Hosmer closed the door on them with a wry grin and a tweak of his sister’s ear, saying, “I’ll be along when the inn is emptied, but I’ll be stationed on the front steps again!”
Nutmeg leaned out of the door, yelling back, “I’ll save you some pastries!” as the carriage horses trotted away before Sevryn hauled her inside, muttering something about manners befitting the Warrior Queen. Unfazed, Nutmeg smoothed her skirts over her knees, and cocked her head at her companions.
“What do we do?”
“Dance, eat, drink. Not too much drink, I hope.” Lariel had been looking over the carriage door at the streets where a steady stream of people seemed to also be making their way to the Great Hall on foot.
“I mean when someone tries to kill you.”
“Hopefully,” and she smiled faintly as Sevryn smothered a noise. “No one will, but if they do, stay out of the way and let my men handle it.”
“There’s only two of them!”
Lariel kept smiling at Nutmeg. “There are others, mingled throughout the crowd, and there are those who work for the safety of all the Vaelinars attending this Conference who may come to my aid. It’ll be fine, and you shouldn’t worry.”
“It’s just that I’m a little short to be a good shield.”
Sevryn put his hand over his mouth and swiveled his head to the side, steadfastly finding something outside the carriage to fasten his attention upon. Rivergrace examined his profile, finding it handsome enough as Lariel reached out and touched Nutmeg’s knee.
“You were not invited to shield me, but to have a good time and to share it with me. Those who have me marked will be bolder and more careless if they think I’m unaware. And, though I hate to ruin your anticipation, it could happen any time, even more likely not tonight.”
“Why do you think so?” Grace asked, prying her attention from Sevryn who seemed totally unaware of her.
“The size of the crowd within and without will make it difficult to move quickly and unknown. I can almost guarantee my assassin will be a man known as the Kobrir.” Lariel leaned forward then, as a shout came from outside, and she waved at the growing throng.
Nutmeg nibbled on her lip briefly, then ventured, “It sounds as if you’re used to it.”
“In a way. We’re a very competitive people, and some of us have positions that are very unpopular with others. Our Accords were written for a reason.
Nor shall any of the Suldarran take arms against one another, or harbor any who would do so, in war or private offense, under penalty of their own life and the reputation of their House,
” she quoted.
“We don’t fight anymore,” Nutmeg told her. “Not since the Magi.”
“I know. You’re a very commendable people.”
“Thank you,” accepted Nutmeg gravely, and she settled back into the carriage, becoming uncharacteristically silent, although she watched the parade avidly, for—with traffic growing and other carriages before and after—they had indeed fallen into a parade.
The carriage slowed, the horses pulled from a high-stepping trot into a sedate walk, their necks bowed with impatience, their strides collected and elegant. Jeredon leaned down. “We’ll be parked shortly.” He wore green and gold, setting off his dark-brown hair which the sun had streaked with its touch, just as it had tanned his skin, and amber flecks marked his dark green eyes. He had the lines at the corner of his mouth that those with frequent, self-mocking smiles often carried, but his expression now seemed very somber.
Sevryn, on the other hand, wore dark blue which looked quietly elegant on him, neither setting off his features nor dimming them. Grace would not have said blue was his color, but she doubted he intended to display himself as the other Vaelinars seemed inclined to do, his dark bronzed hair tied back, and his eyes of light, stormy gray watching the crowds intently, never still, always searching. The aura of power the others carried seemed muted about him, and she considered the idea that, although he did not have the eyes of the Vaelinars, power might yet run in his body, though very deep and still, in the way of rivers.
She turned her face to find Lariel watching her. “Your brother doesn’t resemble you,” she said, caught.
“No, he doesn’t. He is my younger brother, my father’s son, but not from my mother. He has the Eladar looks, I think.” She paused briefly. “Just as you don’t look much like Nutmeg.”
“There’s a story in that, Your Highness.”
“One I would hear one day.” The carriage bumped to a stop and rocked as Jeredon jumped down and tugged at the door.
“Miladies,” he said, as he handed Nutmeg out and reached for Rivergrace. “Follow the queen in. We’ll be right behind all of you.”
Nutmeg took Rivergrace’s hand and Grace felt her sister tremble a little in unusual shyness. She gripped back.
Columns that seemed to reach nearly sky-high held the copper domed roof of the Great Hall. She tried to look up at it and found herself leaning so far back that Sevryn caught her. The quad in front of the hall filled with people and small booths as if a Spring fair had sprung up since the morning, and dance music tinkled faintly to her, two celebrations here, one inside and one without. A byway had been left for the coaches, but they were surrounded by dancers and gaiety, and the horses tossed their heads and pranced as if showing off.
A wall of noise went up as Lariel descended from the carriage. Rivergrace held her breath to listen, hearing cries of welcome and hatred mingled, sending a shocked surprise through her.
“Warrior Queen! Go home and stay there!”
“Most beautiful of the Strangers! Queen Lariel!”
A waving hand and bounding form jostled through the crowd. “Queen Lariel, a blessing here! Look upon us!”
Others shoved close to the carriage. “Hssst. War-bringer!”
Jeredon and Sevryn propelled them into the building quickly, the shouts fading behind them, but never ceasing.
“They don’t know, Lariel,” Jeredon said to her.
The corner of her mouth twitched. “They never do.” She pulled her corset into a slightly more comfortable position at her waist. “I’m ready.”
With a nod, he took them to the herald at a pair of immense double doors pulled back, with music swelling beyond them, and hammered gold-and-bronze tiles on the walls, alternating with lilies of lapis lazuli on white jade and green jade stems, and banners hanging down that were woven of the finest embroidered brocade. Vases of flowers filled the hall, and cut glasses sent the illumination from the many sconces shimmering about the walls. Rivergrace could not imagine any place on Kerith more grand. The lamps burned scented oil, the overhead windows let the sun blaze down in slanted glory, and the dancers swirled in colors that dazzled the eye. Rivergrace thought she heard a trumpet as the herald shouted out Lariel’s name to the celebrants in the massive room. Heads turned as he did.
She could hear the whispers. “She wears armor.”
“Nonsense, it’s decorative.”
“I tell you, that’s an armored corset.”
“With barb-tongued women waiting for her entry, I don’t blame her,” the bored man said, turning away from his companion and seeking another pretty face.
Nutmeg reached out to squeeze Rivergrace’s hand. “They’re calling us shop girls,” she whispered, reporting from her side of the hall.
“But we are.”
“Yes, but . . . never mind. We are!” And Nutmeg put her chin up.
Rivergrace squeezed back. “Hosmer would never forgive us if we started another brawl.”
That brought a grin to Nutmeg’s curving mouth. They followed in the Warrior Queen’s wake, aware of stares that assailed Lariel and slid away only to end up on them. At the end of the long hallway, Grace managed a deep breath.
Three side halls adjoined the ballroom, each of those draped with banners and pennants and garlands of flowers, and holding a covey of attendees, two for the food and drink they served, and a third for a quieter place to stand and talk or sit and rest a while. Lariel headed to the third. If aware of the path that gave way to her, she did not show it, nor did she simply plow her way across the center of the room, but along the edge until she reached her destination. As she entered the room, a man’s voice rose in song.
“At summer’s last bloom, at winter’s fall, at sword blade ever turning,
The war came to an end on the banks of Ashenbrook.
Through fields of death the river ran, its waters laced with blood,
Bearing a fallen king upon its tide, carried onto his Returning.
Spring has come and gone in time, with grasses ever greening
Still the Ashenbrook flows through killing fields,
Its dark and bitter waters running through banks of clay and bone.
Only men can sing of memory, of war and its darkest gleaning.”
Bistane Vantane turned and bowed deeply to her. He wore white leather, supple pants upon a body even more supple, vest cut tightly over a shirt of the most gossamer blue, its sleeves flowing amply to end in tight and bejeweled cuffs. Rivergrace recognized the Vaelinar who had sung at the Spring fair years ago, and although she felt changed, he seemed unmarked by the time. His companion she also knew, from his calling at her father’s brewery, Trader Bregan Oxfort. He wore silks of dark brown, quiet, somber colors, although every finger on Oxfort’s hand held a sparkling ring, and heavy bracelets hung like chains from his sleeves. “Listen to that,” Bregan remarked. “Women have been flocking about us for a candlemark begging for a song, and nothing. The Warrior Queen arrives and Bistane opens up like a songbird on midsummer’s night.”
“Surely songbirds give off sweeter melodies,” Lariel murmured.
“I hope m’lady will favor me with a dance later,” Bistane said to Lariel.
“Why wait? The night is young.” She put her hand out to him and he caught it up with a grin that wiped the somberness from him entirely, and he spun her out onto the floor. Oxfort continued talking with his companions as if nothing had occurred.
“And I thought that was going to be awkward,” muttered Jeredon as he sprawled upon a chair.
“Are you asking for trouble?” Sevryn remarked to him.
“Almost anything would be better than this. On edge and bored, two things I dislike being.”
Nutmeg perched on a footstool near Jeredon. “Don’t you care for dances?”
“I,” he said to her, “much prefer hunting and riding and camping under the stars. Even more so, walking the forest and groves and . . . how can I say it? . . . listening to them.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” He took his eyes from Bistane dancing close to Lariel and looked at her.
“It’s a different voice, but it speaks all the same. I like going to the tall trees, the great red-barked ones near the seacoast, where it’s damp and the soil is nearly black with richness. I’ve been there twice, and it’s put roots in my soul. They tower higher than any building.”
“I know the ones you speak of. They are old, you know.”
“I know. We Dwellers know such things.”
“Tell me what else you comprehend, then,” and Jeredon put an elbow on his knee, and the self-mocking smile that had played on his features evolved into one of keen interest. Nutmeg leaned forward earnestly, a rare serious look on her face, talking and gesturing.
Sevryn said at Rivergrace’s ear, startling her into a tiny jump, “Would you care to dance?”
She caught herself. “Should we?”
“We were commanded to enjoy ourselves, as I recall. A queen takes commands seriously.” He held his arm out to her.
“I don’t . . . I haven’t danced very much . . .”
His mouth stayed very close to her ear, warm breath tickling her. “The music is changing as we speak. Listen. This is a country fair song, if I recall.”
“It is!”
“Fated, then. Shall we dance, m’lady?” Without waiting for an answer, he put his other hand to her waist and swung her about onto the dance floor as the music picked up and launched into a lively air. He gave her a little shake, erasing the reluctance in her, and she gave in to the music. Lively steps, and kicks to each side, and twirls and then a promenade, and then a dip, a twirl, and all over again. Fiddles and pipes and drums awakened her, and Sevryn guided her with strength until they both laughed breathlessly, weaving among the others on the floor. Many of the Vaelinars had stepped aside, not knowing the dance, watching, and joining as they picked it up, but Bistane and Lariel reigned in the middle of the dance floor, in swirls of blue-and-white leather, a flash of color as Sevryn spun her by them. Some of the attendees carried small pets on their wrists or shoulders, bright-winged or soft-furred, with collars or leashes of strung gems on gold-and-silver braids, the pets holding on tightly as their owners danced away.
The music ebbed in a slow dance, then, and he pulled her to him, both catching their breaths as he showed her how to sway and step in time with him. He said nothing, but she felt his cheek pressed to her temple, and Rivergrace lost whatever words she wished to say. Behind the tempo of the music, she learned the beat of his heart and the flow of his breathing. The dance seemed to last forever, then suddenly the sound ended.
He broke away from her. “I need to see a smile,” he cautioned her. “Lest the queen think we’re not following orders.”
“That should never happen,” and she found a smile though still a little breathless.
“Excellent.” He listened as the musicians struck up again, a full band this time, with horn and more strings and even bells. “Ah. Now this one is a little more difficult, but it’s easy if you remember the steps in a box. Like this . . .” And he put both hands on her waist to guide her.
After a few missteps, she caught the pattern. She saw other women holding their skirts up in one hand, with the other placed on their partners’ shoulders, and did the same. Freeing her ankles made following Sevryn much easier, and they fell into an even more intricate configuration on the dance floor among the others.