Palomar shared a look with Illicurus and volunteered. With most of the others occupied, Rogan thought it might be the perfect chance to reconnect with Saffron, absent the constant interference manifest since Talon Barge.
Initially, becoming knighted had seemed an abstract honor. Jaiden thought it a suave nuance, being addressed as “Sir,” but that was about the only benefit he saw in the whole ordeal. He had since walked through the halls of the palace on the hill, held meetings with nobility, and wherever he went, people seemed to have heard of his deeds. Now, he’d received a summons to the chamber of the famous Shaper of Selamus, a man professed to be capable of making your spine shrivel with a mere incantation.
As the porter led him and Palomar up yet another flight of stairs, Jaiden wondered when the fantasy would come crashing down upon him. Looking over the railing, near the top of one of the towers, Jaiden experienced a moment of vertigo.
“Are you unwell, Jaiden?”
“I would feel a lot better if I also had wings.” He leaned away from the edge of the stairs and blinked a few times to readjust his equilibrium, before soldiering on. At last they reached their destination, and the porter knocked on a heavy-looking door at the end of the stairway.
“Come in,” came the muted response.
The porter turned an iron ring to unlatch the unlocked portal and swung it open, leaving Jaiden and Palomar to enter of their own accord. Jaiden looked back at the Aasimar, who seemed content to wait his turn. With slow steps he crossed the threshold, imagining the room beyond to be dank and full of unrecognizable skulls.
In fact, a suite of rooms awaited, all perfectly comfortable from Jaiden’s vantage. An enormous window, slanting with the tapered roof near the apex of the tower, let in a flood of sunlight. With a welcoming balcony and sturdy furniture throughout, including a hanging wire birdcage housing a green-feathered avian, Jaiden was forced to relinquish his anxiety. The bird twittered and flapped its wings briefly when Palomar entered the space.
“Ah, so it is true!” The voice came from a man sitting behind a desk on the far side of the room. “What a wonderful day it is!” He finished scrawling something with a quill and then stood to approach. As he entered the rectangle of sunlight upon the floor, Jaiden could see the outline of his thin body through his robes, though his wrinkled face otherwise showed good health. “Come in, come in, please,” he waved them over.
As Jaiden crossed the room, he saw a second man reclining on a shaded couch, opposite the window. He stood as Jaiden entered his view, and though he was also thin, he wore more closely-fitted clothes, and bore a stick of charcoal and a spool in his hands.
The man who spoke clasped Jaiden’s hands in his own. They were cold, and the iris of one of his eyes was clouded over. “I am Willem, though some know me as the Shaper of Selamus.” He laughed as if the title itself was a joke.
“And I am Jaiden Luminere.”
“Welcome, welcome both. And who is your feathered friend, Jaiden?” Willem laughed again, thoroughly amusing himself.
“You may call me Palomar.”
“Extraordinary!” Willem turned to Jaiden, “He uses telepathy, my boy.” He then spoke louder to Palomar, as if the Aasimar’s choice of communication rendered him hard of hearing. “I say, Palomar, you are not from this plane, are you?”
“That is correct. I am native to Mount Celestia.”
“And did you get here through a Planar Gate? Where is it, might I ask?”
“No, Willem. I was sent here directly by my lord, Hiruth Jeshu, may his light shine forever.”
“Fascinating. And I presume you have the gift; you are a Shaper, as well?”
“I am, after a fashion. But my shaping is harmonic; yours is somatic, if what I have heard of this world is correct?”
“Somatic and verbal, but you are mostly right.” Willem clasped his hands together and shook with excitement. “We shall have to talk further, Palomar, but I hate to waste any more of Dorric’s time.” He gestured to the other man. “Dorric, here, is the royal tailor, you see, and I am in need of some measurements, my boy.”
Without further invitation, Dorric whipped the end of his wire around Jaiden’s chest and unspooled enough to encircle him. Jaiden raised his arms out of the way and let the man work.
“Very well,” Jaiden stated, struggling to find a connection between being measured for clothes and a conversation with the Shaper of Selamus. Still, he obliged as the dexterous Dorric maneuvered his arms and legs to get what he needed.
“Is it true you have both survived battle with the King-priest of Chelpa?” Willem asked, drastically changing the subject.
“We have, though just barely, I would say.”
Jaiden nodded his agreement.
“And though he employs magic, he is most definitely not a Shaper. I believe him to be a servant of the Juda-cai. Does that mean anything to you, Willem?”
“I have heard that name before… in a text expounding on the old gods, if I am not mistaken.” The Shaper of Selamus walked back behind his desk and started searching one of his many shelves.
“The city will need you, Shaper, should Ebon Khorel reach its gates.”
“Ha! Then I would say younger men and feathered men had better do all they can to make sure that doesn’t happen. This city hasn’t the vaguest idea what I am truly capable of, or the King-priest, I’d imagine. And I don’t mean that in the same way!” Willem abandoned looking for the book. “Oh, I have some enchantments left in me, for sure. And I can make anyone sorry who might try to pilfer my Lydia.” The bird chirped at its name and Willem sighed, calm descending once more upon the room. “But I am old, and beyond fighting back armies, I can assure you.”
Willem suddenly shook his head, as if clearing an unwanted idea from his mind, “But none of this is why I asked you here. I wanted to thank you in person, Jaiden Luminere. I heard about the sickness in the southern provinces. I… I have a granddaughter in Synirpa – my only grandchild. A letter arrived from her mother yesterday, and if not penned by my own offspring I would have thought the author mad. She relayed the story of what happened at Windhollow, and how you healed our precious Kylie. I don’t think I could take losing her so young.” The last few words were difficult to make out, as Willem choked on the tears welling in his eyes.
Jaiden was moved. He looked down at Dorric, who seemed to understand and pulled back from his work. Jaiden covered the few paces between them and embraced Willem. “She is going to be fine,” he said, patting the old man’s shoulder. Jaiden never met his own grandparents, but always imagined them similar to Willem.
“I have what I need,” announced Dorric, though no one responded.
By the time Jaiden relinquished the Shaper, the tailor had already taken leave. “What was that all about, might I ask?”
Willem wiped his cheeks and smiled, “The prince has commissioned a gift for you, Sir Luminere, and I am going to make it unique.”
Rogan spent much of the afternoon exploring the royal gardens with Saffron, but failed to seize the opportunity. Every time his courage rose enough to put his feelings into words, she became distracted by another flower or plant she’d never seen before, and the moment passed. Finally, they parted to prepare for Court, where he toiled for an hour dressing in the outfit the Duke of Rosegold bestowed him. This time he was the one distracted, refining and reciting a declaration fit to woo Saffron the next time he managed to get her alone. The words just never sounded quite right.
He was likely missing the petitioning as a result, but held it of little consequence. Rogan hoped Sir Golddrake would receive what he needed to strengthen his Order, but it hardly mattered if he was present to witness the outcome. He found it critically important, however, not to make a fool of himself while confessing his emotions to the woman he hoped might one day become his wife.
He wanted to find a creative flower analogy, both for its poetic effect and to show her he understood her interests. Everything he thought of sounded too contr
ived, or simply imbecilic. Deciding it would be a mistake to miss the event entirely, he pressed a damp cloth over his face and tried to convince himself he was ready. “Just speak what you feel, Emmert, from your heart.”
Rogan left his room and did his best to remember the path to the Gallery, assuming they had already moved on to the banquet. Before long, he heard music lingering in the halls, and he followed his ear until he saw servants bustling to and from the celebration. Another party in Jaiden’s honor, he thought, shaking his head; no, he needed to focus. Tonight was not about Jaiden Luminere, but opening up to the woman he had fallen in love with.
The music grew louder, and movement in the room caught his eye before anything else – people were dancing. Perhaps just the opportunity he needed to get Saffron to himself. An excuse to draw her close could not hurt, either. He stood at the edge of the room and scanned its expanse for signs of her signature color. Saffron told him she would be wearing a red dress.
He first looked along the edges of the room, where tables still held a sprinkling of those too shy or otherwise ill-conditioned to populate the dance floor. Not finding her, he shifted his search to those dancing, and a moment later his heart dropped. He spotted Saffron, and that she looked stunning came as no surprise, but she was dancing with him: Jaiden. As he twirled her around awkwardly – obviously a novice – Rogan could see they were both laughing.
A wave of nausea rose from his stomach to wash over him, and a droplet of sweat was suddenly running down his temple. Rogan instinctively turned to spare himself the sight, but then froze. He was done running from this. However difficult, he was going to find a way to tell Saffron what he needed to, tonight.
Making his way along the edge of the dance floor, he deftly avoided joined pairs until he saw Dhania sitting at a table along the wall. She gazed longingly over the crowd, her eyes following the languid movement of well-dressed dancers as they glided before her. Rogan sighed. There was only one thing to do.
“M’lady, would you care to dance?” he asked, offering an outstretched hand. Dhania looked up, just noticing him, and smiled.
“Of course, Baron.” She stood and took his hand, navigating around the table until she was beside him. As a new song started to play, some couples left the floor, while others changed partners. “I do not know the steps to these dances,” she confessed, though already placing a hand on his shoulder.
Rogan met her eyes. “I will lead you through it. I have been to my fair share of such events, and presume many of the dances are the same here as in Chelpa.” He listened to the tempo of the music, stole a quick glance at the next couple over, and nodded. It was a swego, which he knew. He grasped Dhania’s waist and began stepping: toward her, then away, then to the side as they turned. She followed his lead flawlessly; she was clearly either a natural or had some training.
For several, blissful minutes he was completely wrapped up in the dance. The choreography and dashing woman across from him held his attention completely. Dhania looked so happy, and he could not deny it felt good to share that and lose himself in the moment. Her hand was soft in his, and Rogan realized how much he missed this. Of course, the last time he had danced, Riah was in his arms.
He caught Sir Golddrake’s eye as he circled around, and the knight raised his glass toward Rogan from his seat, pairing it with an insinuating tilt of his head. A flash of panic speared Rogan. Did it look like something was going on between him and Dhania? Were others getting that impression? As the song ended, he hurriedly looked for Saffron, wondering if she had spotted him. He could not find her immediately, but quickly put a step between himself and Dhania.
He bowed to her, “Thank you for the dance. You are light on your feet.”
“I could go for another, if you like…”
“I would not deprive the entire room of your company,” he said. “I am sure other gentlemen are waiting for their chance.” His eyes continued darting, searching for Saffron.
Dhania’s fell. “I see.”
Rogan quickly bowed again and turned away. He finally spotted the red of Saffron’s dress across the floor, and made haste to reach her before the musicians cued up their next piece. She appeared to be returning to her table when Rogan pulled even and grasped her hand. Saffron gasped but relaxed when she saw who it was.
“Baron, I had begun to worry. You missed both the petitions and dinner – are you well?”
“I will be just fine if you dance with me.” The music started again and he whisked her into his arms, not waiting for an answer.
She squealed, momentarily losing her balance, regaining it only after reaching out and taking hold of his body. “Ooh, my apologies.” Saffron followed her stumble with a hearty laugh.
Rogan studied her closely as they fell into the rhythm of the dance. Something was off. “Have you had much wine?” he asked.
Saffron’s lips curled upward and she placed a finger up to them. “That is between me and the sommelier,” she answered, her eyes still smiling.
He let out a sudden cough. “Is that so?” He pulled her waist toward him, closing the space between them. She leaned her cheek on his shoulder.
“No more questions, Baron. Just dance.”
Rogan held her close and swayed for what seemed an eternity, until it ended too soon. He did not even hear the music stop, but eventually one of the prince’s servants interrupted by tapping on Saffron’s shoulder. The man swallowed deeply and kept his eyes trained somewhere above their heads.
“Your pardons, milord and lady, but His Excellence requested Lady Saffron play for his pleasure now.”
Rogan looked over her shoulder at Prince Falcionus, who sat on a throne overseeing the room, a chalice raised to his lips.
Saffron cleared her throat and straightened her dress, then flipped the hair that had fallen about her shoulders behind them. “Of course,” she eventually answered. “I shall retrieve my lyre with haste. My sister is watching over it.” She took two steps toward her table, then turned and briefly curtsied. “Baron,” she saluted before continuing on her way.
The dance floor was clearing as the musicians temporarily abandoned their instruments in favor of the wine servants had begun circulating. Rogan momentarily considered his next move before settling on finding a seat at a table where he knew no one. His head was too full at the moment for conversation.
He watched closely as Saffron crossed the floor with her lyre, bowed to the prince, and took over one of the chairs emptied by the hired players. She spoke loudly enough for most of the room to hear, her accent drawing thicker than in quiet conversation, marking her as a foreigner.
“This is a song I love that reminds me of my homeland. You will not know the words, but it does not matter. Hopefully, you will love it too.” She plucked a few strings absently, the lonesome notes floating out in search of companions. They had almost completely drifted away when she began playing earnestly; a harmonic avalanche ensued, chasing all the silent spirits from the room.
Her honeyed voice followed closely, dripping thick Begnari that stuck to the memory and would not let go. Rogan could not look away. The movement of her hands, so precise, mesmerized him. He already knew the wine had gone to her head, but its influence was hidden during her performance, playing a tune she must have passionately practiced hundreds of times. He closed his eyes and could still see her, and in his mind she was playing just for him.
When her song ended, Rogan opened his lids, and for a short moment thought his desires had manifested – the rest of the Gallery was completely silent. The entire audience seemed unsure of the appropriate reaction. Saffron’s eyes were shut as well, and he imagined her waiting for a response before opening them.
Rogan lifted his hands to clap, hoping to breach the awkward silence, to let Saffron know how talented she was and how she had moved him, how he wanted her head upon his shoulder once more.
But Prince Falcionus beat him to it. He began clapping and the room quickly followed his example, as if waiting
for it. Maybe they were? Regardless, Rogan added to the cacophony of appreciation that soon became deafening. Saffron looked out at the crowd, her eyes fixing on something, and stood to curtsey, only to lose her balance and stumble. She avoided falling, but Rogan decided he needed to talk to her before she got her hands on another glass, or she would be incapable of understanding him.
He stood, intent on being the first to congratulate Saffron, but once again the prince, who was nearby, foiled him. His Excellence seemed determined to monopolize her for a while, bringing a circle of his pompous followers into the conversation. Rogan resigned to biding his time, seeking out a beverage of his own to negotiate with.
The wine amplified his courage, and by the time he finished his glass, he was not only ready to confront Saffron, but decided he was no longer going to wait.
“Baron, I missed you at the petitioning, I figured—”
Rogan heard Palomar’s thought but did not see him, and was not getting sidetracked. He raised his head and kept walking, weaving through the crowd, which had devolved into a mass of imbibing gossipers. When he reached Saffron, she was engaged in a one-sided conversation with a man twice her age, who seemed tickled by the sound of his own voice. The weight of the unseen world distilled itself, in that moment, upon this singular decision – whether Rogan dared speak his heart to her, and begin the frightful unravelling of reason. Another breath gone, he stepped forward, though toward his doom or salvation, he couldn’t be sure.
“Lady Saffron, may I speak to you alone for a moment? The matter is urgent.”
Saffron looked from the graying man to Rogan and then back again. “Please excuse me, Sir, I think I am needed elsewhere.” Rogan extended his hand and she took it, breaking into laughter as soon as her back was turned, too abruptly to go unnoticed. “Thank you for rescuing me. I was so bored I was about to immolate myself. Where are we going?” she asked.
Rogan did not say a word, but tightened his grip around her hand to make sure he did not lose contact in the maze of bodies. He led her out of the Gallery, and down one of the hallways he had taken on the way from his room. Only when he was confident they were alone, and had some distance from the rest of the party, did he stop and turn.
Shiver the Moon Page 41
