We’d kept building our tower, and it had developed a slight but unmistakable lean to the left. He placed a piece at its apex that veered back to the right, but the angle was too sharp. I hesitated, every muscle in my abdomen locked rigid beneath my corset, unsure how to add a piece without bringing the whole thing down.
“One can work together even with a player who may not be wholly on one’s side,” I said at last, and, with trembling fingers, balanced a piece on top of his. A round medallion crowned it, precluding any possibility of further building and completing the tower.
He laughed, regarding our construction with apparent delight. “Oh, I like you, Lady Amalia. Well played. Yes, I think we can work together.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“However.” He lifted a finger. “I’m not ready to make any open moves against our mutual opponents.”
“Oh, that’s fine.” I waved a hand. “Raverrans prefer to keep our moves out of the open.”
“Given the position of the pieces, I think simple suspicion that we’ve formed an alliance might give some of our adversaries pause.” He tapped his chin. “But how to suggest an alliance without formalizing one?”
“Why not formalize one?” I asked.
He lifted a pale eyebrow. “Because, my lady, we should all be wary of traps.”
A virulent yellow ring gleamed around his pupils. The mage mark.
My tongue turned to lead. But I forced it to move. “True enough.”
“A symbolic gesture, perhaps,” he mused. “We do place great weight on symbols.”
I thought of my mother’s wedding ring: a diamond and a sapphire, to represent the alliance her marriage had formed with Callamorne, bringing it into the Serene Empire. “Like a wedding.”
“Rather less binding than that.”
“Of course.” A nervous laugh bubbled out of me. “Like a courtship, then.”
He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Is that an offer? But we hardly know each other!”
I took half a step back from the table, a flush creeping up my neck, ready to wave off the idea as the joke he seemed to make of it.
But my mother had said to make alliances in Vaskandar by any means we could.
I lifted my chin. “It could be. If it brought an allied player into the game.”
He blinked. Then he blinked again. “All right,” he said.
“All right what?”
“All right, I accept your offer.” He shrugged, the feathers in his cloak rustling. “I’ll court you. It will drive the Lady of Thorns mad as a sick coyote, which is worth it by itself.”
My world skewed sideways, leaning more crazily than the tower we’d built together. In another room, the dueling poets finished, and the crowd burst into distant applause.
“Ah,” I tried to say, but my throat had gone too dry to speak.
He cocked his head. “Do you even know my name?”
“I’m afraid,” I managed, “I have not yet had that pleasure.”
“You can call me Kathe.” The Vaskandran dipped in a courtly but modest bow. “The Crow Lord.”
Grace of Love died laughing. I’d just agreed to court a Witch Lord.
Chapter Five
Kathe’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I’ve never courted a Raverran woman before. What comes next?”
I’d never courted anyone before, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I waved a vague hand, glad he couldn’t see my legs trembling beneath my skirts. “At a ball like this, I believe dancing is customary.”
“Ah.” He considered that a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Raverran dances. You could teach me, I suppose.”
I laughed despairingly. “I’m not much of a dancer myself. Certainly not good enough to teach anyone. I always thought it was a bit silly, and never learned half the steps.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not dancing, then.”
The humor in his tone calmed my nerves somewhat. It was commonly held that the Witch Lords were mad, and the majority of them cruel monsters; but if a man could laugh at himself, he couldn’t be all bad. “What do you do in Vaskandar?”
He tapped his chin. “Well, when you begin courting, it’s traditional to go on a long walk and have a conversation, to get to know each other better.”
“I can walk and talk perfectly well,” I said.
“I see you’re quite accomplished.” He proffered a hand, grinning. “Shall we?”
I hesitated, my skin prickling as I recalled how dangerous it would be to accept such an offer from Prince Ruven. But Ruven was a Skinwitch, whose powers worked best on human flesh and bone; it was highly unlikely that Kathe shared that rare and unsettling specialty.
I took his hand, cautiously as if it were a live spider. It was slim but surprisingly rough, at least compared to the baby-soft skin of Raverran courtiers; these hands spent time outdoors, doing things and making things. Or breaking them.
He tucked my arm through his. The feathers on his cloak brushed my bare shoulder. I could feel a humming energy in him, even through his sleeve, of magic or some inner tension. Like Zaira.
We strolled off through the ball, leaving our improbable glass tower behind us. I tried without much success to force my muscles to relax, my speeding heart to slow down. Our fellow revellers parted before us, plumed hats dipping and mountainous skirts swaying, giving way to the combined presence of a Witch Lord and a Cornaro. The sea of fantastical gowns and rainbow-hued jackets closed again behind us with a growing murmur, passed behind fluttering fans and discreetly lifted palms, as gossip ran through the crowd faster than spilled wine.
I know, I wanted to tell them. I’m fairly shocked, myself.
“What shall we talk about?” I asked. “War and diplomacy? Magical theory? That elderly gentleman’s outrageous codpiece?”
Kathe glanced at the garment in question and then lifted a hand to cover a cough. “Well, that’s … ambitious. But no, I have an idea. Let’s play another game. We’ll take turns saying two things about ourselves, one truth and one lie. The other person has to guess which is which.”
I supposed it was too much to hope he’d want to talk about magical theory. “I think my cousins played this game in Callamorne when we were younger,” I said. It had usually ended with them punching each other.
“It’s an old Vaskandran game.” Kathe stopped by a broad, round column of caramel-veined marble, the first of a row of them holding up the vast and distant ceiling of the main hall.
This was the pounding heart of the celebration. Half the Assembly seemed to be packed into the center of the great room, swirling on the dance floor in ensembles themed after everything from a basket of fruit (the bodice appeared to be trimmed with real grapes) to a fiery phoenix (complete with a fluttering train of scarlet and gold ribbons). The troupe of musicians played with more than enough life and passion to keep everyone dancing; I had little doubt they’d win a patronage from their efforts tonight. Chairs and small tables lined the edges of the room, populated by those exhausted from dancing or more inclined toward conversation, and dozens of servers kept up an efficient circuit of the room with trays of food and drink. This spot Kathe had chosen might well be the quietest in the main ballroom: not close enough to the center to get swept up in the dancing, but distanced enough from the chairs to avoid interruption by a well-meaning acquaintance seeking to join us.
He leaned against the column, long and wiry, his feathered cloak ruffling up around his shoulders. “I’ll begin.”
“All right.” I stepped in closer, to hear him better over the murmuring crowd. It wasn’t often one got the chance to learn personal details about a Witch Lord, after all.
“Let’s see …” His face lit with an idea. “I don’t have any brothers. I love my brothers.”
“The first must be the lie, and the second the truth,” I said immediately. “You do have brothers, and you love them. After all, you can’t fail to love brothers you don’t possess.”
Kathe clicked his t
ongue, a scolding sound. “Not quite. I feel no love for my dead brothers, despite no longer having them. Your turn.”
I stared at his composed face, his mocking half smile, and his unsettling yellow-ringed eyes. His irises were gray beneath the mage mark, almost pale enough to fade into the whites and disappear.
Was he such a monster he’d felt no affection for the brothers he’d lost? Or had they been the monsters, and he was well rid of them? For all I knew, baby Witch Lords murdered each other in the cradle to determine who would inherit their parents’ domain.
“I don’t suppose you’ll explain that further?” I asked.
He cocked his head. “That depends. Do you want to fully explain all of your answers?”
“Perhaps not.” I swallowed. “All right, my turn. I, ah …” Curse it, I had to think of something clever. “I never met my father’s father. I’ve never seen my father’s father.”
Kathe raised his brows. “Unless you’re older than you look, the first must be the lie. I happen to know your paternal grandfather died when your father was a child. How is it that you’ve seen him?”
My spine prickled. It wasn’t entirely strange someone might know about my grandfather, since he after all had become King of Callamorne when he married my grandmother. But Kathe had responded so quickly, without thinking through the chain of royal lineages and political marriages to get there, as if the knowledge had already been at the forefront of his mind.
This game was far less creepy when I played it with my cousins.
“His portrait,” I said. “I see it every time I visit my grandmother.”
“Of course.” Kathe nodded. “You have so much art in the Empire. I admit I’m jealous. Very well, my turn.”
He reached out and snagged a little cake from a passing tray without looking; the server, who hadn’t seen him, jumped in surprise and scuttled off through the crowd, eyes wide. It seemed word had passed among the servants about the Witch Lord.
If Kathe noticed, he didn’t care. “Let’s see,” he said. “Here you go: I don’t hold grudges. I take care of my own.”
He popped the cake in his mouth and waited, eyes sparkling, for my response.
I gave it more thought this time. The Raverran assumption was that Witch Lords cared for no one and abused their own people. That was certainly true of Ruven, the only other Vaskandran royalty I knew. And Kathe seemed too impulsive to nurse a steady grudge. But the way he’d spoken about the Lady of Thorns suggested bad blood between them and a certain intensity lurked in the shadows of his eyes, belying his light tone and casual stance.
“I think you do hold grudges,” I said.
He chuckled. “All crows do. Well done. Your turn.”
I tried to focus, over the laughter and chatter and music around me. The lady with the finches in her hair passed by, coiffure twittering; on the dance floor, I spied Zaira dancing a gavotte with a young baron.
This game mattered. If I lost Kathe’s interest, I might lose his alliance. But everything I could think of was either too boring (I prefer Muscati’s theories of artifice to Da Bardi’s; I like coffee) or too easy to guess (I’ve killed a man with my hands; I’ve killed a man with a word). It was hard to think with him watching me, the corner of his mouth crooked with amusement.
There was one interesting detail about me he might not guess, but it risked revealing a secret. He might be my ally for now, but I had no desire for him to know my greatest weakness.
He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
One thing was already clear. With Kathe, if I played it safe, I lost the game.
“I was poisoned earlier tonight,” I said. “There’s poison in my veins right now.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “You lead a dramatic life, I see.”
“The Serene City is many things, but never dull. Do you have a guess?”
He tilted his head. “You were poisoned, but got a cure. The second statement is the lie.”
“No.”
He blinked. “No?”
“You guessed wrong.” I licked my dry lips. “Your turn.”
Kathe straightened from his casual slouch against the pillar, a puzzled frown pinching his brows, as if I were a strange new creature and he couldn’t decide whether I might be dangerous or perhaps edible. “Curious,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’re going to explain.”
“You will note that I chose to avoid that requirement.”
“All right, then.” Mischief kindled in his face. “My turn, indeed.”
He leaned in close, until his lips were near my ear. I could feel that wild energy in him, charging the air between us.
“I know about a dangerous legacy you don’t realize you’ve inherited,” he whispered. “I have no hidden motive in courting you.”
All my words withered on my tongue. I stared at him, struck silent.
He straightened and laced his hands behind his head, mussing his black-tipped hair. “Too easy, I know. I can see in your face you’ve guessed right.” He sighed dramatically. “I’ll have to concede this round.”
“What?!” The word burst out before I could stop it, borne on a wave of outrage. How could he stop there, dangling that kind of knowledge in front of me and then withholding it?
But I knew exactly how. He was good at this, damn him. Now I burned to discover what he knew, and what he was up to.
I tried to rein my expression back under control, but I could tell by his damnable grin that he’d seen how he’d gotten to me.
“Conceding, truly?” I asked. “Surely you can’t admit defeat so easily.”
“I can when I’ve met my match.”
Hells. He hadn’t lost, and he knew it. He’d angled his cards to show me his winning hand and then declined to play it down. “You are a maddening individual, Lord Kathe.”
He bowed modestly. “Thank you, my lady. One does one’s best.”
As he straightened, his eyes went past my shoulder and his smile widened. “Ah! La Contessa Lissandra Cornaro.”
I whirled, my heart spasming as if it might burst. Sure enough, my mother stood there, resplendent in an amber gown worked with subtle embroidery to turn the skirts into a stylized map of the Serene Empire. Her auburn hair cascaded artfully over one shoulder, secured with an elegant golden comb that wrapped a tiny globe in jeweled artifice wirework. Her calculating gaze took us both in as she dipped a brief but gracious curtsy to Kathe, which was more than she afforded most royalty.
“Lord Kathe, of the Domain of Let. I’m pleased to see you honor Raverra with such a rare visit.”
He returned a cocky bow. “The honor is mine. Thank you for inviting me to this most entertaining occasion. I nearly didn’t come, but now I’m so glad I did.”
I stared at my mother. She had invited him? Good Graces. I’d taken a blind leap into the middle of one of her schemes. I could only hope I hadn’t done too much damage.
“I hear,” my mother said with a sharp-edged smile, “you’re courting my daughter.”
Of course she knew already. Graces preserve me. I bit my lip to keep from blurting excuses for not consulting her first.
“It’s true.” Kathe spread his hands, as if it were a great wonder how this could have occurred. “Impulsive, I know, but think of the possibilities! Do we have your permission?”
La Contessa held his gaze a long moment, unflinching despite his mage mark. At last, she said, “Amalia is a Cornaro. She makes her own decisions and does not require my permission. But I’m delighted our family will have the chance to cooperate with you—and I assure you, we make formidable allies.”
The steely note in her voice made clear the unspoken corollary that she also made a formidable enemy. Somehow, the knowledge that my mother would implicitly threaten a Witch Lord for me warmed my heart.
Kathe chuckled. “I look forward to discovering what our families can do together. And to the discussion you invited me here to have, Lady Cornaro.” He tilted his head, as though listening. “In the meantime, I shou
ld offer my respects to the doge, and I’m sure you two have plenty to talk about.” He bowed. “Until later this evening.”
I dipped a curtsy in return. He’d hardly made it three steps away when my mother grabbed my arm in a companionable sort of way, if velvet-sheathed steel can be considered companionable.
“I’d invited the Crow Lord here to discuss the possibility of an alliance, on Ambassador Varnir’s information, but it would seem you beat me to the negotiating table.” Even pitched to go no farther than my ears, her voice retained its rich resonance. “What agreement did you make with him, exactly, Amalia?”
Hells. What had we agreed to? I tried to recall the details of our conversation, but it was a blur of balancing bits of glass and striving not to sound like an idiot. “Nothing, really, except to court each other. As a symbol of alliance only, to dismay our mutual foes.”
My mother’s elegant brows drew down. “Will he defend us if other Witch Lords attack? Allow us to move troops through his domain? Use his magic on our behalf?”
She always made me feel five years old again, as if I’d wandered into the middle of a Council meeting looking for sweets and any minute Old Anzo would come hustle me back out. “I’m afraid our conversation wasn’t that specific. I’m sorry, Mamma. An opportunity came up, and I did my best, but I’m not as good at this as you are.”
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “No, it’s all right. From what I understand of him, there was never much chance he’d commit to anything. I’m surprised you got as much as you did.”
I couldn’t tell if that was praise or just low expectations. I gave a tiny nod.
She glanced around, checking to make sure no one was in earshot. “Don’t trust him,” she murmured. “He’s not known for cruelty like some of the others, but he might leave you dead in a ditch if he thought it was funny.”
I caught her sleeve. “Is this a terrible idea? Did I make a mistake?”
My mother hesitated. “We need him. His domain borders those of the Lady of Thorns and Ruven’s father; if they’re concerned about having the Crow Lord at their backs, they can’t bring their full strength to bear against us.” She let a breath pass her lips, releasing some hope or worry she didn’t care to shape into words for her daughter. “But it’s a risk. I wouldn’t have asked you to do it. If you ever feel you need to end this charade, for your own safety or happiness, don’t hesitate to do so. As to whether it’s a mistake … Well, we’ll see.”
The Defiant Heir Page 5
