Read The Queen of Mages Online
Authors: Benjamin Clayborne
Tags: #romance, #fantasy, #magic, #war, #mage
The Queen of Mages (8 page)
“I meant all that came before it. By the
Caretaker, I was nervous.”
“Look, you don’t have to meet with ladies if
you don’t want to. You are a grown man.”
“Try telling that to my mother.”
“Next time you should tell your mother to go
stuff herself.”
Dardan snorted. “She’s determined to get me
married off. She’s already acting as if I’m deep into a proper
courtship.”
“Make a good impression on the lady, and
maybe you will be.”
Dardan just grumbled at that, and took a
drink. Clearly he was going to need several more cups of ale. Liam
signalled to the serving boy.
With their second round in hand, Liam raised
his cup. “To limited responsibility.”
“To the Aspect of Courage,” Dardan said.
“Don’t go all devout on me, Dard,” Liam
chortled. They clinked their cups together and drank.
Evening turned to night as they drank
through more rounds and plowed through baskets of onions. Lamps
were lit, the crowd grew, and Liam glanced up to see a familiar
face coming toward him. “Gareth!”
The stocky, red-haired man leaned on their
table, carrying a basket of fried onions. “Liam Howard, you young
bastard,” he crowed in a thick voice. His bulbous nose shone red
from too many cups of ale. That was typical for Gareth Ainsley,
valo
to Lord Skender Faroa. Usually a
valo
helped his
drunken master back home after a night at the malthouse, but with
Gareth and Skender it was usually the reverse.
“Serving boy now, eh?” Liam cracked, eyeing
the basket. “Lord Skender get tired of your nose?”
“He got tired of your sister first,” Gareth
shot back with a grin. His eyes went to Liam’s boothmate. “Dardan,
ho there.” Dardan mumbled a greeting around a mouthful of onions.
“Come and join us?” Gareth asked.
“Don’t mind if we do,” Liam said, sliding
out of the booth. Dardan, surprisingly, followed without
objection.
“What’s with him? Never seen a lord look so
down,” Gareth said as they wove through the crowd.
“Dardan’s got himself a date for the ball.
He senses wedding bells in his future, whether he likes it or
not.”
“Poor man,” said Gareth.
Lord Skender Faroa, heir to the Dukedom of
Blackwall, sat alone in another booth. He had long dark hair pulled
into a queue, and black eyes with irises so wide the whites were
almost invisible. His nose was sharp and his smile always grim.
Liam found him unsettling, but he thought the company would be good
for Dardan.
At the next table sat two black-coated men,
drinking only water. Their eyes scanned the crowd warily.
This
duke’s son isn’t foolish enough to go unprotected, even in the nice
part of town.
“Good evening, gents,” Skender said, raising
his ale.
“Skender,” Liam said, sliding in. “How’s
things up north?”
“Cold.” He smiled thinly. His eyes fixed on
Dardan. “Why so glum?”
“Lord’s in love,” Gareth snorted as he
shared the onions around.
“Is that so,” Skender said, his smile
deepening slightly. “Do tell.”
Dardan shrugged. “Hardly. The widow who
lives next door,” he said. “I’m escorting her to the summer
ball.”
“Are there so few eligible maidens that one
must chase old women now?” Skender took the tiniest sip of his own
ale.
“She’s no crone,” Liam put in loudly. “She’s
of an age with m’lord. Just unlucky to be widowed so young.” He
gulped his ale. “Anyway, what of you? If you’ve got a girl half so
beautiful to bring to the ball, I’ll eat this table.”
Skender raised up his left hand. A golden
band glittering with iridescent onyx stones encircled his ring
finger. “My betrothed, sadly, remains in Blackwall.”
Liam coughed on his ale. “The likes of you,
getting married. Gareth! I thought a
valo
was supposed to
protect his lord.”
“Knives, plots, poisons, that’s easy.
Protecting a man from himself, that’s where it gets tricky.” The
red-haired
valo
chuckled, but the eye he cast toward Skender
was wary.
“So, Dardan,” Skender said. “No doubt you’ve
heard about the regiments his majesty dispatched to the northern
passes.”
“Of course.”
“Where does your house stand on the
Vaslander threat?”
Liam glared at Gareth. “Well no wonder.”
Gareth at least had the good sense to look
embarrassed. “Just doin’ as I’m told.”
Dardan tapped a finger on his mug. “You know
as well as I do what our position has to be. What I’d like to know
is why your father’s so bent on starting a war.”
Skender’s eyes narrowed a little. “A fair
question.” He sipped at his ale again. The cup was still nearly
full.
Either he can’t hold his liquor… or he prefers to be the
only one sober.
It occurred to Liam that there were benefits to
being the last man standing.
Skender went on. “I know how you love to
study history, Dardan, so you’re well aware of how much damage the
Vaslanders did to Blackwall in the last war.”
Dardan nodded. “I’d think Duke Terilin would
want to prevent war, not engage it.”
“Any wise man would, but, ah… Do you know
how my mother died?”
Gareth was holding very still now, staring
down at the table. Liam thought he could see the man biting his
tongue.
Dardan shook his head. “I only knew she’d
died in the war, along with… others.”
Skender took another tiny sip of ale, as
casually as anything. “Father moved us all to the south of the
dukedom when the Vaslanders invaded. My mother, my sisters, and I
were all taken to an old castle in the southern hills, and then
again south to Gravensford when the Vaslanders came closer.”
“Gravensford? Doesn’t the royal family have
an estate there?” Liam asked.
“The very same,” Skender said. “Many nobles
of Blackwall were housed there during the war. My mother, however,
felt as strongly about the defense of Blackwall as my father did,
and refused to stay long. She left us children in the care of
others, and returned north to help my father.” His smooth tone
never changed, as if he were recounting a day at the shops on
King’s Street. “By then, we had pushed the Vaslanders back north a
ways, and reclaimed the keep at Iceford. Mother saw to the defense
and the wounded there, while father led sorties north, to weed out
pockets of Vaslanders who still held some towns and villages.” His
black eyes gleamed in the candlelight, and he paused for a moment.
“He returned to find Iceford under attack. Forces spread too thin
had let a band of Vaslanders slip through and reach the castle.
Somehow they gained entry, and…” Here he paused, his voice showing
a little strain for the first time. “Few in the castle survived.
Father found my mother in the kitchens. She was still warm.” He
sipped at his ale again and fell quiet.
No one else spoke, either. Gareth no doubt
knew this story already, which explained his grim expression. Liam
felt sick.
“So you see,” Skender went on after a
minute, “my father has quite enough reason to hate Vaslanders, and
to want them all dead. He will not risk them reaching his borders
again. I find myself compelled to agree.” He smiled again. “But
this is such a sad topic. Tell me more of this lady of yours,” he
suggested.
Everyone seemed relieved to change the
subject. Dardan spilled everything he knew about Amira, which still
wasn’t much. Liam found it interesting that the summer ball and the
prospect of courtship seemed to unsettle Dardan, but when he spoke
about Amira herself, his face lit up.
“And what about your betrothed?” Liam asked
Skender, once Dardan had finished. “She couldn’t come down for the
ball?”
“She preferred to stay in Blackwall,”
Skender said, but for once Liam thought he detected a hint of
irritation in his reply. But so what? Men could talk freely here.
Liam took another gulp of ale.
“Well at least tell us something about her,”
Liam insisted, wiping his mouth. “Dardan told you all about his
lady.”
Skender pursed his lips. “She’s the daughter
of Count Ebersbach. A lovely girl.”
Liam waited. “And?”
“And that is all I wish to say about
her.”
Liam snorted. Who did Skender think he was?
Liam was already flush from all the ale, and he could feel the heat
in his cheeks. “Come on, man, Dardan told you everything
he
knows about Amira.”
Skender’s thin smile disappeared completely.
“You forget yourself,
valo
.”
A palpable chill rose around the table.
Gareth, still barely conscious, started in with a drinking song,
and Dardan joined in quickly. Liam and Skender had locked eyes, but
Liam looked away first. He clenched his hand around the table leg
to keep himself from smashing in Skender’s face.
He cut himself off about then, to regain
some of his wits before they had to stumble home. Several other
nobles Dardan or Skender knew stopped by to chat, as Dardan guzzled
another three mugs of ale and Liam’s fury slowly cooled. How had
Skender gotten him so enraged?
When they made to leave, Gareth was snoring
face down in a bowl of onions. Skender still had half his first mug
left, and nodded slightly as Liam put an arm under Dardan and
half-dragged him from the malthouse. Liam was glad to leave those
dead black eyes behind.
They stumbled along through the dark, from
one pool of lamplight to the next. “Skender wa’n’t too happy wit’
us, I thin’,” Dardan slurred.
“That was a right awful story he told,
m’lord,” Liam agreed, slipping back into
valo
formality. He
had to take care of his master; that would keep his mind off
Skender.
“Urgh,” Dardan said, and vomited on the
street. Liam danced aside just fast enough to avoid the splash. His
lord wiped some spittle away with a sleeve and leaned up against
the darkened window of a jeweller’s. “Too much ale,” he
groaned.
“Not enough onions,” Liam joked lightly.
“They soak up the ale.”
Dardan laughed. It was hard to tell in the
dark, but Liam thought the night out had served his master
well.
“We should get you home, m’lord. You need
some proper food.” All they’d had since luncheon was ale and
onions. Besiana would be irritated they’d missed dinner.
No,
wait. She’ll be preoccupied with preparing for the ball.
She
might let them alone for once.
Liam kept his eyes open as they went home.
Even in the affluent, well-lit streets of northern Callaston,
nobles still got robbed or stabbed from time to time, but they made
it to the manse without further incident. Bertram brought out a
tray with broth and baked carrots for Dardan and demanded that he
eat. The young lord choked down a few bites before begging off and
going upstairs to his rooms. Liam helped him wash and dress for
bed. Dardan was already half-asleep when his face hit the
pillow.
Liam hoped he’d be able to fall asleep just
as easily, but once he was in his own chamber, he felt the rage
creeping back upon him. Skender, that arrogant bastard. Where did
he get off acting like that in a malthouse? If the man wasn’t going
to play fair—or at least get drunk—then what in the black spirits
was he doing in the place?
Liam tried to calm himself down, but he
couldn’t. He wrapped his fist in his pillow and slammed it into his
mattress a dozen, two dozen times. Only when his arm began to grow
sore from the exertion did he collapse onto the floor, breathing
hard and curling himself into a ball to keep from lashing out.
He’d let it happen again. When was this
going to stop? One of these days he was going to lose control in
public, and do something he knew he’d regret. He tried to keep his
distance, not let people provoke him.
His father’s face flashed before him. Liam
crawled onto the bed and drank a sip of water from the glass on his
bedside table. He didn’t want to think about his father. He wanted
no part of the man, and yet he was his father’s son, wasn’t he?
The rage had drained, leaving a morose
numbness behind. He had little to look forward to now; the ball was
only a few days away, and Countess Besiana would keep Dardan close.
Liam would spend most of his time standing around, watching nobles
nattering on. There’d be no more evenings at the malthouse for him,
not for a while.
That might be a good thing, if the likes of
Skender Faroa’s going to be hanging about.
He wondered when Dardan would see Amira
next. Everyone would be busy the day before the ball with
last-minute preparations and adjustments, but perhaps the day
before that, another meet could be arranged. Dardan and Amira would
need to spend much more time together before an offer of marriage
could even be considered. Liam wondered who they’d present the
offer to; he’d heard of no male relatives, no father or uncle or
brother or cousin.
Don’t put the cart before the horse. Any
marriage offer’s a long ways off. For all you know, Amira will
change her mind at the last minute and skip the ball
altogether.
Instead he thought about going down to the
servants’ quarters to see if any of the girls were still awake.
Maybe Paula or Tria would be up for a little roll in the hay. His
thoughts drifted, and he found himself thinking about Katin
instead. Perhaps the offer of marriage could go to Katin. Yes,
Katin would do nicely…
Liam realized he was smiling dreamily at the
wall, and scolded himself.
Don’t go mooning, idiot. You’re
twenty-six, you should be past that sort of thing by now. And
you’ve only met the girl once.
Grumpily he turned over and
planted his face into the pillow.
He fell asleep hoping to dream of Katin, but
instead found himself fleeing through a forest from giant, angry
onions who all had the smirking face of Skender Faroa.
AMIRA
Amira’s stomach fluttered as she stood
rigidly in her gown, just out of sight at the top of the stairs.
Everything was arranged perfectly: her hair, the dress, her
powdered face, and most importantly, her sense that this night
would be extraordinary.
Katin paced on the landing, stopping every
so often to glare down past the iron banister. Her own dress was
fine enough, though of course simple when compared to her lady’s.
Katin claimed the absurdly large bustle on her dress would keep
menfolk from venturing too close to her rear. The thought made
Amira giggle.
Katin jerked to a halt and stared at her.
“Don’t ruin your appearance,” she snapped. “Lord Tarian will be
here any moment.”
“Oh, hush,” Amira said, still amused. “Not a
hair will be out of place, I assure you.”
“I still can’t believe you actually
accepted.”
Amira shrugged as much as she was able,
confined as she was in the gown. “It put an end to Count Vondulian
and the like pestering me. And besides, it was so pitiful watching
Lord Tarian all flustered and falling over himself. I couldn’t help
it. He’s hardly an ogre, anyway.”
Katin sighed and muttered something about
complications.
Amira ignored it and thought over her own
appearance again. True to the little dressmaker’s word, Amira’s
gown had been ready three days prior to the ball. She’d created a
silk in shimmering dark green that glinted wherever the light hit
it. A long vee of powdery gray silk rose from the hem in front,
culminating in a low curve under the swell of her breasts. They
only felt slightly squished by the built-in corset. Her décolletage
was bare except for a gold cat’s-cradle necklace Katin had found
somewhere, but lace climbed the sides of the neckline, surging into
a froth at each shoulder.
A golden net dotted with emeralds lay woven
into her honey-blonde hair, which had taken forever to shape and
tease properly. Tendrils of hair snaked down past the emerald
pendants hanging from her ears. White silk gloves completed the
ensemble. Her hands already sweated within them, but it would be
crude to remove them before arriving at the ball.
Now she waited, excitement pounding at her
heart. She looked forward to Lord Tarian’s reaction when he saw
her. With luck, he’d be even more astonished than the first time
they met.
They’d gotten to meet a second time, two
days ago, for another walk in the garden behind the Tarians’ manse.
Besiana had tried to keep her distance, but while Amira and Dardan
chatted, the countess had crept closer and closer, trying to
overhear without being imposing. Eventually Dardan had snapped
“Mother!” and after that she had finally left them alone. At least
that time, Dardan had managed to string a few coherent sentences
together.
Katin continued pacing. Amira sighed at her.
“You’ll wear a hole in the floor and fall atop Fortino in the
kitchen if you keep on like that. What are you so worried about?
You’ll be with me the whole time.”
Katin shook her head, causing her twin
looping braids to swing back and forth. “This is not some simple
dinner party, Ami—m’lady. The whole of Callaston’s nobility will be
there. The
king
will be there. You must be careful.”
“I promise not to disrobe in front of
everyone,” Amira said.
Katin made a moue at her. “I’m more
concerned you’ll burn down the palace.”
Amira pursed her lips. Did Katin have to try
to ruin
everything?
Of course Amira wouldn’t use her ember
at the ball. Her headaches had completely vanished, and the warm
little glow in her mind’s eye seemed content to sit and pulse for
hours, even if she didn’t use it. She’d practiced as much as she
could since her return to the city, but with all the preparations
for the ball, she just hadn’t had much time.
Or much privacy. Not that her servants
intruded unduly, but Amira had never realized just how much they
were underfoot until she wanted time to herself. It would seem
suspicious if she banished them from her presence, so she’d had to
make do with late-night experimentation in her bedchamber, the
curtains drawn, using a little candle on her night table. Blow it
out, push the ember into it until it flared alight, blow it out
again. When she pushed the ember out, she could see it as a tiny
silver bead, floating in the air, that she could command to move
this way or that. Katin couldn’t see the bead.
Amira heard quick footsteps down below.
“He’s here, m’lady!” one of her maids called out—Sara, it sounded
like. Amira couldn’t see anything from where she stood. Her stomach
fluttered again.
Katin gestured impatiently. “Get on with
it.”
Amira heard the door swing open. “Good
evening, m’lord,” Sara squeaked. “Don’t you look dashing!”
“Thank you,” came Dardan’s voice. “Is Lady
Amira…?”
“She’ll be down in a few moments, m’lord,”
Sara said.
Katin caught Amira’s eye. Amira held her
hand up, and Katin waited, frowning.
Mustn’t seem too eager.
After several heartbeats, she nodded at Katin, who then looked down
over the banister. “Lord Tarian,” the
vala
called down. “May
I present Lady Amira Estaile.”
Amira took a deep breath and stepped
forward. She’d been holding still so long, her feet had half fallen
asleep, but she managed to avoid stumbling. She came out onto the
landing and halted at the top of the stairs.
Lord Dardan Tarian stood below, with his
valo
Liam lurking behind him. Dardan’s expression told all.
His jaw dropped even further this time, though he managed to catch
himself sooner, and swept off his hat as he bowed deeply. “My lady.
You look extraordinary.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Amira said. “You, as
well. ‘Dashing’ is the word, I believe.” Sara blushed to hear her
own words out of Amira’s mouth.
Well, the girl was right. Black silk
trousers, black longtail jacket, over a starched white shirt that
buttoned halfway up and split into a vee of gray silk that matched
hers in color and shape, if not in size.
We match? How did—ah,
Besiana, so clever.
Dardan’s mother had no doubt conspired with
the dressmaker and Dardan’s tailor. A silk cravat that matched the
emerald of Amira’s dress was stuffed into the top of Dardan’s
shirt. A northern mastiff, the sigil of House Tarian, was picked
out in silver thread on the cravat. Dardan looked every inch a
proper lord, and yet at the same time so young, clutching his hat.
I wonder if I seem so young.
She made a quick prayer to the Aspect of
Courage and started down the stairs. Katin appeared at her elbow,
ready to make a grab if Amira tripped, but she made the descent
without incident.
Dardan reached up and took her hand, bowing
over it and boldly planting a quick kiss on her glove. “The coach
is waiting without, my lady. If you are ready?” Dardan’s smile
held, but it could not hide his nervousness.
Sara brought forth a fringed green evening
shawl, but Dardan said, “If I may,” and took it from her, gently
draping it around Amira’s shoulders. The party trooped outside into
the twilight.
Compared to Huffman’s simple coach, the one
that sat outside was a gaudy colossus. It was easily twice as long;
painted in crimson and gold, the seats padded with crimson silk
pillows, and drawn by a team of four white horses with silver
plumes fastened to their foreheads. Even the wheels were gilded.
The driver, an old white-haired man with gnarled fingers, wore a
crisp red coat and white breeches. Clearly the Tarians had spared
no expense for the trip to the ball.
In moments they were en route. The coach
even rode over the cobblestones more gently than Huffman’s had.
Amira realized belatedly that Countess Besiana must have taken a
separate coach.
Thank Sacrifice.
Dardan made an effort at small talk as they
rode. So far he had been pleasant enough company; that is, when he
managed to actually get some words out. He apologized in advance
for his poor skill at dancing. Even beneath his nervousness, Amira
could see that he was full of himself, as all young men were, and
possessed of some wit and charm. He was not particularly handsome,
but not repulsive either. She’d rejected prettier men. So why
hadn’t she rejected him?
Her stomach simply would not sit still. It
was the ball that had her so excited, not Dardan. The royal ball
marking the first day of summer was the social highlight of the
whole year, and every noble in Garova was invited. Along with, so
the stories went, entertainments of all kinds: jugglers, singers,
dancers, magicians, tricksters, menageries from far-off lands, and
more. Not to mention the food, a panoply of dishes from a dozen
nations, lined up on silk-draped serving tables a hundred feet
long.
Dardan was recounting a fire-breather he’d
seen at a previous ball, when Liam interrupted. “We’ve arrived,
m’lord.”
Huge mirrored stand-lamps stood in the Great
Square before the palace, casting an amber glow up the wall. Long
scarlet banners patterned with golden flames had been hung down
from the battlements. The tremendous iron gate of the palace
Elibarran stood wide open, a line of coaches creeping through
it.
“A line,” Dardan grumbled. “I hate
waiting.”
“M’lord hates waiting,” Liam agreed. Dardan
shifted in his seat, accidentally elbowing Liam in the ribs. Liam
chuckled quietly. Amira watched, amused.
They get along well.
That is a good sign.
The coach trundled forward, stopped, moved
again. After a few minutes they finally got through the gate and
into the coachyard. Amira could see a long red carpet that led away
through a colonnade. Countess Besiana had tried to explain the
layout of the palace to her, but it had been a futile effort. Maybe
if she had a map…
She could see nobles proceeding up the
carpet, some arm in arm, others holding hands in the formal manner,
their
valai
trailing along. Amira’s pulse quickened as their
turn to disembark approached.
Finally the coach rolled to a stop, and a
liveried footman opened the door, revealing a set of permanent
stone steps, the red carpet snaking right up them to the top.
Wonderful. More stairs.
Dardan gave her a hand down, at
least.
Faint music drifted to her ears, and she
smelled something warm and rich and sweet and tangy all confused
together. Her stomach growled, but thankfully no one seemed to hear
it. She’d been too busy all afternoon to eat.
The footman, dressed in the royal purple and
blue of House Relindos, bowed crisply before Dardan, who gave him
their names. The footman gestured up the carpet. “M’lord, m’lady,
please follow me.”
They passed through through the colonnade
and under another iron portcullis. Beyond it lay the foreyard, a
broad, simple garden decorated along its edges with yet more
slender oil lamps burning bright. The red carpet continued through
the center of the garden, through another archway and out of sight.
But the foreyard was already packed with people, all of them
servants by their look. Several musicians plucked at strings in one
corner of the yard.
The footman paused. “M’lord, m’lady, your
valai
may take their pleasure here.”
Amira started. Had Besiana mentioned this?
Katin looked alarmed. “But what if m’lady needs me?” she said.
The footman raised an eyebrow. “There will
be servants at the ball to meet your lady’s every need.”
Amira felt awful that Katin wouldn’t get to
see the ball, but there was nothing for it. “I’ll be fine, dear,”
she said, pasting on a smile. Katin’s glanced at Amira’s forehead
for a moment. “I’ll be fine,” Amira repeated firmly.
The footman cleared his throat a little and
took a tentative step into the foreyard. “M’lady, if you would…”
His eyes flicked toward another couple rapidly approaching behind
them.
Katin hesitated another moment, then pursed
her lips and turned to go. She stopped short to find Liam holding
his arm out for her. Katin stared at it like it was a viper, but
then placed her hand on it, and rigidly followed him into the crowd
of
valai
.
The footman led Amira and Dardan onward.
They passed through a hall strung with tapestries, and another with
windows overlooking the foreyard, and on and on, until finally they
came to a doorway framed by thick velvet curtains. As they
approached it, the sounds of revelry grew, along with Amira’s
excitement.
The royal herald waited there, an old man
with thinning gray hair and a deeply lined face. Beyond him, Amira
glimpsed what must be the grand ballroom. Her pulse pounded.
The footman whispered to the herald, then
took Dardan’s hat and Amira’s shawl and strode quickly back the way
they’d come.
The herald turned to face the room beyond.
“Lord Dardan Tarian of Hedenham, and Lady Amira Estaile.” His voice
cut through the noise, and Amira stepped into a dream.
Her entire manse and gardens could easily
have fit inside the ballroom. The whole room shone gold, with
gilded marble columns every ten feet along the edge. A forest of
crystal chandeliers hung above, hundreds of candles banishing all
shadows. A balcony encircled the upper part of the room, with
string quartets perched at either end. The hubbub was so loud that
Amira could hardly hear what they were playing.
Nobles stood clustered in small groups
around the perimeter. The middle was given over to dancing, and a
few couples were so engaged at the moment. The ball had only just
begun; the formal dances would come later, and Amira would not miss
that for the world, not even if Dardan had nine left feet.
Those closest to the entryway turned to
watch Amira and Dardan descend the short steps into the ballroom.
Amira recognized a few of the nobles, but most were strangers. The
men, and not a few of the women, stared at her with envy. There
were also a few resentful looks, all from ladies. No countess or
duchess would appreciate a lesser lady drawing her husband’s
attention. But Amira was thrilled to see the men’s jaws go slack.
She glanced up at Dardan, and was even further pleased to find him
gazing around defiantly, puffing out his chest as if to ward off
challengers.
