Shana Abe (2 page)

The walls of this royal room were covered in splendid colors, elaborate frescos of fantasy and fact mixed together: dragons and griffins soared above knights, kings, and saints. Avalon walked to an empty corner and made a pretense of studying one of the painted saints, crowned and robed, tied to a stake. Burning.

“Look at her …”

The saint had a curiously blank expression, no reflection of the flames or the smoke at his feet.

“Look at her there, flirting with arty man who will pass by. She shouldn’t be allowed at court.”

“She shouldn’t be allowed in the kingdom!”

The yellow flames were pointed and sharp, unbending, thrusting forward like painful swords of light from the sticks of wood. A starburst of redemption for the saint, no doubt, who at least had never had to endure the agony of being the most notorious guest at a king’s formal affair.

A glance over her shoulder showed her that the circle of young women was growing bolder; they said her name in tones that were not quite docile, and they seemed to shift as one, moving to see her more clearly.

“I heard she’s mad, you know!”

“Hardly surprising, raised by animals—worse than animals, those Scots.…”

Avalon stared back at them for an endless moment, then glided off again in search of peace. Yet their stream of dislike followed her, directed straight at her, and for one disconcerting instant as she walked away the chimera blinked and let her see what that circle did: a young lady of no realm, tall and pale in a bliaut of pink lined with pearls; shining hair that glowed silver in the candlelight, bound by a coronet but no veil; strange eyes that had no focus.…

In a dusky mirror by the madrigalists a quick look confirmed the view. True, the mirror burnished her hair to phantom gray, hid the odd color of her eyes with murky darkness. But certainly that was her own face in that sideways reflection, the unusual blending of colors and features that, Avalon was sure, had doomed her debut from the start.

“Can you believe she would shun a veil at a royal gathering? No doubt she thinks her hair her only glory, showing it off as she does. Perhaps that’s how the heathens do it in Scotland!”

“So unfashionable to have such pale blonde hair.…”

Silvery blonde, like moonlight, Avalon’s nursemaid used to say.

“And so coarse that the rest of her does not match even the peculiar hair, that her brows and lashes are as black as pitch.…”

A delightful contrast, insisted Ona, the nursemaid.

“I don’t know why she thinks she’s fetching at all. The style au courant is dark hair, of course. And look at her complexion! White as a ghost!”

Ona used to proclaim: Alabaster, a sign of superior breeding.

“And her eyes!”

“Indeed!”

“What color are they, my dears? No one can say!”

Not sky blue, not deep purple, but something caught between, a blend of mist and light before dawn. Violet, had claimed the devoted Ona.

Nothing normal and ordinary, like plain blue or green or brown, Avalon reflected wryly. Violet.

She kept walking, sipping the king’s mead and wondering when she would be allowed to leave. Her feet were growing cold in the paper-thin slippers that went with her bliaut.

Her chaperone, Lady Maribel, was talking to three women and a man, laughing, and Avalon hated to spoil her moment. London was her glory, not Avalon’s, and she liked Maribel enough to allow her to make the
most of the hopefully short time they would be spending here.

It certainly wasn’t Maribel’s fault that Avalon had not taken to court life. Maribel had done all she could, schooled her at her own small estate at Gatting since Avalon was fourteen, taught her manners, history, French, Latin. She had ordered all of the most fashionable gowns for her, procured one of the most skilled handmaids to style her properly for every hour of the day.

Lady Maribel herself had labored almost an entire half year to rid Avalon’s speech of the “ye.”

It was a sorry thanks that Avalon had proven to be so unpopular in London, and for that Avalon felt remorse. Lady Maribel—an aunt so many marriages removed Avalon could not count them—had been kind if distant, and deserved to have her young charge set the town aglow, reigning in wit and beauty and popularity, a tribute to all the good woman’s work.

But no one, not even Avalon, had expected the reaction she actually received.

Most men seemed afraid of her, the rest had attempted to seduce her. Women scorned her. It was all baffling to Avalon. The first few months here she had endured bewildered anger and hurt each night.

“They will come around,” Lady Maribel had comforted her. “You’ll see.”

But they had not. Perhaps her difference truly was visible to all, despite her efforts. No matter how she tried to make friends at court, she had been rejected, over and over again, until she had learned to stop trying and began merely to wade through the sucking waves of gossip and spite.

She would always be a stranger here.

The madrigalists jumped into a new tune, something livelier, prompting many of the guests in the crowded hall to speak louder, laugh longer. The servants were having problems keeping goblets filled. Avalon waved away another cup of mead and tried to find a place to stand where she would not be trampled by the swirling mass of elegant nobles. In a corner she found a candelabra of black iron and white candles, soft beeswax melting in droplets. She ducked behind it and tried not to appear as though she was using it as a shield.

The girls across the room were not yet done with her. They nodded and swayed together, a sea of gilded gaiety.

“I heard her cousin didn’t even want her! I heard he refused to allow her back to Trayleigh, he was so embarrassed at her manners.…”

“Oh, aye! And goodness knows they are already embarrassed enough that she managed to survive the raid on Trayleigh Castle and live seven years in Scotland while everyone here assumed she was dead.…”

“Shocking!”

“Well, I heard that even that Scottish brute she is betrothed to does not want her! That Marcus Kincardine will not come back from his crusade to wed her!”

“I heard she’s gone mad from the raid! That she cannot even recall what happened that day, when those savages came and killed everyone! That all she knows are the common ways of the Kincardines who raised her—”

“No, no, I heard that she went mad from seeing the murders of her father and her serf maid by those Picts!”

“Aye, isn’t it delicious? And I heard that Lady Maribel seeks to wed her off to someone here rather than to that Kincardine!
That she honestly thinks one of our good lords would have the harlot, when anyone could see she is a mockery of all that is respectable!”

“Aye.…”

“Aye, a mockery.…”

Avalon lowered her head and pretended not to hear. How many others caught the malice in the room? Only her, she hoped, please let it have been only the chimera listening in, and not that their voices were so loud her shame was to be shared by all.

Someone bumped into her, a woman who laughed shrilly and apologized as she moved off with her escort. A cloud of oversweet scent clung to the air from either the man or the lady, or both. It aggravated the beginnings of a headache wrapped around her temples.

The ring of young women were still staring at her, their gazes openly hostile. They had been joined by a few of the men in the room, who were bowing their heads to listen to the whispers. It was not her imagination that she was the topic, not when some of them dissolved into laughter asthey looked over at her.

“Even that savage Kincardine won’t have her.…”

That savage Kincardine, indeed. Avalon took another sip of the mead and smiled determinedly at no one in particular.

That damned betrothal had taken her life and twisted it to suit the needs of a few power-hungry men, kings and barons and lairds. As long as she had lived Avalon had been betrothed; it had haunted her and protected her and sealed her destiny as surely as only the stamp of fate could. So naturally she had to do all that she could to break it.

Avalon had told no one of her own plans for her future, nor would she. Like a magic secret, she half feared that even to say the words out loud would spoil the dream. She kept these thoughts to herself.

The room was rapidly growing hot, too many people now, some of them dancing, even singing as the wine and mead made tongues looser. Another couple came by too close, shoving her unexpectedly, making her nearly spill her drink. They did not apologize.

Enough. Avalon handed off her goblet to a serf, found the main door, and slipped past the guards to the antechamber, which retained the coolness of the night. It was much less crowded out here, most of the benches and chairs were empty.

She found a cushioned bench by a bower window, close enough to allow a curling breeze to wind around her face and hair, her shoulders, cooling off the anger until it was nothing more than her usual faint resignation. She looked around, seeing only shadows and dark corners, then leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes.

“How did you know?”

Nicholas Latimer loomed over her, then quickly sat beside her on the bench. He took her arms and held them tightly, his breath heavy on her startled face.

“Tell me how you knew about the dreams,” he demanded.

Avalon looked around but this section of the room was deserted, offering no help. She backed as far away from him on the bench as she could, striking his hands off of her.

“It is obvious,” she said bitingly. “Leave me alone.”

He moved to hold her again, and she stood and whirled away. A couple across the room saw the abrupt movement; they stared over at her. Latimer leapt up to follow, then boldly blocked her way. She could not sidestep him now without causing a scene. For Maribel’s sake she stood where she was.

“You are a witch, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice filled with derision and fear. “You are. You came here and you cast a spell on me, didn’t you? You came with your hair and your eyes, you looked so fair. You tempt honest men with your face, you torture me, you make me feel these things, hot nights—”

“Don’t be a fool,” she snapped.

The couple was still watching, joined by two more.

“You would lie with the devil before you lie with me, wouldn’t you? And you think you will! You think you will lie with Marcus Kincardine, that he’s going to come back from that crusade of his and claim you. But he’s been gone so long, hasn’t he, witch? Why wait for a barbarian Scot when you could lie with me?” Latimer stepped closer, too close, and there was danger in his look, a sense of crossing some line. “Lie with me,” he said again slowly, hoarse and lost in himself.

Look
, invited the chimera, a second danger,
see.
…

Against her will she was caught for a moment in Latimer’s mind. His intensity drew her in in that old familiar way she dreaded; the feelings sweeping over her, the dizzying contact. The cursed chimera in her taking over, opening the gate—

Look.…

And what she felt from him was a deep longing, fear and more longing. Shame. She tried to block the shifting
images that filled him, a woman dressed only in sheets, a man on top of her, doing things to her, and Avalon saw that the woman was herself, and he was the man … and these images became blended with something else, something darker, smoke and flesh and food, a bitter taste, he was ashamed of this, that it consumed him.…

Lips, darkness, taste-touch-want-witchfearlipsbedtaste—

Latimer came back from that dangerous place and she with him, light-headed. He reached for her, heedless of their audience, but before he could grab her again instinct and training took over.

Avalon whisked her hand up and captured his, centering her thumb on the back of his palm, turning his wrist over and bending it backward as she took a step forward. She pulled his hand down between them to the folds of her skirts, hidden now, and put her other hand on his elbow, locking it into place. It all happened in a fraction of a heartbeat.

She then gave him a dazzling smile, as if he had just told her some romantic nonsense that brought them close together.

Latimer’s eyes grew wide with the unexpected pain. Avalon held him there, immobile, applying just enough pressure to let him know she could really hurt him if she wished.

Across the room she could hear the murmurs begin, her name spoken in rising whispers.

“Listen to me very carefully,” she said, keeping her voice as low as possible. “It is not witchcraft that lets me see that your nights are sleepless. If I ever hear you say that word in connection with my name again, you may be sure you will be very sorry, my lord. It isn’t witchcraft
that holds your hand right now, it is simple flesh and blood. Are my words clear to you, my lord?”

He looked around, then back at her, gritting his teeth. “Yes,” he said.

“Excellent. In exchange for your reason, I offer you a favor, Lord Latimer. I have heard, you see, that you enjoy eating the flesh of a most unusual mushroom, that you have fallen into the habit of it with a few of your friends. I may not be your friend, Nicholas, but neither are they. And I wish you no ill. But those mushrooms you crave are bringing your dreams. Let them go and the dreams will go, as well.”

She released his hand. He yanked it back, rubbing his wrist.

“I truly wish you no ill,” she said again.

He turned around and walked away from her, straight into the crowd of people who had gathered to watch them, everyone rapt with heated speculation. They broke apart and swarmed around him, eager to keep him in their center and soak up the beginnings of a new scandal.

Avalon knew with pure certainty that all hell was about to break loose.

Chapter One