Traitor's Masque (22 page)

About the time it appeared that supper had been fully consumed, but before the guests had any opportunity to grow bored, the music started up once more, but this time it was not dancing music. The strident tones were quite unmistakably a summons. After only a short burst of sound, the atmosphere throughout the room was entirely altered. Eyes glittered, chatter turned nervous, chairs were pushed back hastily and dinner partners forgotten. A steady stream of people poured from the dining rooms back into the Grand Ballroom, where it was immediately obvious that the dais was now occupied. Though not by anyone Trystan had expected.

A slender, ordinary-looking woman stood there, her brown hair neatly rather than elaborately coiffed, her dress plain but flattering. She appeared to be about Malisse’s age, and completely unperturbed by the turmoil that had overrun the rest of the room. With no more than a raised hand, she spread ripples of quiet across the crowded ballroom, until only occasional murmurs could be heard echoing over the distant clinking of supper being cleared away.

“Thank you.” Her voice was clear and firm, and seemed a bit amused. “For those of you new to our court here at Evenburg, I am Countess Norelle. We are pleased that each of you has accepted your invitation and chosen to be present for this momentous event.” She paused, looking over the crowd as though noting who was present and who was absent. As if anyone was.

“Tonight the Royal House of Tremontaine seeks the benefit of her subjects through royal marriage.” Her tone grew more forceful, as though to impress upon her listeners the gravity of her words. “His Royal Highness, Prince Ramsey Tremontaine, heir to the Throne of Andar by the grace of His Majesty King Hollin Tremontaine, has determined to solicit a wife from amongst the esteemed families of our kingdom, thus strengthening his ties to the land and her people.”

The countess paused again, as if in consideration of what she was about to say. “Prince Ramsey’s many duties have demanded that his time be spent in the council chamber, rather than amongst his people. As a result, and to his regret, His Highness finds that he has formed no lasting attachments that might be considered a basis for a royal marriage. Nevertheless, His Highness is committed to a marital union that will prove not only of benefit to the kingdom, but of lasting benefit to the health and prosperity of both participants.”

The murmuring swelled and buzzed. No one seemed quite sure what to make of this speech.

“To this end,” the countess continued, a bit louder to be heard over the susurration, “we have chosen to accept applications from those ladies whose eligibility is certain, whose character is above reproach, and whose desire is to serve their kingdom through marriage to her prince. Should you choose to apply, ladies, you should be aware that your prince is seeking an alliance not only of name but of mind.”

Even Trystan knew that this was an odd thing to say. Royal marriages were about pedigree and behavior, money and fashion. And if this Prince Ramsey was so dull as her sisters claimed, what kind of girl did he expect to get in a marriage of the mind?

“I believe,” the countess finished with a warning note in her voice, “the wisest course I can advise is that of honesty.”

Trystan nearly laughed aloud. She wondered if any honest words had been exchanged that evening. Certainly not on her part. The thought made her unexpectedly weary, and in that unguarded moment she thought of Donevan. Wondered what he would say if he were present. He had not seemed to her the sort of man who would be expected to attend an event such as this. Or who would have come even if he were invited. It struck her that if he had come, she could have told him what she was thinking and he would have understood. Would have laughed with her. She would not have felt so alone in the midst of so many.

Pointless and distracting speculation, Trystan reminded herself firmly. She had a job to do and moping did nothing for her chances of success. Besides, the countess was speaking again.

“I would ask those of you who intend to apply to step into the antechamber behind the dais. Applicants only, please. There you will receive instructions on how to proceed for the remainder of the evening.”

Trystan tried not to give rein to a rather evil grin. She could appreciate the humor in the situation, and perhaps even the strategy: separate the girls from their mothers, keep them off-balance, then watch to see how everyone reacts. She suddenly wondered whether Prince Ramsey was even now watching the whole affair. It was lucky she didn’t care one whit how the whole thing turned out, because part of her was beginning to like this unknown prince.

One by one, the girls filed through a door that opened in the wall behind the throne. As they disappeared, the whispers in the Grand Ballroom rose to a roar, abruptly cut off as the door closed behind them. About fifty young women found themselves in what appeared to be a modest audience chamber. It was lined with tables, each of which bore a number of inkpots and a selection of quills. At the head of the room sat a desk. At the desk sat a somber looking man in a wig and a green velvet coat, who eyed the roomful of twitching debutantes over his spectacles as he straightened a stack of paper. Trystan raised an eyebrow in interest.

“Ladies, please approach the desk one at a time. You will receive an application and take it to one of the tables provided to complete the questions. You will at no time speak to one another or discuss your answers. When you are finished, please bring the completed application to me and wait near the door. When everyone is finished, you will receive further instructions.”

By now, every girl in the room was about to burst with nerves and uncertainty. Questions? Were they hard? Did the prince expect them to know anything about history or commerce? Know how to do sums? Trystan summoned a satisfying image of Anya and Darya biting their perfect nails.

The girls were apprehensive enough that there was no mad rush for the desk. Trystan took her time, and was near the last to reach the green-coated man, who handed her a single sheet of paper. Trystan took it to a table, took up a quill, and glanced at the questions. There were only three. First, the paper requested her name. Elaine Westover. Second, the paper asked very simply: Do you wish to marry Prince Ramsey Tremontaine? Third: Why?

Trystan almost chuckled in unrestrained amusement. The audacious fellow was actually asking fifty girls why they wanted to marry him. As if he expected them to be honest. It was, she thought, with a brief inner shrug, better than simply choosing a girl for her dowry or her dancing.

Thinking for only a brief moment, she scribbled her answers with a smile. If they wanted honesty, they would get it. Nine words later, she folded her application and handed it back to the man behind the desk, who raised surprised brows at her, then favored her with a brief lifting of the corners of his mouth.

Trystan returned to the door to wait and watch as the other girls stared at the ceiling in thought, scribbled furiously, or looked around suspiciously as they tried to hide their answers from everyone else. On the opposite side of the room, Anya and Darya appeared to be more occupied with glaring at each other than actually writing anything down. It was quite a while before anyone else finished, an eternity before the last application was handed back. Shortly afterward, the Countess appeared again, picked up the stack of applications, and addressed the room.

“Ladies, we thank you for your time and consideration. At this time, His Highness Prince Ramsey would like to address you.”

As a door in the back of the room opened, the girls sank instantly into deep court curtseys. With her head properly inclined, Trystan wondered what he would look like, this boring prig of a man who wanted an honest wife. Short, bald and bespectacled? Mustached and inclined to fat? Or tall, thin and dry, with a voice like chalk on a slate? She raised her head in unison with the rest of the room, as a well-built young man of medium height seated himself informally on the front of the desk and looked dispiritedly around the room.

Trystan had been prepared for many possibilities, and had formed few expectations. She was even inclined to be entertained by the spectacle. But every scrap of her cheerful indifference vanished into nothing as she looked up—at the tired, sardonic expression on the face of her friend Donevan.

The boring prig.

The threat to his kingdom’s security.

The man she had been asked to betray.

Suddenly all of these men had a face,
the
face that had haunted her since her eighteenth birthday. His Royal Highness, Prince Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine.

Of all the hearts in that room, Trystan’s was probably the only one that truly skipped a beat when the prince spoke. Her head was spinning so hard and her mind was so very blank that she almost missed his actual words.

“Thank you for coming this evening.” His voice was soft; his tone conveyed both confidence and courtesy. “I hope you all understand that I regret the necessity of haste as much as, no doubt, do you. I’m sure no one desires to enter into something so solemn as marriage in haste.”

Trystan felt quite sure, watching him, that he did not desire to enter into matrimony at all. That this was one of the burdens she had seen in his eyes.

“And yet,” he went on, “for the sake of our beloved Andar, it cannot be helped. It has become essential that the House of Tremontaine take a bride. In the midst of my regret, I am nonetheless committed to finding a woman who will, one day, be a queen that Andar will remember with both fondness and pride. It is to this end I have accepted your applications, and to this end that I chose to hold a masque.” He looked at the floor for what seemed a long pause.

Trystan could see him searching for the right words. Wanting to be open, knowing he would be mocked for it.

“I hope to convey to all present that I do not seek to marry a girl with only a charming face, or a splendid dowry, or even an impeccable pedigree. I wish to know what is in your minds and hearts, not in your jewel boxes. Please accept my apologies for speaking plainly, but I think it best that you know, now, what I am seeking. If you find yourself unable to enter into this undertaking with honesty, then I hope you will accept that a marriage between us could only prove painful to both parties.” He stood then, and addressed them more firmly, looking at each in turn.

Trystan tried desperately to hide behind a taller girl in front of her.

“You were invited for tonight so that you could answer my questions and enjoy the evening. Over the next few hours the dancing will, of course, continue and I hope you will enjoy the opportunity to meet each other. I regret that I will only be able to dance with a few of you before the evening is concluded. Tomorrow, however I hope to rectify that. Your applications will be reviewed before morning. A smaller number of you, that I wish to speak to more privately, will be invited back, with your families, for an informal luncheon tomorrow. As I said, I wish to convey that I am choosing a wife, not an ornament. If there are any questions, they will be taken by the Countess Norelle. Please accept my apologies if we do not have a chance to speak later in the evening.”

With that he bowed formally and left the room.

How Trystan made it out of that room she was never quite sure. She found herself standing in the Grand Ballroom, arm-in-arm with a nervously chattering Larissa.

“… And I didn’t have any idea what Mother would have wanted me to write, it’s not like she’s prepared me for writing things. What do you suppose he wanted me to say? Talk about my father’s business? Or whether we support the crown?”

Trystan stopped listening when she saw Lady Isaura beckoning her from across the room. They had agreed not to speak to each other where Malisse might see or overhear, but as Trystan’s stepmother was whispering furiously to her daughters in the opposite corner, there seemed little danger of that.

“What did they say?” hissed Lady Isaura impatiently, after Trystan managed to evade Larissa. “Did you see the application? What was it like? Did you see the prince?”

Trystan could only look back at her in uncomprehending silence. Her tongue was frozen and her mind was still stuttering.

“Yes,” she managed.

“Yes, what? Really, Elaine, if you cannot do any better than that, we may as well leave now. I cannot imagine why I thought you were capable of this task!”

Her blustering didn’t really seem important. Trystan looked blankly at Lady Westerby, trying to remember her questions. She just needed time to
think
!

“Yes,” she repeated eventually. “There was an application. It had”—Trystan counted carefully on her fingers—“three questions. We all answered them and the green man said a few of us would be invited back tomorrow. Now we dance.” She stopped. That was all the information that seemed pertinent.

“Well, what were the questions?” Lady Isaura was not going to let her go that easily.

“Did we want to marry the prince and why.”

The older woman’s brows shot up, then drew together in frustration. “That’s ridiculous. What did you say?”

Trystan shook her head muzzily. “I don’t remember. I need a drink.” She was done talking. No matter what Lady Isaura thought or threatened, she didn’t have any more words in her.