The White Mists of Power (23 page)

Seymour glanced beside him. The retainers already had a stack of shells next to their plates. “Is this customary?” he asked, thinking he would rather be in the kitchen again, getting his pick of the leftovers.

Seymour slid his knife into the shell he was holding. The meat looked grayish in the light. He pried the meat loose, tipped his head back as Byron had done, and felt something slide across his tongue. When it reached the back of his throat, he coughed, then forced himself to swallow. “Ick.”

“I’m not the busy one.” A server stopped beside him. Seymour closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t see what the server placed in front of him. It smelled like cooked meat. He opened his eyes. A thick slab of beef covered his plate. He sighed. Normal food.

Seymour took a bite of beef. It was tender and succulent, and it washed the sliminess of the oyster away. “You still haven’t told me what happened in Kerry,” he said.

Applause scattered through the banquet hall. Byron turned toward the doors. “There are your flame throwers.”

Seymour took another bite of beef and turned his chair around. They would have to arrive at the same time as the good food–and as soon as he asked Byron about Kerry.

The flame throwers, dressed in bright red, danced around one another in the center of the room. Each performer held a gray rod. Then, as the rods burst into flames, the performers tossed the brands between them.

Seymour watched the flames shimmer in the air. The scar on his hand tingled. He had gotten so frightened of fire that he let someone else light his hearth at night. He hadn’t practiced his magic since the night he performed, and he doubted he ever would again.

A flame thrower caught the rods as they flew past him and began to stack them end on end. Seymour watched the tower shiver. If the tower fell, flames would skitter along the floor and set the entire room ablaze. The diners seemed unconcerned. They continued talking and eating as if nothing were going on.

The tower grew until it almost reached the ceiling. Then the flame thrower dismantled the tower rod by rod, tossing the burning brands to his companions. Seymour flinched every time a rod flew through the air. The flame throwers continued their juggling act for a few minutes, bowed, and left the room. The applause that followed them was thin and scattered.

A page tapped Byron on the shoulder. He nodded and grabbed his lute. “Looks like it’s my turn,” he said. “Someone has to liven up the crowd. Why don’t you move to the servers’ entrance. You’ll get a better view.”

Seymour glanced at the table. A server had removed his plate. Seymour got up and pushed his chair in. The servers’ entrance was a small door near the head table. Seymour leaned against the wall just beyond the door. He wasn’t the only one standing. Other performers, entertainers, and servers lined the walls. The scar-faced man that Seymour had seen the night of their performance stood a few feet away. Seymour had seen the man around the palace a few times, always watching Byron.

Byron pulled his stool into the center of the hall. He leaned against it as he had the first night, one foot resting on a rung. “Requests, sire?” he asked.

The king shook his head. Byron tuned the lute, then began a light ballad, filled with running chords and bawdy verses. The hall grew quiet.

Vonda stood across the hall. She hadn’t seen Seymour. She was staring at Byron, her hands to her temples, her eyes glazed. Seymour recognized the expression. He had seen it on his father’s face when he mind-tapped. She was trying to tap Byron.

The music continued, but Byron stopped singing. His fingers still found the chords and he swayed to the beat. A frown creased his forehead, and Seymour remembered what Afeno had said about the bluff Enos. She had come from the woods, she and Byron had stared at each other, and after she had healed Seymour, they spoke as if they were continuing a conversation. Byron knew how to tap as well. And if he knew how to tap, he knew how to block a tap.

Seymour no longer wanted to be in the hall. His duty was done; he could leave. He pushed off the wall, when the main doors into the hall opened. Two pages held the door and bowed as the Lady Jelwra walked in. She paused, making sure she had the king’s gaze, and then curtsied. Her long white dress accented her dark skin, and she wore pearls in her dark hair.

Seymour sank back against the wall, feeling its chill against his shirt. He had to stay now, to see what she would say when she saw Byron. If she revealed him as Geoffry of Kinsmail, and if the king got angry, Seymour would run, find Colin and Afeno, and get them ready to flee the palace as soon as Byron left the banquet hall.

The lady walked behind the diners, greeting those she knew. She acted as if the music provided a backdrop for her entrance. Byron did not turn, but Seymour could tell he was aware of the change in the room. Vonda let her hands fall to her side, the tap apparently unsuccessful.

The lady stopped when she saw Seymour. She chucked her fan under his chin. The wood edges scratched. He couldn’t bow as he should have for fear that the fan would dig farther into his soft skin. “Is your master here?” she asked, her words barely audible above Byron’s music.

She removed the fan and turned away from Seymour as if he no longer existed, leaving the scent of roses behind her. She rounded the corner to the king’s table, patting Lord Boton on the shoulder as she passed. Seymour rubbed his chin and recited a simple heal spell. The scratches stopped itching.

Byron bent over his lute and switched to a lazy instrumental that he often played when trying to calm himself. The battle with Vonda must have been a difficult one. Seymour wished he could signal Byron to warn him about the Lady Jelwra, but even as he stepped out to catch Byron’s eye, the lady approached the king.

The ballad broke. Byron’s fingers fumbled along the strings. The king had taken the lady’s hand, but stopped to look at his bard. Byron recovered with a bridge into a sad ballad. The lady sat beside the king and whispered something without taking her gaze from Byron.

Seymour shoved his hands into his pockets. His palms were sweating but his fingers were cold. He didn’t want to leave the palace. He had never been this happy before. He wished she had never appeared. He wanted to go to the king and deny everything she had told him.

Byron finished the ballad with a plaintive note that hung in the air before fading. The applause was warm, but Byron didn’t acknowledge it. The lady had not taken her gaze from him, and the king noted her intent stare.

“Byron, play something for Alma.” The king had taken her small hand in his.

Byron lifted his head and met the lady’s gaze. Something in his expression made Seymour even colder. Byron got down from the stool and bowed before the head table, his attention on the lady.

“Byron?”
the Lady Jelwra’s voice was low and mocking. The king looked sharply at her, and Lord Ewehl sat up straighter in his chair.

“Yes, milady.” The lordly posture Byron had had when he first met her had disappeared. He leaned back against the stool, relaxed but deferential.

“My new bard, Alma, the one that I told you about.” The king’s voice carried in the quiet room.

“The one who knows every ballad ever written?”

Byron shook his head. His fingers toyed with the strings. “Not every ballad, milady, but most. I’ll play whatever you wish to hear.”

The lady tilted her head. She smiled the same smile she had used with Seymour. “Do you know any ballads about the Lord of Kinsmail?”

Seymour clenched his fists in his pockets. His fingernails dug into his skin. The scar-faced man grinned as if something amused him.

“To my knowledge, milady, there is but one song about the last Lord of Kinsmail, and it does not mention him by name. It runs like this…” Byron strummed a few chords, then sang a song about battles and wars, about a man who had lost everything and still lived for the day he would get his home again.

When he finished, he let the music die before speaking. “Is that the ballad you meant?”

The king was frowning and the hall was silent. Seymour knew what they were thinking: the Lady Jelwra had stumped the bard. If she said that he had sung the wrong ballad, she would ruin Byron as quickly as if she exposed him as the Lord of Kinsmail.

The lady shrugged and pulled her hand from the king’s. “I had no particular ballad in mind. I had simply heard a legend about the last Lord of Kinsmail, and I wondered if there was a ballad that retold it. Thank you, sir bard.”

Applause began somewhere near Seymour, then scattered around the room. Byron bowed his head, acknowledging it. When it had finished, he turned to the lady. “Is there something else you would like to hear?”

She studied his face, then shook her head. “Oh, something about deception and lies and love.”

“Your wish, milady.” Byron ran his fingers across the strings and began a ballad about a ladylee who had disguised herself as a servant to gain entrance to the king’s chambers. The song was funny and as the diners laughed, Seymour let himself relax. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything. Maybe she would extract a price for her silence. Or maybe she didn’t care about a bard.

When Byron finished, the king stood. He hadn’t smiled since the lady had arrived, and now his face looked gray and tired. Byron slung his lute across his back and got off the stool.

“Stay, Byron,” the king said. “This will only take a minute. I’ll want you to play when I’m through.”

Byron sat back down. The king put his hand on the Lady Jelwra’s shoulder. She rested her cheek on his hand, then looked up at the crowd.

“With the death of my son,” the king said, “I have no heir. My lady Constance is too old to bear another child and has graciously offered to step down from her rightful place at my side so that I might become a father again. I am announcing to you all that I am looking for a lady or ladylee to help us through this troubled time. And I will, in two weeks’ time, hold a festival to choose her.”

The king let go of Alma’s shoulder. “I only offer the chance to mother the heir to the throne, and cannot offer my companionship. That belongs, by right, to the Lady Constance.”

The king sat down. The Lady Jelwra tried to take his hand, but he moved away from her. Lord Boton whispered to Lord Ewehl, and then they left, followed by members of the council.

Seymour looked at Byron. He should have begun a song immediately, but he was staring at his lute as if he had never seen it before. The silence seemed heavy.

“Play,” the Lady Jelwra said.

Byron’s hands moved across the strings, but the song sounded flat. He did not sing for a long time. When he finally began lyrics, his words seemed sad and slow.

The king gulped an entire tankard of ale. The Lady Jelwra whispered to him, but he did not respond. After Byron had finished two songs, the king left. Byron sang one more ballad, one that spoke of love betrayed, and the hall was quiet until he was through.