She climbed the steps, holding her dress carefully. Behind her, Lady Anne followed, her eyes burning wildly, a smile ill-disguised on her lips.
“I am aware of it, my King,” Kara replied. “Lady Anne was kind enough to explain to me how the last young lady who wore yellow was a favourite of yours. But she also explained how such a dress would serve to remind you of happier times, and she insisted that I wear it.”
Kara turned back to Lady Anne and gave a polite curtsey as the other woman looked on in amazement.
“I would not dare to presume-” Lady Anne stammered.
“Lady Anne,” Kara interrupted, “I arrived in Varrock this morning with no sense of style or fashion. Everything I wear today is entirely to your credit.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “And to yours alone.”
Someone laughed suddenly from below, and the tension relaxed. King Roald extended his hand and Kara took her seat at his side. Above, the orchestra commenced with a new tune.
She is angry, Gar’rth observed. Lady Anne hides it well but she is burning now.
The wolf-headed jester appeared at the base of the stairs. He gave a howl and charged up, where he danced around the simmering woman, assaulting with comical gestures as if intent on devouring her.
But Lady Anne remained still.
“It will take more than a wolf to humiliate me, Gleeman,” she said caustically.
“Ah, no doubt!” he responded. “But at least my ugliness is only skin deep.” There were gasps, and the room rippled with laughter as Lady Anne took a half-hearted swipe at him as he ducked nimbly aside. Then, with a suddenly delicious smile, she found her seat near Theodore.
As the music changed, a dance began on the floor in front of the platform. A circle of women stepped to the open area, joined hands, and danced in a round, while Gideon Gleeman disposed of the wolf’s severed head, then tumbled and jumped and leapt in their midsts, encouraging them with his acrobatics. Lord William successfully ambushed Lady Caroline, drenching her in a rain of rose petals while lutes and harps and voices provided a merry accompaniment.
Doric drank and talked with Lowe, the King’s fletcher, Castimir spent his time talking to Arisha, and Ebenezer fell into animated conversation with the merchant Draul Leptoc, explaining his steam engine and the role it had played following the war.
After the circle dances came the private ones. Gar’rth noticed Lady Anne’s look of triumph as she lifted Theodore’s hand in hers and led him to the floor. Kara shared a brief dance with King Roald.
Only I remain alone.
Gar’rth left the table and found his way into the crowd below the stage. At one point a young woman fell against him with a delightful cry, peering up at him, only to turn aside quickly when she saw his face.
Fear, he thought. They fear me. Even my friends. They all fear me. Do these people secretly know that I am different?
Gar’rth moved to the terrace door again, and this time continued outside. The sky was dark now. He took a deep breath at the terrace’s edge. The scent of nature, imprisoned in the walls of the palace, comforted him. He heard a voice behind, and he knew his privacy would not last.
I don’t want to talk now.
Not to anyone. Not even Kara.
He stepped back into the shadows, against the wall. Only a yard away a young man ran out, leading a woman by the hand. Quickly they ran down the terrace steps and disappeared into the darkness of the bailey.
But the night held no secrets from Gar’rth. He watched them find a spot below a yew tree, far enough from the hall to be private in their eyes. He tried to look away, but could not.
Suddenly his anger grew. There could never be anyone like that for him, not here.
He turned to the door as the old man Papelford appeared before him. The man’s scent was of old books. Behind him came Lord Despaard.
“Excuse me,” the old librarian muttered as both men passed him and walked some distance away, talking in low voices. “Not much farther Lord Despaard. I am not so young any more.”
“I just want to be sure we cannot be heard, Papelford.”
Gar’rth turned back to the balustrade, deliberately moving away from the two men who now stood at the farthest end of the terrace, out of the reach of the torchlight.
“Don’t be so paranoid Lord Despaard,” the old man whispered, though his voice was still clear to Gar’rth. “He can’t hear us. Not from that distance. No one could.”
Gar’rth smiled.
“This heroine, Kara-Meir,” Papelford said cautiously. “Do you think she knew to wear that dress? She risked the King’s wrath to do so.”
“I sense the hand of Lady Anne involved here, Papelford. Perhaps she sought to embarrass Kara-Meir, but it appears the King was more tolerant than she believed.” He glanced in Gar’rth’s direction. “But tell me, what did you really want to speak about out here?”
“It is my apprentice.”
“Reldo?” There was genuine surprise in the nobleman’s voice. “He is perfectly suited for this work, surely. His memory is incredible, he can recall anything he’s ever read. He is from a good and trusted family. He’s-”
“All of that and more Lord Despaard. Yes, I know. But he asks too many questions about what we do. He’s guessed half the truth, I am sure of it.”
“That is not an issue. In fact, it was an inevitability, if he was doing the job properly. You are an old man, Papelford. We need someone in the archives who can be trusted. Reldo is good at what he does.”
Papelford made a noise that reminded Gar’rth of a bird choking.
“He’s not good. I want him moved.”
Lord Despaard sighed.
“I will talk to Lord Ruthven about it,” he said. “The Society of the Owl needs a good and trusted archivist, more now than ever- with these killings and the approach of the prophecy.”
The two men fell silent for a moment.
“Tell me, old friend, do you really believe it will come true?” Lord Despaard sounded weary.
“I don’t know,” Papelford responded. “But who could claim to be a truer king than King Roald? His line goes back at least a thousand years.”
“I hope you are right.”
A new tune started from inside the hall, and a poet began to speak.
“Ah, the ‘Ballad of Tenebra and Ailane’,” Papelford muttered. “Come, this tragedy is a favourite of King Roald’s, for it reminds him-as well as the rest of us-of what his family have suffered at the hands of Morytania. Although he needs no reminding, not after this creature murdered his fiancee.”
Murdered his fiancee?
“The kingdom need not know that,” Lord Despaard warned as the two men walked back into the light of the torches. Gar’rth turned, feigning surprise.
They said nothing as they vanished into the hall, and Gar’rth was left alone.
He stood on the terrace for several minutes, half-listening to the ballad, before he caught a familiar scent behind him.
“Arisha,” he said without turning.
The barbarian priestess approached him, her booted feet crunching the gravel.
“I saw you leave,” she said. “You’ve been gone some time.”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right, Gar’rth?”
“I don’t like it here, Arisha. I am afraid.”
“You?” She didn’t attempt to mask her surprise. “Afraid of what? Jerrod won’t…”
Gar’rth gave a harsh laugh.
“Not Jerrod, Arisha. I am afraid of…” He paused and shook his head. “I have run from one place to another, then another. I can’t keep running.”
He looked at her, and felt a sudden anger when he saw her eyes widen in sympathy.
“Then speak to Kara, Gar’rth,” she said. “Tell her how you feel.”
“She knows, Arisha.”
“No she doesn’t,” the barbarian replied. “She suspects, but she does not know.”
Gar’rth shook his head again.