Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (68 page)

"You're the only one with hair long enough for this to work," Gwawr said.

His Highness laughed. Gideon's eyes shone with amusement. Tullia was clearly chuckling behind her hand, though Michael thought her hair would be as long as his were it not tied back in that tight bun at the nape of her neck. Amy, for their sake of their friendship, was stifling her amusement though the effort looked to be causing her physical injury. Only Wyrrin seemed to find no amusement in the business, probably because he didn't have any hair.

Michael glared at them for a moment, and then his frown softened to a smile. "It's alright Amy, you can laugh."

Amy let out a great bark of laughter, and near fell on the ground clutching her sides with laughter. "With the way she's doing it, and the garland round your neck, you look a proper little flower girl let me tell you."

Michael held still while Gwawr adorned his hair with white camomile and meadowsweet, weaving lavender and bluebells into his dark locks. Her enthusiasm shattered his grim-faced countenance, and he found himself smiling in spite of himself.

"Actually when you smile like that, a proper smile, not your usual bloodthirsty smirk, you look rather cute," Jason said. "It's only the fact that you've got a face like a dockside bruiser most of the time that made it so ridiculous."

"That is because I am a dockside bruiser, or near enough Your Highness, but thank you for the compliment," Michael said. He frowned. "I have a bloodthirsty smirk?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Princess Gwawr, you've done a wonderful job."

"Indeed, thank you ma'am," Michael said, touching his forelock to the little princess. "I would offer to do yours in return, but I fear I would prove a ham hand at it."

"That doesn't matter," Gwawr sat down with her back to him. "Just put a few in, otherwise you'll have offended me by not reciprocating."

Michael looked to the others for help, but Jason and Amy looked too happy in his discomfiture to lift a finger in his aid. Not that either of them would know anything about putting flowers in girls' hair, but still.

"A fine crew of comrades you reveal yourselves to be." Michael pouted. "Have you no shred of solidarity, no feeling of loyalty or generosity that you will not stir yourself to help one who has sacrificed so much on your behalf?"

"Oh, stop complaining," Jason said. "I know crossdressers who are less melodramatic than this."

"Here," Tullia said as she knelt down by Michael's side. "I used to braid my sister's hair when we were younger. I had to steal the flowers first of course, but the gentry are more likely to give to a pretty beggar, especially a pretty waif of a girl who looks so lovely and forlorn. And it used to calm me, put me at peace."

And so she helped him to weave daisies and wild celandine through Gwawr's raven locks, Tullia's fingers soft and warm as they brushed against Michael's own. It was entirely to Tullia's credit that, when they were done, the youngest of Eena's princesses did not look an unsightly hideous mess. In fact, she seemed to rather like it.

"Thank you," she flung her arms around the necks of Michael and Tullia,  surprisingly strong for her small stature. "Thank you all, for looking out for Fia. If I can ever do anything to help you-"

"There is no debt incurred when a warrior keeps a sharp eye on the life of a comrade, Highness," Michael said. "But even if there were, she looked after us as well."

"Music!" Fiannuala yelled. "Sound the drums and play the pipes. Is this a revel or some dour troll ceremony?"

As the sun began to set, the drums began to beat, drums in the trees that could not be seen but whose thunderous sound echoed through the woods. Dryads began to play on pipes, the tinny sounds of the tiny instruments offsetting the heavy beating of the drums. And then the dryads were dancing in circles, quivering with wild abandon, convulsing ecstatically as they reeled hither and thither. They careened about lights that seemed to spring up without fires in the middle of the clearing, and always more dryads and came in from every part of the forest to join the bacchanal.

They looked so wild, the yellow light reflecting on their fey faces and casting shadows over their untamed and extravagant motions.

"Is it me or is it getting very hot?" Amy said. "I feel like I'm sweating."

"You're right," Michael murmured. "It feels... sultry, somehow."

Jason chuckled.

"What?" Amy said, her voice sounding vague and unfocussed.

"You really don't understand, do you?" His Highness sounded very smug and superior. "Well, I think I'm going to join the dance." He drifted away, into a nearby circle of dryads, and before a minute had passed he was cavorting madly just like they were.

"Since I'm hot," Amy said. "Do you think I should take my clothes off?"

Something about that itched at the back of Michael's mind. There was something he should say in response to that, but he couldn't remember it. He wasn't sure why he wanted to.

What was going on? Dancing. Ah yes, that sounded fun.

Michael stood up, and bowed to Tullia with one hand held behind his back as he presented the other. "Would you care to take a turn, Filia?"

Tullia smiled, and took his hand as Michael pulled her to her feet and led her out into the clearing. He felt so light. Light in the head, light on his feet, he half expected to float off the ground, borne aloft by this strange and wonderful music. All about them dryads cavorted in wondrous motions, vibrating to the beating of the drums, swaying to the music of the pipes and flutes.

 And they were moving too, Michael and Tullia, spinning wildly around one another as the fae-lights cast their faces in pale yellow hues and the dryads danced around them.

 The drums were pounding Michael's head, and like a soldier on the march it seemed that the drums were driving him on, forcing his steps, forcing the movement of his arms. Driving his hands onto Tullia's shoulders. Driving her hands onto the back of his neck. She was beautiful: her eyes so blue, her face so fair, her hair so inky-black. So beautiful, though not so beautiful as when she was in battle and she glowed with strength and pride in herself. So strong, so fierce. She was bright as a star, shining on the battlefield and off it. There was a voice trying to speak in the back of Michael's mind but he could not hear it over the sound of the drums. Her lips were so full, smiling so invitingly.

 He pulled her close and she bent forward, his chin tilting up to meet her lips with his-

 
Michael Sebastian Callistus! Just what in God's name do you think you're playing at? I should stripe your back with a belt for behaving so, shame on you!

 "Mother?" Michael murmured, his back straightening and his eyes widening as he stumbled backwards out of Tullia's grip. It had been her voice, he would swear on it, recalling him to his senses. Whatever could have possesed him to - "Tullia!"

 Tullia's eyes were wider than Michael's felt, and her face was red and comical looking in the light of the fae-fires. She was very still, quivering slightly.

 "I... um..." Michael stammered, his verbosity deserting him in his hour of need. "I'm sorry." He turned and fled, tripping and falling to his knees before getting up and staggering like a drunk through the mass of revellers. Their movements seemed more threatening than inviting now, strange and wild and dangerous; his feet felt weighted down by shame, every step the lifting of a mountain, yet at the same time it seemed that very shame stood guard against the pounding of the drums and the caressing of the pipes, armour against the madness that had overtaken him.

 
What's going on? What made me act like that?
Tullia was a comrade, a friend. She trusted him with her life, with the most precious thing that she possessed in this world, and he had been on the verge of using her like some dockside tart. He had come within a whit of staining his honour beyond recall, descending to the level of...of his father.

God forgive me, God forgive me
,
God forgive me,
he pushed his way out of the dance and into the trees; pursued by the music which called out to him, trying to drag him back into it's clutches.

 "That was a bit rude of you, wasn't it?"

 Michael spun in the direction of the voice, lost his balance and fell backwards onto a tree. Cati stood before him, her green eyes sparkling. She smiled like a predator. "Mind you, she jumped away near as fast as you did. What happened to the pair of you?"

 Michael swallowed. He could feel the music all around him, smell the sweat of straining dancers, see the fae-lights gleaming. But he was armed against their enchantments now and well prepared. He said, "I cannot speak for the young lady, ma'am, but I was recalled to myself not before time. I recoiled from an unseemly act most unbecoming."

 "Unseemly? Unbecoming?" Cati purred as she advanced upon him, hips swaying. "Surely she isn't that bad looking?"

 "That is not the point," Michael shouted, much louder than he had intended. In a softer tone he went on, "Turo teaches...my mother taught...never before marriage. It is a condition of our covenant with God."

 "Never?" Cati repeated sceptically. "You'll never convince me of that."

 "Only in rare cases of great passion," Michael confessed. Gabriel had famously forsaken honour out of love for Aurelia, and the Callistus family was the consequence; but Michael sometimes wondered if his flaws did not come solely from his sire but from the lingering taint of Gabriel's madness. "For all of Filia Tullia's virtues I feel no such overbearing passion for her, at least not now when I am in my righter mind."

Cati laughed. "The music doesn't create what isn't there. It simply accentuates it."

Oh, God forgive me.
Michael bowed his head in shame. "I... what I feel... Filia Tullia is beyond me. I am not worthy of so admirable a maid. And so I do not risk her health and reputation, nor risk a child be born to shame and sorrow."

 "You won't, hmm?" Cati said. "That's a pity, it might have been fun. But I won't force you and I won't lose sleep over it. Do you not chafe against Turo's rules? Dala was never so restrictive."

 "The Dalanim may do as they wish, so long as Dala permits," Michael said. "But Turo demands obedience and faithfulness in his servants, and I will give Him both."

 Cati nodded. "I can respect that. If you want to get away from the music, I'd advise climbing this hill. There's a grove up there that is protected from the forest's more captivating sounds. You'll be safe there." There was an undercurrent of mockery in her tone, but Michael did not care.

 "Thank you kindly, ma'am," Michael said.

 "I'd tell you to have fun, but I don't think that you really want to." Cati laughed as she turned and headed back towards the revelry.

 Michael went in the opposite direction, and began to climb the hill. He pushed through the bushes and stepped over the tree roots, moving the branches aside as he stomped upwards, the dryad music mocking his retreating back. Thoughts of honour, and of what his mother would have to say about his behaviour, God rest her, kept him from obeying its insidious summons, however.

 He reached the top of the hill, which was ringed with a circle of blue stones that glimmered on the ground as they lay amongst the long grass. The hilltop was mostly bare, save for a thick tangle of gnarled oaks in the very centre. Michael stepped into the circle, and the music stopped. It was as if he had been brought to another place, far away where the sound did not carry. Michael frowned, and stepped outside the circle. The music resumed. Raising his eyebrows at the strange warding power of the circle, Michael stepped back into it and heard the music cease. He felt all temptation fall from his shoulders to lie unnoticed on the ground.

 "So you made it here too, eh?"

 "Amy?" Michael said. There she was, sitting with her back to one of the ancient trees, Magnus Alba resting with his point upon the ground, her helm by her side. Michael approached. "How did you find out about this place?"

 "The moment I realised that there was a siren-dance going on down there I knew I didn't want any part of it, and I knew there'd be a place like this somewhere," Amy said. "Every lordly seat has somewhere like this, where passion cannot be inflamed to overwhelm thought. Once Gwawr understood what I meant she directed me here."

 "Siren-dance?" Michael asked, sitting down beside her.

 "Sirens are great singers and dancers," Amy said. "They have...an unnatural effect upon their audience. If you aren't prepared for it... let's just say the first time I ever saw a siren dancing I made an absolute ass of myself. Never again."

 She said nothing more, and Michael - who had come close to doing much worse than making an ass of himself - did not ask. Instead they sat for a few moments in companionable silence as the moon and the stars shone above them.

 "Here." Michael plucked a red-and-white flower off the ground, and reached around to pin it in Amy's hair. "Your hair may not be long enough to braid, but it's long enough for this at least."

Amy snorted, but she did not remove the flower. She looked up at the stars set in the firmament above. "Michael, what do you think of this place?"

Michael looked around. "There are a lot of trees."

She gave him a soft punch on the arm. "Seriously. What do you think about it, all in all? Would you want to live here?"