Juliet McKenna - The Warrior's Bond

Have you passed a pleasant Festival?” Temar could spare enough attention to attempt conversation with Gelaia Den Murivance now that the dance simply required them to advance hand in hand. At least he’d made his initial missteps with the amiable Orilan and various D’Olbriot Demoiselles. “It’s certainly been the most memorable of recent years.” Temar thought Gelaia was about to say something else but they reached the end of the figure and had to turn away from each other. He smiled politely as he swept some unknown Demoiselle around, skirts swirling as he set careful hands on her slim waist. Gelaia raised her fan as they stood waiting their turn to pass down the middle of the set. “Have you made any progress learning the language of feathers?” she asked archly. Temar shook his head. “It has been a busy five days.” Gelaia’s eyes kept sliding away from Temar’s gaze. “There are plenty of people here interested to see what colours I carry. But then no one knows what a D’Alsennin livery would be, do they?”

Temar studied her fan, a spread of glossy crimson layered over darker maroon plumes clasped in a golden handle studded with rubies and softened with a flurry of down. Vivid scarlet tendrils with tufted ends trembled on either side and Temar wondered what kind of bird those came from. He realised Gelaia was looking expectantly at him between glances at the rest of their set. “You carry Den Murivance colours, do you not? Rather than the white plumes you used before?”

Gelaia raised a defiant chin. “Which signifies I have no interest in any other House at present—and none has an interest in me.”

Temar took a moment to catch her meaning. “Messire D’Olbriot will be disappointed.”

“Is he the only one?” Gelaia demanded with some indignation.

Temar took her hand to lead her down the middle of the other couples. “I had barely realised I was being considered as a suitable candidate for your hand. Why am I now so quickly rejected?” Completing the last steps of the dance Temar turned with Gelaia to bow to the rest of the set.

Gelaia fanned herself, faint colour rising beneath her mask of cosmetics. “There are too many complications.”

Temar looked at her in silent expectation.

“I know Toremal, I know how to dance the measures, how to play the games,” she said with sudden forthrightness, pulling her hand free. “You don’t, but you’ve already made dangerous enemies. I’ll marry to suit my Sieur and I’ll manage whatever affairs my new House requires of me, but I’m not ready to play for stakes as high as Tor Bezaemar. I don’t know what else you’re caught up in, and that worries me. You’re laid low with a knife wound and yet sorcery has you healed by the following day. You associate with wizards who pluck a falling man out of the air.”

“I had little choice over any of that,” said Temar, stung.

Gelaia forced a smile. “I do have a choice, Esquire. I choose not to get involved. I’m sorry.”

Temar bowed low and watched Gelaia hurry away to the security of her family. Looking round he smiled blandly at discreetly curious faces before sauntering over to Allin who was sipping a glass of wine, face flushed with pleasure. “May I have the honour of this next dance?”

“Let me catch my breath.” Allin puffed out her cheeks inelegantly.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Temar asked curiously.

“Oh, I’m determined to,” said Allin with a glint in her eye. “Poldrion can loose his demons on these patronising women if I don’t, especially that charming Den Rannion Demoiselle over there. She tells me how very old-fashioned my dancing is.”

“Your steps can scarcely be less up to the moment than mine.” Temar was about to continue but a flurry of activity turned every head towards the throne room door and the entire vast space fell as silent as an empty shrine.

Jainne the chamberlain’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke into the expectant hush. “Tadriol, called Provident by the grace of his peers and Emperor by the will of the Convocation of Princes.”

Temar realised he was badly placed to see anything going on but he wasn’t about to draw attention to himself by moving. Movement spread in slow ripples from the far side of the room, the nobility clearing the floor to stand arrayed against the walls. Emperor Tadriol walked into the centre of the vast room. He wore plain breeches beneath a full-skirted coat of the same bronze silk brocaded with black. A wide collar of knotted gold links around his shoulders carried a central pendant of a mighty golden bull, head low and brandishing defiant horns. A narrow band of square-cut rubies set in gold confined the simple frill at his shirt collar. Matching stones shone on the brooches catching back the cuffs of his coat, revealing bracelets of thick gold chain adorning his wrists rather than lace. Each of his fingers bore a different ring in a mismatch of styles and gems that could only come from an extensive collection of heirlooms. The Emperor made a slow circuit of the floor, his pace never varying, his slight smile widening a touch as he made a brief half bow to each Sieur.

“I apologise for my tardiness and I hope you’ve been enjoying the music and wine.” Tadriol spoke with composed sincerity as he returned to the centre of the floor. “I won’t insult your intelligence by assuming that has been easy in the present climate — and I’m not talking about the weather.” His tone grew more formal. “We are all aware of the unusual events of this last year and that matters have reached a crucial juncture. It is my duty to guide the Empire down the road most beneficial for all, so this lays a heavy responsibility on my shoulders. That’s why I took this opportunity to consult with the Sieurs of those Houses directly concerned and also with those who have held themselves aloof. My thanks for your patience while I gained a fuller perspective.”

Tadriol paused to allow the whispers started by mention of Kellarin to run their course around the assembled nobles.

“Imperial verdicts are normally given in the Imperial Court, of course, but with the considerable ill feeling I see blighting the better judgement of some most influential Princes, I think it best to settle matters as swiftly as possible.” Tadriol’s words were cutting in their measured delivery. “I’ve heard representations in court and in private from the Houses concerned and I find the whole matter confused by malice, envy and misunderstandings both accidental and wilful. Outside interference has only worsened an already difficult situation. Accordingly, I have decided to issue a series of Imperial decrees.”

From the collective intake of breath, Temar judged this must be some considerable departure from normal practice. Allin gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Temar squeezed back absently as he looked around for Ryshad. The chosen man was some distance away, Velindre and Casuel flanking him.

The Emperor raised a hand to brush back an errant wisp of hair. The chains around his wrist chinked, a slight sound heard in every corner of the room.

“The Imperial decree is not a power I use lightly,” Tadriol continued severely. “I do so to prevent these disagreements getting any further out of hand, to the potential ruination of the Empire. This unseemly bickering has already done our Names no credit at all with the commonalty. It is my order that every House abandons these petty quarrels, on pain of my extreme displeasure.”

The Emperor smiled suddenly, speaking in more conciliatory tones.

“Look to the future rather than past grievances. But to the formalities. Firstly, I declare the House of D’Olbriot has no exclusive rights to deal with Kellarin or any persons living there. Any other Name or lesser trading concern is entirely at liberty to make whatever arrangements they see fit, free of D’Olbriot restraint.”