Kydona

  Chapter 6

  “Good evening, Lord de Febvre, I’m pleased you’ve come.” After the two hundredth refrain, Marcus’s task had grown excruciatingly dull. He was varying the wording, of course, just enough to stroke the ego of the next person in line. The base of his spine ached from bowing to the ladies. The handshake was tougher, though. With each new one, the urge to start breaking men’s fingers was getting stronger.

  He had always been told that one could glean much of a man from his handshake. A limp grip was supposed to mean disdain. Were that true, he would have had to fight the added urge to kick Lord de Febvre back down the palace steps. But the man was old, feebler by the day. Rumor had it he shat himself every night.

  Lucky for him that Marcus had never put much stock in stupid advice.

  The old lord squinted up at him as he shook his grandson’s hand. Then the abashed lad led him through the columns and into the bright-lit Atrium.

  “Poor boy, it’s quite a quandary he’s in.” Roslene had made herself marvelous for the tonight’s ball—naturally, because it was mostly her doing. She wore a floor-length toga made of gleaming white satin, trimmed in gold with a ruby belt at her waist to match her hair.

  “What quandary is that?” Marcus asked politely, caught somewhere between relish and intense dislike.

  She smiled and curtsied for the next couple in line. “His grandfather,” she replied once they had passed, “has promised him all his inheritance, yet in his senility he has made ludicrous demands of his peasants. He has driven away half already. So, once he dies, the young Lord de Febvre will have ten thousand acres of land and no one to work it, and in his youth he has no mind for administration. People will take advantage.”

  So will you, whore queen. You’ll have one of your girls chasing him all night whispering sweet romances in his ear, and once the old lord’s dead and his grandson’s coffers are empty, your girl will helpfully suggest he sell some acreage to a certain willing buyer. All prearranged. Lies and trickery and gold…

  “I see,” he said. The courtesan had been feeding him similar tidbits of gossip this whole time. This lord was soon to wed his daughter to a higher family but had not, and could not produce a suitable dowry. That lady, his second cousin thrice removed, was barren and her husband would likely divorce her once he returned from campaign. Ah yes, and this lord—the reedy, liver-spotted one, had a special taste for exceedingly young gi—well, it wasn’t appropriate to speak of such things.

  Word of his noble peers’ vices and misdeeds flowed freely from Roslene’s lips. Useful information, true, but there was sure to be a price. And the line of ball-goers running down the palace steps was shortening. Whatever she wanted, she was going to hint at it soon.

  “So.” Right on time. “Has your father been writing you?”

  Marcus half-glanced back at the Atrium, where Jacquelyn was waiting for him. She would be with her parents, who would not have been on the list of invitees if not for his intervention. Inwardly, he sighed, knowing that to escape Roslene’s trap would only condemn him to a long, awkward conversation with Jacquelyn’s father.

  “He has, yes. A letter per week.”

  “I’m pleased he has found the time to write his son. His campaign has been… rigorous. I do hope you have been sending letters of your own.”

  In fact, most of the letters were stuffed in his desk, unopened, and he had replied twice at most. “I have.”

  They paused their hushed conversation to greet the next couple. Then Roslene said, “Men at war, they tend to forget—with remarkable ease—that they have a home to return to. Your father told me that. War drains the soul. It encompasses one’s existence. But a letter from home reminds a soldier that he has a life outside the madness of war. He remembers he has a home. A family. It renews his sense of cause. He takes heart from knowing that he is not forgotten.” She fixed him with her emerald eyes. Her gaze told him that she knew he was lying.

  “Do you write him, then?” he asked, knowing himself caught.

  “Every day,” she replied unflinchingly.

  “Generous of you.”

  She inclined her head. “He is the more generous. He and his men.” They let a few more couples pass, smiling, Marcus shaking their hands and Roslene curtsying deeply—Marcus playing host in his father’s place, Roslene playing hostess in his mother’s. The courtesan was good at it; she knew everyone by name, asked after their families and their affairs, beamed as if each was her dearest friend in the world entire.

  Then she said, in a very low voice, “You hide it well—the way you regard me.”

  He did not react for a moment, to mask his surprise. “I suppose I do. You’re the one who trained me.”

  “True enough. Even so, I know you very well, Marcus, though I know you would not have it so.” She seemed to be pondering, but then, it could have been for effect. “Those of my… profession… tend to view everything as commodity. People, information. It’s quite safe to say we always have a motive. We do nothing for free. You know this already.”

  “Yes.”

  The line of people was finally at its end. The last couple passed by and walked eagerly into the Atrium, more than ready for the festivities to begin. All that remained was for Marcus to parade in afterward, Roslene at his elbow, with a horde of servants and guards to precede them.

  She faced him. “I know you will not believe me when I say this. But I will tell you anyway, I have never treated you as a commodity. I have never profited from divulging information that concerns you, or your affairs.”

  He sneered, suspecting a half-truth. Just because she had never profited from him did not mean she had kept her silence. “You just admitted you never act without motive, my lady. Let’s get to the point. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Have you ever considered,” she said, missing a tiny fraction of her composure, “that I do feel something for your father? That I am acting on his behalf?”

  “That would be very, very unlike you, as a courtesan.”

  “Then think of me less as a courtesan and more as a woman.”

  “That’s not much of an improvement.”

  Her laugh was a beautiful sound, and the smile that came with it was likewise flawless. The fact that both were cultured made her even less trustworthy. “Well put. You’re perfectly in your rights to assume I am lying. But I am not. Consider that I care for your father, and for you by extension. My motive in speaking to you is this: I want you to be safe.” She drew uncomfortably close to murmur in his ear. “Take my word when I say you are in dangerous company. When you give your welcome speech, when you make the toast, please tread lightly.”

  His mouth went dry at her last words. He looked at Roslene, near to gaping, but she had already taken his elbow and faced forward. The letter—could she truly be its author? Roslene Beauvais, his mother’s secret confidante, privy to secrets that could be the undoing of Elessia? It couldn’t be true. It made no sense, even if the warnings were almost identical.

  She was eying him sideways, the corner of her mouth lifted. “Do you plan on perhaps dancing with my daughter tonight?” It was as if their prior conversation had never taken place.

  Finding his voice, he replied, “We’ll have to see.”

  Kaelyn’s mother’s laugh contained an unmistakable hint of mischief. “As you say. Once you see her, I’m sure the choice will make itself.”

  The procession was in place by now. The servants were in position, dressed in suits just decorative enough to please the eye, but just drab enough that the same eye wouldn’t be held long. Guards lined each flank of the procession, armed with tall halberds. Their breastplates and helmets were made all the more resplendent by the mirrored lanterns the servants carried, white candlelight streaking across polished steel.

  A score of heads away at the front of the procession, a captain’s voice rang out. “Make way for Lord Prince Marcus Audric de Pilars! All hail the crown prince!” The vast chamber beyond went quiet. A handful of se
conds later, at the captain’s hand motion, the column started forward in perfectly-synchronized steps.

  “Let it begin,” Roslene whispered with mirth, and the pair of them followed.

  They passed between the first layer of columns, then a second and third before emerging into the Atrium itself. Roslene had not been idle in her preparations. Her workers had cleared away the planters and gambling tables, leaving a great empty floor untroubled by clutter. Over a hundred meters away on the far side of the chamber, the head table had been set up just before the formidable keep doors. The adjacent tables were crowded with platters, heaped with delicacies of the Broken Isles—lamb, eel, fish, artichokes, bread, and more. Brass chains and gnarled sea ropes were strung across the ceiling. Most impressive of all was the chamber’s open side. Somehow, Roslene had diverted water from the gardens’ artificial river into the Atrium itself. A new stream meandered between the garden side columns, held to its course by barricades cleverly disguised as sea cliffs, complete with scrawny trees and shrubs clinging to its crags. Arching bridges provided passage across the stream to the gardens outside—where Marcus imagined Roslene had even more surprises in store.

  “Impressed?” she asked quietly.

  “Not bad,” he admitted, though he privately thought the audience lessened the effect.

  There were hundreds of noble peers in attendance, each vying to outdo the next in sheer opulence. The women wore shimmering dresses with blown-out skirts, their hair dyed into vibrant hues, strung with ribbons, and dressed into towering piles over their heads. There wasn’t a wrist without a bracelet, or four, and not an earlobe without a jewel. Their perfume singed his nostrils. As for the men, they had donned their finest tunics—most dyed purple, blue, or burgundy to mark wealth—only to cover them up with thick doublets and arm capes. Every man wore two belts: one for his leggings, and one for his sword.

  The blades were pure tradition, but the looks their owners were giving Marcus were just short of foul. He met their eyes smiling, refusing to be cowed.

  He and Roslene paraded up the middle of the Atrium. Every few yards, the pair of guards at the front of the column peeled off to stand at the edges of the aisle, at rigid attention with their halberds planted upright. The last pair to do so was Gail and Kelly, who, in perfect sync, halted their step and about-faced in front of the head table to face the crowd. Somewhere above them, an unseen Blaxley was panning his bow across the crowd. The servants veered off and lined the table’s breadth at intervals, their lanterns dicing the keep’s massive doors with crisscrossing light beams.

  Marcus led the king’s consort around the table and helped her into her seat, a picture of chivalry. He faced the crowd with a broad grin that he did not feel in the slightest. A shining sea of noble bloods stood before him. There were precious few smiles cast back in his direction.

  A servant, dressed opulently for the role, strode over and filled his goblet with wine. The man’s footsteps faded, leaving Marcus with ringing silence.

  He lifted the goblet, if only to have something to do with one hand. The other, he clenched behind his back where no one could see. “My fine lords and ladies.” He could speak almost normally; the Atrium could make a shattering glass sound like a thunderstorm. “On behalf of the king, and on behalf of our late queen, I and the Lady Beauvais welcome you all to the Falltide.”

  There was some polite applause at that.

  He let it die, considering his obligatory first toast. It was still there, every syllable lodged firmly in his mind from the countless times he had mentally rehearsed it. There were many swords in his audience tonight, and nearly as many dour expressions. Perhaps a cliché would do just fine—a toast to the King’s health, the Queen’s memory, and Elessia everlasting.

  For better or worse—with the second much likelier—he had never had much patience for politics. “I believe it is a mark of our human nature, that we may know a thing in our hearts without allowing our minds to recall it.” He let the smile return. “If you will forgive me, this will be a lengthy toast.”

  Laughter rumbled through the chamber.

  Once the echoes faded, he raised his voice and started to speak.

  Nine hundred years ago, our great Lord Aspect began his great undertaking. His task was daunting: he sought to unify the many kingdoms of this land, which had warred with each other since the dawn of our memory. A daunting task, but a noble one, come straight from the mouth of God.

  It was apparent to all who saw him that he was beyond mortal. When he spoke, crowds held their breath in awe. Kings fell prostrate before him. Before he had need to raise his sword in anger, the whole of four kingdoms had burned their banners and raised up his. Men flocked to him from every corner of these kingdoms to offer him their service. He raised an army. The world had never seen a force of such size, such zeal. Had he bade them, his men would have marched off the edge of a sea cliff to dash themselves on the rocks below.

  They gave him a name: Ancel, which in the old tongue means “God-like”.

  With his army in readiness, Ancel began his Holy War. His men were willing to die, and many did—many on both sides, for there were nations that resisted the coming light. These were nations rank with corruption—festering sores, abominations in the eyes of God. Upon these, Ancel unleashed his wrath. Cities burned to cinders, fortresses crumbled into gravel, and the blood of legions salted the ground upon which they fought, so that the fields refused to yield crops for years to come.

  He was wrath incarnate, and he left naught but destruction in his wake. But God’s wisdom is infinite. He had sent Ancel to cull mankind’s evil, yet knew that man was not beyond redemption.

  To this end, he sent his second Aspect. She walked the ruins of the places Ancel’s rage had set alight. There was not a pain that she could not quell. She mended wounds with but a touch. She fed the starving from a basket which was never empty of bread. The Scripture tells tales of those who walked the breadth of the land—people unknowingly drawn to her healing power like moths to a flame. She freed them of all despair, having shared with them but a portion of her endless love.

  They named her Elessa—a play on the ancient name for heaven.

  Where Ancel destroyed, Elessa built. He dealt punishment to the wicked; she offered redemption to those who would accept it. His way was wrath; hers was mercy. They were the twin Aspects of God—incarnations of his divine will, perhaps his most favored angels, as some say.

  The mere fact that such beings could coexist is evidence of their divine nature. As it was, they shared a mutual love and respect for one another. They knew themselves to be two halves of a whole, and they were exceedingly careful that their followers did not become divided against each other. Such a rift would undo their holy work.

  This legacy can still be seen today. Ancel’s general Celarus so admired Elessa that he pledged himself to her service for as long as he lived, a tradition his brotherhood honors to this day. Elessa’s scions are many; her healers, armed with her sacred craft, still accompany our armies on each campaign. And once the armies return, our Lady’s priests and priestesses await to unburden their souls.

  Together, God’s twin Aspects forged our nation. The story of their latter years is one you know, but suffice to say, the Holy War ended. Ancel, perceiving that his purpose was at last fulfilled, chose to depart this world. Not long afterward, Elessa did the same—but not before she made a last solemn promise.

  One day, when the world’s need was great, she and Ancel would return.

  It was a warning.

  †††

  The packed Atrium was absolutely silent. Grim faces looked at Marcus, still standing at the head table with his goblet half-raised. The red wine rippled as his hand shook.

  He had never told anyone how much speaking for an audience frayed at his nerves. No one had ever guessed; he was good at it. There was a reason these people, Elessians who knew the tale by heart, were listening so raptly.

  “We named our country Elessia
—not with our Blessed Lady in mind, but with the hopes that these angels walking among us had helped us create a heaven on earth. But our saviors, in their wisdom, foresaw a time when we would forget the virtues they taught us—when man would once again become decrepit, given into sin and debauchery.”

  He considered his audience. Jacquelyn was somewhere among them, likely thinking him a huge ass. Vernon would be rubbing his forehead with exasperation as he wondered how to salvage the night from his best mate’s preaching.

  “There are those who declare the Aspects’ return is imminent—that we live in the end times.

  “I say they are wrong. It is when we have depraved past redemption that our Honored Lord and Blessed Lady will return to us. Ancel gave quarter to those who asked it, and Elessa forgave those sins confessed her. They are both merciful, in their own ways. Once we sin without begging forgiveness, we will have reached the point of hubris, the ultimate crime against God—and that is when their feet will again grace our soil.

  “I refuse to believe we are so decayed.”

  He raised his quivering arm high. His jewel-studded goblet shone gold by the light of a score of diamond chandeliers—and before him, Elessia’s splendorous nobles held up their own cups. Opulence enveloped Marcus and named his declaration false before its echoes had even faded.

  Swallowing, he pressed on regardless. “And so my toast:

  “To the King.” The crowd began to repeat the toast but he cut their murmurs short. “To his soldiers, the sons of Ancel, who yet suffer and die for our sake. To the poor folk in the countryside who dread the coming winter even as we here welcome it. To us, my fine lords and ladies—to us. May we remember that we are descendants of Ancel and Elessa, of the sons and daughters that they left behind. May we be reminded that our heritage is not a gift but a burden—to safeguard their chosen people, to tend the land for which so many before us have sacrificed. May we hold to this sacred task, always.

  “I toast to our duty!”

  They stared at him, many mouths gaping, having never quite considered that their young prince was capable of such eloquence. For a laden moment, there was frozen silence.

  Then Lord de Gauthier shouted, “To duty!”

  “To duty!” cried another, and another until the whole place was teeming with those echoing words, overlapping and reverberating like waves on the ocean.

  Marcus drank and took his seat. His smile was real now. He had done it. He had managed a seemingly impossible task—to chastise and flatter both at once. For a precious moment, he allowed himself to believe his words were true.

  “Stirring words, your highness,” Roslene said into his ear. She kissed his cheek in congratulation. To Marcus, it was less a reward than a curse.

  He thanked her all the same, then sat to quietly bask in his peers’ acclamation.

  Shortly, the Council of Highest paraded up to take their seats to either side of him. There were seven in all, one for each of the Elessia’s provinces. He stood to welcome them all. He accepted Vernon’s father with a warm smile, but he was the only one who deserved it. His tongue was sour as he traded bows with Lord de Martine, whose vast holdings in Ronery supplied a quarter of the King’s annual tax revenue, and who had contaminated his son with every ounce of his seething self-righteousness. He shared Jaspar’s steely blue eyes, which regarded him amusedly, as if the prince were a child tripping over his first steps.

  The rest were little better—Lejeune, Guiscard, Morent, Isnell, Villiers, all names that the years had taught him to despise. They were old men who fed like ticks off their provinces, gobbling up ever more land for their estates, and taxing the remainder into destitution. Marcus suspected they collected much more gold than they reported, but his father had never seemed inclined to investigate.

  Once they seated themselves, Roslene made a pretty little speech, and with the lady of the house’s permission, the ball began.

  At the far side of the Atrium, servants wheeled away a scaffold, revealing a fantastic musical assembly. There were pipes, lyres, drums, horns, bells of every size and shape, even a bronze-plated harpsichord. They started off with a merry tune, its light melody mixing appropriately with the rising hum of laughter and conversation from the crowd of nobles. Servants were appearing from the kitchen tunnels, laden down with platters of exotic southern foods, trays of fine wine.

  And then there were the courtesans. Just as Roslene had promised, they did not disappoint. Her girls filtered in from the garden in singles, pairs, and groups, all smiles and wagging hips. Their costumes were magnificently provocative. One blonde was swathed in a cloak so sheer it was near transparent, with only carefully placed jewels to hide her nudity. Another was in a perilously short leather dress, and had procured a shortbow and quiver to complete the costume. There were amber necklaces and jeweled headbands, golden harps and winged helms, even a set of ridiculous feather wingtips bobbing over the crowd’s heads.

  Marcus averted his gaze. Jacquelyn was watching him, just as certainly as Roslene was now.

  “Entertained?” The consort sounded very much so.

  “I expect nothing less of you, my lady,” he replied, already scooping delicacies onto his plate. He was obligated to spend the next hour at the head table with the esteemed high lords, and he planned to devour his way through it.

  But Roslene had no intention of brooking silence at her table. Her craft was people, and she was formidably good at it. She merely started to talk, and the lords around her could not help but pick up the thread of conversation she wove. Even Marcus had to join in after a while, and though the strain between him and the Council was evident at times, Roslene filled in the awkward pauses so effortlessly that they might not have existed at all. She told stories so well that the nine men strained to listen. She got Marcus to eat a suspicious-looking sardine pastry that he never would have tried on his own, and as he fought not to choke, she laughed in such a way that he didn’t think to be affronted.

  After an hour, he had to remind himself that he disliked her.

  Fortunately, the time for the first dance was here. He took Roslene’s hand and stood as the musicians’ latest tune eased to a halt, and together, they made their way out from behind the head table. The servants retreated from the chamber as the nobles obligingly edged to the sides, clearing a great dance floor in the middle.

  They watched as Marcus faced Roslene there. He mirrored her smile, though he wished he could have dispensed with custom and danced with Jacquelyn first—not the woman who had openly courted his father and disgraced his mother in the act. But unlike marriage, tradition was inviolate.

  The music rose into a slow melody. Marcus bowed deep, one arm stuck out behind him; Roslene lowered her eyes demurely and curtsied. They joined together, and as the music picked up its second measure, they fell into step. She followed his lead with effortless grace—which was natural, because she had taught him this exact dance when he was a boy, using her daughter as his partner.

  That had been many years ago, and much had changed since. Roslene had gone from tutoring Princess Geneva’s son to carrying on an affair with her husband, Audric de Pilars. War had come, taking the king’s life and propelling Audric to the throne beside his wife. Geneva had faded into obscurity in the victorious general’s shadow, stung by the loss of her father, humiliated by his open affection for Roslene—and soon enough, King Audric’s consort held more sway at court than his queen.

  Marcus was struck by the obscenity of the moment. He wanted nothing more than to let go of her waist, the same one his father held close every night. It was strangely ironic that he had had an illicit affair with Kaelyn, echoing Roslene’s relationship with his father. It was a small revenge, unfulfilling at best.

  They made for a lovely pair as they stepped, twirled, and swayed across the floor—a handsome young prince and a robed Goddess. Soon the onlookers could no longer contain their envy. Couples eagerly flooded onto the floor to mimic their dance.

  A couple of minutes l
ater, the song ended. Marcus smoothly kissed Roslene’s hand and applauded with the rest, then excused himself. Somewhere in the crowd, Jacquelyn and her parents were waiting.

  But half the crowd was just as anxious for his company. Thanks to the pair of guards at his back, they parted easily enough, but he could move hardly a few yards before getting belayed. Minor lords pestered him to endorse or condemn tariffs. Their wives produced marriageable daughters for his consideration. Ambitious young men bludgeoned their way through the throngs to introduce themselves, likely wanting Kydonian acreage or military commands, though Marcus had the power to provide neither.

  Harassed as he was, Marcus had to humor them all. He conjured a fake smile, shaking and kissing innumerable hands, the ladies’ perfume burning his lips. But the stream of connivers refused to abate. The more he pretended to care, the more encouraged they became, and their renewed prattling was grinding his patience away.

  “Marcus!”

  The nobles abruptly stopped chattering, shocked that someone had dared to call the prince by name.

  But his smile was genuine. Jacquelyn had come to his rescue.

  He kissed her hand and accepted one on his cheek. “You’re lovely tonight,” he said by way of greeting, looking her up and down. She wore a long-sleeved green dress with gold embroidery. Her cheeks were powdered and her hazel eyes were framed with black liner.

  “You think so?” she piped, ecstatic. “I tried putting my hair up but I decided there’s a reason I keep it down.”

  The nobles watched sulkily while Jacquelyn guided him away, helplessly wondering how this lone young woman had stolen their prince’s attention so easily. “Who is that?” someone whispered.

  Jacquelyn did an admirable job ignoring them. “Your speech was so good! I wish you would talk like that all the time!” She failed to notice the wry look he gave her. “I have to introduce you to my parents,” she continued excitedly. “They really want to meet you.”

  Them and everyone else, he thought. “We’ve come to that point already, eh?”

  “Yes!”

  Her parents were perched on a couch on the closed side of the chamber. As soon as they caught sight of Marcus, they rose. Her father had the look of a strong man gone to seed, with a rotund belly and thinning grey hair, but his eyes—the same color as Jacquelyn’s—were alight with sharp wits. He bowed. “Your highness. That was a fine talk you gave before, congratulations.”

  Marcus inclined his head. “Thank you, Lord Duchesne. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He held up his hands, laughing. “Pierre, just Pierre, your highness.”

  “Naturally. And this is your wife?”

  It was obvious that Jacquelyn had gotten her good looks from her mother. She was a tall woman—taller than her husband, in fact—with brown hair, intensely blue eyes and hourglass figure. In her younger days, she would have made quite a prize—still did, in fact. The woman executed a flawless curtsy, a hint of her past occupation. “Cheryl, your highness. It’s an honor.”

  “It’s all mine.”

  The four of them exchanged some polite conversation. Jacquelyn’s parents were friendly people, but Marcus let her do most of the talking. Caution was always the prudent choice, where a girl’s parents were concerned.

  Jacquelyn squealed as the second song of the night ended. “Oh, can we dance?”

  He laughed. “Why not?” That seemed to please her parents. Bowing their way, he took Jacquelyn and led her off. Couples were streaming to and from the dance floor, and the musicians were readying their instruments for the next song.

  The pair found a clear spot and faced each other. The impending start of the dance was signaled by a trio of bells. Around them, the gaily dressed couples bowed and curtsied, as did they. The prince stepped forward and flourished his right hand, which Jacquelyn took with a smile. He wrapped his other arm around her waist; hers came to rest on his shoulder. She was perilously close to him, the tips of her breasts nearly brushing his chest, her face bare inches away.

  His heart beat faster.

  The musicians started to play, and the dance began. It was a good tune—neither slow nor quick, with a steady beat for the dancers to follow and a melody pleasing to the ear. Marcus could barely hear it. He was entranced, intoxicated by Jacquelyn’s golden eyes, the smooth angles of her face.

  Her head swayed in tune with the music; her movements mirrored his precisely. They may as well have been joined at the hip—they practically were, so close had she pressed herself against him.

  “You’re a good dancer,” he remarked.

  She simpered. “You are, too.”

  More for show than anything, Marcus pulled her even tighter and spun them both around in a tight circle.

  “Hope your parents aren’t looking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m practically inside you.”

  She nearly succumbed to a fit of giggles but managed to fight it down, for appearance’s sake. People were scrutinizing her—the audience lining the floor, the other dancers. Fortunately, she either didn’t notice or pretended not to. They just danced along, enjoying each other’s company.

  After a few minutes, the music stopped, and the air became still again. Jacquelyn dipped into a curtsy for her partner, as did all the women around the chamber.

  Marcus bowed. They joined the rest of the room in applauding the musicians before making their way to the side. Before long they had found an unoccupied couch; many were vacated as couples took to the floor for the next dance.

  The scrutiny was still there. Pairs of eyes darted over him and Jacquelyn—most of them surprised or intrigued, but some of them jealous or even angry. At his age, Marcus’s affairs were expected to hint toward marriage. Jacquelyn Duchesne, a lesser noble girl whom few had heard of before, was suddenly a threat. They may have been right in that assumption. Marcus genuinely liked her.

  He ignored the stares of girls he had spoken with but never pursued—the glares of their elder family members, who saw their potential royal tie in jeopardy. Instead, he talked to the young woman sitting beside him as the dances ran their courses. They occasionally shared a laugh over a courtier who lost his step, or a couple whose outfits were a mite absurd. Vernon stopped by, but Eliza quickly drew him off for the next dance.

  Whenever a servant went by, Marcus called one over, constantly supplied with drink. It wasn’t more than an hour before their cheeks were rosy with the effects, their heads buzzing pleasantly.

  Leave it to Kaelyn to ruin it all.

  Marcus was in the midst of a jest when Jacquelyn’s eyes drifted over his head. “See, this is why I don’t tell jokes. I’m getting the feeling I’m terrible at it.”

  “You need a sense of humor first.”

  He twisted around. Sure enough, Kaelyn was standing beside the couch, eying him lazily. Roslene hadn’t lied. Her daughter was worth killing for. Marcus had seen low necklines before, but she had parted from hers completely. She loosely wore a blue shawl about her shoulders, with billowing sleeves and an open front that left her breasts bare. Below that, there was a long skirt with chevrons of blue, yellow, and orange. Her feet were sandaled, and her crimson hair was done up in curls.

  His eyes were unfairly drawn to her exposed breasts. He couldn’t help but notice she had darkened her nipples for the occasion. He swallowed, did his best not to stare. “Nice lack of a dress you have there, Kaelyn.”

  “Yes, well, I thought the occasion warranted it. Ancient Lyrian style, you see. Not to worry, Marcus, you aren’t the only one looking. Are you going to move over?” When he didn’t immediately budge, she perched on his armrest. She looked at Jacquelyn. “Hello. We’ve met but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  Jacquelyn’s expression was uncharacteristically neutral. She gave her name in a monotone.

  Kaelyn had rested a hand on his shoulder, seemingly for support, though he knew better. Jacquelyn couldn’t have failed to notice; her eyes narrowed a fraction. Marcus took o
ne look at their smiles and thought, Oh God, they’re going to murder each other.

  Even so, Kaelyn rattled off the usual get-to-know-you questions. Her white teeth gleamed like a shark’s. “Well, I’m glad we’ve met,” she finished. With Jacquelyn dispatched, she turned to Marcus, who once again was fighting to look at anything but the tits practically brushing up against his face. “How long has it been, Marcus? Weeks now? Maybe we can catch up tomorrow. I’ve been missing our time together.”

  His mouth was dry. “I’m getting by without much trouble.”

  She brushed the insult off with a laugh, a tendency she’d learned from her mother. “Well regardless.”

  He was dangerously close to telling her to fuck off, but without warning, Roslene was there with them. “Kaelyn, Marcus! How fares the night?” She was unfazed by her daughter’s scandalous dress, or lack thereof. More than likely, she had commissioned it.

  Kaelyn smirked. “Very well, mother, I was just about to ask the prince to dance.”

  “Oh, good! I’m sure you’ll oblige her, won’t you, your highness?”

  He wanted to kill them both, but that wasn’t exactly an option, what with Kaelyn already hauling him onto his feet. There were eyes on them all again, and to refuse the dance would only make him look a petulant child.

  Jacquelyn saw the wordless apology in his eyes. She nodded, pale-faced, and stood. “I’ll go find my parents.”

  She left, and Kaelyn led Marcus to the floor on an invisible leash. They attracted every eye they passed—the crown prince, about to dance with this half-naked girl of the night. She was making an ass of him. He somehow managed not to flush at the thought.

  The song was already a minute old by the time they got to the center of the chamber, but they swept into it regardless—and became the center of attention in the process. Now everyone was watching, muttering behind hands. Here was their prince, making himself a hypocrite for all to see.

  Kaelyn was pressed so close that her breasts were quashed against his chest. Her nose practically touched his. There was a distinct predatory look to her smile.

  “Why are you doing this?” Marcus hissed.

  “Doing what?” she asked, all innocence.

  He gritted his teeth. “She’s a nice girl, Kaelyn. She didn’t deserve that.”

  Her voice fell to just above a whisper. “Oh yes, look at you, so bloody chivalrous all of a sudden. Go ahead and pretend you’re angry for her sake. I know you better.”

  “You don’t know a damned thing.”

  She flung herself back on her tiptoes, pirouetted, and fell back into his waiting arms as the applause faded. Into his ear, “I suppose you’re right, I don’t know a thing about you. If I did, I would’ve seen what you were about.”

  His pulse was racing with pent-up fury. “I was never about anything. It happened the way it did. I didn’t mean—”

  “You knew full well what you were doing, you fucking liar.”

  It was the truth. He knew it. Elessia’s nobility was snickering quietly as they watched their prince make himself a liar. Jacquelyn would never want to speak with him again. Vernon and Eliza were gaping at the two of them from the edge of the floor. Somewhere in heaven, if such a thing existed, his mother was looking down on her wayward son in disappointment.

  What a bitter treat humiliation was.

  Kaelyn’s eyes stared, seething with a hatred spawned by betrayed love. He couldn’t have spared her all that pain, not after that first fateful night she had spent in his bed, but he could have left her a measure of peace. He hadn’t, and she had allowed herself to love him. The price was paid.

  He wanted to tell her how sorry he was—but his anger and pride took the words, twisted them, spat them out as, “People are going to fuck you and leave you for the rest of your life. Get used to it, whore.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, and he knew he had won. The victory felt like a knife in his belly.

  After what seemed an eternity, the dance ended. Marcus kissed Kaelyn’s hand, tasting bile, and she strode off without another word. Sadly, he watched her go.

  Jacquelyn wasn’t with her parents, who thankfully had not seen him dancing. He spoke with them for a few minutes, hoping their daughter would show up. When it became obvious she wouldn’t, he tried the couch where they had sat, but a trio of powdered women occupied it instead. Now he was growing worried. He ran into Vernon, who tried making a lewd joke about Kaelyn’s costume, but he was not at all in the mood and excused himself. He made a worried circuit of the Atrium, brusquely dismissing any courtiers with the nerve to approach him. Everywhere were smiling nobles and flirting courtesans, but no sign of Jacquelyn.

  Just as he began to think she had left, an idea occurred to him: the gardens. With renewed hope, he pushed towards the throng. Between the garden-side columns, the open night air beckoned. He at last reached the columns—then tripped over someone’s foot and nearly tumbled headlong into the artificial stream. Swearing mightily, he regained his footing, ignoring the amused stares of a nearby group of ladies, and found a footbridge. He crossed the gurgling stream, between another row of columns, and found himself in a place he barely recognized.

  Fountains had sprung up everywhere, topped with life-size nude statues commissioned just for the occasion. There was a giant cage of Lyrian songbirds, their incessant chirps mixing with the music drifting out from the ball. Elaborately-worked benches dotted the grassy clearing, enclosed by scaffolds draped by climbing vines—perfect shelter for casual liaisons.

  Thankfully, Jacquelyn was not there; she was sitting on another bench on the winding palace walk. A sigh of relief caught in Marcus’s throat as he realized who was with her.

  “What are you doing here, Jaspar?” he demanded as he approached, fists balled.

  Jaspar had one foot up on the bench, his muscular bulk looming over Jacquelyn, who looked more than a little intimidated. She flickered a smile at Marcus while Jaspar adopted his customary sneer.

  “I’d ask the opposite of you, de Pilars. What kind of man leaves his woman alone while he goes dancing?” He added smugly, “With a whore.”

  Marcus shot back venomously, “I don’t feel the need to explain myself to you, de Martine.”

  Jaspar put his foot down. He straightened his jacket. “Then I won’t explain myself to you.”

  They stared each other down for a few heavy moments while Jacquelyn glanced anxiously between them, her skirts bunched in her fists. Marcus itched for the blade at his hip. After his bout with Kaelyn, he very much wanted to kill something.

  Jaspar stepped forward, a dare that Marcus matched. With that, they were toe-to-toe for what seemed the umpteenth time, glaring balefully into each other’s eyes.

  “You never come near her again, you hear me?”

  “Oh, I hear you. I’ll even take you up on that offer. Duchesne, eh? She’s a pretty little thing, for having a bought name.”

  “Fuck off.”

  His erstwhile friend chuckled malevolently. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?”

  Marcus didn’t see fit to answer.

  “You’re not, not by a long shot. I know the way you really work, de Pilars. Keep pretending you’re the better man. You know you’re just lying to yourself. And I’ll tell you now, you can’t lie forever. The minute you slip up, you’ll see you’re just as fucking low as you think I am.”

  “No one can slip up as badly as you did.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Jaspar grinned and shoved past him with ease.

  “There’ll be a reckoning between us one day, Jaspar,” he said to his enemy’s retreating back.

  Jaspar turned around. The grin remained. “You’re right,” he agreed, backing away slowly. “One day someone’s going to beat that arrogance out of you. I can’t wait to see what’s left.” He turned his back and had soon disappeared into the Atrium.

  Marcus stared after him the whole time, grinding his teeth with frustrated anger. He noticed his knuckles were a
ching. He looked down; he had been clutching his sword handle. The wire-wound pattern was imprinted into his palm. He could take small comfort in the knowledge that his men-at-arms were not far away, and they would have stopped him if it had come to blades. But one day soon, that reckoning between them would come, and no number of guards would be able to intervene.

  “Marcus?”

  He sank onto the bench beside Jacquelyn. His hands were trembling. “It’s alright. He won’t be coming back.”

  She played uneasily with her hair. “He… he saw me leaving the couch and he started talking to me. He said he wanted to talk out here where it was quieter. He said he was curious about me.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “He never said anything bad, though. He seemed nice.” She went quiet. “I’m sorry, I was angry at you. That’s why I went with him.”

  He let out a dispirited chuckle. “Long as you weren’t going to kiss him.”

  Her face went livid—an expression Marcus had never seen from her before. “I would never do that,” she said angrily. “That’s the last thing I’d ever do to you, or anyone else.”

  He thought of Kaelyn. Jaspar had been right about him. He was no better. “It was a mistake,” he said after a long time, “between me and her. I let it happen even though I knew I should have stopped it. You shouldn’t have to be involved.” He couldn’t apologize to Kaelyn, and neither could he do it for Jacquelyn—even if they both deserved it.

  “It’s fine,” she said anyway, touching his arm.

  He took her hand gratefully. He looked out over the gardens—the man-made waterfall, the orchards, the sparring field. Half a mile away stood the crenellated outline of the palace’s walls—no defense against foreign armies, but a barrier to the common folk beyond.

  A new realization took hold: this new relationship with Jacquelyn was a mistake too. He was bridging a gap by dallying with her. She was common-blooded, when all was said and done; he was royalty. It could only end badly for her.

  But he locked eyes with her and knew something was there, something he had never felt before—and in his selfishness, he could not let her go.

  “Why do you hate him so much?” she asked softly, oblivious to his internal dialogue.

  He pondered how to explain—whether to tell her at all. Hesitantly, he replied, “There was this girl he was… with… a couple of years ago. Estelle. That was her name. We were all friends—me, Jaspar, Estelle, Vernon. You couldn’t help but notice, though—he wasn’t good to her. He interrupted her when she talked and he poked fun at her more often than he should have, even when it was obvious she was hurt. But she just followed him around anyway. The worse it got, the more infatuated she was. We saw it happening but we didn’t say anything. Didn’t think it was our place to say.

  “It got so bad that we just started avoiding them. Jaspar got some new mates—some nasty characters, still hangs around them today. One night, he hosted a party at his house here in the city. I stayed downstairs and I didn’t see, but I heard what he did. He got drunk, and he took Estelle upstairs and… he brought his mates into the room with them, and he forced her to take off her clothes, and he fucked her right there, with all of them watching. Can you imagine the humiliation of something like that?”

  Jacquelyn looked rightly shocked—almost nauseous. “That’s so terrible,” she whispered. “How could he do that?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know. She stayed with him after that. He broke it off with her after a while, but I know she still sees him every so often.” He rubbed his mouth. He wasn’t going to tell her, but Jacquelyn and Estelle were very alike—kind, loyal, self-deprecating, innocent, hopelessly romantic.

  He swore he would never wrong her the way Jaspar had done Estelle.

  “So,” he said with false brightness, “you just remember that story the next time you want revenge, alright?”

  That cheered her up. “And you remember to not give me a reason to want revenge.”

  “Done.” They gazed out over the gardens for a while. The smell of orchids and jasmine wafted over them. The sound of flowing water soothed their ears. Beyond the palace’s walls, the white towers of Ancellon shone in the moonlight, yearning for the heavens.

  He thought to ask Jacquelyn if she wanted another dance—but as soon as he turned his face toward her, hers was pressed against it, kissing him with sudden passion. Her tongue darted into his mouth. Her breath washed against his cheeks.

  His night had taken a notably better turn. Pleasantly surprised, he took her by the neck and kissed her back.

  Slowly, she broke away. “Sorry,” she giggled.

  He grinned. “Want to dance?”

  Her smile broadened. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.” The remainder of the night passed smoothly enough. Thoughts of Jaspar, Kaelyn and Roslene were tough to dispel, but the harder Marcus tried to ignore those thoughts, the fainter they became. Jacquelyn helped. Energized by his romancing and good wine, she turned out to be a marvelous dancer. Marcus was beside himself, watching her move across the floor, her lithe form gyrating and twisting against his, her strong thighs outlined beneath her skirt. Every so often they snuck off to some dark corner for a tongue-filled kiss, but the break never lasted long.

  Vernon and Eliza lightened the mood as well. Both were heavily drunk by the time Marcus found them. Vernon was up to his usual antics. “I know you feel hot, I swear, just one more button and you’ll feel loads better.” This, when her blouse was practically open. When she caught him ogling at her sweating cleavage, she gave him an indignant push—which sent him plunging into the stream. The fun ended when she tried to help him out and he hauled her in with him. Her enraged father very nearly challenged him to a duel then, only Vernon’s father and Marcus talked him out of it.

  Luckily, the night was practically over by then. The music had mellowed. Most of the revelers had already made their way home. Jacquelyn’s parents were among them; Cheryl had bid Marcus good night with a lighthearted wink and a whispered, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to behave…” That, he wasn’t so sure of.

  He separated Vernon and Lord de Laumaurne with some difficulty, then bid everyone a good night. Except Jacquelyn. She followed him to the royal suites without protest, and with a certain twinkle in her eye that promised the night was not quite finished.

  “Wow,” she mouthed as she stepped into his chambers. “I can’t believe you just sleep here!”

  “I don’t. This room is where I entertain my guests,” he gestured at the couches, where he and Vernon had so recently entertained two—even three—courtesans. “That there to the right is my study. I don’t go in there much—books and all. There’s the balcony,” where Kaelyn’s wiles had gotten the best of him, “and here’s the part you’ll like.” He threw open the door to his bedchambers—where Kaelyn had finished the job.

  He ignored that pang and walked in, with Jacquelyn right behind. “What do you think?”

  “That bed is huge!”

  “Well it has to sleep two or more, you see—”

  She went to slap him, but he caught her wrist. Laughing, she yanked it away, crossed the room, and plopped soundlessly onto the down feather mattress. On her back, she yawned. “I don’t know,” she murmured with her eyes closed. “I don’t have a dress for tomorrow.”

  “You keep forgetting who you’re with.” He sat beside her and hazarded a palm on her thigh, which she graciously allowed. “I can buy you a dress. Hell, I could have you a dozen by noon. We don’t even have to leave the chambers. I’ll have breakfast brought here, rosewater for you to wash with—”

  “I don’t have a nightgown,” she said. Her tone made him turn around; her eyes weren’t shut anymore. Her straight eyebrows twitched upward.

  He chuckled as he lay on his side. “Is there a polite way to say you don’t need one?”

  “You might be right,” she murmured. Marcus knew better than to ignore a hint like that. He obliged her by rolling on top of h
er, kissing her ear, her cheek, her neck. She threw her chin back, inviting more, and he accepted. Her heavy breathing washed over his face as he pillaged her mouth, gently sliding his hands over her breasts, her hips.

  “Mmm, you’re good at this,” Jacquelyn giggled. She watched him working his way down her chest, her sweat-glistening cleavage, her waist. He bent and began rolling up her skirt, exposing strong calves, then her creamy thighs… “Wait, what are you—” she began, startled. Then, with a lash of his tongue, she shuddered and fell back. “Oh. Alright.”

  Her back arched. She squeezed her breasts, moaned quietly, pulled her skirt up higher, if only to give her hands something to do. His gently pried her thighs farther apart, steadying her. Then, as she grew wetter and her body started to tense with arousal, he stood.

  “Oh God, please don’t stop,” she panted.

  He started undressing. “Got to.”

  She watched him for a moment, then got to her knees on the bed. She undid her dress with quivering fingers and pulled it over her head.

  Even in the dim light with her hair askew, she had a beautiful body—slimmed by careful diet, toned by frequent exercise. Her breasts were modest but round, her belly flat and her hips wide. She had shaved her pubis, something he hadn’t expected of her—but then, she was a courtesan’s daughter.

  She shrunk anxiously under his scrutiny.

  He smiled back. “You’re just as beautiful with no clothes on.”

  As he threw off his remaining clothes, she regarded him in turn. “So are you.”

  “Well then.” He climbed onto the bed to meet her, but she sat back on her heels. He gave her a quizzical look.

  Her eyes darted. “I’ve never done this before.”

  The admission shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, he supposed—but still, he couldn’t help but feel gratified. No wonder she was so shy and innocent. Just when he was starting to think she was playing at it, too. He regarded her, mulling it over. “Is it you or your parents?” He didn’t want to mistakenly annul a virginal contract. He couldn’t think of any reason a girl would be a virgin at her age.

  “They never said anything about it so… me, I think. I haven’t had the chance.” She looked his way and hastily looked somewhere else. “I wanted to meet the right boy.”

  Outwardly, he showed no reaction. But he felt as if his heart had stopped. “So have you?”

  For a moment, he was sure she would say no, condemning them both to a very awkward night. That one moment stretched into two as she rubbed her arm—a small worried habit turned arousing, now that she was naked.

  Then, “Yes.”

  His heart soared. That word felt like redemption. All the terrible thoughtless things he had done, the memories of them were washed away with that one syllable. Tomorrow they would be back, but right now, he felt like a new man.

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. The smile was back, though with a twinge of nervousness about it. “I trust you.”

  For the first time, he felt like he had earned that trust. It humbled and honored him.

  Slowly, he rolled Jacquelyn onto her back, kissing her on her way down. He crawled on top of her. Tentative hands squeezed at his shoulder blades. Fingers flexed, inexperienced and unsure of their role. Her legs spread on either side of his hips, doing their best not to get in the way.

  “Calm down,” he whispered.

  “Alright… go ahead…”

  He did so with infinite care, splitting her as he would the petals of a closed flower. She gasped as he did. Her body went rigid, her nails digging into his back.

  Inside her, he paused. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No—yes.” She half-laughed, watching him through watering eyes. “Give me a minute.” With visible effort, she forced her body into relaxation. “Keep going.”

  Caution had never been Marcus’s strong point—but he had never done something as carefully as he did now. He plied Jacquelyn slowly, hips rocking against hers, sliding in and out again, kissing her reassuringly. He pulled every trick he knew—thumbing her nipples, rubbing her belly and neck, anything to make her first time pass smoothly.

  Bit by gradual bit, his gambit worked. Her near-painful tightness abated. Her thighs clenched about his torso, her heels knocking his buttocks. Soft moans rose and died in her throat. She met each thrust with one of her own, her shyness fading with each smack of flesh meeting flesh.

  It was over after a few minutes. He drew himself out to spill his seed on the inside of her thigh. She lay there with her breasts heaving, gaping at the ceiling. She looked at her hands splayed on her belly, past them at the essence of his manhood glistening moistly on her leg. “So that’s what it looks like,” she said wonderingly.

  He passed her a cloth. “Here.”

  She wiped it off, but not before taking a first sample. She stuck out her tongue, grimacing. “Blegh!”

  Marcus laughed at her as he took the towel back. Beside Jacquelyn, the sheets were stained with her virgin blood. He masked the scarlet spot with the towel and settled beside a humming Jacquelyn. She wriggled into his arms.

  “Oh, I like this,” she mumbled. “Cuddles.”

  He stroked her hair and kissed her lips.

  “It was a good night,” she yawned. There was sleep in her voice already. “Thank you.”

  “First of many.”

  Jacquelyn didn’t respond. She was fast asleep.