Nightshade (14 page)

Cecelia crossed the floor before the dais and moved through the spill of music. As she neared the opposite side of the floor, Emmalyn fell in step beside her.

“You look bloody smashing, Mother,” Emmalyn said. “Shall we rescue our stunning guest?”

Cecelia took her arm. “Royce looks rather happy to be here.”

“I believe he is, yes.”

“I shall take care of the Prince if you would but spirit her away,” Cecelia said. “Where is Alisha?”

“Here, my Lady.” Cecelia looked to her left as Alisha stepped close. “I shall take care of Melora, for no doubt she’ll curry favor and follow poor Jessa about the room.”

“Sweet Alisha,” Cecelia said, “you’re smarter than my son, which makes me somewhat nervous about the grandchildren you shall give me.”

Alisha laughed. “You’re not the only one nervous on that account, my Lady. No doubt I shall be over my head from the start.”

“Into the breach, girls.”

Jessa straightened as Cecelia drew near, noticing her determined smile even as Joaquin tightened his arm upon her hand. The guests around her parted to allow Cecelia entrance into their clique, and Malcolm’s talk of hunting the Green Hills faded as he greeted his mother with genuine affection.

Joaquin pulled his arm away and stepped back, giving a bow.

Jessa felt the heated presence of Serabee and a spear of nervousness pierced her stomach. The Queen was speaking of the musicians and asking if Joaquin would perhaps dance a Lyonese galliard, when a hand slipped into her own.

Jessa found Emmalyn’s eyes and they were filled with warmth, so Jessa pulled smoothly to the side in a deft maneuver that avoided both her brother and Serabee, affording her an almost casual exit from those of Malcolm’s circle.

“I never leave a friend behind,” Emmalyn said as she guided them back across the room, breaking into the open near the dance floor. “Don’t look back.”

“Thank you, Princess.”

“Emmalyn, remember?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Princess,” Jessa replied, trying to find her balance after being freed from both her brother and Serabee. “No…I mean I’m sorry, Emmalyn.”

“No apologies. Try again.”

“Bless you to all the gods you love, Emmalyn,” Jessa replied with absolute sincerity, glad for her veil beneath so much attention. “
Vhaelin essa ahbwalla
.”

“And now for some wine while we wait for Mother and Alisha to return from the war.”

They loitered near the doors to the solar and Emmalyn took hold of two goblets from one of the servers, handing one to Jessa as they searched back through the hall. Boris Greeves laughed with Cecelia, and Alisha nodded as Melora gestured to the musicians.

“How did you find our Melora?” Emmalyn asked as the woman in question smoothed at her burgundy skirt. The auburn-haired Melora was beautiful as always, but it was a clever beauty without warmth.

“I was wishing that she had not been found.”

“Your sentiments are not unique, you must trust me.”

“Your court is extremely large,” Jessa said. The difference between Bharjah’s court and Arravan’s staggered her. “I hadn’t thought there would be so many people…even though I expected there would be.”

“Not to worry, Jessa. We shan’t let them run you to ground.”

“Thank you.”

“Here come our comrades.” Emmalyn smiled as her mother and Jacob’s future wife moved across the dance floor. “No doubt your brother and mine will be talking blood sport more openly now.”

“Wine, quick now,” Alisha said as she approached, Jessa lifting her untouched drink and offering the chalice. “Thank you.”

Cecelia called out as she neared and a tray of wine was brought immediately. Cecelia took up two goblets and handed one to Jessa. “All better, my girl?”

“Yes, thank you, my Lady.”

“Where is Darry?” Alisha asked.

A murmur of voices rose as if in answer and rolled through the hall, starting in the crowded foyer and spreading inward. Someone gave a shout and the mass of people about the entrance began to part.

The Princess Darrius Lauranna moved beneath the arch as the throng gave way, Lord Bentley Greeves on her right a single step behind and Lieutenant Arkady Winnows at her left as the three moved in unison.

“Blessed Gamar!” Cecelia exclaimed.

“Holy seven hells.” Emmalyn smiled. “Not a bloody dress, Darry.”

Jessa’s breath caught within her throat, her heart pounding in a sudden rush. Darry’s hair fell in shining golden curls onto her shoulders, completely free of ties or combs. Her black jacket was of the deepest silk Jessa had ever seen, the material so dark and shimmering that it made Darry’s movements seem all the more sleek. Her white silk tunic was open at her neck and plunged down her chest until it disappeared beneath a golden vest of gypsy silk. The unique fabric was washed through with tendrils of black, a lovely smoke of darkness captured in the opulent gold material. If not for the close-fitting vest her tunic would have breached every rule of etiquette. The cut of the garment was so blatantly sensual that new rules would no doubt be discussed in the weeks to come.

At her neck she wore the gold medallion of her family on a thick linked chain that flamed as she moved. On the left arm of the jacket, stitched by the finest of hands, a golden mountain panther seemed to climb from the flared cuff at her wrist up the entire length of the sleeve, its image filled with detail and melting colors the likes of which Jessa had never seen until this instant. At Darry’s waist was a belt studded with gold. Darry’s left hand rested on the hilt of a fine-blade rapier with a golden hand guard, the elegant metal twisted in a thin, ornate design. Her trousers were of the same material as her jacket, and as the long coattails fell to the backs of her knees her boots rose in their high polish, the toe caps made of gold and soaking up the light.

On each side of Darry, Bentley Greeves and Arkady Winnows were dressed in the same stunning uniforms, though the panthers that adorned their jackets covered the left shoulder and climbed down onto the chest, the animal caught in attack above their hearts. Bentley’s blond locks and neatly trimmed mustache were a match to Arkady’s flaxen hair, which was combed short and neat about his clean-shaven face.

“That’s Damascus silk,” Cecelia whispered. “She’ll have emptied the bloody treasury.”

Bentley seized two goblets of wine from a tray as they moved to an empty space at the end of the dance floor, staking a cavalier claim. Darry accepted her drink with a smile, the gesture open in its affection for him. She took a drink and turned to Arkady, handing him her chalice, which he drank from.

“Oh, well, that was entirely too bold.” Alisha chuckled in a wicked manner. “Is she allowed to do that?”

“No,” Emmalyn said, trying not to laugh and failing miserably.

Owen observed his daughter and held his back a tad straighter, his shoulders stretching his black dress uniform.

Bentley spoke in Darry’s ear, causing her to flash a rebellious grin. The three of them were beyond appealing, and though the cut of Darry’s tunic caused Owen a surge of discomfort, he could not deny that the three of them were altogether exquisite.

“Let us watch our Lyonese Prince,” Armistad Greyson said.

“Malcolm ignores her,” Owen replied as Malcolm looked anywhere but at his sister.
Or at least you try, my boy. If you’d but learn to respect her, you might have an easier time of it.

“Aye, but Joaquin doesn’t.”

Owen let out a huff of amusement. “Look at him bristle.” He glanced back at his daughter and her escorts. “Good Gamar, the sun has shone only for them.”

“Aye, my Lord, they are a sight. I forget sometimes how beautiful Darry is.”

“Yes,” Owen said. “She has the look of my mother, with her hair like that.”

“The hair. Queen Marget’s hair, you’re right.”

“I do believe that my daughter is taking up a piece in the game. Though it’s different from Mal’s, or what mine must be.”

“And what piece will it be?”

“She’s taken up the gauntlet.” Owen laughed softly. “She means to wield the blade before our enemies. Look to our young guest.”

Joaquin’s hand had fallen to his sword, his ringed fingers gripping the hilt as his body tensed. He clearly recognized the challenge of another warrior’s presence and his stance had changed accordingly. His shoulders stiffened and his legs were braced as if he would draw his sword at the slightest provocation.

Darry stood flanked by her escort, smiling in such an open and sensual manner that Owen felt surprise at first. He raised a brow as Arkady Winnows leaned much too close, whispering into her hair as she stared across the room toward the arch. It was an intimate move and not Darry’s way with her men. There was true love between them, impressive and unto death, but that was not the power she now wielded. This power spoke of all manner of things at her disposal: the power of death that a warrior has, and the power of life that a lover might hold.

Owen realized that Darry still suspected Joaquin of using the latter without thought or care as to the lover, and he did not disagree with her assessment. The man had a sense of malice about him, and though it was slight, it was always present. This was but a continuation of their clash at the dinner table, and Darry was clearly winning.

“They begin to flock,” Armistad said.

The attention Darry commanded was undeniable, and her challenge was open to the Lyonese Prince and anyone else who cared to see it.

The music from the dais stopped and the players readied for the first official tune, drawing everyone’s attention. The floor cleared in response and the singer stepped forward as the strings began to rise around her. The bodhran sounded, its beat rolling softly at first and then laying claim to the center as the sticks beat and the pipes deep and rich pulsed within its beat. A single fiddle cried out its challenge.

“The Mohn-Drom!” someone called, and scattered applause moved about the room along with the sound of voices rising in surprise and excitement.

Armistad laughed. “An impossible dance to begin with!”

“Darry,” Owen said as the singer gave a slight nod. He turned just in time to see Darry smile in answer as Arkady Winnows took her hand and led her forth, their entourage parting and shouting the challenge.

The Mohn-Drom was the most suggestive and sensual of all the courtly dances, and rarely was it played at such a function. It was also the most difficult and intricate dance that Arravan had ever produced, and only the most natural and talented of dancers could complete its turns and complex footwork. It was a dance meant for lovers, and its many clinches and patterns were meant to imply and mimic the most heated of moments between them.

Someone called out to Darry and she laughed, unhooking the sword from her belt. She tossed the weapon and its sheath to Bentley, who reached out in an absent manner and caught it, after which he took a drink of his wine. A cheer went up and laughter moved through the crowd as Darry sent him a scathing look.

Cecelia turned to Emmalyn but found her eyes captured by Jessa instead, and her comment died upon her lips.

Jessa stood as straight and still as if she were made of stone, though the veil that hid her face moved as she breathed, short and quick. She stared at the dance floor with a startling intensity, though the veil still hid the deeper truth of Jessa’s expression. Cecelia stepped closer in concern and followed her gaze as the singer’s voice pierced the air and the bodhran beat low with its bass sound. The strings flared hard within the call of the pipes as the Mohn-Drom began.

Darry swirled gracefully onto the center of the floor with Arkady close upon her hip, her arms above her head and then behind his neck as he stepped close and dipped her backward. Darry’s hair caught the light and flamed with a life of its own.

They moved, executing the complex steps of the Mohn-Drom with grace and confidence. Their bodies touched in a bold manner. Arkady’s hands were lower than Blooded custom would dictate on Darry’s hips as their legs intertwined and they circled tightly about the center of the floor. The music swelled and flowed over them, allowing them entrance into the realm that only music can create.

They twirled, Darry ducking beneath his arms and spinning, then she was pulled close and Arkady’s lips brushed her neck. He caught her hand and spun back into her arms, normally a move played by the woman, but his elegance was undeniable as he relinquished control of the dance and Darry changed her steps with flair. The mandolins and the lute increased their melody as the singer sang notes but no words, the pace increasing. And then Arkady was in control once more, leading them in an intricate pattern as they spun as one, and the crowd sent up a cheer.

Cecelia had never seen her daughter so exposed before, so openly on display at such an official function. Some in the crowd seemed offended by her deliberate audacity, but most appeared in some measure captivated. Darry was desire personified as Arkady chased her with determination though she would not give in. They were both caught up in the Mohn-Drom. Darry’s body was sybaritic as she moved, almost too much for propriety. She pulled back before she gave affront, though, and it was as if an enticing dream had come and gone.

Darry stepped and spun away from Arkady as he reached out. His hand swept her hair aside and caught the collar of her jacket at the exact moment the music crashed and stilled. Darry stood like a statue, looking over her left shoulder. Then the music burst forth and Arkady pulled the jacket, releasing Darry from its silken confines. Arkady chased her, tossing the garment that Bentley caught on his arm as if he had been expecting it. Arkady detained her from behind and slid his right hand across her stomach as his lips found her neck, while his left hand brushed low upon her breast. Darry reached back and slid her hand up his firm backside, pulling him even closer.