Chapter Eleven #2
What cure was there for a broken heart? “Thank you, Jiarine, but no. I’ll be fine. All I need is a few bells of undisturbed rest. Tomorrow the court sees off His Majesty and our army. I have informed my guards that I am not to be disturbed by anyone for any reason. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. That will be all.” Though she kept her tone gracious, the dismissal was unmistakable.
Jiarine curtsied. “Of course. Rest well, Your Majesty. And please send for me if there is anything at all you need.”
“Yes, thank you.” Annoura turned on her heel and waved Lady Montevero away. The tears she’d vowed not to shed were burning her eyes, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out. Especially in the face of Jiarine’s sincere concern.
She stood stiffly until she heard the click of her parlor door closing, and then the dam burst. The tears of a lifetime came pouring out in great, racking heaves.
Outside the door of the queen’s chambers, Jiarine’s steps faltered at the anguished sounds filtering through the heavy door.
She considered turning back, but the Queen’s Guard had already moved to block the door, and their expressions made it clear they intended to enforce the queen’s command for privacy.
Awareness tickled the back of her neck like a chill wind, and she turned to find the Primage Gethen Nour—she could never think of him as Lord Bolor—standing in the hallway.
He met Jiarine’s gaze, then turned and walked with casual purpose down the hall to one of the small parlors where courtiers often gathered while awaiting the queen’s pleasure.
No sooner had he entered than half a dozen young ladies exited the same room.
Jiarine steeled her nerves and forced herself to walk towards the parlor. Her heels clapped a measured beat on the marble tiles.
The moment she entered the room, Master Nour caught her by the elbow and dragged her into the corner, out of sight of any passersby.
“Well?” he snapped.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I never had the chance to ask her.
” For days now, he’d been pressing her to arrange a private audience with the queen, but Annoura had rebuffed each of her attempts.
“As soon as she returned from the king, she dismissed her entire court. She is crying like I’ve never heard her cry before.
” Jiarine marveled at the unexpected surge of sympathy she felt for Annoura, then stifled it quickly and marshaled her thoughts before Master Nour decided to pry into her mind.
He placed a hand on her throat and tightened his fingers ever so slightly.
“This does not please me, Jiarine. You’ve had five days to arrange for the queen to meet me alone, away from her guards, yet at every turn, you have some reason why you cannot give me what I want.
I begin to think you are deliberately thwarting my will.
” His fingers tightened more. “Your time is up, Jiarine. We will give her a bell or two to calm herself; then you will take me to her. You will make up some excuse to get us past the guards.”
She bit her lip. She hated him—hated him—and though she was too afraid of his wrath to deliberately thwart him, she hadn’t pushed as hard as she otherwise might when the queen repeatedly refused to grant him an audience.
Still, if he pressed tonight, he would fail—and fail badly—and she would pay the price.
Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Lord Bolor, you do not understand the queen’s moods. Believe me when I tell you that would be a mistake. If I defy her command, she will dismiss me from her service.”
He moved closer, crowding her back against the wall.
He was a tall man, broad shouldered and fit.
If it weren’t for the calculating look in his eyes and the hint of cruelty in the set of his lips, he would be truly handsome.
He stroked a finger gently along her jaw.
The tender gesture made her stiffen in fear.
His eyes were icy cold, as was the sibilant whisper that sliced across her nerves like a serrated blade.
“If you defy my command, I will punish you much more severely than that.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. If she worshiped the gods, she would have prayed to them now, but she had turned her back on them long ago.
“My lord, please. I’m not defying you. I’m trying to help you.
If you press her now, you will ruin everything.
She could well dismiss us both from court in a fit of pique.
Tomorrow, when she is calmer, I will arrange for you to meet her—without her guards, and away from the Fey and the palace wards. ”
Master Nour’s eyes narrowed, and she knew her last remark hit its mark.
He’d been complaining all week about how the Fey were making a total nuisance of themselves, spinning detection spells upon almost every fingerspan of the palace so that the barest hint of strong magic set off alarms and brought guards running.
He had even taken to meeting his umagi outside the palace walls to avoid detection when he spun his will upon them.
“Very well. You will bring the queen to me.” He leaned closer, crowding her against the wall and pressing his lips to her ear. “Tomorrow, umagi, and do not fail me again, or I promise you will spend your last hours of life screaming for mercy.” His fingers lightly caressed her jaw.
The pointed clearing of a throat behind them made Nour freeze. He straightened and turned to glare at the small, exquisitely garbed Master of Graces standing in the corridor not half a man length away.
Jiarine could have kissed Gaspare Fellows. Never had she found him so welcome a sight.
The same could not be said of Master Fellows. He was looking at the pair of them as if he’d found Nour’s hand on her breast instead of her jaw.
“Lady Montevero. Lord Bolor.” Disapproval crackled in each syllable of their names.
As the arbiter of all things fashionable and mannerly in the court, Master Fellows held the unique position of being able to dictate propriety to all but the most powerful courtiers.
It was a responsibility he took quite to heart.
“Master Fellows.” Jiarine forced a smile. “How delightful to see you. And how is your precious Love doing today?”
The Master of Graces was clad in expertly tailored forest green satin breeches and waistcoat with an amber-lined demicape slung rakishly across one shoulder.
A small, fluffy white cat wearing a matching diamond-studded green satin ribbon sat perched on his other shoulder like a Sorrelian sea captain’s talking bird.
The feline looked at Master Nour and hissed, her thick fur standing up on end.
“Love!” Master Fellows scolded. “That’s quite enough.
” But the kitten would not be soothed or silenced.
She hissed again and swatted extended claws in Nour’s direction.
Master Fellows apologized. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Bolor, Lady Montevero. I don’t know what’s gotten into my little Love.
She’s been quite beside herself lately.”
The Primage’s eyes narrowed.
Alarmed, Jiarine smoothly inserted herself between the two men. Despite Master Fellows’s ofttimes pretentious ways, she’d always held a secret admiration for him. He was a self-made man, and even though she knew he did not approve of her, he nonetheless always treated her with impeccable courtesy.
With a winning smile, she clasped Master Fellows’s elbow and steered him out of harm’s way.
“Master Fellows, I’m actually quite glad to see you.
I’m planning a small tea to welcome one of the queen’s newest Dazzles to court, and I wanted to ask your opinion on the matter of the table linens.
Lady Zillina insists that I must use satin, but that strikes me as entirely too formal for an afternoon tea. Am I in the wrong?”
As she and Master Fellows turned the corner, Jiarine risked a final glance over her shoulder. Master Nour was gone.
Southern Celieria
Elves were exceptional runners by mortal standards, but they didn’t hold a candle to the Fey. At a warrior’s run, the Fey could have crossed the five hundred miles of southeastern Celierian farmland in three days. With the Elves slowing them down, it took them the better part of five.
They made camp their last night in Celieria beside a small stream, where the thick, arching branches of a fireoak tree would provide shelter.
“If one of the Fire masters will build a flame,” Fanor Farsight said, “there are fish in that stream. I’ll sing us up a few for supper.” Not waiting for their response, he walked to the mossy edge of the stream and lay on the bank.
“I’ll just get that fire, shall I?” Tajik muttered with a scowl as curiosity sent the other Fey wandering over to the stream’s edge.
“Watch this,” Rain murmured to Ellysetta as they joined the others near the stream.
Fanor put one hand in the cold, clear water and sang a hypnotic Elvish tune. Within a chime, a fat river trout swam into his hands, its sides gleaming with flashes of gold and green scales. Fanor’s fingers closed about the fish and flipped it up, out of the stream.
Gaelen caught the airborne fish with swift, instinctive Fey reflexes.
“Still it, but do not kill it,” Fanor advised, and Gaelen spun a simple weave to calm the flopping creature.
Fanor sang to the stream four more times, and four more fish swam into his grasp to be flipped up into the waiting hands of the Fey.
Fanor rose to his feet and stood before the Fey.
He sang another soft, achingly beautiful song, each note ringing with pure, perfect pitch.
Then he closed his eyes, splayed one hand, and tiny globes of white light shot from his fingertips and enveloped each fish.
When the light and the last notes of his song faded, it was clear the fish were dead.