Lady Bayar issued word that all guests were to be attired in black and white, in honor of her striking children. Tears were shed, plans and wardrobes scrapped, homes were no doubt mortgaged, and every bit of black and white cloth in the Vale was snapped up.
Dressmakers and tailors were called in from all over the queendom, and silks and velvets ordered from Tamron Court and We’enhaven, despite the price gouging caused by the wars. It was whispered that the fabric for the Bayars’ clothing came from the Northern Isles, and had sorcery woven right into the cloth.
“What if I wore purple and green pantaloons,” Raisa said, as she submitted to the final fitting. “Do you think they’d bar the door against me?”
“Hold still,” Magret said, teeth gritted around the pins in her mouth. She stood on one side, the dressmaker on the other, pinning out the extra fullness in the hips. When they’d finished, the black dress fit like a second skin, and Raisa wondered if she’d ever be able to squirm in and out of it.
Secretly, Raisa was pleased with the fashion mandate. Approved colors for boys and girls on their name day were spun-sugar shades of blue, pink, and green. Black and white was deemed much too sophisticated for them.
She’d not been alone with Micah since their argument outside her room. They’d been at table together in the dining room, surrounded by courtiers, exchanging stiffly polite comments on the food and the weather.
He’d continued to ply her with small gifts, notes, and proposals, but she’d never responded. She often felt the pressure of his eyes across a crowded room.
Holding a grudge against Micah had grown tedious, though. She’d decided it was time to forgive him, in honor of his name day. Her heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again, of sparring with him in conversation and the possibility of stolen kisses. Life was much more interesting with Micah Bayar in it.
She was also pleased because it would be another opportunity to see Amon. Though there was no love lost between Micah and Amon, the Bayars wouldn’t dare exclude the cadets.
Many of them were younger sons and daughters of the prominent nobility. Name day parties were a chance for them to connect with a fortune through marriage.
“Your Highness, it’s nearly time,” her comber complained. “And I need to get at your hair.”
Raisa backed onto a high stool and sat while her comber coaxed her hair into a cascade of ringlets pinned high on her head.
Raisa heard a commotion in the corridor outside her room; then the door flew open and the queen swept in, resplendent in white satin sashed in black, wearing a necklace of pearls and black onyx.
Queen Marianna walked all the way around Raisa, inspecting her from every angle, a small frown on her face. She poked disapprovingly at Elena’s battered ring, which hung on its chain above Raisa’s bodice. “You don’t mean to wear this.”
Raisa shrugged. “Well, I thought I…”
“What about the diamond pendant, Your Highness?” Magret said, rummaging through Raisa’s jewelry case. “Or your pearl choker, that’d be lovely.”
“What did the Bayars send for your name day?” Queen Marianna asked. “Jewelry, wasn’t it?”
“Here we are!” Magret pounced, seizing a velvet box. She opened it and turned it toward the queen. It was the emerald and ruby serpent necklace.
“Perfect!” Marianna said. “You can wear this in their honor.”
“Well,” Raisa said uncertainly. “Maybe I could wear both together.” She’d grown used to the weight of the ring settled between her breasts. She liked having it there.
“Nonsense,” Queen Marianna said. She lifted the chain over Raisa’s head and set Elena’s ring on the dressing table, then circled Raisa’s neck with the emerald pendant, fastening the clasp with cool, dry fingers.
“You look lovely, darling,” Queen Marianna said, kissing her on the forehead and slipping her arm through hers. “Now, let’s be off; your father and Mellony are already waiting in the carriage.”
There were times that Raisa thought all would be well between her parents if only her father’s work as a trader didn’t so often keep him away from the Vale. They complemented each other—he with his wiry, powerful build, wind-burned skin, brown eyes set under thick dark brows and silver hair, and she with her cool reserve and tall spare figure. He could always make her laugh, and the queen’s cares seemed to fall away when he was home. When he was home, she seemed grounded. When he was gone, she was like one of the aspens on the slope of Hanalea—swaying and trembling in the political winds.
Tonight Averill wore clan robes, long black and white panels of rough-spun silk replacing his usual brilliant colors, and heavy rings of silver and onyx on his hands.
The royal carriage was bracketed on all sides by the Queen’s Guard. Neither Amon nor Edon would be riding with them, since they were also guests.
A long line of carriages snaked up Old Road, which led up Gray Lady. Where the way broadened, other carriages pulled aside to let the Gray Wolf pass.
The Bayar estate nestled in the skirts of Gray Lady, named for a queen so ancient her name had been lost to the mists of time. Further up the mountain stood the Wizard Council house, frowning down on the city. From here wizards had once ruled the Vale.
The clatter of hooves on cobblestones said they’d arrived. The footmen swung open the double doors of the carriage and placed the steps. Averill emerged first, then turned to offer his arm to the queen.
The entire front of the Bayar mansion was ablaze with torches. Wizard lights pricked the darkness along the paths in the gardens and tangled in the trees, creating a fairyland. Servants in the Bayars’ Stooping Falcon livery clustered in the entries, collecting wraps and directing guests.
Lord and Lady Bayar waited in the entry hall, resplendent in black and white. Raisa and her mother entered together, as was protocol, with the consort and Princess Mellony trailing a few yards behind.
Lord Bayar swept down into a deep bow as his lady curtsied. “Your Majesty,” he said. “And Your Highness. This is indeed an honor. Micah and Fiona will be so pleased you’ve come. You’ll find them in the ballroom.” Lord Bayar nodded courteously to Averill. “Lord Demonai, welcome back,” he said. “From everything I hear, your business is prospering.”
Raisa wondered if this could be a dig at her father the tradesman, but if so, there was no evidence of it on the wizard’s face. Indeed, Bayar continued, “I’m hoping we can do some business in the coming weeks. I’ll send my factor around, shall I?”
“It would be my pleasure, Lord Bayar,” Averill murmured, inclining his head.
The familiar ballroom had been transformed from a cold marble-floored room into an elegant space lined with dimly lit, cozy retreats. Servants circulated with platters of food and drink, and the room was fronted with tiers of small dining tables enclosed with black and white screens and centered with candles and black and white lilies. Falcon banners in black and white lined the walls.
“This…this is beautiful,” Raisa exclaimed, enchanted. “I’ve never seen it like this.”
Queen Marianna surveyed the scene, biting her lip, no doubt comparing it to her own plans for Raisa’s name day.
Micah and Fiona stood at the far end of the room, greeting a procession of guests. As usual, they complemented each other. Micah wore a white coat that fit closely over his lean frame, black trousers, boots, and a rich black stole bearing the falcon crest. His black hair hung shining to his shoulders. Fiona wore a long black dress slit to her hip, black gloves, and a white stole of her own. Diamonds and platinum glittered around her slender throat and wrists.
Raisa couldn’t help comparing her own small frame to Fiona’s elegant height.
As they entered the room, the crier was announcing the arrival of other guests.
“Lady Amalie Heresford, Thanelee of Heresford, in Arden,” he intoned.
Lady Heresford was a plump girl of Raisa’s age with red hair, creamy skin, and a sprinkling of freckles, dressed in the covered-up so
uthern style. With her flat black dress and black lace pinned into her hair, she might have been one of the professional mourners the wealthy sometimes hired for funerals.
She kept her head high, eyes straight ahead, like an old painting of Hanalea walking through the field of demons.
Raisa’s heart went out to her. She looked scared to death.
Following after her, unannounced, was a tall, bulky woman upholstered in black, and a tall man shrouded in priest’s robes. His face was twisted, as if he smelled something bad.
In the Fells, there was a saying, “Sour as a flatland priest.” Well, Raisa thought, that’s right on target.
“This is unusual,” Averill whispered to Raisa. “Southerners sending their women north with only a governess and a priest for protection. In the south, marriage to a wizard would be scandalous. But it shows how desperate things are. Lady Heresford’s father, Brighton Heresford, was executed by Gerard Montaigne, one of the contenders for Arden’s throne. She’s the heiress to Heresford Castle, but needs to marry someone strong enough to help her hold it. She’s a catch for the right person.”
Raisa nodded, grateful to her father for the information, but thinking it should be her mother providing it.
“Her Royal Highness Marina Tomlin, Princess of Tamron,” the crier said. “His Royal Highness, Liam Tomlin, Prince of Tamron.”
“Ah,” her father said, nodding. “Tamron is hoping for an alliance with the Fells, as some protection against Arden. They’ll begin negotiations with the Bayars, but nothing will be settled until after your name day. They could match Liam with you, or Marina with Micah Bayar. Failing that, Liam could marry Fiona, and Marina will make a match in the south.”
Raisa surveyed the Tomlins with interest. They were tall, copper-skinned, and graceful, fine-boned as race horses. Liam Tomlin had dark curly hair, a strong nose, and a brilliant smile. He wore lots of silver with his requisite black and white.
In their way, the Tomlins were as striking as the Bayar twins.
Now it was their turn. The crier went ahead of them announcing, “Queen Marianna ana’Lissa of the Fells, and her daughter, Raisa ana’Marianna, the princess heir.”
To either side, courtiers dropped into bows and curtsies, like a field of black and white grass felled by a sharp blade.
Raisa and her mother swept forward, their skirts swishing over the marble floor. Behind them she could hear her father and Mellony announced. Ahead, Micah and Fiona knelt side by side in a nimbus of light, like a god and goddess come to earth.
At last they reached the front of the ballroom.
“You may rise,” Queen Marianna said, and there was a rustle of silk and satin all around them.
Micah came gracefully to his feet. Queen Marianna extended her hand, and he lowered his head to kiss it.
He turned to Raisa; his eyes lingered for a long moment on her face, then traveled down, pausing again at the top of her bodice until her face grew warm with embarrassment.
“Ah,” he said. “You finally wore it, Raisa. I was afraid you didn’t like it.”
“Of course I like it,” she said, fingering the necklace. “It’s beautiful. Is it a family heirloom?”
“Yes,” he said, still looking at her with such intensity that she grew a little flustered. Micah was always forward, but tonight he’d shed his usual mocking edge.
She thrust out her hand. He pressed it to his lips, still looking into her eyes. His kiss burned against her skin, and she felt a little dizzy. “Am I finally forgiven, Raisa?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her cheeks burning. “You’re forgiven.”
“Would it be bad of me to claim every dance?” he asked, still keeping hold of her fingers.
She withdrew her hand reluctantly. “You are the guest of honor,” she said. “And you know you have a job to do. Winning the hearts of all the young ladies is the easy part. You’ll need to dance with all the old ladies, and the aunts and grannies and mothers. Maybe even some of the fathers, now you’re in the marriage market.”
He laughed. “Save some dances for me, Your Highness,” he said. “I’ll need refuge from the aunts and grannies.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned to greet Mellony and her father.
She danced with Miphis Mander and the wizard Wil Mathis, who spent the whole time looking over her shoulder at Fiona. Mick Bricker and Garret Fry, cadets from Oden’s Ford, who made awkward small talk and towed her around the floor as if she were breakable. Then her father, who was as skilled at court dances as he was in the more challenging clan steps.
The entire time, she was aware of Micah’s presence, drawing her attention like a lamp in a dark room. Whenever she looked for him, it seemed he was looking at her.
Kip Klemath asked her to dance. And then Keith. Then Kip again. The brothers apparently meant to pass her back and forth like a satin-clad kickball, but behind her someone said, “Your Highness, may I have the next dance?” while Kip and Keith were arguing over who was next.
She turned, and there was Amon Byrne, tall and broad-shouldered in dress blues that fit his frame perfectly.
She grinned at him and said, “Absolutely.” And he spun her away as a storm of protest from the Klemath brothers erupted behind them.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“I got delayed,” he said. “There was…some business I had to take care of in Ragmarket.” He took a breath, like he was going to say something more, but then seemed to think better of it.
“Where’d you learn to dance?” she asked as they circled the dance floor. “I don’t remember your knowing how.”
“I’ve learned a few things in the past three years,” Amon said.
If she thought he was going to elaborate on that, she was disappointed. They circled the room again in silence. He’d look into her eyes, then avert his gaze as if afraid he’d give too much away.
Amon had never been known for his flirtatious banter, but on this evening he had almost nothing to say.
She tried again. “Didn’t you say you don’t have time for dancing at Oden’s Ford?” she said.
“I said I didn’t have time for sweethearts,” he said.
Raisa was surprised he recalled their conversation in such detail.
“Then where did you learn to dance?” Raisa asked, feeling like she was prying each word out of him, like mussels out of their shells.
“Tamron Court isn’t far from Oden’s Ford. We’d go over there if we had a day off duty.”
Tamron Court, the capital of Tamron, had the reputation of being a wicked city, the place to go for fancy women and gambling and illicit entertainment.
“Oh, really, Corporal Byrne?” Raisa lifted her eyebrows. “And do what?”
“Well, dance,” he said, as if it were obvious. “And play cards. I’m a fair cardplayer,” he said almost defensively.
“Well,” she said, “of course. You’re a soldier.” She tried to imagine Amon carousing in a tavern, and failed.
He didn’t reply, seeming lost in thought, so she changed the subject. “How are things going in Southbridge? Did they ever find out who killed those Southies?”
He flinched as if she’d caught him out somehow. “Actually, I have some news,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
“News? What kind of news?”
Amon glanced about as if worried they’d be overheard. The song was over, so he drew her aside, off the dance floor, and to one of the more private tables. A servant offered a tray. Amon took two glasses and handed her one.
Raisa flopped into a chair, a little relieved to be off her feet. “I need a drink to hear this news?” she asked wryly, taking a cautious sip of wine, aware that she hadn’t had anything to eat.
“Well, first of all, my da tried to get Gillen dismissed again, and got nowhere.” He grimaced. “He must have powerful friends.”
Raisa slammed her glass down on the table, spilling her wine over her wrist. “Not more powerf
ul than me,” she said. “That’s it. I’m going to my mother. This can’t stand.”
Amon reached for her hand, then hastily drew his back, glancing about again. “Please, Raisa, you can’t tell the queen about that whole Southbridge thing. Trust me. You just can’t.” He drained his glass and set it down. “Don’t worry. We Byrnes don’t give up. We’ll get him sooner or later.”
That was unsatisfactory. What was the good of being the heir to the throne if you had no real power?
Raisa looked up, and Amon was still watching her with that peculiar expression on his face. Wary. Almost guilty.
“What?” she asked irritably.
“That streetlord. Cuffs,” he said. He cleared his throat.
Images came back to her: Cuffs sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor of his cellar hideout, offering her stale biscuits to eat. Cuffs armored in his leggings and deerskin jacket, his blade in his hand.
She’d thought of him often, since her adventure in Southbridge. She’d hoped he’d managed to avoid the Guard. Even wished she could see him again.
“What about him?”
“He’s dead. Murdered in Ragmarket.”
“What?” She spoke louder than she intended, and he flinched, shushing her. “When? When did this happen?” she demanded, her insides funneling into her toes.
“Likely it was last night. They found his things this morning on the riverbank.”
She felt ambushed. Betrayed. It wasn’t possible. “His…things. They didn’t find a body?”
He shook his head. “Just his clothes, and Ragger scarf. Whoever did it must have thrown him in the river.”
“How did you know the clothes were his, then?”
“They scratched his name in the mud,” Amon said. “A warning of sorts.”
Cuffs Alister was dead. Raisa recalled the last time she’d seen him, on a street corner in Ragmarket, his sardonic bow on parting.
I think you’re a Ragger at heart, he’d said.
It wasn’t true. He’d been a free spirit, and Raisa was everybody’s prisoner. Was death the price of freedom?
“You don’t know he’s really dead, then,” she said stubbornly. “If there was no body.”