Seventeen

Although Mars saw the path before him clearly, he would not act. Not yet. There was still time, he told himself. If he played his hand too soon, he risked losing it all. He still had to keep Fura safe through the remainder of the Assembly, and doing that would be a lot easier if he wasn’t also blackmailing her. Then again, he knew she was planning to go somewhere, leaving him behind. He had to be mindful of that as well, choosing the right moment to press his advantage before it was too late. But for now, he could relax, taking his ease. And the Quiescence ball would be just the thing, a night of dancing and feasting and pretending he was just a wealthy kith playboy and not a mercenary.

As he donned the Hunter’s black mask, he couldn’t help but once again see the irony in Fura’s choice of costumes. In the story, the Hunter was a nobleman who was only pretending to be an outlaw, the hero disguised as a villain. Mars turned to the mirror. His reflection proved a pleasant surprise, as he ran his hands down the sides of the tunic. The seamstress had designed the clothes to complement his frame. With the fitted waist, emphasized by a leather belt, he made a dashing figure, the sight an unexpected boost to his confidence.

He supposed, given the quality of his own costume, he shouldn’t have been surprised by Fura’s—and yet when he first caught sight of her dressed as Lady Ingrid, he felt his jaw loosen and his breath grow shallow. The shimmery gown looked like woven moonlight delicately draped across her body. Without the rigid bodice and petticoats she normally wore, she seemed soft and fragile in the gown. All except for the lithe muscles of her arms, visible through the wide gaps in her sleeves from her shoulders to the gathering at her wrists. Mars opened his mouth to compliment her but found himself unable to speak.

If Fura noticed his silence, she made no comment as she held out her arm for him to take.

“I must say,” Katrìn said, joining them in the sitting room, “you make an excellent Hunter, Halfur.” She wore a dress fashioned to resemble a peacock, complete with a whimsical shawl made of real peacock feathers that framed her shoulders and head in a green-and-blue halo.

“And you make one alluring bird.” Mars winked, provoking a twinkling laugh from her. For a moment, he couldn’t help seeing Katrìn in a new light—a secret adept, maybe even a kindred spirit. He wondered what it would be like to confess his own powers to her, to discover if her experiences matched his—the thrill of Rift magic rushing through him, the terror of almost being discovered, and the ever-present need to wield the power. But no, she wasn’t like him, he realized, glancing at Fura. Katrìn had shared her secret, her burden. He’d never told anyone—not on purpose. For a second, his heart ached for his lost friend, regret at what he’d done like a throbbing wound.

Locking the emotion away inside himself, Mars escorted Fura to the door. Together, the three of them made their way to the ball. If not for Katrìn and her habit of idle chatter, it would’ve been a silent affair. Fura seemed at once both strangely distant and far too close, like standing too near an open fire on a wintry day. He wanted to both lean into her and retreat at the same time.

The sounds of the soiree enveloped them long before they reached the grand hall of the Mid Court. The music pulsed like a heartbeat and the shouts of voices crackled like caged lightning as they stepped through the doors, held open for the evening. Mars had heard the Quiescence ball was the pinnacle event of the Assembly, and it was true. Hundreds of people thronged the chamber, spilling out of doorways and lining the stairs, while couples moved across the dance floor, keeping the crowd at bay with swirling skirts and stomping feet. Everyone in Hàr Halda was in attendance, from the kith to the politicians to the servants.

Suspended from the hall’s vaulted ceiling were nine massive chandeliers crafted to look like the moon surrounded by seven glowing stars. The Ice fueling them cast a silvery light that slowly faded to blue, then to purple, then back to silver again. Even Mars, who rarely took the time to bother with such things, paused to admire the dazzling sight, at once mystical and romantic. Then, noticing Fura’s bemused observation of him, he moved on, guiding them toward the least crowded area he could find.

In moments, a Torvald servant attended them, offering glasses of rosé, Fura’s preferred wine. Mars took one for himself as well, downing nearly half of it in one go as he searched for a way to break the odd tension that still clung about them.

Fortunately, Ivar soon joined their party, providing a welcome distraction. He greeted Fura and Mars warmly enough, but the smile he offered Katrìn seemed to heat the room. She returned it willingly, a nervous fluttering about her mouth.

“I believe they’re calling for a quadrille,” Ivar said as the current song ended and another began. “Shall we?” He gestured first to Katrìn, then to Fura and Mars.

Katrìn placed her hand into Ivar’s, her enthusiasm answering for all of them. Not that Mars minded. It was a ball, after all, and a group dance was better than the frenzy of the waltz or the intimacy of a sagnasar. In his current state of mind, he preferred not to dance so close to Fura if it could be avoided.

Moments into it, though, he began to relax and enjoy himself, the liveliness of the music and movements coaxing it out of him. Fura, too, seemed more at ease as the song ended, her cheeks pink from the revelry.

Feeling warm himself, Mars suggested another drink. He and Fura left the floor while Ivar pulled Katrìn willingly into the next dance.

“They make a handsome couple,” Fura observed a few moments later, another glass of rosé in hand.

“I suppose so.” Mars took a drink, then shrugged. “Although I imagine Katrìn would complement any partner. She has such a generous disposition.” Among her other charms, Mars silently added, noting the many admirers Katrìn seemed to be garnering in her peacock dress. “By the nine, even Gregor seems to have noticed her.” Mars inclined his chin toward the man, whose gaze at Katrìn bordered on lecherous. An uncomfortable image of Katrìn locked into a hobble flashed through his mind.

Fura scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, but he’d never stoop so low as to dance with a lady’s maid, even with the relaxed social rules of the Quiescence.”

“Thank goodness for that. If he were to try, I’d happily offer to relocate his nose to some other part of his face.”

Fura snorted. “I’d pay a thousand herrings to see it.”

“That, I would do for free.”

Fura laughed, but before she could comment further, Askalon appeared. He was dressed as the titan Salveig in a horned circlet and sleeveless leather jerkin.

“May I have this dance, lìtja?” Askalon held out his hand.

Fura glanced at Mars. “Think you can manage to stay out of trouble by yourself for a few moments?”

Mars feigned a wounded look. “I think I can manage an hour, at least.”

Askalon shot Mars a scowl as he led Fura onto the floor.

Mars turned to find a suitable partner for himself, and a moment later, he joined the dance with a girl named Mikaela, the same girl who’d flirted so obviously with him the day of the Bounding. She made for an enthusiastic partner as Mars led her through a sagnasar, a traditional story dance of Riven. This one told the tale of two young lovers fleeing the persecution of the jealous titan Magda, who envied their innocence and unblemished beauty. It was supposed to be a tragic song and a tragic dance, but Mikaela giggled through the whole thing, taking advantage of every spare breath to talk to Mars. He smiled and nodded, hoping the dance would end soon.

Not that the end made any difference. Mikaela immediately claimed the next dance with him—and the next. Mars had begun to fear there would be no getting rid of her when finally Fura appeared beside them.

She held out a glass of wine to Mars. “So sorry to deprive you of such an affable partner, Mikaela, but I’m afraid Halfur suffers from weak ankles and is in need of a rest.”

“I what?” Mars sputtered.

“Come now, there’s no denying it. I saw you wobbling a moment ago.” Fura pressed the wineglass toward him again, and he took it, uncertain if he wanted to smile at her for saving him from Mikaela or scowl at her for the rumor about his supposed weakness that would surely result. The kith heirs were sure to enjoy teasing him for it.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Mikaela faced him and curtsied. “Until next time, Mr. Karlsvane.” She hurried away, off to claim her next victim.

“Thank you,” Mars said, inclining his head to Fura.

“I know a cry for help when I see one.” She turned, and together they made their way off the floor and to a set of chairs for a welcome rest.

“Is dear old Askalon off to bed already?” Mars said, scanning the room. “Must be exhausting trying to dance with a stick shoved up one’s arse.” His gaze landed on Bekka among a throng of dancers across the way, and stifling a scowl, he glanced back at Fura.

She made a face at him, doing her best not to be amused by his comment. “I think he wears it special for you.” She sighed. “But don’t take it personally. The only person he trusts with my safety is himself.”

“And do you trust me?” Mars said, taken by surprise at his own question. He hadn’t meant to ask it. It had simply slipped out of him like a spill of wine from a glass held in a shaky hand.

“I don’t even know your real name.” Fura shook her head, as if just now realizing this for the first time. The truth struck Mars like a whip, the sting made worse by the knowledge of his betrayal, both the one that had come before and the one that would soon follow—that is, if he failed to discover the Primer formula on his own. He supposed there was time to give it another try. . . .

Aware of the silence growing around them like a cloying weed, Mars rose to his feet and stretched. “Are you hungry? I spotted some delicious offerings at the refreshment table.”

Casting him a droll smile, Fura stood, just as another song ended and the first dulcet tones of the next began, the tune a famous one.

She cocked her head. “Oh, I believe that’s ‘Ingrid and the Hunter’ they’re playing now.”

“Yes, it is.” Several people were already watching them expectantly. Mars sighed. His feet were hurting, but he couldn’t see a way out of it. “I suppose we shouldn’t miss it.”

He led Fura onto the dance floor, where he came to a stop and turned toward her, drawing her slowly around until her back faced him. Then he stepped toward her and to the side, his chest pressed to her shoulder blade as he placed one hand at her waist and held the other up to the side in the shadow position that would begin the dance. He leaned his head close to hers, and a slight shudder went through her as his breath touched her neck. Of all the sagnasars, this dance was the most challenging in the way it ranged from cool to heated, slow to quick to slow again, as it told the tragic story.

When the dance started, Mars urged Fura forward, her body willing to his lead. He followed, first pushing her away, then drawing her back again. Never in all their practices had they danced like this. Gone was the rigid tension Fura had always held toward him. Instead of steel, her arms were supple as willow branches. Instead of cold, she was caged heat, her eyes fixing on his every time they entered a promenade or completed a turn. He found himself searching for her eyes as well, hungry for her gaze. An invisible veil seemed to descend around them, the rest of the world falling away until there was nothing but the two of them and the dance.

As the music reached its sad crescendo, Mars dropped Fura into a dip. But he didn’t arch his back away from her as the steps demanded to symbolize the final separation of the lovers in death. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her as he’d wanted to do since the dance began, since he first saw her in the moonlight dress.

Or maybe since the night of the Felling.

At once, her mouth opened to his, her torso folding upward to meet his body. It wasn’t like the last time, at the Felling, forced and insincere. This kiss was warm and intentional, building to a crescendo as Mars raised Fura back to her feet and pulled her forward until their bodies were joined chest to chest and hip to hip.

When the kiss finally ended, an uncertain amount of time later, Fura’s cheeks were flushed and her gaze liquid, like melted emeralds. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Mars didn’t speak either, words failing him. His body felt on fire, his skin buzzing as thoughts whirled through his head. In a daze, they left the dance floor, in an unspoken agreement to find more to drink and to eat.

The rest of the night passed in a blur for Mars. He knew he conversed with people, Katrìn and Ivar for certain, but he could not remember afterward what they’d discussed. His mind was consumed with Fura, her nearness, and the hunger gnawing inside him to claim another kiss.

By and by, Mars suspected she might be caught up in the feelings as well. Her fingers kept grazing his as if by accident, her shoulder brushing his side. Her head seemed always inclined toward him, her lips in view, her gaze furtive yet lingering each time it crossed his. Soon Mars began to consider excuses for them to leave, to find some place they could be alone. He bolstered his courage with wine and smiles and casual touches, each one accepted without a flinch, her body reacting toward his instead of away.

“I’m ready to retire,” Fura said sometime later, her voice soft, tentative. “That is, if you are.”

Mars nodded, his throat tight as he searched for Katrìn. Protocol dictated that she go with them.

“Kat is still dancing,” Fura said, anticipating his thought. “Let’s leave her to it. No one will notice.”

Mars glanced around, realizing it was true. A fervor clung about the crowd, the release of so many weeks of pent-up energy and tensions. Tonight, the rules did not apply.

They headed for the door, stealing through the crowd like thieves. They’d almost made it when Askalon appeared before them, blocking the way. Mars let out a curse, braced for an unwelcome escort.

But Askalon merely bowed his head politely toward Fura. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’ve a message from the dòttra.” He turned to Mars. “For Halfur.”

Frowning, Fura stepped aside, releasing her claim on his arm. A chill spread through Mars in the absence of her touch.

“What is it?” Mars said, impatient, as he and Askalon retreated a few steps. His attention remained on Fura, his thoughts distracted by the memory of their kiss and anticipation of the next one.

Askalon leaned over Mars, his voice a whisper but his words like the strike of hammer against anvil. “She can never be yours. Don’t forget it.” Then Askalon pulled back, bowed once more to Fura and disappeared into the crowd.

“What was that about?” Fura asked, twining her arm through his once more.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, then. While we still can.” She tugged him into a walk.

Mars went along, one foot following the other as the haze he’d been under slowly began to dissipate. For a moment, he felt outside himself, able to recall the dance, the kiss, and the strength of his desire, but without getting lost in it. Soon he could think clearly enough for the doubts to seep in. What am I doing? What was he allowing to happen here? He was no fool, not some naive inexperienced boy. He’d been here before often enough to know where it led.

She can never be yours.

Oh, but she could be. For tonight, at least, or for as long as this lasted. This . . . contract.

A contract, a job, just like the one he had worked before, when he killed her father.

We are the weapon, not the will.

It didn’t help. Mars pressed his eyes shut against the memory and the image that followed it of Katrìn locked in a hobble.

“Are you all right?” Fura touched his hand, drawing him back to the present. They’d reached her quarters, the guards standing wordlessly aside to allow them entry.

Mars nodded and reached for the door, opening it for her. She stepped inside and he followed, closing it behind them. The lights in the sitting room had been left on but turned low, casting deep shadows about the place. It was the perfect atmosphere for secret passions. Fura came to a stop in the middle of the room and faced him, her eyes at first fixed on a spot on the floor before slowly rising to his. He’d never seen her look so hesitant, so uncertain.

Mars swallowed the lump in his throat, waiting for her to make the next move. A part of him hoped she would not, but another part hoped she would. For a single moment, he let himself imagine a life with her in it, the two of them together. Close, connected.

Fura stepped toward him slowly, placing a hand on his arm. Her lips parted in a sigh—and before he knew what was happening, her fingers dug into the skin of his forearm as she yanked the cuff from his wrist.

Cursing, he jerked his arm away. “What are you doing?” But it was too late. Even in the dim light, she’d seen—because she’d known to look.

Breathless, incredulous, she spoke the truth out loud, each word landing like a thunderclap. “You are an adept.”