A swath of black silk tapped on Sevryn’s shoulder. He stopped, pulling Rivergrace with him from the stream of couples to face the elegant Vaelinar woman. A diadem of cut obsidian bound her dark gold hair from her forehead and then freed it to tumble down her shoulders and back. The severe colors did not hide her, but allowed her to spring forth from the shadows, like the dawning of the sun itself, and her eyes of verdant green flecked with smoke and leaf green ruled a face of sharp planes. Her beauty looked as if it could cut.
“Tressandre.” Sevryn bowed slightly.
“I claim a dance.” Her gaze passed over Rivergrace, dismissing her. Rivergrace tried to contain a shiver.
“Would that it were possible, but I am escorting at the queen’s orders. Perhaps another time.”
“We will always have another time.” Tressandre ild Fallyn curved her lips as she smiled, but no warmth entered her eyes. She traced her hand languidly over Sevryn’s shoulder and then down his flank, as if reminding both of them she knew what lay beneath the civilized cover of clothing. Dropping her palm to the butt of the riding crop at her hip, she sauntered off without another look back. Sevryn watched her go, his jaw tight.
The music went on and then stopped, and then gathered again before he moved, taking Rivergrace’s wrist and holding her lightly for a slow but sprightly dance. He said nothing for an even longer time. When they finished, he told her, “I think we need a cooling drink,” and led her to the hall filled with tables groaning under the refreshments.
She put her hand out to halt him, to tell him that he need not squire her around, but she missed his wrist, stroking her fingers across his rigid torso instead, and he let his breath out in a hiss.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Quench fire.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“Never mind. Here, a pastry or two, and some light wine with juice?” He gathered a drink and treats for her without waiting for her answer and pressed them into her hands, before serving himself.
She bit into the small, flaky object, and the goodness of the crust hid a sweet-and-nut concoction that pleased her tongue as she ate. She hoped that Nutmeg would be able to smuggle a few of them out to Hosmer, for he loved sugary things. The wine soothed her thirst, and she gulped a second draft, bringing Sevryn’s mouth to her ear again, saying, “Not too fast, aderro, that can be very intoxicating. If you thirst, I’ll draw you some water.”
Embarrassment warmed her. She began to stammer an apology when a tall Vaelinar with a cane limped their way and clasped Sevryn’s shoulder.
“Introduce me, Dardanon, for I do not know this young lady,” as he looked upon them both.
“Rivergrace Farbranch, guest of Queen Lariel, may I present Tranta ild Istlanthir, famed cliff climber and cliff diver of the Kingdom of Tomarq.” Sevryn lifted his glass to the other.
Tranta took her hand, pastry and all, bowing deeply over it. She could not help staring at him, with pale blue skin and dark blue-green hair, towering over Sevryn and herself. He straightened. “Remind me to commend Lariel for inviting exquisite guests.”
Sevryn shifted weight. “I understand Tressandre is looking for a dance partner.”
Tranta brandished his walking stick. “I thank the Gods that I am unable to fulfill her needs.” He did not take his eyes off Rivergrace. The three of them might have been the only people in a hall growing ever more crowded as dancers came in search of drink for parched throats. “I feel I should know you, m’lady Farbranch. The name, however, does not speak to me of our people.”
“I’m Dweller.”
Tranta laughed heartily. He balanced himself on his cane as he caught his breath to respond. “Did no one ever tell you that humor is one of the more tantalizing qualities, m’lady?”
“Tranta,” began Sevryn, but the other waved him off, telling him, “Tiiva is looking for Lariel. It seems the queen sent her for something, and she’s found it.”
“Then Tiiva will find her, I’m certain.” He put his arm out to Rivergrace. “Though perhaps we should help.”
“Of a certainty, you should, Sevryn, but why the young lady? I can dance a bit, after a fashion, if the music is slow and you allow me to lean on you a bit.” He gazed down at Rivergrace, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Perhaps you weren’t hit on the head hard enough,” Sevryn told him.
“Only death could keep me from the company of such a lovely person.” He also offered Rivergrace an arm. She stood in hesitation between the two. A tension spun out between the three of them, like a spider setting its anchoring strand in a web. She turned as someone called Lariel’s name, entering the area with a rustle of fabric and a click of heels upon the tiled flooring before sweeping into a deep curtsy.
The herald’s call echoed her entry. “Presenting Seneschal Tiiva Pantoreth.”
The woman rose without seeming ever to have been bent in subordination, and held out a cup. “Found, m’lady queen.”
Lariel beamed. “And in good time. I won’t keep you further, Tiiva, I know you’ve kin waiting and dances promised.”
“Indeed.” A faint smile played over the other’s face.
“My apologies for sending you questing about like a servant.”
“None needed. What would you have done without it?”
“Depended upon my avandara here.”
Her escort made a movement of surprise, looking down at Rivergrace, and then his mouth went tight as if holding back words. Lariel touched Bistane as if to soothe him, but he did not voice his thoughts.
That seemed to disconcert the elegant woman more than anything else that had been said, but she merely curtsied again silently and left after giving Nutmeg and Rivergrace a curious sidelong glance. Nutmeg returned it, nudging Rivergrace as the seneschal left the dancing floor.
It did not slip past Lariel. “Something untoward?”
“She reminds me of a shop customer, Lady Galraya.”
“It would be the skin. Copper is one of our warmer and more rare tones. Galraya is her sister-cousin.” Lariel took up the cup, a tankard of blown glass, painted with gilt and blue, meant to be fastened upon a belt or girdle. A slender stemmed flute, it hung more as a decoration than a drinking vessel, with stonework gleaming within. She tapped it and it rang with a clear, hanging note, the tenor changed by the stones inlaid at the bottom.
Rivergrace had never seen anything quite like it. “Why are there gems inside the cup?”
“For my protection. They will turn color if the drink is poisoned. I shall drink more freely than I dance in tonight’s crowd, I think.” Unconcerned, Lara twisted a wayward strand of hair shaken down by dancing back into place. “In fact, a libation sounds good. Bistane?”
“A drink might do us both good.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken, flowing about Grace like the Silverwing, dimming sound and light, drawing her into a current which would carry her away to an unknown destination as her gaze stayed upon Lariel.
She heard the Warrior Queen’s voice, light and clear, answering something asked of her, as she moved toward the tables and ordered a drink, Bistane with his arm about her waist as she did. She handed over her goblet to the veiled server across the tables and waited as the androgynous waiter filled it with sparkling water before retreating into anonymity behind the casks and kegs. Lariel curved her arm to move the glass to her lips after a quick glance within, and returning her attention to Bistane. The fluid within moved sluggishly as if muddied.
Time slowed and pooled as the summer waters swirling into her beloved cove on the Silverwing, although Rivergrace saw Lariel with a crystal clarity in the midst of it. Her slender fingers lifted the glass and it sparked Grace’s eyes with the cut brilliance of faceted quartz yet it held a dark and bloodied heart within it, a flawed shard that made her shiver in repulsion. Without thought, she flung her arm out to dash it from her lips, crying, “Don’t drink that!”
“What?” Lariel turned in confusion toward her, the glass continuing its slow journey to her mouth.
“You can’t!” She flailed, knocking the goblet from Lariel’s hand, the beautiful object arcing away. Bistane caught it neatly in the air, barely letting a drop spill. He swung about and grabbed a tiny furry creature sitting upon the shoulder of the Vaelinar behind him. It squeaked in startled protest and Bistane dribbled a bit of the drink into its mouth.
The little thing blinked with wide eyes even as its owner shouted in dismay, then it coughed and gagged and spewed, and died shuddering in Bistane’s hand.
“Poison.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
RIVERGRACE GAVE A SOFT CRY and moved toward Lariel. Sevryn moved with her, but not toward the queen. His target was the last person who’d touched her, the veiled Vaelinar servant beyond. He hurdled the table, drawing his blade from his left sleeve as he did, and the servant bolted.
He heard Bistane’s flat declaration of “Poison” as he lunged over the table, rolled, and came up running after his prey.
The Vaelinar ran as if its life depended upon it, shedding bits of clothing as he/she skirted the crowd, Sevryn close behind. The ripped veil floated on the air before descending on a bust of a former mayor of Calcort in an alcove. The servant’s gown came off next, thrown into the dancers and causing a crash of bodies as they tangled in it. Sevryn leaped over thrashing arms and legs and curses.
His target now ran, swift and lean and clothed in black, out of the Great Hall, bowling over guards as he descended into the quad, into the depth of night, and a mass of people.
“Kobrir!”
His shout rang over the celebrating commoners, but the figure neither slowed nor veered. With unerring direction, the assassin cut through the booths and eateries, and into a ring of dancers, who with a shout, closed him off.
Sevryn burst into the circle, and onlookers tightened about both of them, a wall of curious and unmoving flesh.
“Fight! Fight!”
Kobrir dropped into a stance. Under his Vaelinar veils, he wore a mask of thin gauze, dark as a moonless sky, hiding his face. The only thing light about him were the knives in his hands, catching a glint of the orange gleam of fire-light and torchlight.
They circled one another, and then closed in a dance of another kind, quiet, skilled, deadly.
Narskap looked into the night, thinning into a morning fog. He disliked the east. He did not care for the long travel to journey there, or the feelings evoked by the warlands crossed to get there, or the Galdarkans who populated it. Quendius seemed to love or hate nothing and showed little feeling as Narskap rose from the waning campfire and looked into a very early dawn.
“We move east,” he said, “to Diort. But,” and he pointed westward. “Someone advances on our heels.”
“Scouts say nothing.”
“There are scouts who haven’t returned. Likely, will not. Get your troops up and on their feet, for the western enemy does not sleep.”
“The sword thirsts.” Quendius rose, his sooty skin nearly invisible in the night.
“Ever. And it knows where to drink.” Narskap went to the horse lines to draw his steed out and began to saddle it. As he mounted, Quendius swung aboard his own, using the tying ropes for a bridle. His sharp whistles of command pierced the air, sounding like the hunting cry of a falcon on the soon-to-be morning air. Without voice, he quieted his troops with a wave of his arm, signaling them to ready for an assault.
The ambushing enemy charged from the hill as they readied. Narskap spotted a banner of the ild Fallyn and one of House Hith-aryn, but the banner little mattered there, for
Bistel himself led the chargers, his head bare, steel-blue hair cropped nearly to the skull and the light blue streaks of his eyes blazing within darker blue depths. Narskap unsheathed the sword, felt it quicken in his hand, heard it keen in his ears, and he began to mow down any within reach.
A stroke to the right, and a Vaelinar fell, head all but severed from his neck, blood spurting. The sword leaped a second time to the font and stayed a moment, quivering, drinking, and when Narskap rode on, little blood stained the grass beneath the still twitching form.
Sevryn slashed to his right, the knives clashing as the Kobrir parried, and the ring of watchers grew heavier about them. He drew his left hand knife quickly, feinting to the left, looking for a gap in the assassin’s defense. He found none, as he knew he would not. The only surprise was that the Kobrir evaded pursuit and faced him now. He wondered where the Town Guard was. And Jeredon. He had no time to shout for either. Kobrir struck with the quickness of a deadly snake.
Troops snaked about Narskap, drawing back as he swung the sword, its wailing cutting the air even as its steel did. They fell back, not in a maddened panic like the Bolgers, but they knew—oh, yes—they knew that the sword took not only life from them. He carved a pathway for himself, intent upon the banner Hith-aryn and the elder Bistel, eldest of all the Vaelinars on Kerith, rumored to have been born in fighting gear.
He would take Bistel down. Eating the soul of Bistel would make the sword invincible, and both the blade and its carrier knew it. Narskap kneed his horse hard, lunging uphill through bodies and archers and cavalry, his eyes intent on his goal. Dawn would bring death, and worse.
Steel gashed the air near his ear, so near he felt it pass before he heard the whistle. Sevryn ducked out of instinct, but too late; the knife had already gone by him. He felt a drop of warmness trickle down his neck. He thought he’d been missed but perhaps not. His ear might ache later. If he still had an ear.
He crouched low and swung to his left, catching the Kobrir off guard and off balance, and jabbed knee-high. He felt his weapon sink into flesh and sinew, heard the surprised grunt of pain as he did. The knife twisted from his hold as the Kobrir pulled away, and Sevryn found himself with but one blade. He tossed it from his left to his right hand even as he spun out of the other’s reach. He could hear the crowd’s reaction, the buffeting as they drew tighter around them, with shouts of encouragement and warning. They had no idea what they observed other than two knifemen in deadly combat.