7. A Bold Move
A BOLD MOVE
ARIA
Aria leaned out the open archway, catching the tail end of Romy giving her thick fur coat to the doorman at the front. She thanked him and caught sight of Aria at the end of the corridor. She mouthed, “By Elys!” and gestured silently at Noble's home.
Yes, it was striking. Gleaming, warm mahogany wood accented the twelve-foot-tall ceilings with moulding and baseboards, and the art displayed in refined frames made it seem akin to a museum.
But the soft rugs, warming lanterns, and sweeping views of the avenue and river outside made the atmosphere cozy and inviting.
Add the mouth-watering scent of potatoes and onion drifting from the chef in the kitchen—
Romy's reaction was warranted. Aria giggled as he stepped out to meet her and said, “I know. I love this place.”
She blinked at him and stepped back from his approach. Aria's stomach dropped in concern, but then she whistled and said, “You look amazing. Which is amazing, because you always look amazing.”
Aria felt the color rush to his face. “Thank you?” He looked down at himself.
He wore trousers and a button-down for this evening, rather than one of his more artistic, bardic-style tunics or robes.
Since this party was private, at home, and all present already knew his musical ability, Aria had no need to display his music prowess with clothes.
The light-brown pants and off-white shirt were dressy and warm, which was a bonus, as temperatures in New Hieroph plunged.
He wore his hair half-up, half-down, having donned his most expensive solid gold drop earrings. Romy didn't hesitate to reach out and stroke a strand in front of his ear. “I'm always awed by your hair. Elys truly blessed you. It probably never tangles, huh?”
Aria laughed as Noble entered the hall and said, “It does. It's all an illusionary trick—his hair is hair. You mustn't be fooled.”
Aria's pulse raced as Romy and Noble took each other in. “Romy, this is Lord Yves St. Clair. Noble, this is Romy Singer. A retired dancer from The Bardic Post.”
She offered her hand, and Noble folded at the waist to kiss the back of her fingers. “Please, call me Noble. It's nice to meet you properly,” he said. “I remember you from the bookstore.” He stood straight and winked. “You're hard to forget.”
Romy giggled girlishly. “Hello again.”
Noble offered his elbow. “We've got drinks waiting in the sitting room, if you'd like.”
She wrapped a hand around his arm. Romy was small—smaller than Aria—and her tiny hand appeared delicate and pristine against his muscular form.
Even in her heels, black leather and square-toed with a significant platform, the top of her head barely reached the breast of his suit.
She let him guide her through the doorway, but took a moment to throw a look over her shoulder at Aria.
“By Elys!” she mouthed for the second time.
Yes, Noble warranted such a reaction, too. Romy said to Noble, “You're warm.”
Aria muffled a laugh behind his hand. She disappeared into the room, her long, flowing satin gown trailing behind her with each step.
“Good evening, Aria,” said Morgan from behind. Aria spun to face him, catching the doorman hanging his coat with the others. He'd been distracted conducting Romy and Noble's introduction, and he hadn't heard Morgan arrive.
“Hi. Hello. How are you this evening?”
Morgan held a bottle of wine for Aria to take. “Your favorite, if I recall.”
Aria blinked, surprised, and took the bottle. It was a bottle of red—the same vintage he and Noble shared the first night they dined together a few weeks ago. Noble told him about that? “How kind of you. Thank you, Morgan. I'll have one of the maitres open it for us.”
Morgan followed him down the hall, to the kitchen. The chef barked an order to someone, and a young woman manifested before Aria with a peacekeeping grin. “Hi, Lord Charms.”
“Goodness, I'm no lord,” said Aria with a self-deprecating laugh. “But I thank you for the mistake. I’m but an adame to Lord St. Clair’s household.”
The woman raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Are you?” She held out a hand to take the bottle of wine. “Should I serve this?”
Aria didn’t know what to make of her stare.
Had the help figured out that Aria and Noble were lying?
Perhaps he should have performed more magic in their presence.
Perhaps they didn’t think a real adame would go on a double-date with his patron.
It was a rather unusual circumstance. Damn Noble—his harebrained ideas could compromise their ploy.
“If you don't mind serving it before the meal?”
She gave a nod. “I'll bring it out to the sitting room for you.”
As Aria and Morgan made their way through the hall again, Morgan said, “You don't treat the help like the help. Is that an adame trait?”
Aria tried not to fidget. Morgan knew the truth, and there was no need to hide.
“It depends on the patron. Some adame are part of the family. Some are servants.” Aria had always thought he was part of Ellor’s family, even if he was technically an adame in name.
“In Noble’s presence, I’m meant to be a servant.
I forget to behave in such a way, sometimes. ”
“And Noble forgets to treat you like he’s hired you, too,” said Morgan, eyes trailing down Aria and back up, before turning to the sitting room where Romy sat aside Noble by the bay window. “I’d say I’m surprised you’ve fooled any of the nobility, but they’re usually idiots.”
Aria laughed. “Let me introduce you to Romy. She may change your mind. She’s new nobility—came into money recently. I’ll let her explain. But she’s as sharp as the blade you carry.” He gestured for Morgan to follow.
Morgan placed a hand upon Aria's back as they entered the room, and it'd been so long since anyone who wasn't Noble touched him, that the small, cool feeling of it made him pause. His soul squirmed like a puppy overstimulated by a playful pet. He managed to say, “Ah, begging pardon for the interruption.” He smiled at Morgan at his side. “Morgan DeLoude, Noble’s friend.” He then met Romy's pretty gray eyes.
“Romy Singer, a retired dancing bard from my former guild.”
Romy held out her hand, and Morgan did the same as Noble before—bowed at the waist and placed a kiss upon her knuckles. “Good evening. You look far too pretty to be pretending to listen to anything Noble says.”
Romy's smile turned wicked, and she said, “I'm not just good at dancing. My acting is second to none.”
Noble feigned a broken heart. “You know I nurse emotional wounds already, you two.”
Aria watched the three of them settle into their seats.
The candlelight from the sconces flickered across their smiling faces, and the delivered wine fit into each hand like it was meant to be there, and Aria thought he may need to have a painter render this moment in his life, because, for a moment—everything was perfect.
Short-lived perfection.
A few hours later, as they sat in the formal dining room polishing off Morgan's bottle of wine, Morgan groaned. “You have got to be kidding me. I cannot believe how wrong you are.”
Aria gasped, nearly rising out of his chair as he said, “I'm not.
I'm an expert in this, you know? I studied it in school; I've been working with it since moving here ten years ago. Magic is by far the best weapon one can have. We’ve centuries of wars between elves and the rest of you lot to prove it.”
“If you dared to say that inside my guild's walls, you'd be laughed straight out of New Hieroph entirely,” Morgan said. “Our training with weapons is centuries old because it's reliable in a way that magic is not.”
Aria's irritation made his face flush red. He spoke as calmly as he could as he said, “Your training with weapons is centuries old because soldiers like the Guardsman don't have magic, and non-elves spent their lives trying to come up with ways to combat us.”
Morgan made his point by sweeping a hand over his face, changing his visage to that of Noble. When he waved his hand again, he returned to his own face. “I have magic.”
“Shapeshifting is not the kind of magic connected to the veil as elves are. You don't possess the power to conduct spellwork,” Aria said, raising his wine glass. He paused, took a sip, and placed it back onto the table. “You knew what I meant.”
“You said magic, which I have,” Morgan emphasized. “I can't cast spells as you do, but I can change my shape, and again—changing my shape pales in power to something like a damned sword.”
Aria gripped the edge of the table and swung a wide-eyed look to Romy. “Back me up. You're a spellcaster, too. Tell him.”
Romy smiled without her teeth. “He's got a point, I think.”
“What?” Aria gasped. Traitor! She knew of his unique, innate skill. Surely she would recognize he’d beat Morgan in a head-to-head.
Romy burst into a laugh and waved her hand. “I'm sorry, beautiful boy. But I know for a fact that my spellcasting cannot stop a knife if it's thrown across a room.”
Aria straightened in his seat and said, before he could stop himself, “Mine can.”
Morgan groaned. “You cannot stop a knife.”
Aria's fingers tightened to white against the table. “I can. I swear it.”
Morgan produced a knife so suddenly, so smoothly, that it could have been spellwork itself. More likely, he'd had it up his sleeve as most trained guardsmen would. “You believe you could stop this. If someone threw this at Noble, to kill him and change the line of succession for the throne—”
“Hey,” Noble huffed, arms crossed at his end of the table.
“You believe you could save him.”
Aria exhaled and said, “I am certain of it.”
“Then we should try.”
Noble said, “Hey,” again, but this time with a sense of trepidation.
Morgan shot him an unimpressed look and pointed to the wood post at the far end of the dining room. “If you can stop this knife before it strikes that beam, then I'll concede that some magic—some, not all—is as powerful as weapon-work.”