Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Must everyone who attends these things always be so predictable?”
Draven stood off to the side of the lavish room, dressed in an all-black trimmed jacket and waistcoat.
His mother wore a sparkling charcoal gown that spilled out like a puddle around her feet.
Draven liked the dress, but it felt like it belonged to someone else.
Someone whose personality was befitting of the gown.
Still, his father had insisted it be what his mother wore to tonight’s ball, so wear it she must.
She sipped from her slender crystal glass, a subtle scarlet stain now mottling the rim. “Watch yourself, Draven,” she warned in a light tone—despite being entirely serious—eyes hovering over her drink. “You never know who might be in the shadows eavesdropping at this sort of event.”
Her face maintained a carefully neutral expression.
Pleasant, though not overly so. The perfect mask.
As he watched her, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever one day be as skilled at maintaining such an impenetrable facade.
Though, his mother had once told him that it was the superpower of women: to watch the world crumble and maintain themselves.
She had said that, though their egos would have them believe differently, men were far more emotional than women.
They simply lacked the capacity to process their emotions, and so most often, they disguised what they felt as ambition or wrote their passing feelings off as something other than.
According to her, it was why men’s tempers were far more explosive and why they were more prone to brawls, duels, and other pointless confrontations.
Emotional regulation incompetence, as she had put it.
“Mother,” he had said, a wrinkle in his nose. “You tell me this, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am a man.”
“I tell you this because of that fact. Don’t be like them.” She had glided a hand down his face, caressing his cheek. “Be better than them. Don’t adhere to some silly standard—set a new one.”
At the memory, Draven blew out a breath that made his cheeks flare. “What time are we permitted to leave this thing?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered, her eyes still fixed on the spread of spinning colors as people glided across a marble dance floor. “Your father will indicate when he wants us to leave, I suppose.”
“I’m sure he will,” he muttered under his breath.
To pass the time, Draven began scanning the crowded hall and observing all the many people.
He would hone his attention on someone, then craft their story based on the evidence he could find surrounding them.
He liked implementing the tactics his tutors taught him—he found it an interesting sort of game.
He noticed a woman most certainly having an affair.
A man conducting business illegally—most likely some sort of gambling scheme.
Underground fighting pits, Draven would wager.
There was even a man who had near-imperceptible charcoal stains on the outside of his fingers, paired with a thin layer of residue from a powder clinging to his nails.
Draven decided he was a blacksmith. The silhouette of his body supported the needed stature for such a profession, and the way he carried himself—reserved, polite, yet rigid in his attempts to mirror his surroundings—told Draven he was not a frequent attendee to such social events.
He probably forged some noble a great sword, and they were so impressed by his work, they invited the man to attend as their special guest.
Draven was particularly proud of that deduction.
Yet as his eyes wandered and his mind told stories, his attention snagged—caught on the lilac outlines of a girl near his age.
She followed around an older woman, carrying a pitcher in her small hands.
Her hair was braided back, and she wore an outfit mirroring that of the older woman, but was more befitting of her own age.
He watched her song after passing song, struggling to piece together her story. When the guests smiled at her, she scowled. When they reached for her, she stepped away.
Much like him, she was forced to be here. That much was obvious.
His mother crouched down to whisper near Draven’s ear. Subtly, she pointed a finger in the girl’s direction. “She’s far too young to be in here, attending to the guests.”
“She is,” Draven agreed. Then, he paused, considering. “She carries herself differently.”
His mother hummed, surveying the girl for a long moment. “She’s been shadowing that woman all night, yes?”
Draven nodded. “From what I’ve seen.” He glanced at his mother, and he was surprised to find sympathy now brimming within her gaze. “What is it?” he asked. His mother—though tender hearted—did not offer sympathy often.
A strange expression filled his mother’s features. Her eyes were softened as she watched the girl, yet her lips thinned as if enraged. There was also a twinge of disgust twisting the corner of her mouth. “She’s in training.”
“Training?” Draven asked, confused at first. “What in god’s veins could she be—”
He stopped, reality dawning upon him like a rising sun. Only, this sun was not beautiful. It was not warm nor welcoming nor gentle in its arrival. It was cold and cruel, illuminating what laid in the shadows of kingdoms and their courts.
He dropped his voice. “Oh.”
“King Alastair is known to love his night attendants. He takes their craft seriously, training them to be fluent in manners and easy at conversation.” She paused, glancing sidelong at Draven. “Alongside other things.”
He rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “I’m fourteen, mother. Not eight. I know what goes on with those attendants.”
She quirked her brow at him. “Do you?”
Despite himself, his cheeks flushed with heat. Of course he did—he had Kiran as a brother, for the gods’ sakes. But that didn’t mean he felt the least bit comfortable discussing such…things…with his mother.
“You were making a point,” he pressed, sidestepping her question entirely.
She chuckled, the sound soft and airy and better than any music playing in this ballroom.
“My point is, he does not assign just anyone to join his precious attendants. I’ve heard rumors he mostly chooses from the top” —a pause, as if catching herself— “performers,” she said delicately, “at well-respected establishments. The younger the better, though not too young to put off his guests. Seventeen and eighteen, if he can find someone of promising quality at that age. He’s been heard saying that age is the sweet spot for malleability. ”
A wave of disgust rolled through Draven. “So why is there a child following one of them around?”
“I don’t know,” his mother murmured with a shake of her head. “But whatever the reason, it can’t be something good. The only silver-lining here is that King Alastair does not allow his attendants to entertain until they become of age. This much I know for certain.”
“Still,” Draven muttered, feeling an odd sensation of passing sadness in his chest for the girl.
“That’s terrible. She’s being forced into something she clearly has no say in refusing.
I mean look at her—she doesn’t want to be here, filling everyone’s drinks.
” As the words exited his lips, Draven suddenly understood where the pang in his chest stemmed from—in some parallel, twisted way, his fate was not all that different from hers.
Yet he had a title, a Great House, and an incredibly powerful father to fall back on. She, Draven would wager, had nothing. And the way such insignificant things held such significance made Draven sick.
“Do you think her parents sold her?” Though it was rare, it did happen.
His mother shook her head. “I doubt it. She wouldn’t be directly assigned to the night attendants if so.” She glanced at him. “Do you remember what I told you about King Alastair?”
“That he is sick and cruel, and that I should never trust him.”
She dipped her chin. “Precisely. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that girl is now an orphan. Her parents—or at least one of them—probably were in service to the king before they passed. Knowing Alastair, I’d wager the girl’s assignment is probably some sick form of poetry, the slimy bastard. ”
“Careful,” Draven mused in a low voice, his eyes darting left then right. “You never know who might be listening, remember?”
His mother blew out a deep sigh and nodded. “Very good,” she commended through a fabricated laugh. “You were listening to me, after all.”
Draven snorted at that.
Together, he and his mother watched the young girl in silence for the duration of a sweeping ballad.
She was going table to table with the pitcher wedged firmly between her too-small hands.
Eventually, she filled a golden goblet for a young lord Draven didn’t recognize.
He was loud and constantly drew an audience.
When she was finished, she turned her back to him and stuck her tongue out while curling her lip.
Then, with a quick flick of her brow and shake of her head, she strode along to the next table.
Draven cocked his head at the sight, and he laughed. “She’s going to have to learn to hide her expressions better, that’s for sure.” Still, Draven did find it admirable—if not also risky.
One must learn to fight back in the ways they can.
His mother sighed. “I wish I could steal her away in the middle of the night and take her back with us.”
Draven glanced at her, his brow arched. “But to be clear, you know you can’t, right? As King Alastair’s property, it would be an act of war.”
Her lip curled. “May the men who believe they can own a woman burn in a special place of Merikh’s realm.
” Her deep brown eyes found Draven and she gave him a look that made him feel like he was already in trouble for something.
“If I ever find out you treat a woman like that, even from the grave, I will come back and clobber you upside the head.”
Draven snorted a laugh. Though, he knew his mother was deadly serious. “You have my word I will never treat a woman like property.”
“Good.” She squeezed his shoulder.
In a display of perfect timing, Eri approached them. His hands were clasped in front of him, his black hair neatly slicked back. “Enjoying yourselves this evening?” His words came out like a purr.
It took all of Draven’s training not to sneer at the man. He loathed him. Even when Draven was just a young boy, he and Eri did not get along.
“It’s been a wondrous evening,” his mother answered diplomatically. “What a privilege it has been to celebrate my husband’s accomplishments.”
“I’m sure,” Eri said with an incline of his head. “I believe it is the beginning of a beautiful new partnership between Rivara and Erandor.”
His mother’s smile was tight. “Indeed.”
Eri glanced between her and Draven, seeming to debate whether he should address him or not.
Luckily for Draven, he chose to not. “Supreme Commander Dalmar has requested I escort you from the ballroom and out to the terrace to meet with Lord Fjolla and his new acquaintance. He has instructed me to inform you he will join you momentarily.”
“And where is my husband currently?”
Eri’s smile was rehearsed. “Tied up, I’m afraid.”
“Ah,” was all she replied.
Draven blinked, as if just registering their conversation. “Finlay’s father is here?” The words came out before he could think better of it.
Eri looked down at him with the smallest hints of disgust in his eyes—or maybe it was jealousy, who could be sure. “Of course he is. He is one of your father’s closest companions and Head of a Great House—why wouldn’t he be here?”
“Lord Sulien’s not here,” he pointed out as a counterargument. It seemed like the easiest, most succinct response to show his point.
“That’s…” Eri paused, his lips thinning. “Different.”
Draven cocked his head. “Is it?”
A tension swelled in the air between them. Draven could tell he just caught him in something. Though, what that something was, he hadn’t the slightest clue.
Eri glared at him, clearly working through the repercussions if he acted out of turn toward Draven. The thought was nearly readable in Eri’s eyes: would the potential consequences be worth the gratification?
Before he could come to an answer, Draven’s mother stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on Eri’s arm. “I’d like to refill my drink before heading over.” Her voice was smooth and stern. Not overly-assertive, but not submissive, either. The perfect Lady.
Eri observed Draven through narrowed eyes a heartbeat longer. “Very well,” he said, finally redirecting his attention. “Let’s be on our way.”
He watched as they turned and strode off, Eri whispering something into his mother’s ear as he escorted her with a hand resting at the small of her back. His mother’s movements had grown stiff and rigid.
It was an act of the gods Draven didn’t release a burst of magic then and there.