by Serena Chase
She gave Lewys a quick hug. “Did Sir Kiggon release you from your stable mucking a bit early tonight, then?” she teased. “I do hope he gave you time enough to bathe. I will not bear your company if you smell like a stall.”
“Age may have allowed your height to surpass mine,” Lewys said, seeming neither surprised nor offended by the admission, “but it hasn’t yet tamed your tongue.” He grinned. “Careful, girl, or I’ll pick you up, carry you out, and dump you in what I mucked from yon stable!”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Lewys took a step forward.
“No, you wouldn’t!” Lady Whittier intervened, but Rose just laughed.
A man stepped from behind the door. The shape of his beard identified him as a knight, but the amount of silver threaded through it proved him much older than Kinley. “Hello, Rose.”
Rose blinked. “Uncle Drinius?”
He opened his arms. “Happy birthday.”
Seeing her uncle after so long and hearing his deep voice and cultured Stoenian accent, so different from the Veetrish brogue she had grown accustomed to, had a curious effect on Rose. Her throat tightened and tears burned her eyes. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped into his embrace.
“When Lady Whittier wrote to tell me of her plans for your birthday, I wasn’t sure I would be able to come,” he said. “But the closer the date grew, the more I knew I couldn’t stay away. I’ve missed you so, dear one.”
He missed me. The knight’s admission lodged in her throat with sweet relief. She buried her face in his shoulder.
Sir Drinius chuckled. “The duchess will not thank me if I crush the gown she’s waited so long to see upon you.” Sir Drinius released his hold and stepped back. “I know the young men will be clamoring for your company, but might this old knight have the honor of escorting you into the grand hall?”
Rose’s smile wobbled. She ducked her head. “Of course.”
“You are right to attend her now, Sir Drinius. Our Rose has quite intrigued the young knights who arrived with Kinley,” Lord Whittier said with a chuckle. “And Sir Kiggon brought a score and a quarter more with him, not to mention more than a dozen eager squires.”
Rose grinned, but felt the heat of their flattery upon her cheeks.
A butler announced the first guests’ arrival and Sir Drinius excused himself while the family moved to the doors. “I’ll be back to escort you in, Rose,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”
“Sir Drinius, it’s a party!” Lady Whittier chastised him by tapping her fan against his broad chest. “Tonight is for revelry and merriment! Any serious matters can surely wait until the morrow.”
His eyes clouded a bit. “Yes, my lady, I suppose they shall.”
When the family finally joined the rest of their guests it took all Rose’s strength to avoid staring. She had helped place many of the decorations, but she hadn’t realized how different the grand hall would look filled with guests. Panels of light blue velvet hung over the tapestries and ribbons of white wrapped around the columns leading out to the snow-covered rear gardens. Through the large windows and doors she could see the many lanterns and lamps hung about outdoors, sparkling against the snow. But it was the guests’ smiles and laughter and the women’s gowns, glimmering like jewels upon the stone floor, which brought the room to life. It was an enchanting sight.
“It’s like I’ve been transported into another world,” she whispered.
In the corner, a group of three young men began to play a lively tune.
“Lady Whittier’s letter didn’t say this was to be a ball,” Sir Drinius’s deep voice arrested her wonder.
“It’s not.”
“And yet it appears we may be required to dance.” He nodded to the couples nearest the musicians.
“You make dancing sound like a chore,” Rose laughed. “But why should one abstain from dancing at a gathering? It is a most natural expression of joy.”
Drinius smiled. “The ways of Veetri have become your own, I see.”
She looked away and her voice was much smaller when she replied, “How could they not?”
Around them the others conversed happily, but Rose found she didn’t know what to say to her uncle. Yes, she was happy to see him, to hear that he had missed her. She wanted to talk to him about so many things, but . . . how to begin? Small talk was too trite. But a party was hardly the time to broach such an emotional subject, so she said nothing.
“Shall we round the hall, perhaps?” Drinius said at last. She nodded, and with a hand to her elbow he guided her through the crowd, stopping here and there when he was greeted or someone offered birthday wishes to Rose. As their steps took them nearer the banquet tables she noticed Mrs. Scyles hovering nearby, and any enthusiasm she might have had for her reunion with her uncle retreated.
She caught a glimpse of their reflection in the grand hall’s many silver-framed mirrors. As much as she tried to ignore the impulse, she couldn’t help but compare Sir Drinius’s features to her own, but other than the blackness of the hair upon their heads, there was none. And even that was false.
But then again, she thought, he had told her many times how she looked like her mother.
The silence between them stretched.
“You are staying healthy, I assume?” Drinius’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Yes, thanks. I’ve been blessed with a hardy constitution. And you?”
Their conversation was awkward, stilted by the questions to which Rose was afraid to give voice and filled with words that mattered little.
He said that he missed me, but did he miss me as one misses a niece . . . or as one misses a daughter? And if I am not his daughter, then whose daughter am I? She was more than relieved to accept Lord Whittier’s hand for a dance.
As the evening wore on, Rose relaxed in the care of many eager young men. With some she danced, but others seemed content to share anecdotes or to bring her a cup of punch. As she became more comfortable she began to feel graceful, almost as if she was a moving decoration in the room, her dress just another extension of the lovely décor.
“Have you a suitor, Mistress Rose?” Lord Channing, Duke of Ruchon, oversaw the dukedom just west of Glenhume. But, as with most of the guests present, Rose had never met him before.
“No, Your Grace.”
“I’ve a comfortable home and three daughters who are near enough your age that they might be more friends than children to you.”
“Your Grace?” Rose blinked at him and almost stumbled. Surely he wasn’t suggesting—
“I’ve yet to have a son,” he continued. “My wife, Rynloeft rest her, has been gone these five years past.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He nodded. “I would welcome marriage again, Mistress Rose. Would you welcome my suit?”
Rose was glad when a young man bumped into her. His stammered apology gave her a moment’s reprieve that helped cool her heated face.
“I am honored you would consider me,” she spoke carefully when the young man moved on, “however, I’ve elected to refrain from commitments at this time.”
To her dismay, the Duke of Ruchon wasn’t the only man present with courtship on his mind, but they all received a similar, gentle rebuke. But as no one pressed her after its receipt, she had a most wonderful time.
The musicians took a break and those dancing moved to the edges of the room. Several young men offered to procure refreshment for Rose, but before she could accept any of their offers a slender young man arrived at her side, a goblet already in his hand.
His topaz eyes sparkled beneath hair the color of heavily milked dandelion tea. “Pardon me for arriving so late to your party. As an apology, I would offer my lady a birthday gift, would she but accept.”
It was all Rose could do to refrain from shrieking with glee, but she remembered the crowd just in time to tamp down her excitement. “I have received the pleasure of your gifting in the past, Apprentice R
owlen. I daresay I could not accept such an offering unless you allow me to share it with all who may partake of its wonders.”
“Very well.” The young man let out a long-suffering sigh. “If my lady commands it.”
Rowlen turned on his heel and moved to the center of the room. Upon reaching his destination he sent a grin and a waggle of his pale eyebrows in Rose’s direction.
Rose hadn’t noticed Lewys’s arrival at her side until he spoke. “Rowlen is such a peacock,” he said with a quiet snort. “Always has to be the center of attention, that one.”
“Shh!” Rose jabbed an elbow in her middle brother’s ribs, but grinned at the note of affection in his voice. “Rowlen has promised me a story and I don’t want to miss it!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A story!” Rowlen de Whittier announced to the crowd. “For the sister of my heart, the lovely Mistress Rose de Whittier!”
Rose’s cheeks bloomed with pleasure as she met Lord Whittier’s beaming smile across the room. Rowlen had publicly proclaimed her a sister—had even bestowed his father’s name upon her—and the duke approved!
Her smile wavered a bit when she noticed Sir Drinius’s frown. But Rowlen’s voice carried above the crowd in the way that only a true Veetrish Storyteller’s could, and Rose couldn’t help but turn her attention back to him.
“To celebrate her sixteenth birthday,” the young Storyteller proclaimed, “and . . . something about some knight.” Rowlen paused to roll his eyes. Laughter filtered through the room from those who recognized the Storyteller as Sir Kinley’s brother. “It is my great pleasure to share the story of Lady Anya, a young woman whose bravery and spirit of adventure reminds me of our honored one.” He held up a hand. “And I mean Rose, of course, not you, Kinley.” He winked at his brother. Another round of laughter circled the room.
“Rose,” Rowlen addressed her, “did you know that it was at the same age we celebrate you achieving tonight that the clever actions of our Kingdom’s greatest heroine sent the dreaded Cobelds into hiding?”
Rose nodded. “Indeed.”
“Then I shall begin.” Rowlen’s gaze swept the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, pray forgive me if my version of Lady Anya looks a wee bit familiar.” A smile quirked the left side of his mouth upward. “As loath as I am to admit it, I’ve never actually met the woman.”
“Hard to meet someone who’s been dead for two hundred years, Storyteller!” A laughing voice called from the crowd.
“Exactly!” Rowlen snapped his fingers. “Therefore, I hope you will indulge me as I test my sister’s modesty by giving the heroine of this story her face.”
Rowlen opened his palm with a flourish and blew a puff of air across it. A shimmer of onyx and sapphire trailed through his fingers and on to the floor, forming into a translucent young woman with black hair and startling blue eyes that very closely resembled Rose.
Rose had seen both Lord Whittier and Rowlen tell the story of Lady Anya many times, but never had they created a character that looked so much like her. In fact, Lord Whittier’s version of the tale showed the famous heroine as quite petite, with long, blond hair.
It was passing odd, she thought, seeing this translucent version of herself breathed into being across her brother’s palm.
Suddenly, Rose gasped. Always, both breath and words preceded the appearance of the Story People, but the figure had arrived before Rowlen had even uttered a word!
Lewys leaned toward her ear. “It’s quite rare that a Storyteller can do that,” he whispered, “even among the Masters.”
Rose’s already wide eyes grew rounder.
“Lady Anya grew up in the Great Wood, the daughter of the Regent of Mynissbyr,” Rowlen began. “Even then, the Great Wood was inhabited by strange and mysterious creatures. And perhaps it was that untamed wood that fashioned Lady Anya into the perfect weapon to fight the Cobelds.” Another breath across his palm produced a shimmering green trail and placed the girl within a copse of evergreens.
Mesmerized, Rose’s thoughts drifted along with the story.
“When a Cobeld’s curse afflicted her father and brothers, eventually killing them, Lady Anya took it upon herself to avenge her family.” Rowlen lifted his other hand and breathed across it, creating another scene even as the first faded away. “Using the resources of the forest, she disguised herself as a Cobeld.”
Rose winced as the Story Anya, wearing a face so similar to her own, smeared mud on her arms, face, and neck, and then pressed moss over it, giving herself a hideous, goblin-like appearance.
“Every creature of the forest shared the loss of their Regent and offered their friendship and assistance to Lady Anya’s scheme. Even the smallest creatures banded together to help design her disguise.”
The Story Anya lifted her hand to a limb and a collective gasp rounded the ballroom as a flurry of eight-legged creatures crawled up her arm and onto her mossy green face. Lengths of white webbing soon extended from her chin and cheeks.
“A Cobeld’s beard is, of course, its greatest weapon. And the spiders were more than happy to provide a suitable beard for young Lady Anya.”
“Are you well, Rose?” Lewys’s whisper held a chuckle, for he well knew his sister’s aversion to spiders. How many times had he tortured her with the threat of them?
“That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.” Rose shuddered and touched her chin to make sure it was spider-free.
“Look at my mother,” Lewys whispered. “I’m not sure whether she’s going to laugh or faint.”
Rose peeked over at Lady Whittier, whose cheeks had bloomed with color. Her fan moved at a furious pace.
Rowlen clasped his hands together. “And her disguise was complete.”
Whether Rowlen was oblivious to his audience’s reaction or delighting in it, Rose couldn’t be sure. She was only too glad that this part of his story was over when the spiders returned to the tree from whence they had come.
The Story Anya turned a full circle, showing the entire room that she no longer looked like Rose, but a monster, instead. And truly monstrous, she was.
I may have nightmares of this, Rose thought with a shudder.
Rowlen’s story continued with each scene as vivid as the last, but thankfully none quite as disturbing as the beard-weaving spiders. Rose watched as the disguised Lady Anya snuck into a camp of Cobelds and listened to their plans.
“Months later, Lady Anya returned to the Great Wood. Sending her father’s bravest messengers to the far reaches of the Wood, Lady Anya begged assistance from the most reclusive—and most fearsome—of all the Wood’s creatures: the Bear-men of Mynissbyr.”
As much as she loved Rowlen, Rose barely noticed the Storyteller anymore. What his breath had produced completely ensnared her attention.
The Bear-men of Mynissbyr were huge creatures. Golden brown fur covered their bodies; their faces were large and human-like, a hideous mix of man and bear. But when they opened their jaws, long, jagged teeth and fangs stole humanity from their mouths, though they spoke as men.
Rose shrank back from the creatures and felt something a bit too soft to be floor beneath the heel of her slipper. A hand immediately caught her elbow as she lost her balance. As soon as she righted herself Rose turned to apologize, but laughed instead when she met Kinley’s eyes.
“I’ll forgive you this time.” Kinley’s eyes sparkled as he whispered a reply. “It was, after all, the fearsome Bear-men of Mynissbyr that caused your misstep.”
Rose grinned. “I appreciate your indulgence.”
“Just don’t get used to it. You may be sixteen now, but you’re still my baby sister.”
“Kinley,” Lewys whispered, “have you not noticed how she’s being fawned over? It’s unseemly!”
“It’s the way of things, Lewys,” Kinley chuckled under his breath. “Our little Rose is growing up.”
“Indeed.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve even received a proposal or two.”
“Proposals?” T
he set of Lewys’s jaw was almost comical. “Tell me who and I will set the louts straight.”
“I will not.” Rose laughed. “Besides, I’m perfectly capable of refusing them myself. And I have. Now hush. I’m missing Rowlen’s tale!”
When she refocused her attention the tale was almost at its end.
Of course, she knew the story well. She knew that Lady Anya would lead the Bear-men on an attack against the Cobelds that would, at its end, send them into hiding for the next two hundred years. But it was still odd to see this particular version of the famed heroine of old, which appeared so much like the image that greeted Rose in her looking glass each morning. Rose allowed herself a little laugh, for there the similarity ended. She had certainly never brandished a sword or led a military charge like Lady Anya!
“And so the Cobelds were defeated and Lady Anya retired to her home in the Great Wood, taking to husband a young Bear-man who had proven himself on the battlefield to be worthy of her love.”
Rose laughed out loud, as did several other members of the audience, when a not-quite-as-animal-looking Bear-man bent on one knee and took Lady Anya’s hand.
“They were very happy together,” Rowlen said. “And although Lady Anya and her hairy husband rarely received invitations from her peers within the realm, they were content to remain in the Wood. And their descendents, most of whom were lucky enough to take after their more human ancestress, may yet be glimpsed among the trees by those brave enough to enter the Great Wood of Mynissbyr.”
Rowlen gave a wide, sweeping bow and the vision of Lady Anya began to fade. As he straightened, he caught Rose’s eye and, with a sly wink in her direction, blew one slight puff of air across his hand.
Just before the vision disappeared completely, a burst of orange erupted like a halo above the Lady Anya, showering over her and changing her hair from the inky black it had been to that of a flame opened by a burst of wind.
Story Anya turned to Rose and winked as well, her eyes a much brighter blue than they had been a moment ago, before disappearing in a flash of golden light.
