Authors: Mark Anthony
Aryn tapped her chin. “Oh, and one more thing. The king thinks he’s a good deal funnier than he actually is. So do try to pay attention to what he’s saying, and if it sounds at all like a joke, laugh. The louder the better.”
Grace clenched her jaw. How was she possibly going to remember any of this? Facing Aryn for the first time had terrified her nearly to the point of paralysis, and she couldn’t imagine a person milder than the baroness. How was she going to face a loud and demanding king? If he was bleeding and unconscious on a gurney in the ED, she wouldn’t even blink. But whole and talking, asking her questions? That was a far different matter.
“You’ll do just fine, Grace,” Aryn said, as if she sensed Grace’s thoughts.
Grace made an attempt at a courageous smile. “I’ll try my best.”
They rounded a corner and were brought up short by an unexpected obstacle in their path. Grace’s jaw went slack, and Aryn let out a gasp.
“Well, if it isn’t our dearest Lady Aryn.”
The lady—for certainly she was a noblewoman—was older than Aryn, more of an age with Grace. Though, next to her, Grace felt like a gawky and boyish teenager. The lady’s beauty was lush and sensual, mature without the faintest trace of decline.
Ripe
. That was the word. She was perfectly, lustrously ripe. Her hair was dark blond, her complexion smooth ivory, her eyes the same bold green as her gown. It seemed she favored the color, for a large emerald pendant rested in the deep cleft of her bosom, which was barely contained
within the confines of the gown’s bodice. Instinct prickled the small hairs on the back of Grace’s neck.
Aryn’s forehead crinkled. She gave the other a curt nod. “Good eventide, Lady Kyrene,” she said in a tight voice.
Kyrene lifted a hand to the arch of her throat. “Sweet Aryn, you hardly seem pleased to see me. And here I was only just thinking how lovely it would be to talk with you.”
Aryn chewed the words. “Forgive me, Kyrene. We’re in a bit of a hurry right now.”
The emerald-gowned lady affected an ingenuous expression. “But whatever for, love?”
The baroness groaned. “We don’t have time for this, Kyrene. You know exactly what we’re about. Hardly a mouse shakes its whiskers in this castle that you don’t know of it. I doubt you simply happened to be wandering in this particular corridor at this moment by chance alone.”
Kyrene’s full lips parted in a smile. A kitten-pink tongue ran across tiny, milk-white teeth. “My, you are a clever girl, aren’t you?” It was not in any way a compliment. The lady’s green gaze moved to drink in Grace, cool with a glint of curiosity. “And who is this accompanying you on your weighty errand?”
“Please don’t expect me to believe you don’t already know,” Aryn said.
A delicate expression of annoyance touched Kyrene’s visage. “What a wild thing you are, Lady Aryn. Haven’t you manners enough to introduce me properly to a new guest of the court?” She shook her head and sighed. “But I am cruel to scold you. It’s hardly your fault, raised as you were by that crude bull of a king, and without the benefit of a woman’s tempering influence. You must forgive me, love.”
Aryn gritted her teeth. “Oh, think nothing of it.” She drew in a deep breath. “Kyrene, this is the Lady Grace of Beckett. Grace, allow me to introduce you to the Lady Kyrene. Kyrene is the countess of Selesia, in southern Calavan.”
Grace had absolutely no idea what to say. She settled for, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Of course you are, love,” the countess said. Interest flickered in her languid gaze. “It is rather unusual for a traveling lady to be summoned by the king so soon upon arriving, is it not? Do you know what he might wish of you?”
Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you.”
Kyrene’s eyes narrowed. “I see the courtly game is played as skillfully in this Beckett of yours as it is here in Calavere. I will have to remember that.”
What did
that
mean? Grace wasn’t trying to play a game, she was simply being honest. Yet now the countess regarded her in—what? Fascination? Contempt? Suspicion?
Kyrene turned toward Aryn. “I must be on my way, love.” She inclined her head toward Grace. “I wish you well in your audience with the king, my lady. But I won’t say good-bye. After all, I am quite certain we will see each other again.”
Whether that was a threat or a promise, Grace wasn’t sure. The Countess Kyrene brushed past them with a rustle of fabric, swept down the corridor, and was gone.
Aryn’s expression was part shock and part wonder. “She has absolutely no shame.”
“There’s no room for it in that dress,” Grace said.
Aryn bit her lip. “I’m a baroness and she’s only a countess, but somehow she always manages to make me feel like I’m a serving maid and she’s a queen.” She shook her head, lost in thought, then she let out a small cry. “King Boreas!” She clutched Grace’s elbow in panic. “We have to hurry!”
“What will the king do if we’re late?”
“You truly don’t wish to know.”
Grace needed no further inducement. With the guard in tow, they hastened down the corridor into the heart of Calavere.
They turned down a side passage and came to a stop before a broad door. An ornate crest had been carved into the surface of the door and inlaid with silver: two swords crossed beneath a crown with nine points.
The man-at-arms who had accompanied them cleared his throat and addressed Grace. “The king is expecting you, my lady. You may enter at once.” The guard rapped on the door, then pushed it open and held it for Grace. Beyond she glimpsed flickering red light.
Aryn gave Grace’s hand a warm squeeze. “Good luck. And try to remember what I told you.”
Horror flooded Grace. “But aren’t you coming in with me?”
The baroness shook her head. “The summons was for you, Grace, not for me. But I know you’ll do wonderfully.” The light in her sapphire eyes wasn’t quite as confident as it had been before. “May Yrsaia’s strength be with you.” With that, Aryn withdrew her hand and stepped away.
Grace had to think of some way to get out of this, some excuse why she couldn’t see the king. But her mind was frozen, and it was already too late. The guard took her arm and gently but irresistibly propelled her through the portal. Grace caught her toe on a crack in the floor. She stumbled forward, gasped, and heard the door shut behind her with a
boom
.
“Come in, my lady,” said a deep voice.
Grace lifted her head. The walls and floors of the chamber were strewn with rugs, and a claw-foot table of dark wood dominated the room’s center. A fire roared in an open fireplace, and what she at first took for a lumpy fur rug before the hearth was in fact a pile of sleeping black mastiffs. Each hound’s head was bigger than her own. She might have been afraid of the dogs, but another feral figure caught and trapped her attention.
King Boreas of Calavan was at once compelling and terrifying. He was not so much huge as he was
solid
. His presence weighed so heavily on the air that she thought she might start orbiting around him, caught like a piece of flotsam in his gravity well. His visage was fiercely handsome, and his keen eyes sparked like flint on steel. A few flecks of gray in his trimmed beard and dark, slicked-back hair—along with a series of fine lines around his eyes and nose—were the only hint of his advancing middle years.
Belatedly, she decided some obeisance was expected of her. After all, this
was
a king before her. She started a curtsy, then realized she had absolutely no idea how to complete the action, and turned it into a clumsy sort of bow halfway through. She straightened and expected to see anger or derision in the king’s eyes. There was neither. Instead he regarded her with an intensity that was far more alarming. It felt as if he were trying to look inside her.
“Allow me to welcome you to Calavere, my lady.” His voice thrummed in her chest.
A jerky nod was all the reply she could manage. She could not breathe, and a cold hand constricted her throat.
The king crossed his arms. “I suppose it is proper etiquette for us to exchange long salutations and overwrought soliloquies concerning our overwhelming joy at meeting before we discuss anything remotely resembling business. However, I’m not certain I have the time or patience for such niceties.” His voice deepened to a growl. “Does that trouble you, my lady?”
He flung the question at her like a knife. Grace remembered Aryn’s admonitions and somehow managed to keep herself from flinching. She cleared her throat.
“No, Your Majesty. It does not.”
The king eyed her for a moment, then grinned. It did not seem an expression of mirth. There were far too many teeth involved, and they were all far too pointed. Boreas scratched his beard, then nodded.
“Excellent, my lady. Consider yourself well met, for I am glad indeed you have come to Calavere. Now, I will bandy words no more, but will get right to the point.” He approached her with fluid strength. “I require your help, my lady.”
Was this one of the king’s poor attempts at humor Aryn had warned her about? However, something in the king’s frank expression told Grace this was no joke. She swallowed her forced laughter.
“My help?”
“That’s right.” Boreas pointed a finger directly toward her heart. “You, my lady, are going to help me save Calavan.”
King Boreas paced before the fireplace like a caged animal. The crimson light flickered across his handsome face and made his features sharper yet. The king snorted as he gathered his thoughts.
Grace watched in silent awe.
He is indeed like a bull, a great, dark, restless bull
.
She clutched the goblet of wine he had thrust into her
hands moments before. The king had downed his wine in a single gulp, then tossed the cup aside. Grace might have liked to do the same, but she was not certain she could trust her shaking arms to bring the goblet to her lips without spilling. She was an overworked resident in the emergency department of a city hospital. What could she possibly do to help the ruler of a medieval kingdom?
Boreas halted and turned to impale her with steely eyes. She braced her shoulders.
“Have you ever heard of a Council of Kings, my lady?”
Grace shook her head. “No, Your Majesty. I haven’t. Other than to hear it mentioned by the earl of Stonebreak after he … after he came upon me in the forest.”
She expected the king to give her a look of suspicion, like the Countess Kyrene, who had seemed to take nothing Grace said at face value. However, Boreas nodded, as if he had not considered for a moment that she might be telling him anything other than the truth.
“I am little surprised,” he said. “There has not been a Council of Kings in over a century, not since the horde of barbarian Thanadain marched out of the west to threaten the Dominions. I had to have Lord Alerain dig through all of Calavere’s records just to find the proper protocol for calling a council.”
“Then it was you who called the council, Your Majesty?” Grace asked, apprehensive at her boldness after the fact. Her impulse to drink her wine overpowered her fear of spilling it. She raised the goblet and actually managed to get some of the liquid into her mouth. She swallowed. The wine was cool, rich, and smoky. She gulped some more and set the goblet down.
The king gave her a curious look. “Yes, I did call the council. Somebody had to do it.” He clenched a big hand into an even bigger fist. “By Vathris, I wasn’t going to sit here on my throne waiting for one of those other fool monarchs to get around to it while the Dominions fall apart around my ears!”
Grace jumped back, as if Boreas’s wrath might scorch her like fire. That should teach her to ask questions of a king. It was time to stop this charade right now. There was nothing she could do to help King Boreas. She summoned her will
and told herself it would be no worse than informing one of the ED’s attending physicians that his diagnosis was completely wrong. After all, she had done that often enough.
“I understand your urgency, Your Majesty.” She tried to keep the quaver from her voice. “However, I really don’t know anything about kings or councils, so I think it’s best if I don’t—”
Boreas dismissed her words with an impatient wave of his hand. “Unimportant. In fact, the less you know concerning the machinations of courtly politics, the better. An outsider always has a clearer view of a quagmire than those mucking about within. Besides, my lady, it means I might actually be able to trust you. And that’s a rare enough virtue these days.” He reached down to stroke the head of one of the mastiffs.
Grace shook her head. Well,
that
certainly hadn’t had the intended effect. She would have to try again. In an effort to be brave she took a step forward. “But, Your Majesty, you don’t know who I am. Or even where I come from.”
He snapped his fingers. “Exactly!”
Grace groaned. She should just stop before she inadvertently managed to convince Boreas he should give her the crown of the kingdom, while he became her court jester.
The king started pacing once more and slapped the palm of one hand with the back of the other, shaggy eyebrows knitted in concentration. “If you must know, my lady, I don’t care one whit what land you hail from. The fact is, it suits my purposes far better if no one—including myself—knows the truth of your origin or station, or why you have chosen to travel in disguise. Your bearing marks you as a woman of noble birth, and a mysterious foreign lady with power and purposes unknown is exactly what I need.”
He bore down on Grace, his mien grim. “These are dark times in the Dominions, my lady. It is imperative the council act swiftly, instead of bogging itself down in petty argument and meaningless debate. I need to divine the intentions of the other rulers, to shape their opinions, and to convince the council to take action. And you, my lady, are going to help me do just that.”
Grace’s trepidation gave way to confusion. “But I don’t
understand. What help could a stranger possibly be to you? I’m sure no one will even bother to talk to me.”
Boreas let out a grunt. “You truly don’t understand the workings of court politics, do you, my lady? Things must be different in this Beckett of yours.”