Tala knew she fit in well here, to a point. She was wearing a richly embroidered velvet night-cloak over a maroon dress laced up the front. She thought the ensemble worked well with the darkness of her curled hair. But there were so many pretty noblewomen and court girls in the hall tonight, all of them showing more flesh than she. Each painted girl who walked by was revealing a bit more cleavage than Tala was comfortable with. As she looked around at all the merriment and frolicking, she realized that as the youngest female member of the royal family, the more interesting parts of life were passing her by. That was really what sickened her most about the whole celebration: the unfairness of it.
She missed her mother and father. Each of their deaths had come so suddenly. Each death had been a hard blow to Tala, scarcely eleven years old at the time. She could still remember her mother, Alana, dying painfully in bed whilst giving birth to Ansel. Then came the news of her father a few moons later, killed in battle while fighting in Wyn Darrè against the White Prince. Tala had realized at too young an age that there was nobody left to properly raise her with love and tender care, nobody save her older brother, Jovan, and what few Silver Guards he posted outside her room each night. Tala wished Jondralyn would pay her more attention. Tala’s joys in life were few. Lawri and Lindholf’s visits from Eskander were the only highlights in her otherwise drab existence. But even that had turned out poorly this time. This plight with Lawri and the Bloodwood was taking its toll on Tala’s sanity. She felt so lost and alone.
She spotted Seita, Glade, and Lindholf sitting together at a table not too far away. The fragile lines of the Vallè princess’s tight dress were lecherous. Val-Draekin was mingling with Val-Korin and some other ambassadors behind Seita. Glade was dressed in dark leather pants that clung tight to his legs, a billowy white shirt tied at the waist with a thick black leather belt, and a black cape that was slung carelessly over his left shoulder. There was something a tad brooding about the way he sat there with Lindholf and the Vallè princess. He was keeping his eyes to himself, mostly. Lindholf, on the other hand, was wearing such a clash of colors it would be hard for anyone not to notice him. He’d donned a maroon-colored doublet and tight blue pants the color of the sky, along with a bright green cloak that hurt her eyes. The scarf draped about his neck was as red as an Avlonia strawberry
His movements were jerky as he began recounting some wild story for Seita and Glade. Tala strained to hear him. “At any rate,” he said. “I spilt the jug on my breeches in a most disadvantageous way. Looked as if I’d just pissed myself. Now, I couldn’t go back looking like a bed-wetting fool. But I hadn’t much time to think things through properly. So I figured if I just got the rest of myself all wet, it would all blend in, you know. So I took the remainder of the wine jugs in the pantry and doused myself with them and then proceeded back into her bedchamber, sopping wet from head to foot.” The sound of Seita’s laugh, more gentle than the harpist’s melody, made Tala groan inwardly.
“Nonsense,” Glade said. He sounded drunk. “You ain’t never been inside no girl’s bedchamber.”
Lindholf ignored him and continued. “As I stood there all a-drip in wine, I told the girl she could lick me from head to foot. But she’d have to catch me first.” Lindholf stood and began to caper to the music, long arms swinging disjointedly. “She chased me about her chamber, bare-arse naked, tongue wagging like a dog. She wanted me all right. Wanted to lick me clean.” Seita laughed at the story.
Glade put his mug down, stood, and wandered toward Tala. “That cousin of yours is as crazy as a bug in a mug.” He sat, snatched up a handful of nuts from the bowl in front of Tala, and started munching them.
Delia, at Tala’s table again, placed a small mug of mead in front of him. “A beer for my young master?”
Glade eyed the girl curiously. “Fancy seeing you here.” Then he burped.
“Fancy indeed,” Delia responded with a smile. Tala thought she sensed a veiled watchfulness in Glade as his eyes roamed over the barmaid, who walked away.
Tala’s gaze traveled to the raised dais in the center of the southern wall, where Jondralyn sat in a richly brocaded blue gown and even darker blue cape fastened with a delicate silver brooch. She looked positively radiant. The stone dais under Jondralyn was strewn with soft white rugs. Across the table from her was Jovan. A row of Dayknights stood behind the king, their backs against the velvet-draped wall, arms folded over heavy black breastplates and mail, longswords hanging under their silver surcoats, their countenances glowering.
Tala needed some air. Glade was clearly drunk and the room was growing crowded. She felt so lost and alone in the middle of it all. Lawri’s sickness and the assassin’s game vexed her mind. She asked Glade to remain with Lawri and stood, straightening her dress. She then made her way toward one of the two staircases to the balcony that branched off to either side at the eastern end of Sunbird Hall, pushing through the crowd. She climbed quickly, buoyancy in her step. The rows of ivory-paneled doors were open tonight, revealing the outside balcony beyond. Once atop the stairs, she could breathe easier. Tala caught a sideways glimpse of herself in the strip of polished glass scrollwork embedded in one of the doors. She turned and stood there for a moment, appraising the image staring back at her. She concluded that she didn’t look half-bad; more cute than most, all things considered.
Head held high, she strode boldly through the doorway and onto the balcony outside. The lulling scent of flowers was pleasant in comparison to the heavy woodsmoke of the hall. Ivy festooned the carved stone balustrade, trailed over the balcony, and climbed the castle walls. Crimson petals and twining vines draped the weblike trellis that arched over the row of doors behind her. A wistful tune drifted in from Sunbird Hall, which was a haze of yellow light in her periphery as she soaked in the cool night air.
Alone now, Tala rested her hands on the stone railing. She cast her gaze down to Memory Bay below. The moonlit view fell dizzying into space. In the restless harbor, ships of every size bobbed with the curling waves. Far below, the tide crashed, spewing foamy water high against the rocks at the base of Mount Albion and the castle. Scores of stone structures huddled down there, clinging to the vast structure’s base. Crisp winds blew in from the bay, moaning over the battlements and spires above. Those same towers blotted out the stars behind her. The Mourning Moon hung low on the horizon.
Tala wanted to think of anything other than assassins, black daggers, poisons, Lawri, or the grand vicar. She stared at the moon hanging above Amadon. For many in Gul Kana, much happiness and joy hinged on this, the first moon of spring: farmers began to till their soil, trappers and game hunters ventured into the Autumn Range again, grayken-hunting ships set sail, and feasts were held the breadth of the land. But in Amadon, the final night of the Mourning Moon Celebration was a waste of time to Tala—a yearly tradition that stretched back thousands of years, so ancient that probably no one even remembered what its original purpose was. Tala’s older sister would know. Jondralyn knew everything about Laijon and the holy book and the convoluted, bloody histories of Gul Kana. The Mourning Moon was mentioned briefly in The Way and Truth of Laijon, as were all of the fifteen moons and seasons. Despite how hard Dame Mairgrid tried with her, Tala was not the type to study books. But she knew the moons. In the dead of winter fell the first moon—the Afflicted Moon, followed by the Blackest Moon and the Shrouded Moon. On the first day of spring was the Mourning Moon, then Ethic Moon, Angel Moon, Fire Moon, and next, in the middle of the summer, came her favorite moon—the Blood Moon. Summer faded and turned to fall with the Heart Moon, followed by the Crown Moon, Thunder Moon, Archaic Moon, and Lonesome Moon. Snow season began again with the Forgetting Moon and really got frigid with the Winter Moon—fifteen moons in all, twenty-four days each, three hundred sixty days total, one year, and then it all started over again.
“Why did you leave me?” She heard Glade’s voice from behind. She tore her gaze from the dark skies to find him unexpectedly at the balcony next to her. He sl
id one of his hands over hers. Stunned at his unexpected touch, she jerked away.
“I only wish to share the view, if it pleases m’lady.” Glade flashed a cunning smile. He looked less inebriated than Tala had initially thought. “Why did you leave when I sat with you?” he asked again.
“You’re drunk and you seem far too besotted with Seita?” she answered, knowing as soon as the words spilled from her mouth that they rang with pettiness and jealousy.
“Lindholf is monopolizing her with silly stories. I only played drunk and excused myself to be with you.”
Tala was hurt by his answer. It appeared Glade would have been more than willing to spend his entire evening at Seita’s table. But since Lindholf was annoying him, retreating to her and Lawri’s table was his only option. She furrowed her brow and glowered at him. But a lock of his hair had strayed over his face, making her fingers itch to brush it back so she could clearly see his dark and beautiful eyes.
“Seita wishes you two could become friends,” he said. “You can be so cold and aloof, Tala. Around Seita, that is.”
Me, cold? That Seita wanted to be friends was news to her. Aloof? She didn’t know how to respond, so she was silent, letting Glade’s statement sink in.
“You seem upset,” he said.
“It’s nothing,” she responded, confused.
“Your hair looks divine. The way it falls and frames your face, curled so.”
Tala gazed at the ocean. Her heart beat like a kettledrum. She fought off a smile, but lost, and ended up grinning madly.
“Your smile is a treasure,” he said. “We would indeed match up well.” He reached for a few stray tendrils of her hair, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. She felt her face flush. He had a beguiling way about him that made everything he did, every small gesture—like touching her hair—seem intriguingly dangerous.
“The famous raven Bronachell hair,” he said, dark eyes boring into hers. “We would make such beautiful children.”
“Truly?” Tala asked, heart light in her chest.
Glade let the wisps of her hair fall from his fingers. “But you do such unladylike things.” He gave her his characteristically apathetic shrug. “For such a pretty girl, you’re weird. I don’t know how I can even contemplate—”
“Unladylike?” Tala raised her chin and looked him full in the face, her smile now gone. Everything he did caught her off guard. “What is so unladylike about me?” she challenged.
“Secret treks to dockside taverns. Having Lindholf climb the statue of Laijon. And that barmaid from the Filthy Horse. Here? Tonight? What are you up to, Tala?”
What do I dare tell him? Tala’s mind spun. Who may be watching? She felt she was going insane. She took a deep breath and took Glade’s hands in her own, facing him. “Perhaps I’ll tell you what I’m up to . . . for a kiss.” Tala couldn’t believe her own brashness. She knew this was a dangerous precipice she now teetered on. She tried hiding her embarrassment behind a fluttery giggle.
“Don’t be daft,” he said with laughing eyes, moving back a step, letting go of her hands. She felt a surge of disappointment. It was all going so embarrassingly wrong now. But with a roguish grin, Glade spoke again. “You’ll tell me what I wish to know whether I kiss you or not.” He took up her hands again, pulling her close. A cool breeze plucked at her cloak and dress. But the sensation of Glade’s body against hers was like a hearth fire on her flesh. Now, instead of feeling lost and alone, Tala felt a wild sense of completeness with Glade, of being made whole. She tried to suppress her desire as he wrapped her in his arms.
Tala closed her eyes. Then his lips were on hers, moist and soft and perfect. She drank in the taste of him. The wine still on his breath was sweet, intoxicating. His hands roamed as he kissed her, caressing her shoulders, drifting down her back. . . .
Eyes opening wide in shock, she found herself facing the crowd over Glade’s shoulder—she could see the entire room below. The Bloodwood could be any one of the two hundred or so revelers crowding Sunbird Hall. People danced, drank, ate, but nobody appeared to take note of her and Glade’s embrace. Nobody but Dame Mairgrid, that is. Tala spied her tutor down below, glowering up at the balcony—the woman’s fat gut was half stuffed under a table and half resting atop it. Tala knew she would catch a scolding from the woman for sure. Perhaps the Bloodwood hides in the walls. At that thought, her eyes shot upward. The lofty ceiling was crisscrossed with arched buttresses and heavy rafters. Woodsmoke curled there, thick and dense.
Glade kissed her with fervency now. He thrust his tongue into her mouth. It was a sudden and alarming thing, thrilling and disgusting and intimate all at once.
He pulled his lips away from hers then, looking satisfied, arms still encircling her waist. “Has kissing me got you all moist and slippery inside?”
She shoved him away.
“But you must remain a virgin until we marry,” he continued, a mocking hunger in his eyes. “So I’ll be finding some other lass tonight.”
Tala wanted to jab the Bloodwood’s dagger into his eye. Jab it in and twist. Fighting back a growing tide of anger, she tried to formulate a respectable response. But Glade snatched her around the waist and pulled her tight against him again, stroking her hair. “I must go,” he whispered gently. “But fear not, our wedding night will be a special time for you.” He turned and glided down the stairs, his black cape a-swirl, billowing at her in defiance with each retreating step.
Tala wanted to vomit her churning insides out all over the pretty flowers lining the balcony. Was that all young men ever thought of? She was so disgusted by Glade that she wished he’d just drop dead. How could he be so charming and repulsive at the same time? There was not an ounce of niceness or humility in him. She’d seen the same impertinence fester in her older brother—Jovan had used and then tossed aside every girl who crossed his path.
“Has Glade upset you?” Lindholf’s white leather boots clicked on the stairs as he made his way toward her. The hues and brightness of Lindholf’s garb nearly blinded her. Tala swore her cousin’s cheeks and forehead were rouged, perhaps to cover the burns and scars of his childhood accident, or more likely, to cover the legion of pimples gathered on the other parts of his face. Everything about her cousin clashed horribly.
“He has an angering effect on the ladies, you know.” Lindholf bowed before her, sweat gleaming on his forehead. “And the more oafish he is, the more the girls fawn over him.” Tala wrinkled her nose at the smell of his breath.
“Were you talking about Seita?” he asked. “I think Glade is in love with her.”
“You don’t say,” Tala groaned, wondering why every conversation she had with Glade or Lindholf revolve around the Vallè princess.
“Glade would jam his pecker into anything, even a Vallè,” Lindholf said. “But Seita toys with him. It can only end poorly for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Seita would chew Glade up and spit him out. Then Val-Draekin would cut his throat. Glade ought not mess with the likes of them. The Vallè, that is.”
“What have you got against the Vallè?”
“It’s the tone Seita uses when speaking of you, Tala. I care not for it.”
Tala’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“She made mention that you’re none too bright when it comes to certain things.”
“None too bright,” Tala repeated, stung. Her eyes roamed Sunbird Hall for any sign of the Vallè princess. “What did she mean by that?”
“She didn’t specify. You know how girls talk.”
“Why would you tell me such a thing?” Tala said, upset. “As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”
But as Lindholf rattled away his answer, Tala was already lost in thought. After all, Glade had just informed her, Seita wanted to be friends. Now Lindholf comes with his bad breath bearing the exact opposite news. Tala searched the crowded room below, a knot building in her throat. She located the Vallè princess standi
ng near a table with her father, Val-Korin. Dame Mairgrid was tending to Ansel, both of them near the main hearth at the far end of the room. Tala’s eyes scanned the tables for Lawri, but she could not find her cousin. “Where’s your sister?” Tala asked.
“Not feeling well,” Lindholf answered. “Mother took her to her chambers.”
“Why would you tell me Seita cast insults my way?”
“As cousins we should stick together,” he said. “Our realm has grown full of peril. You must have allies, Tala. You must have one person you can trust above all others. For my part, I think you are the fairest and smartest girl in all of Gul Kana.”
For some reason the sincerity in Lindholf’s words touched her deeply. Within her cousin, she knew there lived no guile, no bravado or pretense. At all times he meant what he said. Then an image of Lawri’s sickly face flashed into her mind. Guilt flooded her. She straightened her back and told herself to get a grip on her emotions.
“You’re right, Lindholf,” she said. “We should stick together. I value your friendship more than you know. You’ve such a sense of humor. You can make me laugh with but a look. You’re so funny, and truth be told, much more interesting than Glade. I’ve always felt close to you.” She grabbed his hands in hers, looked into his trusting eyes. “We have a connection that most people will never have.”
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