Beyond the Pale (45 page)

Grace groaned. “How would I know? I don’t even know what it is.”

Aryn took another step in retreat. Grace shook her head. No, Aryn couldn’t pull away from her. Not now, not after everything that had happened.

“Don’t you dare be afraid of me, Aryn,” she said. “Ivalaine was interested in you, too. Remember that.”

The baroness blinked, then her look of alarm was replaced by one of regret. She reached out and took Grace’s hand. “I’m not afraid of you, Grace. Just
for
you, for both of us.”

Grace managed a weak smile.

“But we must not let King Boreas learn any of this,” Aryn said.

Grace squeezed the baroness’s hand in firm agreement. As long as she had Aryn beside her, things didn’t seem quite so terrifying.

As they continued through the hall, music floated down from a wooden gallery where a troupe of minstrels worked their craft: Flutes trilled over a buzzing drone accompanied by a gentle drumbeat. Many of the nobles took partners and danced to the music in stiff, intricate patterns. Grace saw Logren among them. He was clad again in pearl-gray, his dark hair swept back from his forehead. In contrast to his height and elegance, his dancing partner was a diminutive yet sturdy young woman, with a plain face and kind brown eyes. Grace recognized her—she was Kalyn, advisor to King Kylar of Galt, and Kylar’s twin sister. The two whirled in Grace and Aryn’s direction, and Grace turned her head.

Aryn raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? I thought you said before you liked Logren of Eredane.”

“He’s busy at the moment, that’s all.”

Before Aryn could question her further, Grace pressed on. Then Aryn clutched Grace’s arm, and they halted.

“There, do you see him?” the baroness whispered.

She nodded obliquely toward a young man with broad
shoulders and a short blond beard. He stood nearby, talking to several older men. They laughed at something he said, and he gave a dashing smile.

“Who is he?” Grace said.

“His name is Leothan. He’s a noble in southern Toloria, only an earl, but he has high standing in Ivalaine’s court and is no doubt destined for more. I was hoping he might ride here with his queen.”

“Why?”

“In two years, when I am twenty-one, King Boreas will release Elsandry into my care, and I will need to marry, so there will be a baron to help me in caring for the king’s fief.” Aryn’s blue eyes shone. “Leothan is most handsome, don’t you think?”

Grace mentally kicked herself. “Yes,” she said, “he is.”

The group of noblemen broke up, and Leothan turned and walked in their direction. Aryn hesitated, then squared her shoulders and stepped directly into the young earl’s path. He came to a halt before the two of them, smiled his brilliant smile, and bowed.

“Good eventide, Your Highness, Your Radiance.”

Grace nodded, and Aryn made an elegant curtsy.

“Good eventide, my lord,” the baroness said.

He made a broad gesture toward the dancers. “A fine revel, wouldn’t you say, my ladies?”

“Indeed it is.” Aryn took a deep breath. “Would you care to dance, my lord?”

Leothan’s smile never faltered, but a queer light crept into his eyes, making them hard and flat. “I’m afraid this dance requires two hands, my lady.”

Aryn stared, uncomprehending, then she glanced down, and her face went white. The elegant fold of cloth that draped her right shoulder had fallen aside, and her withered right arm had slipped free, twisted and delicate as the broken wing of a dove. She looked up with an expression of horror.

Leothan bowed again. Somehow it was a mocking gesture now. “If you’ll excuse me, my ladies?”

Aryn managed some reply, and the young earl moved away through the dancers.

Grace stared after the earl in a fury. He was so beautiful outside, but she could almost see it—the ugly blot that was
his heart, as cold and hard as the lump of iron she had found in the dead man’s chest at Denver Memorial Hospital. Beauty made a perfect mask for evil. That was why it was allowed to walk the world, why people sought it out, invited it in, and embraced it.

Grace heard a sigh, and her anger drained away. She moved to Aryn and redraped the fold of cloth over the baroness’s right shoulder.

“Aryn, he’s not even worth—”

“No, Grace, I’m all right.” She pulled away. “Really. Look, isn’t that your friend, Durge?”

Grace glanced across the hall. Sure enough the Embarran stood against a wall, arms crossed over his deep chest, black mustaches drooping, brown eyes somber.

Grace brightened at the sight of the dark-haired knight. She had not seen Durge since the last feast, and she had missed him. If only she could convince the knight that a visit from him would be anything but a bother. Durge didn’t make her feel like other people did, like there was something broken inside of her, something of her own to hide, if not with a fold of her gown, then with silence.

She waved at Durge and steered Aryn toward him, and although the knight did not smile, it did seem the gloomy air around him lessened a bit.

“Durge, it’s so good to see you,” Grace said.

“My ladies.”

The knight started a stiff bow, but Grace reached out and took his hand instead. He fumbled a moment, recovered, then kissed her hand—a bit clumsily, but the gesture was a thousand times more charming than all Leothan’s elegant poses put together. Grace supposed Durge might be considered homely. His face was angular, his nose craggy, his forehead furrowed by years of sober expression. But to her he was far better-looking than any Leothan.

An idea struck her. She looked at Aryn. “Perhaps Durge would dance with you.”

The knight cast a startled glance at Aryn. “I’m certain the baroness would much prefer to rest than dance with me.”

Aryn gave a hasty nod. “Yes, I would. Thank you for understanding, my lord.”

Grace frowned. She opened her mouth, but just then horns
heralded the start of supper. Durge bowed and begged his leave.

“But aren’t you eating at the high table?” Grace said.

“Now that the kings and queens have arrived, Boreas does not need the likes of me to fill his board.” The knight did not seem disturbed by this, merely matter-of-fact.

This news disappointed Grace. She almost told Durge she would sit wherever he did, but Aryn tugged her hand, and she was forced to make a hasty farewell instead.

“I don’t see why you like Durge so much,” Aryn said as they walked toward the high table. “He’s old. And so gloomy. And not handsome at all.”

“Really?” Grace said. “And here I was thinking he’s the kindest man I’ve ever met.”

Aryn opened her mouth, but by then they had reached the table, and the baroness was forced to take her seat to Boreas’s left, while Grace moved to an empty spot at the table’s end. Once seated she found herself next to King Kylar of Galt. Now that she saw him at close quarters he was even younger than she had thought, no more than twenty-five, with an open face and hazel eyes that seemed too gentle to belong to a monarch. She took a sip from the wine goblet that rested between them, wiped the rim with a napkin, then—feeling bolder—introduced herself to the young king. His smile was shy but genuine, and he took the goblet when she handed it to him.

“It is g-g-good to meet you, m-m-my lady.”

He fought the words valiantly to get them out, then looked away, his cheeks red beneath the soft down of his brown beard.

Yes, of course. He had raised the goblet in his left hand. He fit all the typical categories then: male, left-handed, a twin. On Earth he would have undergone speech therapy, as well as counseling to help him overcome his anxiety at speaking. Most likely he would have spoken normally by age ten or twelve. But here … here he would probably stutter his whole life. Grace sighed. She was starting to think, just maybe, she hated this world.

Her hand crept across the table and touched his: cool, reassuring, a doctor’s hand. “May I pour you some more wine, Your Majesty?”

He gazed at her, then his smile returned, crooked and grateful. “Yes, th-th-thank you, Your R-r-radiance.”

Grace almost winced at his gratitude. What would Kylar think if he knew she was this kind, this assured only because he was damaged? She pushed the thought aside and poured.

As Kylar drank, Grace surveyed the high table. The kings and queens of the Dominions all sat in sharp contrast to one another. There was King Sorrin of Embarr, Durge’s liege, at the far end of the table, gaunt and sallow, hunched over his plate, not touching his food. Queen Eminda of Eredane sat next to him, a thick-waisted woman of middle years who might have been comely in a matronly way were it not for the perpetual frown into which her mouth was cast. Beside Eminda was King Persard of Perridon. He was by far the eldest of the royals—thin and frail, with only scant wisps of hair left to float above his skull—but his eyes were bright and mischievous. When he saw Grace gazing at him, he winked, grinned, and made a gesture with his hands that could have only one, lewd, meaning. She moved her gaze quickly down the line.

Aryn and Alerain flanked King Boreas, who looked bored and restless, and drank entire cups of wine where others had sips. Near the dark and bullish king of Calavan was Ivalaine. The Tolorian queen gazed in regal silence over the hall, her eyes glittering like mysterious gems. Last of all, between Ivalaine and King Kylar, sat King Lysandir of Brelegond. Or at least Grace assumed it was he amid the masses of crimson and gold. She could hardly see the balding king of Brelegond for all his finery, though she could certainly hear his constant demands upon the servants, shouted in an impatient, nasal tone. Grace moved Lysandir to the bottom of her list of the kings and queens. Those who acted the most important seldom truly were.

Servants came to the table, bearing steaming platters of food, and—as they had at the last feast—the castle’s two runespeakers approached the table. Starting one at each end they moved down the length of the table and spoke a rune of wholesomeness over each plate. They were halfway down the table when a shriek rose above the din of conversation.

“Keep your filthy magic away from me!”

As one, those at the high table turned and stared as Eminda of Eredane leaped to her feet. The young runespeaker before her gave Boreas a look of confusion. The king of Calavan scowled, then gave a flick of a finger, indicating for him to move on, which he quickly did. Eminda seemed embarrassed now, and her cheeks glowed red as she sat once more. Logren moved from his place at a lower table to his queen’s side. He spoke with her for a moment, then turned to address King Boreas.

“My queen asks that you forgive her, Your Majesty. She is weary from her journey and is not used to all the customs of your castle. Runespeakers are not … common in Eredane these days.”

Boreas grunted. “Of course. Her Majesty should not be concerned. And she has my word my runespeakers will not trouble her again.”

Logren bowed and returned to his seat, and the course of the supper resumed. Grace and Kylar spoke little as they ate, but they smiled much, and it was not at all unpleasant—except when Kylar spooned up an insect from the bottom of his steamed pudding.

“Please d-d-don’t worry, my lady. I’m quite ac-c-c—I’m quite used to it.”

He smiled, as if just because one was used to hardship it made it all right somehow. Grace smiled in return, although she did not feel like doing so, and stirred her own pudding. She almost hoped she would find a beetle as well, but she did not.

Once dinner was over the music and dancing resumed, although Lord Logren led Queen Eminda from the great hall, and King Sorrin had disappeared at some point during the meal. King Persard left as well, a plump serving maid on each of his scrawny arms and a grin on his wrinkled face.

Boreas approached the corner where Grace and Aryn stood. “Would you care to dance with your king?” he asked the baroness.

“Your Majesty, I’d rather have my feet trod upon by a herd of wild horses.”

Boreas clapped his hands together. “Lady Aryn, I’m proud of you! That lie almost sounded convincing.” The king
glanced at Grace. “Perhaps there’s hope for my ward yet.” He gripped Aryn’s hand. “Now let’s dance.”

The baroness shot Grace a pleading look, but Grace knew her friend was lost beyond hope. Boreas dragged Aryn into the throng and began tossing her around in a series of dizzying circles.

Grace watched all the nobles in the great hall dancing—moving in complicated patterns she couldn’t hope to understand. She sighed. “I’m never going to figure out how to do this.”

“The dance is not so difficult as you think, my lady.”

She lifted a hand to her chest and turned around. Durge stood in the dimness beside a stone column.

“I wasn’t talking about the dance, Durge.”

The Embarran knight stepped forward. “I know.”

Grace shook her head and wished she could believe him. She gazed again at the dancers. The great hall seemed a stormy sea of color in which she could all too easily drown. If only she had something to help keep her afloat, something or …

She turned back toward the knight. “I can’t do this alone, Durge. I can’t be King Boreas’s spy at the council. Not by myself.” It was not like her to do so, but she didn’t care, not now, not in her desperation. She reached out and touched his shoulder. “Will you help me, Durge? Not just tonight, but tomorrow, and the next day, and through all of this. Please?”

His face seemed carved of stone. Grace thought he was going to pull away. Then he shrugged.

“Now that my king is here with his favored servants and counselors, there is little enough for me to do. I’m afraid I’m a far better fit on the road than I am at court.” He gave a solemn nod. “Yes, my lady, I will help you, but not out of any desire to further King Boreas’s causes. I will help you for your sake, and your sake alone.”

Grace surprised herself then—she laughed, and for the first time in days she felt a sense of hope. The sea still churned around her, but she was not lost yet.

“That makes three times you’ve rescued me, Durge.”

To her surprise, embarrassment, and—strangest of all—her delight, he knelt before her and bowed his head.