Guests scattered from the demon’s path like startled quail. Max had just been introduced to Lady Nico, the woman Lucia said might be an Elder vye. At Grael’s approach, she politely excused herself even as Scathach came to stand by Max’s side. Connor hurried over, so drunk by now that he nearly crashed into one of Grael’s imps. He twisted aside at the last second and merely fell at the duke’s feet.
Lucia darted in to help him, muttering angrily in Italian as she pulled him to his feet. For a moment, Connor managed to focus on her fuming, heartbroken face before he craned his neck up at Lord Grael. His words were barely intelligible.
“No vilenss,” he slurred. “No vilenss at maydeem …”
Instead of becoming angry, Lord Grael seemed bemused as he shifted his gaze from Max to his host. The demon’s voice was a patrician baritone, both courteous and dismissive. “Please instruct us on the rule of médim, Baron Lynch. You articulate them so clearly.”
“No. Vilens!” repeated Connor emphatically.
“Violence, did you say?” said Grael. “Of course not. Médim doesn’t end until dawn. I wouldn’t think of violating our traditions. Please introduce me to your guests.”
Connor leaned heavily on Lucia. “This is Max McDaniels and—wait, what was the lady’s name?”
“Scathach,” said Max stiffly.
Grael bowed to her. “Charmed,” he purred. “Lord Lynch was undoubtedly safe at home and in his cups during the Siege of Rowan. But I recognize you. You answered Gunnir’s challenge on the battlefield and rode out to meet him. I honor you, Lady Scathach. Gunnir was a fine archer but no swordsman.”
“Are you a fine swordsman, milord?” she asked politely. The difference in their sizes was unsettling. Scathach barely came to the demon’s waist.
Grael gave a deprecating smile and patted the pommel of a brutal-looking greatsword. “I dabble. Perhaps someday we’ll meet on the field, eh? Your spear against my sword.”
“I look forward to it,” said Scathach.
“Splendid,” said Grael, lighting a pipe and taking a long, luxuriant pull. As he exhaled, his emerald, luminescent eyes flicked down at Max. “Well, I see Prusias was mistaken. The king has been crowing of your death.”
Max met the demon’s gaze. It was impossible not to be impressed by Grael. Aside from his size, the demon exuded an aura of power and command that simply compelled lesser beings to fall in line. Max understood why some thought he was a threat to unseat Prusias. A being like Grael would only respect someone as arrogant and assured as he was.
Max decided to increase his own aura and experienced a pleasing sense of control when it responded just as he wished. His display was very brief, like an invisible solar flare. His friends would not perceive it, but the demon most certainly would. And, if Grael was as intelligent as Max suspected, the little glimpse of Max’s true nature would give him pause.
“Prusias is always crowing of my death,” said Max pleasantly. “But here I am.”
Grael cocked his head with a knowing smile. “Aye,” he said. “Here you are. I’ve longed to meet you, Hound. Vyndra was a very old friend, as were others you’ve slain.”
“You must be very lonely.”
Smoke shot out the rakshasa’s nostrils. “Oh, I manage. Alas, I cannot blame you for their deaths. This is war, after all. And Vyndra murdered your father—or rather the poor fellow pretending to be.” The demon chuckled. “No, this evening gives me great pleasure. To think I’d find you in this backwater!” The demon laughed and inclined his great head. “Enjoy the médim, Hound, and don’t forget that it ends at dawn. One would hate for anything to happen to you.”
The room almost gave a collective sigh of relief as the duke left to converse with the oni that had been Rikku’s companions. While tensions had eased, some guests still looked unsettled—as though Grael’s mere presence at the médim was a cause for concern. Max glanced over as Lady Nico reappeared at their side.
“Well,” she said, “your arrival has certainly made the evening more exciting. I fear Lord Grael has a point. When the médim ends, things could get even more interesting. How long do you intend to stay in Enlyll?”
“We’re in no rush,” said Max. “Baron Lynch is an old friend and we enjoy meeting his new ones. I haven’t even had a chance to go hunting.”
“Are you an avid hunter?” inquired Lady Nico.
“For food,” said Max. “Not much for sport.”
“Well, fox hunting is all the rage here,” Lady Nico sighed. “It’s a bore and even more excruciating to watch overdressed fools galloping up and down the countryside blowing their silly horns. No style or subtlety—nothing like falconry.”
“I’ve never tried it,” said Max.
“Oh, it’s far more interesting,” said Lady Nico, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. Everything about her manner and clothing suggested she had a refined upbringing, but she wasn’t stiff or overly formal. While some would say her nose was too long and her green eyes rather small and far apart, the woman’s self-confidence gave her tremendous charisma. “The relationship between falconer and falcon is one of mutual respect rather than one trying to dominate the other. I imagine you and your lymrill enjoy a similar bond.”
“No,” said Max. “Our relationship is completely defined by dominance. I’m practically her slave.”
Lady Nico smiled. “She seemed happy enough to follow you across the hall. Do you ever take her hunting? I would like to see a lymrill hunt.”
“She hunts on her own,” said Max. “And unless I’m craving worms, rats, or metals, I don’t think I’d care for what she finds.”
A young servant approached Lady Nico and curtsied. “I beg pardon, my lady, but you asked to be told when it was approaching two o’clock.”
“Thank you, Marisela,” said Lady Nico, before turning to Max and Scathach. “I do apologize, but I must say good night. My home is several hours away, and I have important business tomorrow. Given this snow and the roads …” She rolled her eyes. “It was a pleasure meeting you both. Perhaps we’ll go hunting someday.”
As she turned to go, Connor staggered over.
“Don’t say yer leaving!” he cried, mopping sweat from his brow. He fumbled at Marisela’s sleeve. “Tell yer coachman Lady Nico’s stayin’ the night. Run along.”
Lady Nico gestured for Marisela to remain where she was. “Alas, I must bring my evening to a close. Perhaps you should do the same, Lord Lynch. After all, dawn is but a few hours off and you must be fit to bid your guests adieu.”
Connor sulked like a petulant child. “I’m not going to bed. It’s my bloody party.”
“Then perhaps some hot tea,” suggested Lady Nico. “Not everyone finds your current state or behavior very becoming.” She nodded toward Lucia, whose teary eyes were boring holes in his back. Connor turned to face her.
“What’s got you in a twist?” he demanded.
It was a slap heard ’round the world.
Connor recoiled, wincing as Lucia’s scarlet handprint surfaced on his ruddy face. Throughout the hall, there were a few hoots but most looked on with embarrassed disapproval. Without another word, Lady Nico swept from the hall.
Connor seemed oblivious to the highly public scene that was unfolding. Rubbing his cheek, he gave Lucia a painfully artificial laugh. “Pretty good!” he exclaimed. “Better ’n tea, anyway. That slap done made me thirsty. Where’s Royce?”
A slender, reserved-looking youth in Enlyll regalia seemed to appear out of thin air to fill Connor’s goblet. The Lord of Enlyll drank deep, wine dribbling down his chin to run down the front of his embroidered shirt. As he tipped the goblet back, he lost his balance and thudded onto his backside. The great hall was nearly silent, the only sounds those of the winter winds howling outside.
“You are not who I thought you were!” Lucia cried, her tears flowing freely as she clutched her wrap and walked swiftly out of the hall. Sarah hurried after her, leaving the side of a young man with whom she’d been da
ncing earlier.
Max was disgusted. He scowled down at Connor, who seemed more intent on salvaging his wine than any shred of dignity.
“Get up,” Max hissed, extending his hand.
“I’m okay,” Connor mumbled, reaching for the goblet before it rolled away.
“Get up!” Max snapped, grabbing a fistful of Connor’s sleeve. With a curse, the Irish boy slapped his hand away and half rose as if he intended to strike Max. But the baron slipped, falling hard onto his hip and kicking out at the goblet in his frustration.
As several girls and servants went to assist his “lordship,” Max glanced at Scathach. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s see how Lucia’s doing.”
The two walked swiftly from the hall. Max struggled to balance his conflicting emotions. He wanted to throttle Connor, to dunk him in water until he stopped making a fool of himself. But Max was heartbroken, too. It was unspeakably painful to see Connor reduced to such a state. Max had looked forward to this reunion for years only to find that his old friend no longer really existed. Wealth and leisure had not been good for Connor Lynch.
Several guests tried to say good night, but Max merely nodded and swept past them. Lord Grael stood by the hall’s entrance, a wry smirk on his imposing face as he raised his glass to them. Max ignored him and asked a valet to take them to their room.
As Max and Scathach climbed a curving staircase, they passed many revelers and caught sight of more out on the grounds where lamps burned like ghostly sentinels among the snowy gardens. From below, music was playing once again, but its superficial gaiety only served to sour Max’s mood. Thus far, their mission to Enlyll felt like a professional success and a personal failure. Had they failed Connor somehow?
Scathach knew what he was thinking. “We can’t live others’ lives for them,” she said. “We can try to help them, but their lives are their own.”
“I know,” Max said. “But it still hurts. I feel bad for Lucia. And I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet the Connor I remember.”
“Don’t lose hope,” said Scathach. “I’m sure Lucia hasn’t.”
If Lucia hadn’t lost hope, she was doing a marvelous job of hiding it. When Sarah answered their knock, they overheard seething torrents of Italian.
“Come in,” said Sarah graciously. “Look out for flying footwear.”
Even as she spoke, a pair of glittering pumps soared across the elegant chamber to join a heap of other shoes. Turning, Scathach thanked the maid, who hurried away as Lucia let fly with more obscenities and a pair of stylish boots. Slipping inside, Max and Scathach closed the door and locked it behind them.
Lucia stood barefoot by a canopy bed piled high with clothes and furs and expensive-looking luggage. Upon the bed’s pillows lounged Kettlemouth and Nox. The former was wearing a flannel nightcap and losing his perpetual battle with consciousness while Nox seemed to be having the time of her life. Not only was the lymrill sitting on a pillow (something Max would not allow), but also Lucia had given her a mound of stockings to chew—silk stockings! This she did with great enthusiasm, giving mewls of solidarity whenever Lucia launched a shoe.
“What are you doing?” asked Max delicately.
“Packing!” shouted Lucia, flinging a fur stole into a suitcase.
“That’s quite a wardrobe,” said Scathach. “You didn’t bring all that from Rowan.”
“Oh no,” said Sarah, leading them to several chairs by a comfortable fire. “Connor’s been very generous since we arrived. He’s given us clothes, shoes, furs …”
“Everything but respect!” raged Lucia, launching the last of her shoes before padding over to slump against the marble mantel. Her lip quivered, and she gazed at them with an expression Max had never seen on her before. She looked pitiably young and lost.
“I just want to go home,” she sobbed, looking at them in hopeful, earnest appeal. “I never should have come here. I feel so stupid.”
Before anyone could reply, there was a soft knock at the door.
“Who is it?” called Sarah.
“Eloise,” replied a small voice.
Max got up and opened the door to find the maid standing on the threshold with four mugs, a steaming carafe, and a plate of cookies on a silver tray. The girl curtsied. “Pardon,” she said. “I thought my mistress might like some chocolat?”
Lucia waved her into the room and blew her nose as Eloise set the tray upon an ottoman and filled the mugs with cocoa. Sliding a sugar cookie onto a plate, she brought it and a mug to Lucia.
“Thank you,” Lucia sniffled, throwing her arms around the maid. Eloise looked a little startled but touched by the gesture.
“It is nothing,” she said modestly. “You and Mademoiselle Sarah have been very kind to me. Good guests,” she said, offering a shy smile.
“I want to give you something,” said Lucia. “I’m leaving tomorrow and never coming back. Take what you like,” she said, sweeping her arm at the mounds of expensive clothes. “Take everything.”
The young maid considered the pile a moment with a shrewd eye. “You know what I really like?” she said, turning back to Lucia. “I like to see the butterfly again.”
“Really?” Lucia sniffled. “But that’s nothing.”
“Not to me,” said the girl, bringing the others their hot chocolate. “It reminds me of summer.”
Lucia glanced at the mullioned windows, all spidered with frost. “Very well,” she said. “The butterfly you shall have. Eloise’s butterfly.”
With a word, she extinguished the room’s lamps so that the fire was the only source of light. The flames obeyed Lucia’s coaxing hands like a living thing, sinuous and mesmerizing as they snaked out of the hearth to form twining symmetries. Eloise stared as the flames became a shimmering butterfly. As the butterfly grew, its trembling wings blossomed with colors in a shifting, prismatic display that made Eloise gasp. Larger and larger it grew, its translucent wings nearly touching the walls as it hovered above them. It floated there a few moments, impossibly beautiful, before unraveling like a spool of fiery thread and returning to the hearth.
“That is magic,” sighed Eloise, her face aglow as she searched the ceiling for any glimmering traces. “Thank you. Does my lady truly mean to leave us so soon?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucia glumly, sipping her hot chocolate. “I want to leave this minute but we’ll need to make proper arrangements.”
The maid curtsied. “Just ring for me if you need anything.”
“You should go to bed,” said Sarah. “It’s so late.”
The maid gave a rueful smile. “Médim does not end until dawn. Until then, it is work, work, work.”
“If you see the baron, give him a kick for me,” muttered Lucia.
“As you wish,” said Eloise gravely. “Thank you for the butterfly.”
Taking the empty carafe, the maid departed, leaving the four to discuss Lucia’s righteous anger as well as Lady Nico and other interesting—and potentially valuable—people they’d met that evening. Sarah, a fine warrior herself, could not get over the suddenness of Max and Rikku’s encounter.
“It was over so fast,” she marveled. “I was looking right at you but didn’t even see you strike him.” She turned to Scathach. “Did you teach him how to do that?”
“I taught him the technique,” Scathach replied. “But you can’t teach that kind of speed or instincts. Max was born with those.”
“It impressed Lady Nico,” said Lucia. “I was watching her.”
“I want to know what you’ve learned about the Elder vyes,” said Max. “What made you suspect she might be one? She doesn’t exhibit any sign of being a vye in human form—no sneezing, no reddened eyes.”
“She can do magic,” replied Lucia simply. “There have always been rumors that Elder vyes have their own schools.”
“How do you know she can do magic?” asked Scathach.
“Connor dragged me out on a hunt, but I lagged behind when he started flirting with one of
those village trollops. When the hunt galloped past the woods, I saw her slip out of them holding the fox.”
“And?” said Scathach.
“She set the fox loose, changed into a falcon, and flew away.”
“Maybe she’s a witch,” said Max.
“She has no skinscrolling,” Sarah reflected. “At least not that we can see. And her estate is supposed to be one of the wealthiest in Harine. Witches live with their clans in the wild. Lady Nico learned real magic somewhere and it wasn’t at Rowan.”
“What did Connor say?” asked Max. “I assume you asked him about her.”
Lucia scowled. “He wouldn’t say anything. Not anything worthwhile. The idiot writes me love letters and tells us to ‘seek the Elders’ and then ignores me and refuses to talk about them.”
A clear restatement of her grievances threatened to rekindle her former fury. Before those flames could catch, however, Scathach changed the subject. “It’s a shame she left so soon. What do you know about those kitsune—those three in the flowery robes? They didn’t seem to have much love for Prusias.”
This sparked a broader discussion of the braymas, merchants, and other guests they had met throughout the evening. They needed to update David, and Max wanted to give him more than a generic list of names but a prioritized assessment of those who might be helpful.
“Grael muddies things,” said Max wearily. “Some of the guests seem nervous that he’s here. They’re probably afraid he’s reporting everything back to Prusias.”
Sarah looked anxious. “Do you think he intends to attack you once the médim is over?”
“Possibly,” said Max. “But I doubt it would happen right at dawn. If Grael intends to attack, he’ll wait for a less obvious opportunity.”
There was another, almost apologetic knock at the door.
“It’s almost five o’clock,” moaned Sarah. “Who could that be?”
“If it’s Connor, slam the door,” said Lucia firmly.
This time Scathach got up to answer. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Pardon,” came the familiar voice. “It is Eloise.”