THE BANQUET HALL into which they were escorted some hours later was not the largest room Derian had ever seen. The Guildhall of the Combined Crafts (tanners, leatherworkers, harness and saddlemakers) in the city below was larger. Nor was the banquet hall the grandest room he had seen. The inner chamber where the grandmasters of the smiths held their secret conclaves was grander, its beams gleaming with gilding and sparkling from the tiny silver stars that depended from invisible threads.
This hall, though, surpassed both for mere magnificence. The stone floor was polished to such a shine that the torches in the wall sconces and the candles on the tables seemed to burn twice: once in flame, once in reflection. Referring to the ivory-white marble walls as bare would be an insult, for though they were free from tapestry or curtain, the marble itself was so beautifully carved as to disdain further ornamentation.
In the center of the hall were four long tables set in a modified fan, all of their ends meeting near a head table. The flaring backs of the throne-like chairs set at the center of this head table left no doubt that the king and queen would be seated where they could command the attention of those dispersed along the fan. Derian wondered where Firekeeper and Earl Kestrel would be placed.
The chief steward was a solid, silvery woman who shared some of Valet's immunity to excitement. As she addressed Earl Kestrel, her voice rang in the nearly empty room like a herald's trumpet.
“The king commands that you and your ward be seated at the head table. The ward is to be at the king's right, you to her right. Your party will be granted a few moments to orient yourselves before the family will join you.”
Derian was grateful for those moments. Thus far Firekeeper had been on her best behavior, but there was a trembling tension about her that made him glad that she would have time to scout out the room before it wasfilledwith strangers.
He watched her as she flitted about from point to point, touching the friezes on the wall, fingering the woven linen tablecloths, peeking under the tables as if uncertain what might lurk in their shadow. Blind Seer trotted beside her, more tense, less curious. Derian feared that the wolf might have reached his limit regarding new things and simply strike out at anything that came near.
Clearly the two members of the King's Own who had remained with them shared his concern. Each stood straight with his back against the wall, knuckles white around his halberd shaft. If they found Firekeeper's behavior amusing, no trace of mirth showed on their impassive countenances.
Derian ignored them, turning instead to Valet, who, along with Derian, made up the entirety of Earl Kestrel's escort. Ox and Race had been excluded on the grounds that no one else would bring bodyguards. Doubtless they were in some servants’ hall even now being plied with ale and rich food by castle staff eager for gossip.
“Valet,” Derian said, keeping his voice low, “what am I supposed to do? I'm out of my element here.”
“You and I will stand there along the wall,” Valet gestured to the stretch behind the head table, “where we can be ready if the earl needs us. Your particular role will be to assist Blysse. If she is about to make any particularly dangerous error, stop her, even at risk of reprimand to yourself.”
Derian had no doubt that the errors Valet referred to were not merely social ones, like holding her spoon incorrectly or drinking her soup from her bowl. Firekeeper possessed a quick temper when she perceived offense and he had yet to figure out precisely what would give offense.
He was permitted no further time to worry. The towering wooden doors at the far end of the hall were beginning to open and the steward's trumpet voice announced: “Grand Duke Gadman, Lord Rolfston Redbriar and Lady Melina Shield, with Sapphire, Jet, Opal, Ruby, and Citrine Shield.”
“Firekeeper,” Derian hissed hopelessly, but his charge hurried over to him immediately.
“Stand there,” Valet said, his own voice somehow both strong and nearly inaudible. He dared a slight push to center Firekeeper behind the chair where she was to sit. “And wait.”
Firekeeper did so and Blind Seer sat beside her, his hackles slightly raised. The woman acknowledged his tension by curling thefingersof one hand in his fur, but her dark gaze was fixed on the eight people entering the room. Derian reflected that the nobles might mistake her unwavering stare for awe, but he knew the young woman well enough to know that to Firekeeper any stranger was an enemy until proven otherwise.
Such care might well be indicated when encountering this particular family. Although the rumors Derian had heard about Grand Duke Gadman and Lord Rolfston credited them with everything from courage to ruthlessness, they were as nothing compared to what was whispered about Lady Melina Shield. In city and countryside alike it was agreed that the noblewoman was a sorceress, one of power the Uke of which had not been seen since the days when the Old Country still reigned.
Looking at the woman, demurely gowned in mutedly iri-descent silk, her fingers resting lightly on her husband's sleeve, Derian was at first inclined to dismiss those rumors as mere superstitious talk. Then he noticed the jeweled neck-lace encircling the still-firm flesh of Melina Shield's pale throat.
The necklace was short, just a few links too long to be a choker. Polished silver links were hung with five pendants, each holding a single faceted gem. The colors were not harmonious. Indeed a connoisseur might even say that they clashed: brilliant blue; opaque, glittering black; fiery hues like those of a new-lit fire; bloodred, and, lastly, a rich orange-brown, the shade of a fine cognac. Derian did not need to be a gem cutter's nephew to recognize that each of these gems was a pricelessly perfect example of the name-stones of each of Lady Melina's children.
Now, seeing the necklace, seeing how each of the scion Shields wore set in a band about their brow a namestone gem to match the one about their mother's throat, Derian believed with a sudden thrill of his terrified soul that Melina Shield was indeed the sorceress gossip had named her. He had little time to grow accustomed to the thought, for the steward was announcing Grand Duchess Rosene and her kin.
Although a widow of seventy, Rosene could still wear soft pinks, for her hair was snow-white and her skin the delicate hues of the inner petals of a newly blossomed wild rose. Her eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of her brother the king and she let her son escort her without hindrance, less from obedience to custom than the better to glance about her and assess the situation.
Baron Ivon Archer, though a mature man, bore himself like the son of a hero, but it was in his sister, Zorana, that Derian saw the true heroic fire. Both of Grand Duchess Rosene's children were accompanied by a spouse and trailed by their get, the youngest of whom might have been excluded from such a gathering just a year or so before. Derian hardly had time to note that Baron Archer's daughter, the Lady Elise, was easily as lovely as any of her more ostentatiously named second cousins when the steward announced:
“Their Royal Majesties, King Tedric and Queen Elexa!”
As no one had taken a seat, no one needed to rise, but when the brass trumpets sounded their fanfare, everyone stood straighter in respect and turned to watch the monarchs enter. Everyone, that is, except Derian's Firekeeper. The loud trumpet call in the contained chamberfrightenedher, causing her to start back in alarm.
Before she could err further, Derian hurried forward and seized her arm, aware that in doing so he had once again brought himself to the king's attention. He was too busy to worry about this, for Firekeeper's hand had flown to her knife even as she looked about for some sheltered place from which to defend herself.
“Easy,” Derian assured her, wishing that his voice didn't sound so loud in the suddenly hushed hall. “Easy.”
Firekeeper felt no such need not to be noticed. “What that?”
“Trumpets,” he. said, letting his own tones match hers. If he could not go unnoticed, then let no one think he had anything to hide. “Like a flute but larger and louder.”
“Where?”
“Over there.” He indicated with one hand, his other
gently guiding her knife back into its sheath.
Firekeeper moved as if she wished to examine one of the instruments. Derian put a restraining hand on her arm, knowing that if she intended to go, no strength of his would hold her.
“Stay,” he said, more pleading than ordering. “You can look at them later. Now we owe the king our attention.”
“Still?” she asked, blowing out through her nose in what he had learned was exasperation. “We did!”
“And still we must,” Derian said patiently.
King Tedric rescued him. “Steward Silver, have one of the heralds’ trumpets brought here for my guest's inspection. The rest of you have my leave to be seated.”
Even Earl Kestrel obeyed this implicit command and, after examining the trumpet, Firekeeper was willing to do the same.
“Young man,” the king said, and Derian realized that he was being addressed. Hurriedly, he bent knee. “Remain at the young woman's shoulder and advise her.”
Derian did as ordered, standing at Firekeeper's right, slightly to the left of Earl Kestrel and as far away as was polite from the alarming presence of the king. Still, from where he stood he noticed that the king's white hair was a wig. The realization embarrassed him, as if he had stumbled onto a state secret.
Servants bearing wine and bread emerged from discreet alcoves along the wall. Noticing that none of the nobles seemed to regard them at all, Derian did his best to mimic the servants’ impassive expressions, wishing more than any-thing else to be forgotten. He only moved when one would pour Firekeeper wine.
“Water only,” he said softly.
The king, however, cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think my vintage not good enough for her?”
Derian was about to answer when Firekeeper said:
“Wine like sick bird berries. Makes prey.”
“She means,” Earl Kestrel translated, “that she has ob-served wild birds eating fermented berries or fruit. They be-come sick, and sick creatures become easy prey.”
King Tedric stroked his angular cheekbone with one finger. “Surely she does not believe that I intend her harm.”
Norvin Norwood was too old a campaigner to be discomfited.
“Not at all, Your Majesty, but her prejudices arefirm.We have not been able to convince her that wine or beer or any liquor is a fair substitute for water.”
The king did not press the point, but directed his attention down the fan of tables where his relatives were watching with as much interest as would be considered polite. Indeed, a few, like Sapphire and Grand Duchess Rosene, were watching with rather more attention than good manners should admit.
“This young woman,” said the king with a slight gesture, as if which young woman he meant could be in doubt, “is the ward of Earl Kestrel. At his own initiative and at great personal risk and expense, he mounted an expedition to learn the fate of my son, Prince Barden.”
Behind his carefully impassive face, Derian marveled. Those last two words, just a name and a title, but spoken so casually by the king himself, all but rescinded the disinheritance Tedric had passed on his son. From the expressions that flickered across surprised faces at the lower tables not everyone was pleased.
The king paused, perhaps making a similar assessment, perhaps merely to sip his wine.
“Sadly, for myself and for my queen, Norvin has learned that Barden's expedition was a failure. The prince and his followers—all but one—died in the early years of the colonization attempt, apparently in a fire.”
At least some of the murmurs of shock and pity seemed to be genuine. Tedric waited for these to subside before continuing:
“The sole survivor was the young woman seated beside me. Believing her to be his sister Eirene's daughter Blysse, Earl Kestrel has made her his ward. His mother, the Duchess Kestrel and head of his household, has confirmed the adoption. Thus, my guest is Blysse Norwood, newest member of House Kestrel.”
A hubbub arose at these words. Again Derian was forced to admire the king. He had given a name to the foundling, the same name as was borne by his granddaughter, but he had done so in such a fashion that left open to doubt whether or not he acknowledged the young woman as that grand-daughter.
Only Grand Duke Gadman and Grand Duchess Rosene dared to address the king directly, and Gadman's querulous voice was loudest.
“Tedric,” he said without formality, “are you saying that this wild-eyed creature is Barden's daughter?”
Grand Duke Gadman was a bent-over, bent-nosed parody of his brother's regal aquilinity. Gossip said, and Derian could well believe it, that the grand duke had been soured by holding no greater honor than that of standby heir for something like seventy years. Unlike Tedric, who had fairly earned his people's respect in battle, Gadman never ventured farther than the fringes of armed conflict, risking his reputation but not his hide.
Yet Derian did not underestimate Grand Duke Gadman as a mere blowhard. By chance, his own brother, Brock, and Grand Duke Gadman were both members of the Bear Society. From the tales that Brock had brought home, Grand Duke Gadman was shrewd, intelligent, and, in a fashion quite different from his brother, charismatic.
“I have said,” Tedric replied, a faint smile playing about his lips, “precisely what I have said.”
“You say that this girl is Eirene Norwood's daughter,” Gadman pressed. “Eirene was wed to Barden. Do you mean to imply that this ‘Blysse’ is Barden's daughter?”
“Or,” Grand Duchess Rosene added stridently, “do you not?”
King Tedric looked at each of his siblings with a weary tolerance that was not without affection.
“I have said what I have said. However, I will now add that because I wish to get to know Lady Blysse better, I am inviting her to dwell in the castle with my family. Earl Kestrel may, of course, take a suite here himself.”
Derian's knees weakened. If Kestrel accepted, as he undoubtedly would, then Derian knew perfectly well where he himself was going to be staying. He had thought himself equal to anything, but this was beyond the ambitions of a carter's son. Any thoughts he had of retreating, of making excuses, of risking both parents and patron's ire, vanished as Firekeeper glanced up at him, her dark eyes anxious.
“King say we come here,” she said softly. “Blind Seer, too?”
“Blind Seer, too,” Derian promised, knowing he would keep his word even if he must smuggle the wolf in some dark night.
The rest of the banquet went much as could be expected. Although Firekeeper's table manners had improved so greatly that Derian hadflatteredhimself that she could pass in polite company—and Earl Kestrel had agreed—the real test cast bright sunlight on their illusions.
The noble company gathered along the tables either turned politely away or openly sniggered. That most of the mockery came from those too young to have polished social skills—young Kenre Trueheart and Citrine Shield, most notably—didn't offer much comfort.
Firekeeper still ate more like a wolf than like a woman and seemed less like a noblewoman than ever.
Of course, Derian thought unhappily as he surveyed this august company from the invisibility of servitude, rumor said that the Princess Lovella had arranged her brother Chalmer's death. Mere acknowledgment would not make Firekeeper safe.
Far from it. If the king acknowledged her, she might be in greater danger than she ever had been in the wilds.
VIII
“THAT BANQUET, “announced Grand Duchess RoI f sene when the family had retired to the suite which II had been hers since as a young bride she brought her husband home to her father's castle, “was a nightmare!”
Ostensibly, her audience was restricted to her son and daughter and their spouses. Lady Elise, bearing tea and honey cakes into her grandmother's parlor, retired to a corner after setting down the tray, picked up her embroidery hoop, and was tacitly suffered to remain.
“Whatever does that brother of mine intend!” the old woman huffed, all offended privilege and suspicion. Without a word, Aksel Trueheart leaned f
orward and began pouring tea, knowing that an in-law's comments would not be appreciated at this moment.
“Precisely what he has achieved, good Mother,” replied Ivon Archer, nursing his pipe to Ufe between sheltering hands, “to unsettle us all.”
His sister Zorana nodded. “Yes. He has not acknowledged that wild thing as Barden's daughter, but he holds the possibility over us like a whip. Now, we dare not press him to name an heir for fear that he will choose her over one better suited.”
Unsaid but trembling in the air was that here, seated opposite each other, brother and sister, were rival claimants.
Grand Duchess Rosene shook her head despairingly.
“Simpletons!” she chided her children scathingly. ‘Tedric's plan would never be anything so obvious. Already Gadman and I have pressed him as hard as we dare. No, I fear he plays some deeper game.”
What? Ivon and Zorana spoke as one, their rivalry for the throne temporarily set aside.
“Well,” Grand Duchess Rosene said, accepting a cup of tea and stirring honey into it, “some say he intends to put aside Elexa and wed another. Why not this girl? Norvin Nor-wood may claim her for the Kestrel line, but I see nothing of either Eirene or Barden in this stranger's face. She is too dark for one.”
“Certainly he could not wed her!” Lady Aurella, Elise's mother, said shocked. “Queen Elexa is Wellward born, my own mother's sister. The king would not dare put her off in favor of a commoner!”
“Not quite a commoner,” Rosene reminded, “for Duchess Kestrel has accepted this ‘Blysse’ into her household. By adoption, if not by blood, she is Kestrel.”
“King Tedric did seem to favor her.” Ivon puffed on his pipe, as if reluctant to say more. “I noted how frequently the king's eyes strayed to the stranger. And he did have her seated at his own right hand—far above her station, even if she was a granddaughter.”
“Not if that granddaughter is his heir,” Rosene said acidly sweet.
Watching her elders, Elise wondered if Grand Duchess Rosene was enjoying stirring up her son and daughter. The old woman's next speech confirmed her suspicions.
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