Daughter of Regals (7 page)

He had
exchanged his livery for a plain broadcloth coat, clean and well-fitting but
neither formal nor festive—a garment which emphasized his extreme handsomeness
by its very simplicity. He took advantage of my surprise by slipping one arm
about my waist, grasping my hand, and pulling me into the music.

A
servant. The same servant who had proclaimed a desire for my person. In my
first confusion as he commandeered me, the only thing about him which was not
surprising was the fact that he danced excellently. Whatever else he was, I
did not take him for a man who would have placed himself in this position if he
had lacked the appropriate graces.

For
half a turn of the ballroom, I simply clung to him and let him lead me while I
sought to clear my head. His physical nearness, the strength of his arms, the
scent of him—half kitchen-sweat, half raw soap—all served to confound me. But
then I caught Ryzel’s eye as we danced past him, and his nod of approval
brought me to myself. He conveyed the clear impression that he saw my dancing—and
my partner—as a gambit I had prepared for the occasion, so that I would not
appear foolish when no man freely asked my company. And the other guests who noticed
me did so with curiosity, startlement, and speculation in their eyes, sharing
Ryzel’s assumption—or perhaps thinking that I had in fact chosen Wallin to be
my husband.

The
Mage gave me too much credit—and revealed that he had had no hand in Wallin’s
behaviour. With an effort, I mastered my confusion. Leaning closer to Wallin, I
said so that only he would hear me, “You are fond of risks.”

“My
lady?” I seemed to feel his voice through his broad chest.

“If the
steward discovers that you have left your duties, you will lose them
altogether. You are a servant, not the scion of some rich nobleman. Even men of
goodly aspect and astonishing presumption must have work in order to eat.”

He
chuckled softly, almost intimately. “Tonight I do not covet either work or
food, my lady.”

“Then
you are either a hero or a fool,” I replied tartly, seeking an emotional
distance from him. “Did you see Count Thornden’s gaze upon us? Already he has
marked you for death. King Thone surely will not wish you well. And Queen
Damia—” Would not her blood seethe to see me dancing with a man who was
handsomer than any who courted her? “You would be wiser to test your audacity
upon her.”

“Ah, my
lady.” His amusement seemed genuine; but his eyes were watchful as we circled.
Watchful and brown, as soft as fine fur. “It would delight me to be able to
thrill you with my courage. Unfortunately, I am in no such peril. I am merely a
servant, beneath the notice of monarchs.” Then he laughed outright—a little
harshly, I thought. “Also, Count Thornden is a great lumbering ox and cannot
run swiftly enough to catch me. None of King Thone’s hirelings are manly enough
to meet me with a sword. And as for the queen of Lodan”—he glanced in Damia’s
direction—”I have heard it said that Kodar the rebel has chosen her for his
especial attention. While he occupies her, I will be secure, I think.”

“And
for more subtle dangers,” I remarked, “such as poison or hired murder, you have
no fear. You are a wonderment to me, Wallin. Where does such a man come from?
And how does it chance that you are ‘merely a servant’? I would be pleased to
hear your life’s tale as we dance.”

For an
instant, he looked at me sharply, and his arm about my waist tightened. More
and more of the guests took sidelong notice of us as we followed the current of
the dance. But whatever he saw in my face reassured him; his expression became
at once playful and intent. “My lady, I am of common birth. Yet I have gleaned
some education.” His dancing showed that. “I am learned enough in the ways of
the world to know that men do not seek to woo women by telling them tales of
low parentage and menial labour. Romance requires of me a princely heritage in
a far-off land—a throne temporarily lost—a life of high adventure—”

“No,” I
said; and the snap in my voice made him stop. I was on the verge of avowing to
him that my Regal sires had all chosen their brides from the common people for
reasons of policy—and for the additional reason that it was the common people
whom the Regals loved, the common people who had suffered most from the
constant warring of the Three Kingdoms. But I halted those words in time.
Instead, I said, “If you truly wish to woo me”— if you are not toying with
me—oh, if you are not toying with me! —”then you will speak of such things
tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight I have no heart for them.”

At
once, he ceased dancing and gave me a formal bow. His face was closed; I could
not read it. “My lady,” he said quietly. “if you have any need that I may
serve, call for me and I will come.” Then he turned and left me, melting away
into the gay swirl as discreetly as any servant.

I
watched him go as if I were a mist-eyed maiden, but inwardly I hardened myself
to the promise that I would not call for him—not this night. I could not afford
to trust his inexplicable behaviour; and if I failed at my Ascension, he would
not deserve the consequences of aiding me.

Somehow,
I found my way from the flow of the dance toward the wide stair to the upper
levels. By the foot of the stair, a chair had been set for me on a low dais, so
that I might preside over the ball in some comfort. There I seated myself,
determined now to let any of the dancers who wished look at me and think what
they willed.

Perhaps
for those who had come to the ball simply because it was a ball, the time
passed swiftly. For me it dragged past like a fettered thing. The musicians
excelled themselves in variety and vivacity, the dancers glittered as if they
were the jewels of the realm, bright and rich and enviable. At intervals, Mage
Ryzel came to stand beside me; but we had little to say to each other. Diligently,
he continued to play his part, so that all the gathering would know he was not
at work elsewhere, labouring either to prevent my ruin or to preserve his own
regency. And my exposed position required meat all costs to maintain my facade
of surety. I could do nothing to satisfy my true need, which was to shore up my
courage for the coming crisis. Blandly, I smiled and nodded and replied when I
was addressed—all the while yearning for privacy and peace. I did not wish to
die; still less did I wish to fail.

It
happened, however, that when the evening was half gone Queen Damia grew weary
of the ball and again took command of the occasion. During a pause between
dances, she approached me, accompanied by Mage Scour. In a tone as gracious and
lovely as her person, she said, “My lady, your guests must have some respite in
which to refresh themselves, lest they lose their pleasure in dancing. If you
will permit it, I will offer some small entertainment for their enjoyment.”

Her
voice and her suggestion chilled me. I feared her extremely. And—as ever—I was
unable to fathom her intent. But I could hardly refuse her offer. The callowest
youth in the ballroom would know how to interpret a denial.

I saw
Ryzel shifting through the stilled assembly toward me. To temporise until he
reached me, I replied, “You are most kind, my lady of Lodan. What entertainment
do you propose?”

“A
display of Magic,” she answered as if every word were honey and wine. “Mage
Scour has mastered an art which will amaze you—an art previously unknown in the
Three Kingdoms”

At
that, a murmur of surprise and excitement scattered around the ballroom.

Ryzel’s
eyes were wary as he met my glance; but I did not need his slight nod to choose
my course. We had often discussed the rumour that Scour’s research had borne
remarkable fruit. That rumour, however, had always been empty of useful
content, leaving us unable to gauge either its truth or its importance. An
opportunity for answers was not to be missed.

Yet I
feared it, as I feared Queen Damia herself. She did not mean me well.

My
throat had gone dry. For a moment, I could not speak. A short distance away
stood Count Thornden, glowering like a wolf while his Mage, Brodwick, whispered
feverishly in his ear. Scour’s grin made him resemble a ferret more than ever.
King Thone’s milky eyes showed nothing; but he had no Mage to support him now,
and he held himself apart from most of the guests. Until this moment, I had not
realized that my white muslin might become so uncomfortably warm. Surely the
night was cooler than this?

Though
every eye watched me as if my fears were written on my face, I waited until I
was sure of my voice. Then I said as mildly as I was able, “A rare promise,
good lady. Surely its fulfilment will be fascinating. Please give Mage Scour my
permission.”

At
once, Scour let out a high, sharp bark of laughter and hurried away into the
centre of the ballroom.

Around
him, the people moved toward the walls, making space for his display. Gallants
and girls pressed for the best view, and behind the thick circle of spectators
some of the less dignified guests stood on chairs. Mage Ryzel ascended a short
way up the stair in order to see well. With a conscious effort, I refrained
from gripping the arms of my seat; folding my hands in my lap, I schooled
myself-to appear calm.

Scour
was a small, slight man, yet in his black cassock he appeared capable of
wonders: dangerous. The silence of the ballroom was complete as he readied
himself for his demonstration. He used no powders or periapts, made no mystic
signs, drew no pentacles. Such village chicanery would have drawn nothing but
mirth from the guests of the manor. These people knew that magery was internal,
the result of personal aptitude and discipline rather than of flummery or show.
Yet Scour contrived to make his simple preparations appear elaborate and
meaningful, charged with power.

It was
said that the blood of a distant Magic man or woman ran in some veins but not
others, gifting some with the ability to touch upon the secret essence of the
Real, leaving the rest normal and incapable. Whatever the explanation, Scour
possessed something which I lacked. And I had been so thoroughly trained by
Mage Ryzel— and to so little avail—that I needed only a moment to recognize
that Scour was a true master.

Step by
step, I watched him succeed where I had always failed.

First
he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together before him. Such actions
might be necessary or unnecessary, according to his gift for concentration.
His mouth
shaped complex words which had no sound—again an aid to
concentration. Softly, then with more force, his left heel began to tap an
unsteady rhythm against the floor. Another man might have done these same
things and seemed merely preposterous. Queen Damia’s Mage had the look of a man
who would soon be strong enough to consume the very manor of the Regals.

Slowly, he separated his
hands. Holding his arms rigid, he spread them wider and wider by small
increments. Across the gap between his hands ran a palpable crackle of power.
It was neither a clear bolt such as lightning nor a diffuse shimmer such as
beat, but rather something of both. It shot streaks of red within the reach of
his arms, then green, then red again.

And as the colors
crackled and flared, a shape coalesced within them.

I should have known what
was coming. I had been given hints enough; a child could have read them. But
the queen of Lodan had been too subtle for me from the first.

The shape took on depth
and definition as it grew larger. Its lines became solid, etched upon the air,
Moment by moment, its size increased. At first, it might have been a
starling—then a pigeon—then a hawk. But it was no bird of any description.
Passion flashed in its eyes, light glared along its scales. Gouts of fire burst
from its nostrils.

As it beat its wings and
rose above Scour’s head, it was unmistakably a Dragon. In response, cries of
alarm and astonishment rang across the ballroom. Doors were flung open and
banged shut as men and women snatched their children and fled. Some of the
guests retreated to the walls to watch or cower others cheered like Banshees.

It was small yet. But it
continued to grow as it soared and flashed; and the stretch of Scour’s arms,
the clench of his fists, the beat of his heel showed that he could make his
Creature as large as he willed.

The sight of it wrung my
heart with love and fear. I had risen to my feet as if in one mad instant I had
thought that I might fly with it, forsaking my human flesh for wings. It was
instantly precious to me—a thing of such beauty and necessity and passion, such
transcending Reality and importance, such glory that for me the world would be
forevermore pale without it.

And it was my doom.

Even as my truest nerves
sang to the flight of the Dragon, I understood what I saw. Mage Scour had gone
beyond all the known bounds of his art to make something Real—not an image but
the thing itself There was no Dragon in all the realm from which an image might
have been cast. Scour might as easily have worked magery of me as of a Dragon
which did not exist. He had created Reality, could summon or dismiss it as he
willed. And thereby he had made himself mightier than any Magic or Mage or
Regal in all the history of the Three Kingdoms.

Or else he had simply
cast an image as any other Mage might—an image of a Dragon which had come secretly
into being in the realm.

In a way, that was
inconceivable. Knowledge of such a Creature would not have remained hidden; one
Mage or another would have stumbled upon it, and the word of the wonder would
have spread. But in another way the thought was altogether too conceivable: if
some man or woman of [Man—or Mage Scour—or Queen Damia herself—were a Creature
such as the Regals had been? Capable of appearing human or Real at will? Then
the knowledge might well have remained hidden, especially if the Magic had been
latent until recently. That would explain all Queen Damia’s ploys—her
confidence, her choice of songs for her minstrel, Scour’s talk at the Mages’
dinner.