triangle of flesh visible from his shoulders to his navel under the ballroom’s light. He pulled his shirt aside and closed his eyes, as a man would do were he waiting for a sword thrust.
The King took a deep breath and the smile slipped from his face, leaving it bare of all expression and all humanity. He stalked along the line of them, the air shimmering in his wake like a heat haze. As he reached the end of the row of motionless young men, he lifted an arm, and Emily saw the air boil and ripple about it, the very flesh glow lambent and terrible with the power now contained in his hand.
‘Giles Scavian, apprentice, I deem you worthy to receive the sangreal, and with my touch I anoint you as a Warlock of Lascanne,’ the King declared. ‘May you ever use the powers I give you for the good of both king and country.’ Swiftly, he thrust out his palm and laid it flat against Scavian’s bared chest.
Ther
e was a hiss like meat sizzling on a fire, and Scavian stiffened, his features clenching in pain. The scent was not of burnt flesh, though, but of blood – freshly spilt blood with its metallic tang. Beneath the hand, something crackled and spat and glowed like hot embers.
When the King withdrew his palm, there was the red weal of a handprint on Scavian’s naked skin, and Emily knew that he would bear it forever, just as Barlocque bore a similar mark across his face, like a birthmark. ‘Rise, Master Scavian,’ the monarch said softly. ‘Rise as a wizard of the King.’
There was still pain in Scavian’s expression, but a fierce pride as well. ‘Your Majesty, my life and my endeavours are yours,’ he declared.
The King nodded slightly, a proud man accepting his due. The next apprentice wizard braced himself, wincing as he prepared for the pain.
A further five times, that terrible power seared from the King’s hand to anoint his new servants, until the room was filled with the hot blood–iron scent, and the air above them danced and shuddered with stray gleams and glimmers of regal power.
And at last the King had spoken his words to each of them in turn, and bid them all rise, and they stood before him trembling and scarred, but possessed also of a new and terrible purpose and power. ‘Now recover yourself, my loyal servants,’ he bade them. ‘I know well that the touch of the royal blood is a terrible burden. More than any, I know it.’
Barlocque ushered his young charges away through the crowd, which stood well back to give them passage.
The room was gripped by silence, the guests looking to the King or after the departing Warlocks. It was a ritual so seldom witnessed, usually performed behind closed doors. He has shown us this to remind us of the power of the Crown, Emily thought. And then: He touched me. She recalled his hand at her waist as they danced, how he had clasped her hand in his, the smooth warmth of his skin. How could she have done that if she had thought about the fire of the sangreal – the royal blood – just beneath the surface.
‘My lady Marshwic,’ the King turned to her, his smile immaculate. ‘What think you of the inner workings of the state?’
‘Could you have . . . burned me?’ She had not meant to say it, but it was out now.
‘Only by my express will does the blood of kings leave me to anoint my chosen, and you must know there are no women amongst my wizards, even though your line has produced Warlocks in the past. You need fear me not, my lady.’
‘The ways of the Crown are . . . mysterious,’ she observed.
‘Compared to the documents, the sealing and the signing, they pale into insignificance,’ said the King, the joke igniting a brief flurry of laughter around the room. ‘My Lady Deerling, there you are. Is your husband not with you?’
And with that the King strolled off amidst the guests eddying around him, leaving Emily feeling quite alone, despite them all.
Never alone for long, though, for now Alice was tugging furiously at her sleeve. ‘I don’t know how you managed that, sister, but I swear it is quite maddening of you.’
‘Maddening?’ Emily blinked at her in puzzlement.
‘That you should speak with the King and not introduce me. Honestly, if he can find favour in such a face as yours, why, I should have quite captured him.’
It was a strange thing, to realize that she had somehow outmanoeuvred her little sister, usually so adept in these gatherings. A spark of cruelty came to Emily, and she said, ‘Why, little sister, perhaps the King’s eyes are as enchanted as his blood, and he sees hearts and not faces.’
Alice pouted furiously, and stamped. Before Emily could apologize, the girl had stormed away, no doubt to start rumours, as was her wont. For once, Emily felt able to ignore her. She felt flushed, weak almost. Too much had happened to her in such a short space of time. The King. The King!
‘My lady, the musicians will soon strike up again. Might I request the next dance of you?’
She looked into the face of a lean, middle-aged nobleman she did not recognize. With the scent of the King fresh upon her, she was suddenly someone, where before they would not have looked twice at her.
‘Alas, my lord, I must rest out this next dance,’ she excused herself, and backed off to the edge of the room. Her mind was full of thoughts now, and she wanted to speak them to someone, anyone. Alice was out of the question, of course, and Emily looked around the room for the night-blue uniform of the wizards. She felt, of all the people she had spoken to this evening, that Giles Scavian would keep her confidences, and he might have revelations of his own in return.
The young Warlock was not in the room, and she guessed the newly anointed wizards had been taken somewhere else to rest. Deerlings was a sprawling mansion, but she decided he could not be far away, so while the King took the guests’ attention with another fine speech, she slipped unobtrusively from the room.
Heavy with memory, the cold quiet of Deerlings enveloped her. As the ballroom doors closed, so the sound of human joy was shut off behind them. The chamber beyond was empty of life, dominated only by the dead. Portraits of the family glowered down on her: warriors dressed in military garb or armour; women laced and whaleboned into aristocratic poses; men in the dark robes of the King’s Warlocks, many sporting proudly the handprint brand of their office. A huge bear menaced one corner vacantly, tall enough that the flat crown of its head brushed the ceiling, bared teeth and hooked claws raised to threaten the man who had slain it, himself now generations dead. Perhaps his likeness was somewhere on the wall, staring down at his great prize, the two of them locked in an endless rivalry.
She passed down a long hallway, the windows of which faced onto a walled courtyard long untended. The overgrown vines and weeds and bushes reached up as if to ensnare dark statues of winged angels taking flight. To Emily it seemed that they were striving to escape the foliage, and that it was dragging them down, seeking to bind them to the earth. She could see no door opening onto that garden, as though the house itself had closed it off and forgotten it, angels and all.
She paused at the doorway of the next dim chamber she came upon. From the darkness within, armour glinted on the walls: breastplates dulled with age, crossed sabres and antique broadswords beneath them; the bygone tools of the soldier’s trade arrayed now as heirlooms and prizes. Pikes and axes, she saw; helms and flags of all the nations that Lascanne had warred against. Perhaps there would be a Denlander flag here soon; at least she hoped so. Emily moved forward, brushing against a pike beside the door, which scraped across the face of a scarred shield.
There was a strangled cry and something lunged at her, slicing the air. She had taken only a single step into the room, and now reeled against the wall with a clatter of armour, sending a curved scimitar bounding angrily across the floor. She flinched, arms up to protect her face – and her eyes met those of Lord Deerling.
He had his drawn sabre halfway towards her, but the hand of one of his savages had stayed him from delivering the blow. The man’s old face was drawn and pale, aghast at himself. In the gloom she had not spotted him or his attendants, or had taken them for mere exhibits.
‘My lord, please, I apologize, I did not mean to . . .’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the old man said, his voice almost a whisper. With a heaving breath he lowered the sword, let it follow the long-familiar path back into its scabbard. ‘Please forgive me, young lady.’
‘My lord . . .’ she began, but did not know what to say. The two savages stared at her with eyes as round and orange as the orbs of owls. Their hair was feathery, brown and white and grey, blending with their cloaks. Their muscular corded bodies were dark and lean, with nails like talons. Close to, they did not look so human as she had thought. ‘My lord, is something wrong? I did not mean to intrude.’
His tension-drawn face essayed a smile, which made him look infinitely older and more fragile. ‘I came away from it all – the music and the crowds – because I cannot live amongst such things any more. I am unfit for company, young lady. I . . . have been at wa
r such a long time. One can only witness so many terrible things before one becomes . . . unsuited for polite society.’
She saw he was trembling like a child. ‘My lord, will you sit?’
Gratefully he folded himself into a chair, tilting his head back until it touched the flat of an axeblade hanging behind him. ‘I wish you had not seen me like this, young lady. I have . . . spells where it all comes back to me, the fighting and the war, and then I must leave them all. I am not safe company in those moments. I see the enemy, then . . .’
She eyed the two savages. ‘I wonder that you keep such company, my lord, if you do not wish to be reminded.’
He laughed weakly. ‘I need no help in the reminding. I keep my friends here because they understand. They know what I have gone through . . . what I am still going through. They make sure that I do no harm. Please, young lady, you have strayed onto a sight you should not have seen, and I am sorry for that.’
*
Early the next morning, Grant was waiting for them with the carriage when the time came to leave. Alice was being secretive and mysterious, but Emily understood that she had not attracted the King’s attention. For her own part, Emily had seen no further sign of either Giles Scavian or Mr Northway.
No sooner had his name crossed her mind than Alice’s prattle moved on. ‘And I shall tell Mary that you danced with that loathsome creature Northway, and no doubt she will have a lot to say about that.’
‘Let her say what she will,’ Emily retorted sternly.
‘I do not understand how you could do that.’
‘You do not understand a great many things, Alice.’
The buggy shifted forward a little, then stopped as Grant reined in the horses.
‘Is there a problem, Grant?’ asked Emily, peering into the pre-dawn gloom.
‘I need to wait for the road ahead to clear, ma’am. Also there’s a gentleman here I think wishes to speak to you.’
Guns of the Dawn Page 11
