“But he is a witch,” Gawell said, his voice almost plaintive. He fluttered his hands at me. “I mean, look at him!”
I opened my mouth to say that I wasn’t a witch, but Thadro’s elbow dug into my side once more.
“What he is or isn’t,” Dyfrig said sternly, “is not for you to decide—”
A breeze suddenly swept through, rustling both the grasses in the wreath and the tops of the bundled wheat stalks, bringing with it the autumnal smell of fallen leaves and ripe fruit. Softly murmuring, the wind tugged on my hair tie and braid before romping around the room, rippling the drapes, flapping coats, lifting tunics and robes, and showing more of Mayor Gawell’s leggings than anyone really needed to see.
“Rabbit,” Thadro said.
“It isn’t me, sir,” I said. My rune started to itch again and I scratched at it. ‘The wind does as it wills.”
At least it did with me. As also did my earth and water aspects. Only my fire aspect seemed content to wait for my command. Then again, maybe not. I eyed the candle flames dancing in the wind, hoping that no one would notice how they leapt up completely from their wicks to spin around before coming down again.
“As it wills?” Dyfrig asked, his stern look changing to one of curiosity. “It’s not just a force, then?”
“No, Your Reverence,” I said. “The wind is very much aware. As are all the other aspects.” Including Lady Gaia— the fertile earth—and her consort the Moon who were both considered deity in the Border. However, that tidbit I figured I’d keep to myself.
Dyfrig stared at me, astonished. ” ‘Aware’—” He stopped as the wind swirled around him, catching at his robes, and his eyes widened, gleaming. “Oh, my,” he said softly.
“So you’ll seduce the Church with your magics?” Lord Ranulf asked, grabbing at his tunic to hold it still. He looked at Thadro. “This is what you’ll have us accept as the king’s heir?”
I expected the room to erupt again at Lord Ranulf’s words, but this time the guests looked at me with the same weighing calculation I saw on Lord Beollan’s face after the riot. Feeling like exhibited goods at a horse fair, I also turned to look at the Lord Commander. Who merely looked back as he said, “Ask it nicely to stop, Lieutenant Rabbit.”
Before I could say anything, though, the wind gave a soft chuckle and, ruffling the doyen’s hair, died down. “Oh, my,” Dyfrig said again. Then the gleam in his eyes faded and he gave me a deep frown. At that moment, though, the door was flung open and servants poured into the room, carrying plates, silverware, crystal goblets and napkins, followed by more servants with platters, bowls and tureens of food, and pitchers of hot mulled wine. Everyone turned to watch the procession, a reverent hush falling as Jusson’s cook, in a white apron, entered with his own entourage, all carrying trays of tarts, meringues, creams, custards and jellies. The head cook himself walked in solitary splendor holding a spectacular multitiered cake, the smell of apples and spice wafting from it.
“Well, that was provident,” someone said.
I glanced over to see Lord Beollan and Peacekeeper Chadde standing next to me. Unlike Lord Ranulf, the Lord of Fellmark was dressed in the southern fashion of lace on his shirt, a brocaded vest, a close-fitting, fine wool coat and trousers. With his plumed hat gone, though, I could see that his hair was pale northern blond, and while he was cleanshaven, he too had warrior braids woven with ribbons in the colors of his House. But instead of hanging on either side of his narrow face, they were pulled back to join a neat queue on the back of his head. Unconscious (or uncaring) of his startling juxtaposition of northern barbarism and southern foppery, Beollan turned his attention to Lord Ranulf, who had drifted to where a couple of southern lords stood in front of the fireplace.
“Yes, it was,” Thadro said, following Lord Fellmark’s gaze. “Very provident.” He gave me his mud-puddle look. “Think for once, Rabbit.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “But what’s going on?”
Lord Beollan shifted his attention to the Lord Commander. “You haven’t told him, Thadro? Is that wise?”
“Told me what, sir?”
Thadro’s expression became frosty. “Captain Suiden may’ve allowed you license to question and demand, Lieutenant Rabbit, but that is not the case in the King’s Own.”
I goggled as my brain froze at the thought of Suiden allowing anyone any sort of license whatsoever. Before I could speak, though, Chadde moved closer to me.
“You’ve been rubbing your hand as though it pains you, Lord Rabbit,” she said. “Did you injure it in jail?”
I took my gaze off the Lord Commander to shake my head at the peacekeeper. “No, ma’am,” I said. “It’s flea-bitten and it itches like the blazes.” Opening my hand, I looked for the tell-tale red bumps—and blinked once again as the rune on my palm shone brightly back at me. The rune’s light bathed Chadde’s face and she did her own blinking, then her expression grew intent as she leaned closer.
“Hell’s ballocks, Rabbit!” Thadro moved, shielding both me and the rune from the rest of room. “People here know what that is.”
So they did. Unlike the southern part of the kingdom, the memory of the last war with the Border was still fresh in the north, especially the part where the truth rune was lifted against the Royal Army and every soldier saw the truth not only about himself, but also his friends, family and loved ones. Most ran screaming.
I quickly lowered my hand as Chadde straightened and took a step back, her expression once more dropping into the calm. I looked past the Lord Commander at Lord Ranulf. His gaze went from my hand to Chadde, and then he opened his mouth. However, the door opened once more and Cais walked in. After a swift glance around the room, the majordomo stepped to the side.
“His Majesty, King Jusson IV,” he politely bellowed.
Chapter Five
I’d seen more dramatic entrances. At Cais’ announcement, Jusson walked in, wearing the same elegant clothes he had on earlier, the same simple circlet of gold on his head. He did have a couple of King’s Own behind him, but they peeled off to stand just inside the salon on either side of the door. As we all bowed, the king ambled over to the groaning sideboard. Casting an approving eye over the array of foods and drink, Jusson beckoned to Doyen Dyfrig.
“If you would please bless the table, Your Reverence,” Jusson said.
Dyfrig said a (mercifully) short prayer and, when he was done, Jusson nodded at his guests. “Let’s eat.”
Leaving the majordomo to work the logistics, Jusson sauntered to his chair. The king’s gold-rimmed black eyes flicked to Beollan and Chadde, and they both moved away, joining the rest of the guests mobbing the food. I impatiently waited to be released to get my own dinner and a slice of the magnificent cake, but neither Thadro nor Jusson said anything. Jusson settled himself into his chair, and a moment later Cais emerged from the melee bearing a filled plate and goblet on a tray for His Majesty. As the majordomo set the king’s food and drink on a table next to him, Jusson murmured something to him and he returned to the fray. Moments later he emerged again, this time with Mayor Gawell and Master Ednoth. Jusson invited the mayor to sit on one side of him, while directing the head of Freston’s merchants’ guild to the other side. The thin merchant easily folded himself into his chair and immediately tucked into his plate. Mayor Gawell, however, hovered as the chair Jusson indicated for him was the one that I stood behind.
“Is there a problem, Mayor?” Jusson asked as he took a sip from his goblet full of gently steaming wine.
Apparently it was one thing to accuse me of being demon spawn in front of the town elders and nobles of the land. It was another to do it before the king. “No, Your Majesty.” The mayor cast me an apprehensive look, then gingerly sat, balancing his plate on his diminished lap. Jusson gestured and a servant appeared to move one of the small tables for his honor’s plate and cup.