Storms of Destiny (44 page)

Khith’s words made Jezzil shudder. “But I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Doctor, you do not understand.”

“Make me understand,” Khith said, walking over to put a slender hand on Jezzil’s shoulder. The Hthras’s huge eyes were liquid with sympathy. Jezzil swallowed. “Tell me, young Jezzil.”

The human shook his head again. “I can’t,” he muttered.

“Jezzil, the fact that you were able to do these illusions, these ‘Castings,’ as you call them, without any lessoning at all tells me your inherent avundi is great. And so is the danger for you and those around you, unless you learn to control it.”

Jezzil considered what the Hthras had said. He knew that the physician was correct in saying that he could sense magic. It was as distinct as an odor that, once smelled, would always be remembered.

Khith watched him in silence. “Harness it, control it,”

Jezzil said finally. “You mean, learn to become a sorcerer? A witch?”

“Your people tend to regard avundi as something unnatural, to be feared,” Khith said. “My people use it as naturally as we use tools to cultivate, or thread to weave. I could teach you,” the physician said. “Last night I did a foreseeing. I saw us together in the darkness, surrounded by water. The ground beneath us was unsteady. We were using avundi. Together.”

Jezzil regarded the little creature for a long moment.
What
would it be like,
he wondered,
to be able to do magic at will?

Can a warrior also be a witch? A sorcerer?

Then the familiar image from his dream was in his mind.

Barus was staring at him pleadingly as the flames crept closer.
Khith says this requires courage. You have no
courage. You are a coward, and you know it. You will never
be anything but a coward.

“Let me think about it,” he said finally. “I will give you my answer tomorrow.”

There was a new priest at court, and all of the lords and ladies were whispering about him. Ulandra heard about him from one of her ladies-in-waiting, Marquise Jonala q’Stevrii. “And he’s handsome, Your Highness,” she burbled as she arranged Ulandra’s hair for the Spring Ball. “Too bad this Varlon is a priest.” She giggled, then, as Ulandra caught her eye in the mirror, hastily turned the sound into a cough.

“I mean, too bad good looks have to be wasted on a priest.

He’s tall, with the darkest eyes … black eyes that seem to see right through into your spirit, Your Highness.”

Ulandra, who worshiped the Goddess—as did most Pelanese—was only interested because the news took her mind off the coming ball. She hated public appearances.

She’d been wed for months now, and the whispering and barely veiled glances at her waistline only served to remind her that her life was in shambles.

A barren princess,
she thought bleakly.
Is there anything
worse?
She thought of her husband’s mother, whose sweet, ailing face grew paler and thinner seemingly each day. And yet, Elnorin had produced three sons.
Just one thing … a
barren queen,
she realized.

“All done, Your Highness!” Jonala said.

Ulandra studied herself in the mirror. Her elaborate hair-style and the sapphire and diamond tiara made her appear older. Her skin felt tight and dry from the cosmetics carefully painted to enhance her eyes, cheeks, and lips. Still, Jonala had done her job well. “Thank you, Marquise,” she said, attempting to inject a warmth she didn’t feel into her voice.

“You have done well.”

“Now you must dress, Your Highness. I will call the others,” Jonala said, and slipped out.

Ulandra stood up, stretched, then took a last deep breath.

When her ladies returned, they would adjust her corset, and she wouldn’t be able to breathe easily until it was loosened, hours from now.

At least she knew that Salesin wouldn’t be spending the night with her. She had heard that he had a new mistress, a red-haired countess who was married to one of King Agivir’s top generals. With the threat of invasion from the east, as the Redai’s forces took island after island, General Goljone was probably grateful that his wife was too occupied with the Crown Prince to demand his attention.

I am becoming such a cynic,
Ulandra thought bleakly.
If
only I could escape this court … this twisted parody of life.

If only I could just run away.

She heard the rustle of fabric and the sounds of footsteps, then the Marquise, the seamstress, and two other waiting women came through the open door, carrying the voluminous folds of the ball gown.

Ulandra lay down upon the bed so they could fasten the corset hooks down the front. Lying down, it wasn’t too re-strictive, but when her women pulled her back up and set her on her feet, she had to suppress a whimper of misery. The corset narrowed her waist to nothing, and pushed her small breasts up so high that she actually could wear a low-cut gown without being laughed at, but she felt as imprisoned as any cutpurse in the royal dungeons.

Briskly, as though she were a life-sized doll, her ladies-in-waiting clothed her. Stockings, garters, shoes … suddenly she was several inches taller. Underskirt, then two petticoats, one stiffly starched, one with a hoop in the bottom to make her skirt fall correctly.

And then the dress. Maidens were supposed to wear delicate pastels, or white. This was her first ball gown since she’d been married, and it was dramatic in a way none of her other dresses had ever been. It was of a royal blue satin, trimmed with sapphire lace at the bodice, and small lace panniers and a lace rosette in back. The skimpy lace sleeves revealed the tops of her shoulders and most of her arms.

The ladies clucked over the fit of the sleeves and bodice as they made hasty alterations. Ulandra realized she’d probably lost weight since the dress had first been fitted.

When they finally allowed her to examine herself in the looking glass, Ulandra felt faintly scandalized at the amount of white flesh she was baring. She could see the rounded tops of her breasts, and had to fight the urge to cross her arms over her bosom.

“Your Highness, you are beautiful!” the marquise assured her.

“It’s awfully low,” Ulandra muttered, tugging at the bodice. Her ladies gently but firmly moved her hands.

“ ’Tis the fashion, Your Highness,” Jonala reassured her.

“Oh, they’ll all want to dance with you!”

Just as long as Salesin leaves me alone, I don’t care.

“Thank you, ladies. You have done your work well.”

Ulandra forced warmth into her voice. “Now, we go.” Summoning a smile she’d practiced, so it didn’t look like a grim rictus, Ulandra left her room, walking past bowing guards, feeling a bit like a ship under full sail heading into shoal water.

The ladies’ predictions proved accurate—even King Agivir took a brief turn around the dance floor with her. Despite her feet and lack of breath, Ulandra actually began to enjoy herself. Salesin had not made an appearance, so she could relax and feel safe.

The son of the Duke of Vestala claimed her for a vigorous row dance, and Ulandra was too busy to do anything except count her steps and try not bump into anyone else. When the dance ended, she was breathless—but actually smiling. She curtsied to the young man. “Thank you, m’lord.”

He bowed low, and the motion caused the gold braid on his dress uniform to sparkle. Ulandra had noticed that dress uniforms had replaced evening garb for many of the noblemen. “You do me too much honor, Your Highness. Every man in the room envies me, dancing with the greatest beauty in the kingdom.”

Ulandra blushed and had to stop herself from giggling.
No
more wine for me,
she thought.
I must keep a clear head, so I
can watch out for Salesin.

Her corset was too tight to allow her to eat much, but she managed to nibble on some grapes and a bit of cheese at the refreshment table. She stood there, balancing a plate, enjoying the swirl of color on the dance floor, swaying slightly to the lilting strains of music from the orchestra.

As she watched, Prince Adranan bowed deeply, then twirled one of her ladies-in-waiting to the strains of a baracole. The Prince was quick on his feet, despite his beer-barrel substance.

He bounced and hopped and his stomach performed its own bouncing, swaying movements. Ulandra almost laughed aloud, but covered her mouth and turned it into a cough.

The dance music stopped, and the dancers bowed and curtsied. Conversation in the room swelled to a muted roar.

Without warning, silence fell. The entire ballroom grew unnaturally still.

Confused, Ulandra turned to the marquise to ask her what had happened, but the silence was gone, replaced by an undertone of whispers and titters from the crowd. Ulandra stood there, her mouth half open, and saw the courtiers bowing deeply, in succession, a wave of bowing that rippled along like a whitecap at sea. She stiffened, and something seemed to clench inside her, like a corset squeezing her heart and lungs.
Oh, no!

She glimpsed her husband’s black head, and then— —time seemed to freeze, along with heart and breath, as she caught a glimpse of red hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure.
’Tis the countess! Denmara Goljone! His whore.

She felt the blood leave her face, and for a moment she swayed, light-headed. As bad as Salesin had ever been, she’d never dreamed he might do something like this. Escorting his mistress to a royal ball was so far outside the bounds of civilized behavior that Ulandra had no idea what to do.

Her mind demanded that she leave, but her body didn’t seem to want to obey her. She stood there, unable to move, staring at the countess.

She was a beautiful woman, tiny and petite. Ulandra had expected her to appear cheap, trashy, but she was dressed with exquisite taste. Ulandra’s dress bared more skin than her ivory satin gown. If she was wearing cosmetics, they had been applied so expertly it was impossible to tell. Even though she was probably older than Salesin by half a dozen years, she looked young and fresh. Virginal.

The countess smiled, displaying perfect little teeth. It was a shy, sweet smile.

I must get out of here,
Ulandra thought desperately.
I must
get away. But how?

The marquise was looking at her, obviously at a loss for words. The Princess shook her head warningly, then forced words past the knot in her throat. “I must retire,” she said. “I am … indisposed.”

“Your Highness—”

The Princess shook her head. “Stay here,” she said. “I command you. If anyone asks, say I stepped out for a breath of air and will be back any moment.”

The marquise dropped a quick curtsy. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Ulandra’s heart was hammering, but she forced herself to take as deep a breath as possible and scan the room for an in-conspicuous exit. There it was: a door set over on the west side, not too far from where she was standing. It was half hidden by a curtained alcove, where ladies went to make quick adjustments to slipping garters or pinching shoes.

Ulandra forced her feet to move. She held her head high, but was careful not to make eye contact with anyone as she moved. She’d learned this trick long ago—just unfocus her eyes slightly and gaze at necks or hairlines.

As she moved, hands full of her satin skirts, trying to pick her course carefully so she wouldn’t brush against any tables, servants, or guests, Ulandra could feel Salesin’s gaze on her back, penetrating her like a dagger of ice. She forced herself to keep moving, praying she wouldn’t stumble and fall. The ballroom floor was white and black marble, patterned like a game board, and highly polished.
Don’t fall,
keep moving Don’t fall …

As she reached the alcove, then the door, she risked a quick glance back, and saw several of her ladies-in-waiting following her.
No! Go back! I don’t want you!

She opened the door as narrowly as she could manage, given the breadth of her skirts, and lunged through it. Once through, she looked back at her ladies, shook her head slightly, then mouthed “No.”

They stopped, milling in confusion, and she closed the door in their faces.

Breathing a long sigh of relief, the Princess turned away, allowing herself to slump back against the door. It was hard to say which hurt worse—her throbbing head or her equally throbbing feet.

Ulandra regarded the corridor and decided she was in a part of the palace she had seldom visited, in the area near the King’s audience chamber. She hesitated, confused, wondering how to get back to her chambers.

As she stood peering down the long, vaulted stone corridor, a voice spoke from behind her. “Allow me to escort you, Your Highness.”

Ulandra whirled around so fast her high-heeled slippers skidded on the polished floor. She staggered and would have fallen if the man had not stepped forward and caught her elbow, steadying her. As soon as she had regained her balance, he let go, stepped back, and bowed deeply. “Forgive my importunity, Your Highness. I feared you might come to harm.”

His voice was deep and beautifully modulated, though he spoke Pelanese with an accent. He was a tall man, with deep-set black eyes. His skull was shaven and he wore a robe the color of fresh-spilled blood.

His black eyes were intense as they held hers for long seconds. There was something there … something she
almost
recognized. Something …

Ulandra shuddered. “I beg pardon, Your Highness!” the man said quickly. “I did not mean to offend.”

The Princess shook her head, cleared her throat, and managed to say, “No, no, there’s nothing wrong. I was just leaving the ball early, and I found myself in this part of the palace, which I do not recognize.”

The man—he had to be the new priest, Varlon—bowed again. “Allow me to escort you back to the royal apartments, Your Highness.”

Gravely, he offered her his arm, and Ulandra took it. “My name,” he said softly as they walked, “is Varlon. I have come to court at the King’s request to teach him about the philosophy of my homeland.”

“I have heard of you, Master Varlon,” Ulandra said.

“Where is your homeland?”