Chapter 21
The opening dance belonged, by tradition, to the crown.
Richard led Elara onto the floor as the musicians started a stately, gliding melody.
Her right hand settled into his, and her left rested on his shoulder.
She wore a gown of orange silk, and her hair had been swept into an elegant bun.
With her necklace of snowdrop gems, she appeared, for a heartbeat, a younger vision of their mother.
Richard allowed Elara to lead. Years of shared tutors had drilled the old Ardenian court dance into their bones—spiralling turns, dips and lifts, and gentle tilts.
Much like sword drills, he did not need to think for his legs to move.
One step, two. Spin. Lift her. Sweep into a spiral. Three, step, four.
The crowd that circled them left a wide berth. Richard focused on Elara’s smile. Since their quarrel, she had been keeping her distance, spending most of her time with Penelope, and ducking around hallway corners if she spotted him approaching.
He’d missed her.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Richard said, drawing close.
“Only tonight?” Elara raised a brow.
“You are intolerable.”
“You love me regardless.”
“I do,” Richard said. “Very much so.”
Elara’s face softened. “Brother.”
Richard spotted the Estaran princess smiling at them by Corwin’s shoulder. “Penelope…she is a good woman. Had she been sired by a different man...” He grimaced. “I cannot let you go to that terrible place, Sister.”
Elara shook her head with a sad smile. “Do not think too much, Brother.” She squeezed his hand as the music drew them close again. “Be happy for this moment.”
That brought Richard no comfort, and when the final chord rang, they separated. As the hall clapped, Richard bowed to Elara, who curtsied low, and the floor opened to the gathered guests.
Within minutes, the marble was a swirl of colour and noise.
Ardenian lords and ladies danced together, while Frostheim soldiers stamped through their own dances.
Two of Seola’s shieldmaidens spun a pair of serving girls so vigorously that one turned a pasty green.
Near the musicians, three dryads had joined hands with two fauns, and all moved in a merry circle, the dryads’ leafy locks flying in the air.
King Vikram, Richard noticed, danced astonishingly well. He did not attempt to follow the Ardenian court dance, and instead, moved his limbs to the rhythm. Seola watched him a while, then snatched him for a round.
Bright laughter reached Richard from the other side of the room. He turned to see Kaelen clumsily leading Ravi into an underarm turn. Kaelen trod on Ravi’s foot, and as the dancer fell, Kaelen caught him around the waist. They dissolved into giggles.
Richard looked away so quickly that his neck twinged and was almost grateful when he was pulled into a dance by a duke.
Thereafter, Richard found himself dancing without pause, passed on from lady to lord, and then to Corwin, who yanked Richard through the turns, then attempted a lift that nearly dropped both.
“How are you already drunk?” Richard exclaimed after Corwin bumped into a passing faun.
“Seola challenged me to a drinking game!” Corwin grinned, his face flushed, and his midnight-blue corset stained with wine. “By the gods, can the woman drink! In another life, Brother, I would have asked for her hand in marriage.”
“You are a menace.”
Corwin beamed. “I love you too!” He squinted. “By chance, do you know what upset Kaelen last night? He returned to me awfully funny.”
Richard’s steps faltered. He dipped his brother. “In what manner?”
“We were supposed to be celebrating,” Corwin said. “But he refused to drink and stood at the oak tree a long while. Said he would wear blue at the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“You tell me!” Corwin grabbed Richard’s shoulder to steady himself. “The fool kept staring at the stars and wiped a single tear from an eye. Fancies himself a tragic hero in an odyssey.”
Richard frowned. Whose wedding? Not Elara’s, surely. Not Corwin’s—the boy couldn’t commit to a man or woman for longer than a month. Not—
“Wait,” Richard said, horrified. “He means to marry Ravi?”
“No, silly! Kaelen only met him two days ago!” Corwin gasped. “Perhaps it is Lady Selwyn’s wedding! Perhaps she has decided to leave Dain for the cobbler after all! Oh, this is dreadful!” He staggered towards Selwyn, who was piling on a slice by the cake trolley. Richard hurried to follow.
“My lady!” Corwin wailed, sweeping a startled Selwyn into a hug.
“I beg you, do not leave poor Dain alone. Why, he shall starve without your good company, and waste away to bones and moustache! And he does have fine attributes, truly! His arms are very sturdy, and he tells wonderful stories, and he once hid me under his bed when Father was hunting for me—”
“Boy, that was me. Dain was the man who dragged you out and marched you to Haldric.” Selwyn wobbled, the plate of cake held aloft in one hand as she patted Corwin’s back with the other.
“He is drunk, my lady.” Richard sighed.
“I am not that drunk!” Corwin released Selwyn and drew himself up to full height. “I understand everything that is going on. I am aware, Brother, of it all. I have a great deal of opinions.”
“May we be saved from your opinions,” Richard muttered, as Selwyn resumed eating the cake.
In the hall’s centre, the herald’s staff cracked against the floor three times, and the chatter quietened.
“My lords, my ladies, and honoured guests of both or neither!” the old man boomed. “The votes for Emberlain’s Chosen have been tallied! Thank you to those who participated. Your voices have been heard, and the winner has been determined!”
Richard rolled his eyes. It was a silly tradition done every summer ball. The winner was granted a dance with anyone of their choosing, and many used the opportunity to propose.
Corwin smoothed back his fringe and squared his shoulders. “Right. That is me, of course.” He tugged his corset down and strode towards the herald. “Stand aside! I am here!”
The herald hurriedly rotated in the opposite direction. “Sir Kaelen Haramont!”
Applause crashed, punctuated by shrill whistles from the younger courtiers. Kaelen emerged, blushing, from near the east wall. As he reached the centre, the chandelier overhead flared, casting a pool of golden light around him.
Corwin stood in Kaelen’s path, arms crossed and pouting. Kaelen laughed and steered him towards Elara and Penelope.
“Thank you.” Kaelen gave the crowd a sheepish grin. “I do not know what I did to earn this honour, but as Emberlain’s Chosen, I must now select a partner for the main dance. And of course, they must be the most beautiful and radiant person in this room.”
Dozens preened, adjusting their hair or dabbing more rouge to their lips. Squires jostled each other to stand closer.
Richard slumped against the table, his shoulder brushing Selwyn’s as Kaelen’s gaze swept the room. No doubt, Ravi would be chosen. The court would swoon as the two of them took the floor, and Richard would be forced to clap like the rest.
But Kaelen turned to the west side of the hall, past the last row of tables, and towards a bench beneath the tall window. On it, Briony sat alone, hunched over her sketchbook, her legs swinging. Her cheeks were blotchy as if she’d been crying.
Kaelen gave a solemn bow. “Princess, would you honour me with this dance?”
Briony’s head snapped up, eyes widening to find Kaelen before her.
“Me?” she gasped.
“Of course. The most radiant at this ball.”
The sketchbook tumbled from Briony’s lap. She launched off the bench, curls bouncing, and seized Kaelen’s outstretched hand.
“Yes!” she declared. “Yes, I will dance with you, Sir Kaelen, and it shall be the finest dance anyone has ever seen, and if anyone laughs, we shall have them thrown in the dungeons!”
“Absolutely, Princess.” Kaelen led her to the floor. As the violins stirred, they began to dance—both as clumsily as each other, with Briony stepping on Kaelen’s boots and him windmilling her during a spin.
But Briony didn’t seem to mind. Her laugh scrunched her nose, and she shot smug glances in Isolde and Godwyn’s direction.
Richard watched and felt as if his corset had decided to squeeze his chest tight, crushing his lungs and mangling his heart. As Kaelen lifted a squealing Briony high, Richard’s eyes burned.
Oh.
“My lady,” Richard whispered. “He is so very lovely.”
Selwyn stiffened beside him.
“Lovely, is he? Well then”—she tapped Richard’s nose with a frown—“perhaps you ought to tell him so.”
“No.” Richard swallowed hard. “He—he rather despises me now.”
“Have sense, boy,” Selwyn snapped. “In my son’s eyes, you are a rose in full bloom.”
“Then, I fear he is finding the rose has sharp thorns.”
“No matter,” Selwyn said briskly. “My son has thick skin—”
Shimmering purple barriers erupted across every door—magical shields that hummed. Dianara stood by the main doors, their staff held high and brows narrowed.
“There is a witch in attendance!” Their voice was magnified by magic. “A witch infused with Rot-magic! I feel their presence!”
The music paused, followed swiftly by shrieks and a clatter of footsteps towards the sealed exits.
Richard’s breath caught, his hand flying to his sword.
Briony.
He was relieved to see Kaelen and Dain already on the girl, forming a ring with two Crownsguards. Elara, too, was shoving through the crush to reach her.
Safe, then. So where was the witch?
At the platform’s edge, one of the violinists had risen. A tall woman with an eerie grin and blackened fingernails. Her bow hung loose in her hand.
The replacement. The violinist Byrom had hired after the second harpist took ill.
This was a trap.
The woman threw back her head and screamed, setting Richard’s teeth on edge. Her eyes filled entirely with black.
“Children of Ardenia! You will reap the vengeance of Gloamvarn for your defiance!” The witch pointed her bow at Richard. “Your king leads you to slaughter! Gloamvarn offers mercy to those wise enough to kneel!”
Richard broke into a run. He shoved past a frozen duke, ducked under the arm of a fleeing baroness, and vaulted over an upturned chair. The stage was thirty paces away. Twenty. He could see soldiers cutting through the crowd, running, blades drawn.
But the witch was faster. She pressed the bow to her throat. Its horsehair glinted, sharp enough to draw a bead of blood.
“DO NOT LET HER DIE!” Richard roared.
Infused with Rot magic, Dianara had said. On death, such magic would disperse into the air, leaving a trail—a trail that would easily be followed by—
Richard sprinted faster. Fifteen paces away, twelve, ten—
The witch made the slice. Blood spurted, and her body crumpled lifelessly.
Richard skidded to a stop before the platform. His chest heaved. The panicked clamour around him fell away, drowned out by a high-pitched buzzing in his ears.
No.
The mark at his neck pulsed, and a voice came from behind. A voice that crooned in his nightmares, that roused memories of wandering hands and promises of conquest. Low, silken and intimate.
“It has been too long, beloved.”
Richard turned.
And Galdran smiled.