The Demon King (33 page)

Applause rolled from one end of the hall to the other, probably because it was time to go to dinner.

The main ballroom had been transformed into a fairy forest, its borders softened by groves of bare-branched trees sparkling with tiny wizard lights. The dining tables were set up at one end, in a woodland bower. The trees were hung with silver cages filled with songbirds.

At dinner, she sat next to the queen at the head of the table. Raisa insisted that Speaker Jemson take the chair on her other side, which should have been her father’s (mostly to prevent Lord Bayar’s occupying it). She was surprised when the queen readily agreed. Marianna seemed eager to please her often difficult daughter, anxious to fill the hole left by Averill’s absence in any way she could.

While protocol would dictate that the southern princes be seated next in line after the royal family, Raisa noticed that her mother had seated them rather far down the table. Not only that, the Tomlins were seated across from a stranger, which, from his elaborate dress, must be the ambitious Gerard Montaigne, the youngest prince of Arden. He was slender, with hair the color of wet sand, and pale, almost colorless, blue eyes.

Elena Demonai and the other clan representatives were also seated at the far end of Raisa’s table.

Raisa ate very little, feeling the weight of the tiara and her new title and the sting of her father’s absence. She said very little too, but Speaker Jemson and Queen Marianna and Lord Bayar made up for her lack of conversation. Their voices splattered against her skin like rain on canvas, scarcely penetrating.

The queen seemed nervous, her smile forced, and she glanced anxiously in Raisa’s direction as if unsure what the new princess heir might do. Speaker Jemson pretended to be relaxed and chatty, but Raisa thought the speaker missed nothing.

“The Princess Raisa has been a wonderful ambassador for the Gray Wolf throne in the city,” he said.

“Has she now?” the queen said, fussing with her napkin.

“Oh yes. The street musicians sing her praises. The children at Southbridge Temple school leave flower garlands beneath her portrait in the sanctuary, and the temple dedicates have opened a new healing hall in her name.”

“I had no idea,” the queen said, poking at her roast quail, a faint frown on her face.

“Everyone praises you, Your Majesty, for raising a daughter with such a compassionate nature,” he added, and the queen smiled.

Amon Byrne caught Raisa’s eye several times from his post against the wall. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, What’s going on?

Raisa began to relax a little when dinner was cleared away and they decended to the dance floor. Her dance card was already full, according to protocol, once they got past the awkwardness of the traditional father-daughter dance. (They skipped it.) The evening passed quickly, a kaleidoscope of male faces and brilliant plumage, a cacophony of flattery, the sting of wizard hands, the Klemaths resurfacing repeatedly like a bad dream.

She danced with Prince Gerard Montaigne and found him cold, intense, and condescending, a remarkable combination in a boy so close to her own age. He made no effort to woo or even flatter her, but cut right to politics.

“Does it concern you, Princess,” he asked, in his harsh flatlander accent, “that though I’m the son of a king, I’m the youngest of five sons? Four of whom are living?”

“That depends,” Raisa said, unable to resist. “Do you have older sisters as well?”

He stared at her a moment with eyes as pale and hard as glacier ice. “I have one older sister,” he said. “But in Arden, the crown passes through the line of sons only.”

“I see. Do you hope to marry a queen, then, so that your daughters will have an inheritance?” Raisa asked.

“Well…ah…I had not thought it,” the prince stammered. “I thought that it would make sense to…ah…marry our kingdoms—and our resources—together.”

“I see. Our kingdoms. Well, then. I believe I did not answer your question. You asked whether I’m concerned that you’re the youngest son?”

“Yes,” Gerard Montaigne said. “I wanted to assure you that, given the situation in Arden, these are not insurmountable obstacles. If you can be patient, Your Highness, I fully expect to wear the crown in the end.”

“I am not at all worried about your four brothers,” Raisa said. “Although I think they have reason to be worried about themselves. I would, however, be very concerned about the succession in Arden if it seemed at all likely that we would marry.”

Fortunately, at that point, the song ended. Raisa stepped back from Prince Gerard, pulling her hands free, though he didn’t seem to want to let go of them. “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness,” she said. “Have a safe journey home.”

She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked away, head high. There’s one southerner to cross off my list, she thought. He gives me the jittery shudders.

She was apprehensive when Micah’s name came up on her dance card. She didn’t know what to expect—some sort of proposition, a protestation of love, conspiratorial whispers—something. But she needn’t have worried, it seemed. This time he was a perfect gentleman. He seemed so distracted, in fact, so distant, that Raisa asked him, a little sharply, what in the world he was thinking of, just as the music stopped.

“I’m thinking of nothing, Your Highness,” he said, bowing stiffly. “Nothing at all. It’s a good skill to have. I recommend it.” And he walked away, back straight.

Amon was a different matter. He gripped her hands so hard, she squeaked in pain, and he relaxed his hold. “Sorry,” he said. “What is going on? Where is your father?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Raisa replied. “Have you heard anything at all?”

“A bird came from Chalk Cliffs yesterday, saying that they had left for Fellsmarch yesterday morning,” Amon said. “I expected them to arrive last night. I’ve heard nothing since.” He paused. “They’ve probably stayed over somewhere for the night. What with this storm and all.”

Rain clattered against the tiled roof of the temple, and the wind howled around the towers. And yet…they should have been here long before the storm began,” she said. “I just…I have a bad feeling about this. An intuition. Something’s happened, or it’s going to happen, or both.” She rested her head against Amon’s shoulder, shivering a little.

“What could happen?” Amon murmured, his warm breath tickling her ear, his firm hand at her back, guiding her around the dance floor. “You’re here, in Fellsmarch Castle, in the middle of a party, with your guardsmen around you.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “This…intuition—how reliable is it? And, is there any way of knowing what or when?” Typical, practical Amon.

“I don’t know,” Raisa said, trying to sort through her feelings. She felt oddly safe there, enclosed within the circle of Amon’s arms. Connected to him in a way she hadn’t been before. It was as if a channel had opened between them, power and emotion rippling through, and she wished they could just circle forever.

Raisa cleared her throat, trying to concentrate on that other, more nebulous danger. “Magret says it’s just name day jitters, and maybe she’s right, but I would feel so much better if our fathers were here. I worry that something has happened to them.”

“We can’t do anything about them,” Amon said. “So let’s focus on you right now. If you’re in danger, what’s it likely to be?”

Raisa looked up at his face, afraid he was making fun of her, but he looked completely serious.

“Let’s think, now. When would you be most vulnerable to—I don’t know—assassins or kidnappers,” he went on. “After the party, you’ll be going back to your room. Maybe then.”

Raisa gripped his elbows. “Stay in my room tonight, Amon,” she said impulsively. “I’d feel safer if you did.”

“Raisa, I can’t do that,” Amon said, his expression a mixture of what looked like regret and propriety.

“I don’t really care what anyone thinks,” Raisa persisted. “Besides, Magret will be there. She can chaperone.”

“Right,” he said. “Isn’t she the one who fell asleep in the garden?” He chewed his lower lip. “I’ll get the Wolfpack involved. We’ve been assigned to your personal guard. Beginning tomorrow.”

Raisa stared at him. “Really? I thought your father wanted you to stay away from me.”

“He changed his mind,” Amon said. He took a breath as if he had something to add, but then shut his mouth and said nothing for an entire circuit of the dance floor.

“Anyway, I’m still worried about the tunnel that you haven’t boarded up,” he said finally. “When the dancing’s done, I’ll send some of the Wolfpack to watch the corridor to your room. You’ll have your usual guard outside your door. I’ll go up in the garden and watch the tunnel entrance. That’s one night taken care of. And maybe by tomorrow, our fathers will be back.”

That settled, they circled silently a moment. Amon still looked troubled, though.

“What’s wrong?” Raisa asked.

“What if they don’t come back? I’m supposed to leave for Oden’s Ford in another week.”

“Already?” Raisa felt a flicker of panic. “But the summer’s not even over yet. It’s only the end of July. You have all of August, and—”

“I’m taking the long way back to Oden’s Ford. We’re doing a little scouting for Da. But if he’s not back, I can’t leave you here on your own.”

“He’ll come, Amon; they both will, you’ll see.”

The music had stopped, signaling the end of the dance, and they coasted reluctantly to a standstill. Amon was leaning down, and their faces were inches apart. Gripping both his hands, Raisa whispered, “Thank you.” She went up on her toes, sliding her arms around his neck, meaning to finish the dance with a chaste kiss, but just then they were interrupted.

“Your Highness?” The accented voice came from behind. “I believe I have reserved this dance.”

Raisa whirled around and saw that it was Prince Liam Tomlin, of Tamron. The prince offered a graceful bow. “Of course, if it’s no longer convenient…?”

“Your Highness,” she said, and curtsied, her face burning with embarrassment. She really needed to pay better attention. Especially since Prince Liam was a possible match. “Of course it’s convenient. I’m sorry. I was just…”

“Distracted,” he said. “It happens.” His smile was dazzling against his coppery skin.

Raisa looked over her shoulder, but Amon had disappeared.

The prince took her hand, and the orchestra launched into a waltz, a safe dance for southerners, in deference to the royal pair. The musicians needn’t have worried. The prince danced with the unconscious grace of someone who’d grown up at court.

He was not especially tall, compared to Micah or Amon, but he was exceedingly well-dressed, in a blue coat and white breeches that displayed his lean, aristocratic build. Tamron was known for being the arbiter of style in the Seven Realms. Next to glittering Tamron Court, Fellsmarch was a backwater.

“It’s not often that I must reserve a place on someone’s dance card,” Prince Liam said. “And wrench my partner from the arms of another. See how far the fortunes of the Tomlins have fallen.”

Startled, Raisa studied the prince for evidence of arrogance, but found only a kind of self-deprecating good humor. She liked him at once.

“Right. Well, I’m trying to get used to the idea of being put on display like a fresh side of beef,” Raisa said.

Prince Liam laughed out loud, a surprising full-bodied laugh. “Perhaps you subscribe to the notion that princes actually have control over their own lives. I beg to differ. We strut the boards, improvising like mad, only to learn that the script is already written, and we’ve got it wrong.”

“Not always,” Raisa countered. “I have to believe that sometimes we can write our own.”

“You love your soldier, then?” The question was like a bold blade between the ribs, but Raisa deflected it.

“I am not talking about love,” Raisa said, amending silently, Well, not only about love.

“I have a chance, then,” he said, turning his head and displaying his handsome profile, framed by his tumble of black curls. He peered sideways at her to see if she’d noticed.

She laughed. “You are quite the poseur,” she said.

“That is what I was going for,” he replied cheerfully. “Everyone else in the room—they’re all imposters.”

“I’m not playing a role,” Raisa said. “I want people to know who I am.”

“You are young, Your Highness,” Prince Liam said, sounding like one of her cynical elders.

“Why? How old are you?” Raisa demanded.

“I’m seventeen,” he said.

I’m almost as old as you, she thought of saying, but didn’t, since it sounded like something a child would say. “How goes the hunt for a wife?” she asked. “Any prospects?”

He laughed again. “They said you were blunt.”

“They did? What else did they say?”

“They said you were willful, and stubborn, and smart.” He looked into her eyes. “And the most beautiful princess in the Seven Realms.”

It was flattery, but it was still pleasant to hear.

“Indeed? I have no way of knowing, since I’ve never been out of the Fells,” Raisa said. “One day I’ll visit Tamron and the other southern realms. How have you been affected by the war in Arden?”

“We choose to ignore the war,” Liam said, leaning close to speak into her ear, as if confiding a secret. “We distract ourselves with parties and entertainments and other vices, as if that will make it go away.”

“And yet you’re here, seeking an alliance against the Montaignes,” Raisa said, grateful for her tutelage from her father and Amon Byrne.

Liam waved a heavily ringed hand. “I’m looking for a rich wife to pay my gambling debts,” he said. “We hear the queens of the Fells are very frugal, that they still have the first coins ever minted with their images.”

The music stopped, and he led her from the dance floor to a table in one of her mother’s temporary groves. Raisa signaled a server to bring them drinks, and then kicked off her shoes. Her dance card was finished—Prince Liam had been the last on the list. Although the orchestra still played (and would until the princess heir officially departed), Raisa was surprised to find that the room had nearly emptied. She hadn’t realized it was so late. Somehow she’d got through her name day party without really noticing. It was kind of a letdown, after the months of buildup.