Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (78 page)

“Well, milady, I think I can find you something nice
that is close enough to be fitted. I shall do the fitting myself, or we can
have the dressmaker do it in her shop,” Chartra said.

“Well, in the shop is out of the question. As soon as
you depart for the dressmaker, I would like you to have someone sent up to draw
a bath. I have needed one for some time,” Celia told the girl, though she was
not about to go into detail as to why. “Get me at least three dresses to choose
from. Oh, and find some jewelry to match each. Remember, cost be forgotten.”

“Of course, milady.” Chartra smiled.

Celia knew that the girl would enjoy spending the
Empire’s coin at the dressmaker. She hoped the girl had a sense of style to go
along with her enthusiasm.

Warlock Rashan had made it quite clear she was to look
her best. She had gotten no impression of lechery from the ancient demon, but
she suspected that there was some deeper reason to his insistence. Regardless,
she had seen
real
power out on the plains below Raynesdark, personified
in the diminutive warlock who had collected her from the ruins of the goblin
encampment. She was not inclined to cross him at any cost.

After the battle, he had brought her to the castle and
ordered that a room be made ready for her, and told her she was invited to the
victory feast:
“You will be honored along with those who fought. Your
account of your time with the goblins does you credit,”
he had told her.
“You
should find better garb, though, to grace the feast hall properly with your
beauty. Erase all sign of hardship and show how the victorious celebrate.
Whatever costs are incurred, I shall see to them.”

Am I to be the example held up before all or am I to
be part of the decorations? Little matter, I suppose. I am neither prisoner nor
dead. I shall play the role I am given.

Celia soaked for what felt like hours, once her bath
had been drawn. She had not asked for the water to be hot, preferring to heat
it herself with her aether, adjusting it to match her ideal temperature
exactly. She cleaned herself thoroughly, then sank back to relax in the warm
water. She was nearly asleep in the tub when Chartra returned with a porter in
tow, carrying an array of dresses and accessories.

“Milady will find something to her tastes, I am sure,”
she assured Celia, directing the porter to lay the clothing upon the bed before
shooing him from the room. “Let us get you out of there and dried off, and we
can pick out your favorite.

Chartra helped Celia out of the bath and brought her a
towel to dry herself. A fancier sorceress might have just let the water wick
from her body by magic, but Celia was not skilled enough for such a trick; she
had to rely on the fabric to do the hard part.

Sufficiently but incompletely dry, Celia pulled the
first of the dresses on. It was red and frilly, with slightly puffed shoulders,
and laced up the back, leaving much of her back exposed. Bits were trimmed in
gold here and there, and translucent fabric layered over other areas.

“Quite fetching,” Chartra remarked, pulling the fabric
taut against Celia’s middle.

The dress would need to be taken in, and Chartra
apparently wanted to show how it might look if properly fitted. Celia twisted a
bit to her left and right and regarded herself in the full-length mirror on the
wall.

“No, I think not. Pretty, but not quite right for me,”
Celia judged. Her skin tone was middling, neither light enough nor dark enough
to throw the red into contrast, and she wanted something striking.

The second they tried was a rather severe black gown,
and Celia dismissed it without even trying it on.

Too much like Circle robes. I want to look my best,
not look important.

The third dress was blue, with accents of a more
greenish hue of blue, and thin white lace trim. It had stays built into the
front and sides to slim the figure, and it felt like it was cutting her in half
as Chartra laced up the back—which was more warmly covered than that of the red
dress. It was low cut, and both lifted and enhanced her curves. Celia tugged a
bit at the front, seeing her figure cast in the mirror as she had not shown it
off since she had been married. The blue also matched well with the color of
her eyes.

“This … will do. Just … loosen …” Celia said with the
dress squeezing her lungs. Chartra eased off the laces. “Much better. Take it
out a bit so it can be laced properly and this will do nicely. Unless you found
some rather tall shoes as well, it shall need hemming.”

Celia kicked her bare feet under the folds of the
dress as it spilled onto the floor about her.

“Afraid not, milady. Slippers seemed best without you
there to fit them. They might not be perfect, but they will form a bit to the
foot. I shall take the hem up for you.”

“Good. Now show me what you brought for jewelry.”

Celia had been told to look her best. She was just
following orders. Yes, just following orders …

*
* * * * * * *

Voices were raised, and so were mugs and tankards. The
duke’s feast hall was packed with soldiers and militia alike, not to mention
enough of their womenfolk to make the atmosphere festive. Music from the
fiddle, flute, and drum trio in the middle of the room played a lively,
bouncing melody, and people danced to it. The duke’s wine cellar was emptied to
the bottle at Rashan’s order. The duke had been chased off to his own private
quarters—whence he could no doubt hear the revelry still—and the only stay upon
the excesses of drink was the hope that the stores would last them the night.
To ensure the wine and spirits lasted, there was ale in plenty to make up for any
shortcomings.

The young and not-so-old crowded the hall and spilled
out into the adjoining rooms and corridors, making their merriment as they
drank it. The grey-beards hung about the fringes, enjoying their drink with
less reckless abandon, talking amongst themselves and watching the younglings
make fools of themselves.

Young though he was, Brannis took his place among the
grey-beards, remembering his position as Grand Marshal of the Empire and keenly
aware of the public threat he had made to the ruler of the city just a few
hours earlier. His was not a position to be taken lightly, and he was intent on
seeing that he did not. He stood near one of the long tables set against the
walls of the room with refreshments, a tankard of good dark ale in his hand,
which he nursed carefully.

At Brannis’s elbow was the demon warlock, taking swigs
from an unstoppered decanter of horse whiskey—so called because a glass of it
cost about the same as a good horse. The demon neither needed drink nor
particularly enjoyed its taste, but it was Duke Pellaton’s, and it was being
drunk spitefully, as retribution for overstepping his bounds in trying to
cancel the feast. Rashan had plans for the feast larger than the coin-clutching
concerns of a miserly nobleman.

“You know,” Rashan murmured to Brannis, “you could
sweep up any lass out there and have a dance with her. There are plenty to be
had, and no man would gainsay you.”

“Hmph,” Brannis harrumphed. “Tell that to the husband
or sweetheart of the one I pick. There may be maids out there, but my guess is
most are spoken for. You know, history has given you too much credit as a
tactician. That was a clumsy attempt and you should know better.”

Brannis cast a wry smile at the warlock, who was
clearly still intent on steering him away from Juliana.
If only he knew how
much I was already on his side. It is her you need to work on.

“That has not deterred Faolen, it would seem,” Rashan
remarked.

 Indeed the illusion specialist was decked out like a
palace courtier, outshining most of the ladies present in his finery. While
those who attended the feast had worn their holiday best, they were largely
common folk with little money for exotic fashions. Faolen was arrayed in red
and gold silk, with green hose beneath. He was taking ladies from their menfolk
at every turn, allaying anger only by his lack of persistence with any one of
them.

Warlock and Grand Marshal watched in silence for a
time, seeing couples twirl and bounce and hop to the rhythm of the musicians’
song. Brannis was surprised when he noted Juliana and Iridan dancing—albeit
awkwardly—in the middle of the hall. Juliana was much taller than her
betrothed, and though Brannis was no expert on dancing, she appeared to be
leading. Iridan was no clumsier than half the men dancing but seemed more
conscious of his shortcoming than the more inebriated celebrants. Juliana was
gamely trying to adjust to his frequent missteps and corrections, where he
would stop for a moment and try to join back in on-beat with the music.

Well, it is a start at least. She is trying.
Brannis hoped that his rebuke of her two nights prior
had gotten the message through to her.

As he watched the hand-fast couple, Rashan broke in
upon his musings: “Ahh, Sir Brannis,” the warlock caught his attention and
tugged, addressing him formally against his usual custom.

Brannis turned and saw a young woman approaching the
warlock. His breath caught in his lungs momentarily as he briefly had a vision
of Abbiley; the girl bore some resemblance, but he quickly put to rest any serious
thought that the object of Kyrus’s affection was in both worlds as well. It
would have been too great a coincidence.

“Allow me to introduce Celia Mistfield, Fifth Circle.”

“Sorceress Celia.” Brannis inclined his head politely
toward the sorceress.

She was stunning in a dress the colors of the South
Katamic—blues and blue-greens, with white lace for foam or sea spray—to match
her striking blue eyes, which were alive and alert, unlike many of the court
ladies, whose eyes seemed bored and unfocused much of the time. She wore
teardrop sapphire earrings and a necklace of pearls and sapphires intermixed.
She
was
about Abbiley’s height, and far more womanly endowed than was
Juliana. She looked right into his eyes as he greeted her, with no hint of
shyness about her.

“Grand Marshal Brannis. I have heard so much about you
since arriving last night,” Celia responded.

“All exaggerations, I assure you,” Brannis could not
stop himself. He just could not help his self-deprecation in front of ladies.
He was being led down a steep slope, he now realized.

“Not exaggerated in the least, I assure you,” Rashan
interjected. “Sir Brannis, Sorceress Celia has had an arduous journey to
Raynesdark and is a stranger to everyone present. As I am now responsible for
all the Imperial Circle, I would consider it as a personal favor if you could
look after her for the evening among all these unfamiliar faces.”

Brannis had of course heard the report of a human
sorceress held captive by the goblins from the sacking of Illard’s Glen. While
he had been gladdened to hear the report of a survivor of the night’s slaughter
among the goblins, he had more pressing concerns than delving into the details
of the girl’s ordeal. He thought he remembered her being described as a widow,
however.

“Of course, my lady,” Brannis extended an arm to her,
setting aside his tankard on a nearby table with the other.

Well played, Warlock. Save your prize lamb from the
wolf by feeding it another.
There was
no possible way to refuse the warlock’s request with any dignity, and the
sorceress was intriguing in her own right.
Maybe I can just move on and put
my troubles with Juliana in my past for good. The only other path opposes
Rashan, and I can only push him so far.

Brannis escorted Celia out amid the dancers, and they
joined in with the merriment. Brannis danced poorly, but so did Celia, and
neither of them saw fit to mention it. Brannis’s arm ached and occasionally
reminded him of his injury even more forcefully when he twirled Celia beneath
his hand, but he was sporting about staying out among the dancers and showing
the sorceress a good time. After the first couple dances passed, he even
managed to forget that he had been manipulated into taking her, and genuinely
enjoyed her company.

“What was … that?” Celia asked, breathing hard from
the quick pace of their dancing.

“What … was what?” Brannis asked back, seeking
clarification of one of the vaguest possible questions—which Brannis knew from
long experience at verbal jousting were the ones most dangerous to answer
blindly.

“There, you … just did it … again. You wince at each
pass of this dance,” Celia said sternly. She seemed to have caught on.

“Broken … in the battle last night,” Brannis admitted,
puffing out his answer between breaths.

“Well …” Celia redirected their course along the dance
floor, off to one side of the room. “No more … for now.” She paused at the edge
of the dance to gather up her breath, and allowed Brannis to do likewise. She
clung to him still but carefully chose the unbroken arm for her own arm to
encircle. “You ought to have said something.”

“It was fine. I enjoyed myself completely. The bone is
set with aether; I was doing no harm to it.” Brannis smiled down at Celia. She
was so approachable in her manner, he found it easy to talk to her.