A few—only a few—seemed more amazed by the appearance of Halchon Gisseltess in their midst than in the inappropriate behavior of a serramarra. Most of the people present were from the southern Houses, of course, and all of them had a long history of flouting the king, at least on minor matters. They were probably amused that Halchon had disobeyed an injunction. Many of them would probably head to his side tonight and ask after his health and perhaps make a deal or two. . . .
Possibly an hour of the dinner had elapsed before Kirra allowed herself to look for Romar Brendyn and try to assess his reaction. She always put some effort into
not
looking for Romar, but inevitably, before any meal or ball was ended, she had located him in the assembly. Tonight, he was seated between Amalie and Mayva, with Valri and a handful of other notables at his table. His face was thunderous. Kirra could see Mayva’s mouth moving very fast as she attempted to either distract him or convince him that she had meant no treason. Lowell, sitting at the opposite end of the table, watched his wife with a closed expression and did not appear to be making any attempt at conversation with the women seated beside him.
Kirra wondered if Romar could order the king’s guards now accompanying Amalie to escort Halchon back to Gisseltess. But even if he could, she thought he probably would not. Amalie’s safety was more important than Halchon’s disobedience. And they had ample reasons to worry about Amalie’s safety. . . .
She looked a little longer before she found Senneth, sitting so quietly at her own table that she had almost managed to disappear. The lords and ladies who’d been seated next to the erring serramarra all wore the careful expressions of people attempting not to appear outraged. While she watched, though, Kirra saw no one turn to speak to Senneth, even to offer her a plate of bread.
For a serramarra who cared for the goodwill of her fellows, it appeared to be the gravest offense in the world to show public affection for someone outside the nobility. Kirra had never thought she would be able to do it. To love a soldier or a smithy or a serf—to be cast out of society forever—would she have the courage? She chafed at the responsibilities of noblesse oblige, and her magic put her on the very edge of respectability for virtually everyone in this room, but so far they had all continued to accept her, to allow her to step into their houses and sit at their tables. But if she were to marry a poor man, a tenant farmer, a tavernkeeper’s son, she might never be permitted to cross these thresholds again. Could she throw so much away for love? Did her place in society matter to her so little that she would never rue her bargain?
Was any love so great that it was worth ruining a life for? Was she capable of a love that grand?
Her eyes went back to Romar. Not a serf, of course, but just as ineligible in his own way. But, oh, so attractive in every other! For so many reasons, she would be a fool to fall in love with him—more foolish than Senneth had been to fall in love with Tayse. But she did not know, in this case, if she would be able to govern her heart. The consequences would not include banishment from her social circle, but she suspected they would be even more devastating in their own way.
She was better off avoiding love completely. She did not seem capable of making intelligent choices.
“What would your father say, Casserah?” Rafe Storian was asking her. She had absolutely no idea what conversation had gone on around her while she had sat there thinking of impossible lovers.
But she smiled anyway and picked up her fork. “No one ever knows what my father would say,” she replied. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
AFTER the meal, they were all shuffled into yet another adjoining room to indulge in the arts. Mayva had imported a trio of very fine musicians who played complex and accomplished pieces on a variety of instruments while the guests circulated around the room admiring a collection of paintings and statues. Between musical numbers, a plainly dressed young woman stood on a small stage and recited rather grim poetry. Kirra thought Mayva got points for creativity at her little soiree, but she still didn’t enjoy the evening. From the expressions on the faces of the people near her, no one else did, either.
She was making desultory conversation with the people who showed any interest in speaking with her, and wishing she had Senneth’s knack of vanishing, when Romar Brendyn caught her attention again. Or maybe she was looking for him, even though she was pretending she wasn’t. But she saw him turn politely away from one discussion, place a wineglass on a servant’s tray, and step to one side as if to engage someone else in conversation. And then he stepped beyond that group and beyond the next likely group and so made his way by gradual stages to the wall and then the servants’ entrance. With one quick backward glance, he slipped out the door and disappeared.
On the instant, Kirra decided to follow him.
She made her way with equal circumspection to the exit and glided through. The hallway was dark, as no one wasted much illumination on servants, but it was pretty easy to tell where he had gone. Ahead and to her left was a door that led to the kitchens and the sound of women arguing; the door across from it appeared to open onto the gardens. Romar had no doubt gone outside, making his nightly escape from the close and disagreeable company of the gathered nobles.
Kirra stepped through the side door and found herself in a vegetable garden, surrounded by the pungent smell of ripening tomatoes and tall, ghostly stalks of corn. Romar was nowhere in sight. She hurried through the neatly kept rows and pushed past a tall wooden gate, still swinging as if someone had just walked through. She was far enough from the house now that no light from the windows lit her way, and the fragment of moon overhead was not much help. Was that a man’s shape twenty yards in front of her, moving purposefully away from the house? Or was that just the shadow of a shadow, some odd condensation of darkness, and nothing she cared about?
But she was only a few minutes behind him. He could not have gotten far. She was taken by the notion that he had come out here for some sort of rendezvous, and not just for his usual evening constitutional. With whom could he be meeting? Mayva’s husband, Lowell, to deliver in private a furious condemnation of his lapse of judgment? Rafe Storian, to discuss how one of the middle Houses intended to show its fealty to the throne?
One of the lovely young women with soft black hair and creamy white skin who didn’t mind Romar’s brusque manners because she was enchanted with his blond hair and quick smile?
He didn’t seem like the sort of man for idle dalliance. But, of course, Kirra knew better.
She could not help herself. She had to know. She stood for a moment, hands down at her sides, concentrating, feeling her muscles soften and shift, feeling her bones grow hollow and light. Her clothes melted away. Her skin was coated with feathers. When she opened her eyes, she was a snowy owl, and she could see everything.
Lifting off silently, she cruised low to the ground, following the direction of that mysterious shadow. It didn’t take very long to catch up and discover that it was indeed Romar, moving steadily toward what was undoubtedly an appointment of some sort. Soon enough, he left the manicured grounds most closely surrounding the manor and veered off toward a wooded area on the back end of the property. Kirra grew more cheerful as she decided no gently bred serramarra would follow him this far, on foot, at night, just to flirt by moonlight. If he was meeting someone, it was another man.
Indeed, once she followed him into the stand of woods, where it was even darker, she caught the first rumbling sound of male voices. She flew ahead, dodging outflung branches and trailing vines, to find a small convocation gathered around a tiny fire. Ten or eleven men, it looked like, none of them easy to see in the uncertain light. From what she could determine, three were wearing fine silks and a variety of small gems; they were lords of some degree and had probably been eating dinner two tables over from her earlier in the evening. The other six were more plainly dressed in darker colors with flatter textures. She wondered if they had entered the compound in stealth, without passing the checkpoint at the gate. Not too reassuring, if such a maneuver was easily accomplished. She listened to their low conversation and realized that all the accents were those of cultivated men.
Romar was coming to an impromptu meeting with members of the Thirteenth House.
Kirra settled soundlessly on a convenient tree limb a few moments before one of the lords spotted Romar. “I see someone. Do you think that’s the regent?” And then, more sharply, “My lord? Is that you?”
“It is Romar Brendyn,” he said, not hesitating to identify himself as he stepped out of the dark overhang of the woods into the firelit clearing. “I have come as you asked.”
What a fool,
Kirra thought, even as she admired him for his courage. This was a man who had been abducted while close to his own lands, attacked while the guest of a prominent noblewoman, and only spared by unforeseen circumstance from the fate of being burned alive in a wayside inn. And yet, solitary and unafraid, he attended a secret conference in an unguarded place attended by men he probably could not name. She was astonished he had lived so long. It seemed impossible he would survive his tenure as regent.
The very thought made her small heart cold. She shifted on her perch, trying to hear every word.
“We are all busy and expected elsewhere,” said one man in a brisk voice. Kirra thought it came from one of the more well-dressed participants—no doubt one of Mayva’s most favored vassals accorded the high privilege of being invited to the ball. “Let us get straight to the point.”
“I am listening,” said Romar.
“What can you offer the lesser nobility, as our patrons choose to call us?” said another voice, teasingly familiar. The speaker was a dark, large shape that did not come near enough to the fire to be identified. He wore the plainer clothes that indicated he had not been among the revelers. “We are tired of being judged inferior. We want equal voice, equal honors. We want rights and powers that are given to our brothers and cousins of the Twelve Houses.”
“You would take lands away from their hereditary owners?” Romar asked.
“
I
would. They have held it long enough,” said another man, but other voices spoke over his.
“We would take nothing from anybody,” said the heavyset man. “But we want our own property, given to us outright and not to be disposed of at the whim of a marlord who might be small-minded or stupid or vindictive. Why should there not be twenty Houses instead of twelve? Some of us would be willing to consolidate. Others would intermarry. We ask for only an equal place with our brethren.”
“You realize I cannot guarantee such a thing,” Romar said. “I can promise to carry your request to the king. I can promise to advocate for you if Amalie ascends the throne while I am regent. But I have no power to decree such a change.”
“You have the power to tell the king of our demands,” growled one of the men. “You can tell him of the trouble we will cause if he does not listen to us.”
Romar looked steadily into the darkness where the speaker stood. “I do not think you will get far with Baryn if you speak of ‘demands’ and ‘trouble,’ ” he said. “He is a reasonable man, and he expects others to act with civility.”
“We have been meek and civilized long enough,” said the heavyset man. “We are almost out of patience.”
“I cannot help you if you do not listen to reason,” Romar said. “I believe your position is legitimate. I believe the king may be moved to deal with you. But I am less likely to take your side if you resort to threats and violence.”
“And would you take our side if you were dead? Eh?” said another voice from the darkness. Even Kirra, with her predator’s eyes, could not determine where the disembodied voice originated. “Would the king take our side if your life was at stake, and the deeds to our property doubled as your ransom?”
Romar’s face, clearly visible by the soft firelight, grew stiff. “I came here in good faith. And now you would threaten me? How does that make me any more eager to espouse your cause?”
There was a muttering of dissent among the gathered men. It was clear some of them were not eager to engage in violence to make a point—but some of them were.
“Maybe, but the king would know we were serious if you were dead!” one of them called out.
The man Kirra took to be one of Mayva’s vassals appeared to be staring past the circle of firelight. “Who said that? Dalwin? Ordway? Don’t talk like that.”
“Sometimes it takes a little blood for a king to know you’re serious,” another man said.