Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (25 page)

FJOTRA

Fjotra was not the first to reach Brynjolf’s side. The mage was already there, kneeling beside him, as was a big man with a thick, black mustache and a commanding presence. Without thinking, she tried to push past him, which occasioned a collective gasp of dismay from the people around her.

“Fjotra!” barked the comtesse from behind her in a manner that made it perfectly clear that she had made a dreadful mistake.

But Fjotra didn’t care, she was too worried about her brother. He was conscious and groaning, and Theuderic was having some trouble preventing him from pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“Lie back, you bloody fool—you might have broke something!” the large man told him. “Now hold still so we can get a closer look at that dagger wound. You’re lucky you didn’t land on your head, the way you fell!”

Despite his large hands and bluff manner, the man was surprisingly gentle as he cut away the finery that surrounded the assassin’s blade and examined the wound. Even so, Brynjolf winced as the man produced a red silk cloth out of his clothing and pressed the cloth tightly against the wound.

“Bleed on this all you like, boy,” the man said lightly and his remark was greeted by rather more amusement than Fjotra would have thought possible. He handed the dagger to the mage. “What do you say, Theuderic?”

“I’d say he’s lucky the bastard missed the heart and lungs.” The mage sat back on his heels and examined the knife. “No poison either. But I’ll bet there is on the bolts they were carrying. They were planning to shoot you, not stab you.”

“Will he live?” Fjotra interjected. “Please, sieur, will he die?”

“Not from this. I’ve had worse myself.” The big man glanced up at her, initially disinterested, then did a double-take. “Who the hell are you?”

“It’s the boy’s sister,” the mage answered before Fjotra could say anything. “They’re reaver royalty, of a sort. Your comtesse’s new pets.”

“Damned useful pets,” the man said, staring at her. His dark eyes seeming to devour her. “I can see why she was keeping them to herself.”

“If I’d known Brynjolf would save your life, I might have contemplated leaving him at home, your royal highness,” the comtesse said in tones so icy that Fjotra looked at her in alarm. But it was hard to tell if Roheis’s green eyes were more amused or satisfied, so Fjotra concluded she didn’t actually mean what she seemed to be implying. “Prince Brynjolf, Princess Fjotra, allow me to introduce to you his Royal Highness Charles-Phillipe, the Red Prince, Duc de Lutece, the recent victor of the Siege of Montrove, and the likely target of the two assassins you just threw off the walls, Brynjolf.”

Fjotra gasped. She’d knocked the prince aside? She stood and tried to curtsy as she’d been trained.

Brynjolf laughed then grimaced and gestured with his right hand. “Please no offense if I not bow, Royal Highness?”

“I suspect my dignity will survive the insult, Prince Brynjolf. May I say it is indeed a pleasure to meet you both, particularly in light of the circumstances. Speaking of which…” He rose to his feet and bellowed to his guards. “Fouquat, tell me you got at least one of them alive!”

“We got both, Your Highness. One of them is busted up pretty bad, I don’t think he’ll make it. The other just has a broken leg.”

The Red Prince nodded in satisfaction and looked down at Brynjolf. “Well done, reaver prince! It looks as if I’m in your debt.” He ordered the assassins taken to the royal palace and Brynjolf taken into the Duc’s residence, born on a litter carried by his own bodyguard.

As Fjotra and the others followed Brynjolf through the gawking crowds and into the high-arched entry to the ducal manoir, Roheis whispered into her ear.

“Your brother is in no shape for what we’d planned. You’re going to have to do this yourself. Can you do it?”

Fjotra winced. She’d forgotten entirely about their planned performance that evening. The thought of doing it alone in front of all these southerners frightened her nearly as much as seeing her brother fall from the wall. But if her brother could risk his life for this audience, she could risk public humiliation.

She nodded as grimly as a warrior ready to enter his last battle.

“I can, my lady. I must.”

They settled Brynjolf in a bedchamber that befitted his supposedy princely status, and his wounds were being attended by two priests. The priests themselves were assisted by three young nuns attractive enough to draw a wry comment from the Red Prince as they were ushered from the room.

The comtesse assured Fjotra that her brother was in the very best of hands. It seemed the priests were from a medicinal order that were well regarded throughout the kingdom. No sooner had they left Brynjolf’s chamber than the prince took his leave of them, as his attendants were flocking around him, bearing urgent messages from one noble or another. But he was gracious enough to kiss Fjotra’s hand, a gesture that made her feel very funny indeed. And not merely because the course hairs of his mustache tickled either.

“Very gallant, our prince,” Theuderic said to the comtesse as he sipped from a glass from which a disconcerting blue smoke was emanating.

“Yes, it’s remarkable how a fresh young face inspires him to new heights of courtesy,” the comtesse answered.

Fjotra couldn’t tell if the comtesse were irritated or not. If the prince were her lover, she certainly would have been furious that he had made advances with Fjotra. But things were so different here in the south that she had no idea what to think. The prince wasn’t exactly what she would call handsome, as his face was red and fleshy, his hair was thick and black, and his teeth were big and yellow. And yet, he was not an easy man to ignore. Or forget.

“Shall I lean on him for a royal audience tonight?”

“You still want to do that?” Theuderic glanced at Fjotra. “Is she up to it without the brother?”

“They’re not jongleurs, Theuderic. Yes, it would have been better with them both. But look at her: She’ll suffice to hold the king’s attention.”

The mage laughed. “She held the prince’s, anyhow.”

Fjotra tried not to laugh, herself, as the comtesse’s artfully placed elbow nearly made the mage spill his glass.

It didn’t take Theuderic long to come to a decision. “Very well. It will have to be soon after the dancing begins. Neither the king nor queen will stay long past the first five dances. She is leaving for Chalaons to take the waters tomorrow. But not too soon, or you will play to an angry audience. So, let us enter now and pay our respects to the duchesse, and then we shall see what we can do.”

The sorcerer went off to speak with the ball’s hostess, as the large hall resounded with the sounds of the string quartet. The comtesse was speaking with the elfess, too rapidly for her to easily follow, so Fjotra watched as people danced. Although only a few couples were on the floor yet, their effortless motions made her entirely certain that she would not dance this evening. The comtesse had been kind enough to see that she’d been given lessons in the most popular dances, but Fjotra knew that she was just familiar enough with them to ensure that she would look clumsy rather than ignorant.

The music changed twice, as did the dances, before Fjotra spotted the tall sorcerer making his way back toward them. It was clear from the resigned expression on his bearded face that the Duchesse de Meridiony had given her consent to an additional musical performance.

The comtesse smiled up at Theuderic as he rejoined them and offered him a goblet of a sparkling wine. “Thank you, my dear magus. How did you persuade the lady?”

Theuderic laughed and arched an eyebrow at his elven mistress. “I lied. I told her that you, my lady, wished to sing a song of ancient Merithaim. Naturally, she couldn’t resist, since not even His Majesty has ever been able to boast of an elven bard in Lutece.”

A slow, amused smile gradually spread across the elf lady’s face. “You are incorrigible, my lord. But I suppose it is better that you amuse yourself with lies than with murders.”

“The night is yet young.” He raised his glass to his lover. “I wouldn’t count out the possibility, seeing as we’ve already had one assassination attempt—and considering the looks that some of the Duchesse’s guests are directing at Roheis’s young reaver friend here.” He directed their attention to one large, broad-shouldered man who looked distinctly out of place in the effeminate clothing that most of the Savonner men were wearing, whose hate-filled stare was making Fjotra feel increasingly uncomfortable.

Theuderic looked at Fjotra. “I do hope neither you nor your brother have ever been reaving along the coast. Because if you have, I fear you may find the program for the evening’s entertainment has been changed again. I’m told it is very difficult to sing when your tongue has been ripped from your mouth with steel and fire.”

“Never, Sieur Theuderic,” Fjotra assured him. “They choose Brynjolf and me to come here because we are children of Skuli, but also because we never reave. I have killed no one, and my brother is a sea virgin.” She bit her lip, instantly regretting the disclosure of her brother’s secret. “Please, don’t say him I tell you this.”

The comtesse smiled wryly. “If I understand things correctly, by Dalarn standards, that means Brynjolf is essentially considered a mincing, limp-wristed fop until he proves otherwise by raping and pillaging his way across our northern coast. Which I find a little ironic given that it has been all my servants could do to keep the boy from gutting Henriot every time Henriot tells him he’s placed a foot wrong while waltzing.”

“And here I was so looking forward to serving as a Dalarn dance instructor,” Theuderic said, nodding to Fjotra. “Never fear, little reaver. We shall not disclose his shame.”

She flushed at the intensity of his gaze and looked away. Was he not with the beautiful elfess? Why would he stare at her in such a way?

“I say, Roheis,” Theuderic said to the comtesse, “the prince appears to be coming this way.”

They all began to rise, but the heir to the throne raised his hand and stopped them. “Stay, sit, please. I am determined that we shall we start this evening afresh. How beautiful you look tonight, sweet Roheis. My lady comtesse, will you not honor your future sovereign with a dance?”

“Your Royal Highness, I should be most honored,” Roheis breathed.

Fjotra couldn’t help but notice that, as the prince assisted the comtesse stand up from her chair, his hand slid across her silk-covered bottom and gave it a firm squeeze. So was the comtesse truly his mistress, after all? It seemed likely. Lady Roheis tended to rise closer to noon than daybreak, and Fjotra had seldom seen her around the manoir after dark.

She and Brynjolf had argued over the lovely widow’s chastity on several occasions. Her brother, being more than half in love with her, insisted that she was as chaste as she was kind. Fjotra found the comtesse to be charming and generous, but she found it implausible that any woman as effortlessly seductive as Roheis could possibly be producing the effect she had on men without serious intent behind it.

Theuderic leaned toward Fjotra. “There, Princess Fjotra, is His Royal Majesty, the King of Savondir,” murmured the sorcerer as he leaned toward her.

Fjotra nodded and resisted the urge to recoil from the man as she looked for the first time at the man who held the fate of her people in his hand.

She was not surprised to see that Louis-Charles de Mirid, the fourteenth of his Name, was a big man. She had already met his son. But she was surprised to see how fat he was. His grey-shot beard barely served to conceal the fat sprawl of his neck, and not even the silk elegantly draped over his swollen torso could disguise a massive expanse of belly. He was nearly three times the width of his slender queen.

After seeing the two of them side by side, Fjotra could understand why Queen Ingoberg was leaving the capital to take the restorative waters. She had no experience in such matters, not yet, but she imagined the king’s lovemaking would bear a distinct similarity to being crushed in the arms of a bear. The sight inspired her to firmly resolve that, no matter what the future might bring, she would never marry a fat man.

But there was strength to the king too and a surprisingly athletic grace. He stepped out onto the floor alone then bowed to his queen, and she rose from her seat and came to him with a smile when he extended his hand. Perhaps, Fjotra considered, however implausible it might be, she actually loved her grotesque bear.

Both the king’s movements and the long white scar above his left eye made it apparent that he had once been a warrior, like his son appeared to be. He led the queen well and smiled easily, which made the thought of speaking to him a little less frightening. She raised her glass to her lips, and realized to her dismay that it was already empty. She had been drinking faster than she’d realized.

Once the king and queen were on the floor, the nobles and courtiers in attendance hastened to join them. In a matter of moments, the tables were all but emptied of everyone under the age of forty, with only a few exceptions such as herself. The floor was transformed into a glorious mass of whirling colors, and a hundred rival perfumes battled it out for supremacy in the air. Fjotra found herself transfixed by the elegance of the movements and the graceful way the dancers moved around each other, as effortlessly as two bladesmasters crossing swords.