The Unwilling

by KELLY BRAFFET

  Instantly, the courtier went silent. “Let her stay,” Elban told the guards, who had moved close, in case he wanted them to eject her. Then, to the courtier: “You’re boring me, anyway. You know what I’m going to say; assume I’ve said it, and we’ll all save ourselves a lot of time.”

  The courtier scurried away, glowering at Judah. He was overdressed, and his eye makeup was running. The Seneschal cleared his throat. “Lord Elban—”

  “You, too,” Elban said to him.

  The Seneschal glanced at Judah. “I would advise against that, Lord Elban.”

  Elban waved a hand. “The foundling will behave herself. Won’t you, foundling?”

  Judah didn’t answer. The Seneschal bowed. On his way out, he paused next to her, for the merest breath. “Whatever you’re doing,” he said quietly, “be careful.”

  Then he was gone. On the throne, Elban laughed.

  “Such looks you give me, foundling. It’s extremely entertaining.” The room was vast, gleaming with polished wood. For a long moment, Elban watched her expectantly, enjoying her discomfiture. She tried to show as little of it as possible.

  “Show me your arms,” he said, but when she held them out—trying not to tremble—he shook his head. “No, no. Take all that off. I want to see your scars.”

  So she undid all of Darid’s careful bandages, stuffing them in her pockets. Maybe Elly could use them again. “Closer,” Elban said, and she inched toward him. He leaned over to inspect the two curlicues. Then he reached out with one long finger and scraped off some of the thick salve covering them. He wasn’t gentle and the motion sent a shudder of pain through her. “What’s this?”

  “Just salve.”

  He rubbed the salve between two fingers. “What’s it do?”

  “Helps them heal.”

  “Those scars are mine, foundling. If I don’t like how they turn out, we’ll do them again until I do.” He wiped the salve from his finger onto the front of her dress. She was better prepared this time and did not shudder. “Did you want something, or did you just come to quiver before me? Because I do like that. It’s the least disgusting I’ve ever found you.”

  She stepped back, well out of striking distance. The place on her arm where he’d scraped her throbbed. “I want to make a deal.” Her voice sounded stronger than she’d expected. “You like deals, don’t you? Bargains, and trades?”

  “I do.” Slowly, deliberately, his eyes moved up and down her body. She had often seen courtiers do that to each other, or to staff girls, but she’d never been on the receiving end, and it made her want to peel off her own skin. “But you have nothing to offer me.”

  She hadn’t fainted when he burned her. She wouldn’t falter now. “Actually, I do. And it’s something you’ll want.”

  He slouched down in his chair, leaning his chin on one long arm. “All right, foundling. Impress me.”

  “Deal first. If you accept my offer, Elly marries Gavin and Theron lives.”

  “We’re still on that, are we?” He yawned. “If you plan to offer yourself in the Tiernan’s place, I’m not interested.”

  “You’re not interested in Elly, either. You’re only marrying her to hurt Gavin.”

  “I don’t want to hurt Gavin.” But he was smiling now. “I want to break Gavin. He’ll be stronger for it, and he’ll need to be strong to keep my empire. I can’t think of anything you could possibly offer that I want more than that.”

  Judah took a deep breath. “You lost an entire regiment on your last campaign. Surely you want to avoid that happening again.”

  He was up and striding toward her before the words were all the way out of her mouth, teeth bared in a snarl. She forced herself to keep speaking. “Your soldiers were ambushed. Mowed down like grass. No way to warn them.”

  Now his long white fingers were manacle-tight on her upper arm. One of his incisors was missing, making the canine next to it seem particularly long and sharp, and she found herself suddenly scared that he’d bite her. “Who told you that?” he said, shaking her hard enough to rattle her own teeth. “Speak of such things again and I will rip your tongue out.”

  “If you’d had then what I’m offering now, it wouldn’t have happened. None of those men would be dead, and I know you don’t care about dead men, but you hate taking the time to train new ones, don’t you?”

  He shook her again. “Lying, witchbred—”

  “You could have won,” she said.

  Elban stopped. His fingers still dug painfully into her arm but he was no longer shaking her. “If you’re wasting my time,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “I will knock all of your teeth out and beat you unconscious.”

  “Deal first.”

  He hit her. White flashes filled her vision, then cleared.

  “Deal first,” she said again.

  He hit her a second time and stunned her—but the Seneschal had hit her harder the week before. If Elban had been hitting her as hard as he could she would be unconscious already, or at least on the floor. This beating was for effect. Which meant that he wanted to hear what she had to say. An ugly hope surged inside her.

  “Everyone else gets left alone,” she said through thick, clumsy lips.

  He raised his hand again. She didn’t flinch. He grunted and let the hand fall. “Fine. If your offer is sound, my heir can keep the Tiernan. We’ll pay Porterfield off. She was getting too arrogant, anyway. I hate an arrogant woman.”

  “And Theron lives.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.” Dropping her arm, he folded both of his own across his chest and waited.

  She took a deep breath. “Gavin and I feel the same things,” she said. “Wherever he is, wherever I am.”

  “Wasting my time, foundling. Telling me things I already know.”

  Judah held out her left arm. Where her palm met her wrist, just above where her bandages had been a moment before, a fresh scratch stood out, raised and red. “Do you see this scratch? Gavin did that when you hit me.”

  As they watched, the scratch redrew itself, deeper. Wherever Gavin was, he had suddenly found himself dazed and in pain, and he wanted to know why. Elban’s eyes narrowed. Judah pointed to a curl on the end of the new scratch. “This means he’s worried.” She drew a finger down the curve. “He wants to know where I am.”

  Elban’s eyes grew wide. “A code.”

  “Since we were children.”

  “You use pain to communicate.” Slowly, a smile blossomed on his face: full of fascination and pleasure, it was the first genuine smile she had ever seen there. “Oh, that is very beautiful, foundling.”

  She pushed down the sick feeling that smile gave her. “You’re taking Gavin on campaign as soon as Elly is pregnant, aren’t you? Take me, too. Put me with a different regiment. You’ll never be caught unaware again.”

  She could see his mind at work on the idea. Unfolding it; examining every facet, all of its possibilities.

  “How should I respond?” she said. “I can tell him I’m fine. I can tell him where I am. I can tell him you hit me. Or I can tell him you’re about to knock all my teeth out and beat me unconscious.”

  “I’m still deciding about that.” But he licked his lips. “Tell him you’re fine.”

  Holding up her arm so Elban could see, she drew the quick crosshatch that meant all well—although she didn’t believe it, not at all, not the way Elban was looking at her. Her cheek throbbed and her burned arms were on fire.

  Elban reached out and touched the scratch. It was gentle, that touch. Almost a caress. It was also revolting. “Do we have a deal?” she said.

  “I could just take you, now that I know,” he said. His nostrils flared. She realized that his breathing was fast and ragged. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “But yes. We have a deal. Now get out of here. Go to the kitchen and tell them to give you some ice
for your face, so you’re no uglier than usual for the ball.” He licked his lips again, his eyes still fixed on the scratch. “Go quickly. Before I do something I regret.”

  She didn’t have to be told twice. As she fled the room, she wondered, uncomfortably, what kind of thing would make Elban, monster that he was, feel regret. She didn’t want to know. She suspected she would probably learn.

  But Elly never would, and Theron would be safe.

  * * *

  For the ball, great chandeliers had been hung from the wrought-iron roof of the solarium, glittering crystal that refracted the light of the candles inside them until they blazed like miniature suns. The mezzanine balconies were filled with musicians. The glass panels in the walls had been opened and outside them, the garden, too, was lit; the paved walks were strung with colored lanterns, and the galleries were filled with acrobats, illusionists and every kind of dancer Judah had ever heard of. Dancers with swords, dancers with fire, dancers wearing nothing but scraps of gauze that swirled around them like smoke. Near the open doors, tables were laid with sweets and roasts and ices and warm creamy drinks that were almost syrupy at the bottom. A rainbow of wine, another of cheese. To cover the smells of the food, incense burned in vented cavities beneath the floor, and greenhouse roses crowded every surface not intended for reclining or dancing.

  On the parquet floor, the courtiers whirled in vivid silks and satins, hair in every shade of gold combed and teased into elaborate shapes and dressed with gems and feathers and the enameled insects that were still in style. Standing on the edge of the floor was like standing at the edge of one of Theron’s machines writ large as the courtiers spun and revolved and spun again. Every step was choreographed. The slightest deviation sent ripples of discord through the engine. Theron himself would have found it fascinating, if Theron had still been himself. And maybe he was still fascinated, a bit. His eyes were fixed on the dancers, at least. Drained of his nervousness and acuity—drained of his Theron-ness—and dressed in a drab version of Gavin’s finery, he seemed more than ever like a badly molded imitation of his brother: all the same features, dulled and misplaced by the hairbreadth that made the difference between ordinary and beautiful. He’d been carrying a small cake in his hand for most of the night. From time to time he noticed it, and lifted it to his mouth, but before it got there he’d inevitably forget it again and his hand would slowly drift back down. The cake was beginning to disintegrate around the edges and the icing was grubby.

  He and Judah stood away from the food and away from the doors. They were nowhere anyone else would need to be, the foundling and the unimportant son, and they would not be forced into the dance. Judah’s arm looped loosely through Theron’s, mostly so he wouldn’t drift away—but also so she could feel him next to her, vacant as he was, and relish the notion that he might be safe. She had not been quick enough or brave enough to save him from the poison, but maybe, just maybe, she had saved him from the rest. She didn’t trust Elban, but she was more certain than ever now that he didn’t actually care about marrying Elly, and poor damaged Theron wasn’t a threat to anyone’s throne. But Elban did want the scratch code. No; he desired it. What Judah wanted and what Elban wanted seemed to align. She wasn’t sure her plan would work, but she thought so.

  Because she couldn’t be sure, and because she knew they would object (probably rather strenuously) she hadn’t mentioned anything about the deal to Gavin or Elly, who danced together in the center of the machine, faces frozen in polite emptiness. The merest possibility that they might be safe, though, let Judah enjoy watching them, in their coordinating scarlet and gold. They were beautiful together. Elly was summer, her sky-blue eyes and hair so vibrant the gold pins she wore in it dulled by comparison; Gavin was autumn, warm and burnished. His eyebrows wanted to frown but somehow, on him, that cruel mouth of Elban’s wanted to laugh. The idea that he might soon have something to laugh about gave Judah immense pleasure. They would make lovely children, and they would be kind parents.

  Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Amie, whose dress was a deep indigo that had doubtless been chosen to complement Gavin’s scarlet coat when she was called up on the dais, and whose hair was surrounded by tiny enamel butterflies on wires that bobbed and flitted as she moved. Judah would not let herself look directly at the woman, as if refusing to see her would somehow keep her away, and make Elban do what he’d promised (although she allowed herself to picture that smug little forehead creased with disappointment, those perfect bird hands clapping politely while the lady courtier’s plans fell around her). Judah would not look at the Seneschal, either, because he seemed to be trying to catch her eye. His job at this affair was to keep everything running smoothly, to stand by Elban’s side and make sure that all was as he wished it. Later—as long as Elban kept his word, and did not claim Elly for himself—the Seneschal might be dispatched into the crowd to collect someone the Lord of the City wished to take back to his chambers. The someone would be beautiful and blushing and he would probably destroy them, and that was sad. But the someone would not be Elly, and that was not sad.

  The Seneschal was definitely watching her, his face hard, almost angry. The emotion seemed out of place among the light music and the elegant courtiers. He was down off the dais now, moving around the edges of the crowd; toward her.

  She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t know what he knew but she suspected. Her arm was still hooked through Theron’s; she let it drop, ignoring the pain as the burns inside her silk-lined sleeves (the bandages had not fit) pressed against the rough braid of his coat, and took his hand instead. “Come on,” she said, and led him in the other direction. As she did, the music changed, and the dance did, too. This one was a social dance, the kind where partners were traded back and forth. Judah scanned the crowd for Elly and saw that she had withdrawn to her seat next to Elban on the dais, pale and flat-eyed. It was taking everything Elly had just to dance with Gavin tonight, and she would not be willing to make conversation with whatever courtier happened to be next to her when the figure changed. Elly thought she was going to spend the night with Elban. Sitting next to him, Judah knew, was her being strong, and proving she was brave.

  There was a moment of chaos in the new dance as partners were found, figures formed. The Seneschal took advantage of the pause to cut across the floor. He was close now, and Judah saw that she’d trapped herself in a corner. Just like with the Wilmerian. When the dance started in earnest, there would be no escape.

  Through the crowd, she saw Firo, resplendent in copper-traced teal. A table of cakes like the one Theron carried stood nearby; Judah pushed him gently toward it. “Theron,” she said. “Go eat.”

  He stumbled a bit. She must have pushed him harder than she’d meant to. He stared at the cake in his hand, and its fellows on the table. “Eat?”

  “Or wait. Whatever.” His slowness exasperated her (and would that there were some part of herself she could trade to fix that, too; she would happily give an arm or a leg or a foot to have quick snappish Theron back). He frowned but obeyed, as she’d known he would, and Judah scanned again for Firo’s teal coat. If he’d found a partner—but, no, he was working his way out, too. She pushed rudely through the crowd and set herself in front of him. His purple sash was also edged in copper and perfectly matched the amethysts in his ears. His hair was very high, his kohl very thick. “Dance with me,” she ordered, and pushed herself into his arms; then the figure started in earnest and he had no choice, if he didn’t want to disrupt the dance and call attention to himself. To both of them.

  He frowned, muttering, “This will not serve me well,” but one of his hands found hers, the other going to her waist. The Seneschal, at the edge of the crowd, watched stone-faced as Firo led her into the dance. Judah took a deep breath. She could feel Gavin, his curiosity breaking through his misery when he felt her pounding heart, her sudden nerves.

  “Relax,” Judah said. “Soon nobody’s even going
to remember I was here, much less you.” Elly had left the dais after all, and was leading Theron into the dance.

  “Is that so?” All at once Firo’s grip on her waist was hard, his long fingernails pressing her hand. Not digging in, but threatening, all the same. His eyes were narrow, calculating. “What do you know, foundling?”

  A flutter of high, giddy excitement coursed through her. Elly and Theron were dancing, and Elly was even managing to smile. “What I’ve said,” Judah said airily. “You aren’t the only one who can spin webs.”

  Firo cocked an eyebrow. Across the whirling, rotating dancers she saw Gavin. His current partner wore indigo. Amie. As they revolved Judah saw her lips moving. Whatever she said was dragging Gavin down: his eyes, his spirit. Inappropriately, Judah found herself stifling a laugh. You, too, you silly sugar flower, she thought at Amie. You might be surprised, too.

  Firo, meanwhile, was watching her carefully. “You know, you’re unexpectedly lovely tonight. Have they brought in a new seamstress who doesn’t know you’re always to be shabby and a bit misshapen?”

  Judah flinched. She was suddenly very conscious of the green fabric draped around her and—worse—the grand mass of her hair, which was marginally contained in a delicate web of silver and sparkling crystals but still very much its unruly self. In the soft flattering light of the solarium, the red of Judah’s hair was almost black, and Elly said the headdress looked like stars peeking out at sunset. Judah thought it looked like her hair, with some metal and rock wrapped around it. “Elly did it.”

  Across the room, still with Theron, Elly caught Judah’s eye, winked.

  They heard the small flourish in the music that meant a switch in partners. The courtier who should have been Judah’s new partner, a tall, handsome young man in lavender, ignored her and held tight to his original partner’s hand. A wave of dysfunction rippled through the dance. “You’re murdering me,” Firo said through gritted teeth, but he kept her in his arms.