The hall dripped with green garland swagged along the walls. Beribboned oak galls and rowan berries nestled within the branches, and his nose twitched at the cool scents of evergreen and dried artemisia. The greenery glowed with soft light—a trick no doubt employed by Ambrose—that added to the hall’s warm ambience.
Ambrose joined him by the fire, garbed in fine robes of brown and amber silk. He handed Ballard a goblet of wine and tapped his in a wordless toast. He stared at the mezzanine between the stairs. “I’ve learned the sisters abducted Magda, bound her hand and foot and are right now forcing her into a silk bodice and tying ribbons in her hair. Gavin’s gone up there to rescue her.”
Ballard chuffed in disbelief. “I’d sooner believe the sun rose at midnight or that ram you wethered last week grew a replacement pair of bollocks.” He scrutinized his sorcerer for a moment. “Methinks you’d very much like to see your woman in velvet and ribbons.”
Ambrose’s nonchalant shrug didn’t fool Ballard for an instant. “It would be a change from the usual apron and wool frock. I don’t think Magda owns a hair ribb...” He trailed off, and Ballard followed his gaze to the second floor.
The women of his household had flocked to the top of the stairs, laughing and waving to the two men who watched them from the hall. Gavin appeared behind them, a richly dressed gander surrounded by an equally bright-feathered flock of geese. He bowed over Cinnia’s hand and led her down the stairwell first. Cinnia wore a gown of the deepest green that hugged her curves and swept into an elegant train that rippled behind her as she descended the stairs on Gavin’s arm. Her fair hair shimmered in Ambrose’s spelled lighting, and as always Ballard had to look away from such sublime beauty.
He turned his attention to Magda, Joan and Clarimond. Next to Cinnia all three faded, but he nodded in approval at their gowns of blue, yellow and rust, their hair bound in intricate braids or covered in gossamer veils. Ballard glanced at Ambrose who stared agog at a blushing Magda. He reached out and nudged the sorcerer’s mouth closed. “Good thing we aren’t in midge season, Ambrose.”
Ballard returned his gaze to the group and settled on Louvaen. He inhaled sharply, as stunned by the sight of her as he had been by Cinnia, except he didn’t look away. Dressed in a gown the color of new blood, she raised the front hem to clear her feet and scowled. The fabric fell in sinuous folds over her body, hinting at the long line of her legs and lending her pale skin a pearlescent luster. She’d curled her hair and swept it back from her forehead, emphasizing the arch of her eyebrows and high swoop of her cheekbones. She turned to twitch her train to the side, and Ballard mewled behind clenched teeth at the sight of her elegant back, bared to just below the shoulder blades and partially concealed by her long curls.
Merciful gods, he prayed silently. Please let the red sovereign be gone. A hard shove against his shoulder jerked him out of his pleading reverie, and he turned to scowl at a smug Ambrose.
“Good thing we aren’t in the midst of battle, dominus.”
Ballard didn’t answer and left Ambrose to follow him as he crossed the room to meet Gavin’s entourage at the bottom of the stairs. He bowed low before each of the women, even Clarimond and Joan who blushed and giggled at the sight of their lord’s deference. Louvaen’s gaze met his and stayed as she passed him on the way to the table. A faint smile curved the corners of her mouth, growing deeper as his hand reached out to skim the folds of her gown. Desire, hot as her gaze, swamped him, and he barely stopped himself from yanking her into his arms.
They gathered together while Ambrose poured a round of spiced wine or sweet milk and leered at Magda’s modest cleavage. Toasts were exchanged as were blessings for good health, bountiful harvest and peaceful days. Ballard claimed a space next to Louvaen and spoke low enough that only she heard him. “It’s fortunate I’m a man of fortitude and sense, Mistress Duenda, because you test both. The next time you appear in my hall garbed like that, I will hoist you onto the table and take you amidst the plates of apricots.”
Louvaen kept her eyes on Gavin and Cinnia as the two would-be lovers ogled each other. She gave no indication his words affected her except for a stranglehold on the stem of her goblet and a voice gone husky. “That promises to be sticky, my lord—and delightful.”
He had his hand on her elbow with the intention of marching her up the stairs to his chamber, Modrnicht and Cinnia’s delicate sensibilities be damned when Magda destroyed that plan. She clapped her hands and gestured imperiously for everyone to sit and begin the feast. “We didn’t work like dogs all day for this to go uneaten. Take your places. No different from the kitchen mind, just more to clean afterwards.”
Ballard growled softly, and this time Louvaen cut him an arch glance. “The night’s young, Ballard, and my body is mine again. If you wish, I’ll bring the apricots myself.” She smiled then and left him to take her place on the bench by her sister.
They started with dishes of dried apples and pears drizzled in honey, capon pies, potages of mutton stewed with potatoes and carrots and salted fish simmered in a saffron broth. Platters of roasted goose followed, along with a pork loin slathered in a sauce of almond milk and butter. Dragees of cheese wedges and spiced lumps of sugar completed the meal, and the wine flowed as freely as the conversation. As was his wont, Ballard remained quiet through the feast and concentrated on not being too obvious in admiring Louvaen. Magda’s culinary masterpieces were wasted on him. He might as well have been chewing on one of his boots for all the attention he paid the food. Louvaen sparred with Ambrose, laughed at Magda’s acerbic jokes and licked honey off her fingers in a way that had Ballard gripping his fork so hard, he bent the metal. He tugged at the high collar of his cotte and prayed dinner would end soon.
Afterward, they grouped before the hearth, and Magda brought forth a small log cut from an ancient oak tree. She placed the piece of wood on a table Ambrose had moved in front of the fire. A knife and stack of kerchiefs bleached white as milk joined the log. As the eldest woman in the room, Magda held the honor of initiating tribute to the goddesses and the female ancestors of their small group. She lifted the knife and slashed a shallow cut into the center of her palm. Blood dripped through her clenched fist onto the log where it tracked tiny rills across the bark’s ridges. She wiped the blade and passed it to Ambrose who did the same. The rest followed suit until the top of the log glistened red in the candlelight.
Magda intoned her salutation in a voice pitched low and canted. “We honor the all-Mothers; Sigel of the Sun, Erce of Earth, Fulla of the Moon, Helith of the Stag, and Nerthus of Fertility.” She squeezed her hand a second time, and more blood dripped onto the log. “For Ilene of Fallaharen who bore me and raised me well.”
She stepped aside as Ambrose went next, followed by Clarimond. Both paid respect to Magda who gazed lovingly at her lover and her daughter. Joan declined when her turn came and remained where she stood, her gaze shuttered. Ballard caught Louvaen’s puzzled expression. He whispered in her ear. “Orphaned as a babe. She never knew her mother.” Compassion softened Louvaen’s features.
Cinnia went next. “To our mother, Abigail Hallis, who sang me to sleep, dried my tears and loved me.” She clenched her fist and gave Louvaen a watery smile.
Louvaen stepped forward and allowed several fat drops of blood to hit the log before she relaxed her hand. “To our mother, Abigail Hallis, who took up a nonborn child and loved me as her own.”
Ballard frowned when Ambrose went rigid. His gaze snapped to Ballard, and his mouth compressed against his teeth in an obvious bid not to blurt out whatever hovered on his lips. Louvaen continued her venerations.
“To Gullveig who gave me life and died for the effort. I hope I’ve made you proud.”
The sorcerer looked as if he’d burst into flame if he stayed silent any longer. His gaze pleaded for an audience. Distracted by Ambrose’s strange behavior, Ballard bled onto the log and venerated his mother as well as his father’s gentle-spirited leman. If he didn’t fear rousing I
sabeau’s enraged spirit, he’d thank her as well; she’d given him Gavin. Gavin obviously thought as he did. Like Joan, he shook his head and stepped away from the log. This time Cinnia wore a puzzled look. Louvaen’s shrewd gaze rested first on Gavin and then on Ballard, silently questioning why neither of them had honored Isabeau’s name.
At the ritual’s completion, Magda tossed the blood-slick log onto the fire. The group bowed to the sparking, crackling conflagration and turned to the business of tending their self-inflicted wounds. Ambrose pulled Ballard to the side as the others waited their turns for Magda to clean and bandage their cuts. “Did you hear what Louvaen said?”
Ballard shrugged. “Aye. What part put you in such a dodder?”
Ambrose wrung his hands and started to pace. “She’s nonborn, Ballard. Cut from her mother’s womb instead of pushed.”
“What of it?” Nonborns were uncommon enough to cause talk but not so strange as to be miraculous. He was even less surprised that Louvaen had survived. So fierce a woman would have fought death from the moment she took her first breath. An admonishment about Ambrose wasting his time hovered on his lips and faded at a sudden recollection of Isabeau’s last venomous words.
“To him I bequeath my bitterness, my rage, my hatred. When he puts childhood behind him, they will manifest. The savage you are shall raise up the savage he’ll become. No woman will love him. All your machinations—your deceit—have brought us to this. No woman born will ever love you. And the son will destroy the father.”
“No woman born will ever love me,” he said softly.
“Yes!” Ambrose glanced furtively over his shoulder to see if anyone else noticed his agitation. “Louvaen Duenda is as much a key to breaking this curse as her sister.”
The burgeoning hope welling up in Ballard’s chest flattened just as suddenly and left a crushing despair in its space. His face must have revealed some emotion because Ambrose’s triumphant grin faded. “What’s wrong?”
“How is this good news? We thought Cinnia’s love for Gavin would break it. Now we need both sisters loving both beasts to accomplish the same thing?” His gaze flitted to Louvaen, elegant in her crimson gown.
“You’re swiving her, Ballard, and she’s enjoying it, “ Ambrose countered. “Surely, she has some affection for you.”
She did: of that he had no doubt. She respected him as well, and admired him. But love him? That was altogether different, something deeper which went beyond mere desire and affection. He knew that when spring came, she’d return home to her father. Nothing she’d said or done since then indicated she’d change her mind. If she loved him, wouldn’t she ask to stay?
He shook his head. “You hold false hope, my friend.”
Ambrose’s eyes flashed annoyance. “It’s still hope, dominus. You owe it to yourself to hold onto hope. You owe it to your son.” He gave Ballard an abrupt, annoyed bow before making his way to Magda for a bandage.
Louvaen and Ballard waited their turns for bandages. When Magda finished and left them alone, Ballard turned to Louvaen and examined her bandaged hand. “Thanks to you, I’ve won a bet with Ambrose.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. He was certain that if cut, you’d bleed green. I disagreed.”
She tried, and failed, to stifle a laugh. “Mouthy, bastard wizard. I don’t know how Magda tolerates him.” Her eyes searched his face, and her levity disappeared. “What troubles you?”
Either he was losing the talent for hiding his emotions or she had grown more skilled at reading them in his expressions. He bowed over her hand. “Nothing that can’t be soothed by a night in your arms,” he said. “Your bed or mine?” He thought he’d offer her the choice after her strident complaints about his cold bed.
“Mine’s too narrow for the both of us. Promise me a nice hot brick or a warming pan, and you’ll get no more complaints from me.” She paused. “About that at least.”
Ballard smiled, the melancholy of Ambrose’s interpretation of how to break the curse lessening before Louvaen’s teasing. “Done.” Were they alone in the hall, he’d kiss her to seal their bargain. Instead, he raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Until tonight, mistress.”
They rejoined the others at the table, where Cinnia practically danced out of her shoes from the excitement of giving Modrnicht gifts. Ballard resumed his seat in the dantesca and drank his sixth—maybe seventh—goblet of wine. Louvaen and Cinnia gave Magda and the girls each a pair of fur lined gloves made of supple leather.
Magda ran a thumb over the fur cuff. “These are too fine to wear every day.”
Cinnia protested. “No! You should wear them any time you want. They’ll keep your hands warm on days like these.”
Clarimond presented the gifts she, Joan and Magda made for them. “To keep you busy at the wheel,” she said and handed Louvaen a basket full of Joan’s finest combed flax. “And you with your books.” She passed a small packet to Cinnia who opened it to display a pair of bone needles, whittled, smoothed and sharpened to punch through signature pages for her book binding. The women exchanged hugs, and Ballard wondered if he’d be treated to watching Louvaen’s nimble fingers transform the strick into golden thread.
Ambrose lifted one cloth wrapped package and passed it to Louvaen. “For a woman with the wild magic in her and no use for it,” he said, light winking off his spectacles and hiding the expression in his eyes. Louvaen held the gift gingerly, her eyes wide with surprise and no small amount of suspicion.
“Don’t trifle with her, Ambrose.” Ballard gestured to Louvaen and Cinnia. “A gift to be shared between you. My idea but impossible without Ambrose’s magic, so it’s from both of us.”
Louvaen slowly untied the twine holding the cloth closed while Cinnia watched. Both women gasped at the exquisitely carved hand mirror revealed. Ballard caught the spark of confusion in Louvaen’s gaze. The mirror was far more costly and finer than the ones they currently possessed, and how would they share?
“You’ve been apart from your father,” he said. “That mirror will reveal him to you. Just give the command ‘Show me,’ and say the name of the person you want to see. The glass will cast back to you a reflection of that person in that moment. When you’re done, just tell it to sleep.”
Louvaen caressed him with her gaze. “This is a thoughtful gift. Thank you both.”
In her more exuberant fashion, Cinnia raced to his chair, knelt before it and clasped his hand. “Thank you, Lord de Sauveterre,” she cried. “Thank you so much!” Before Ballard could tell her to get up, she raced back to her sister who handed her the mirror.
“Go ahead, my love. You do the summoning.”
Cinnia gripped the mirror by its ornate handle and stared into its reflective surface. “Show me Mercer Hallis,” she commanded.
For a moment, the mirror shimmered with an azure radiance in her hands before fading. Cinnia’s excited smile transformed to a shocked “O”, and her eyes grew round as dinner plates. “Papa? Dame Niamh?”
Ballard leaned forward in his chair as Louvaen’s eyebrows shot high, and her face flamed. She snatched the mirror out of Cinnia’s hand. “Sleep,” she snapped, and the mirror glowed blue a second time.
Ballard had a good idea what the mirror had revealed to the two women. He braced an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “How’s your father?”
Louvaen handed Cinnia a goblet of wine which the girl took and drained in two gulps. “Doing quite well obviously.” Louvaen downed a glass of her own before answering. “I’ll never be able to scrub that from my mind.” She patted Cinnia on the shoulder. “I think it best if I keep the mirror for now and summon the next time. What do you think?” Cinnia nodded so hard, one of the braids in her intricate hairstyle came loose.
Despite the mirror’s unexpected surprise, they all declared the evening a success. Ballard held Louvaen back when Magda drafted the others to help clear the table. He retrieved the dagger from a small chest near the hearth
and handed it to her.
“You already gave us the mirror.”
“This is for you alone.” He liked the way her hands caressed the bronze velvet. “Go ahead. Open it. No magic mirror showing your sire swiving the neighbor.”
She groaned. “Please don’t remind me.” She unwrapped the velvet and inhaled at the sight of the dagger and sheath. “My gods, Ballard, what...”
Her reaction was all he’d hoped it would be. “Many years ago I was summoned to court to welcome a foreign queen to the kingdom. Her name was Estatira; she was a warrior garbed in silk. Beautiful, powerful. She passed out gifts to the courtiers who welcomed her. I received this dagger. She told me it was a favorite of hers, one she wore as both protection and a talisman of good luck. A fitting gift for a woman of great beauty and even greater strength.”
He stiffened when Louvaen shook her head and tried to give the dagger back to him. “I can’t accept this, my lord. It’s too fine a gift, and I am no queen.”
Ballard gently pushed it back to her. “You are, Louvaen. You’re simply uncrowned.”
She blinked at his compliment, rewrapped the dagger in its velvet parcel and clutched it close to her chest. Her hand lifted and glided down his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into her caress. “It’s a gift beyond price,” she whispered, her gray gaze tender. “I’ll treasure it always.”
He was interrupted from answering her by Gavin guiding a weaving Cinnia from the kitchen and toward the stairs. Louvaen left him to tend her sister. The girl yawned and offered a bleary smile. Louvaen sighed. “Come, my love. It’s bed for you.” She motioned to Gavin. “This will be the only time I’ll ask you to carry my sister to bed, de Lovet, and I’m only doing it because with us wearing these deadly long frocks, she’ll pitch us both down the stairs. So make the best of it.”