Margaurethe patted her mouth with her napkin, setting it on her plate to indicate she was finished. Beside her, Whiskey poked and prodded her food without interest. Feeding the guests came first, followed by Whiskey’s Baruñal Ceremony. Margaurethe doubted Whiskey would relax until she had an opportunity to flee. I certainly hope Sithathor has a late dinner planned. She’ll be starved when she can finally relax.
Reaching beneath the table, she lightly stroked Whiskey’s thigh, receiving a smile in return. The aroma of roses with a hint of blood filled her. Whiskey rewarded her by taking a healthy bite of food. The server came and removed Margaurethe’s plate, offering her favorite after-dinner tea and dessert. While she awaited his return, she looked out over the ballroom.
Close to eight hundred guests filled the room. The majority of them were Sanguire local to the west coast of the United States and Canada, or hangers-on of various political factions that had deigned to attend. Others came from Human families that had served the Sanguire for generations, vassals and kizarusi alike. A constant low rumble of conversation merged with the sound of silver on china and ice rattling in glasses. To dramatize the dais lighting, the rest of the room was kept at a lower illumination. Regardless, Margaurethe easily spotted the Ninsumgal’s guests.
In the past six months, Margaurethe had succeeded in making contact with a number of world governments—it had helped that her companies, though largely based in the United Kingdom, had enjoyed success worldwide. Over the centuries, she had lent a hand to the Mayans of South and Central America and the Indians on the subcontinent. These two governments stood on the verge of following the example of the American Indians in signing treaties with Whiskey. The Mayans had some territorial issues with their northern neighbors, but Margaurethe hoped they could settle their differences soon. Once they did, The Davis Group would have a growing coalition of mutual support.
The political delegates had reserved tables closest to Whiskey’s. The Japanese ambassador had insisted on seating twenty people at the front of the room. Aware of their prickly honor, Margaurethe had obliged. They took up two tables, creating a blot of black business suits and implacable faces. Next to them, the Africans wore colorful ethnic clothing, their flamboyant movements and speech contrasting with the controlled Japanese. Bold yellows and reds splashed across the warp and weave of the feasting fabric lying on all the tables across the room.
One table held the American Indian contingent. Four of the Wi Wacipi Wakan and their spouses dined here. They held a place of honor, directly beneath the Ninsumgal’s seat, central to the front row of tables. They had signed a treaty with The Davis Group months ago, the only government yet to do so. Sitting with them were Whiskey’s only known living relatives—her aunt Zica and grandmother, Wahca. The Mayans sat three tables away, a move by Margaurethe to discourage any arguments between the two factions. Border skirmishes had been the norm for so long, it had taken concerted effort of diplomacy to keep them from “counting coup” on one another. Separating the two were the Indians from the subcontinent. They had arrived three days ago, and hadn’t had the opportunity to meet with Whiskey.
The Agrun Nam of the European Sanguire had declined to answer their invitation. Margaurethe had expected the snub, though Whiskey had exhibited wistful hope that they would at least send a representative. Rather than gloss over the rebuff in front of their guests, a number of whom were European expatriates, a single empty table sat at the periphery of the front row. Margaurethe had made certain others knew for whom it had been reserved, knowing gossip was the lifeblood of most Sanguire. If she were a betting woman, she would lay odds that the Agrun Nam already knew about their seating arrangements.
Giving up on her dinner, Whiskey sat back and tossed her napkin onto the uneaten food. She refused dessert, though did ask for peppermint tea. Margaurethe leaned closer. “It’s almost over.”
“Not soon enough.” Whiskey grimaced, glancing down the head table at her advisors. “How much longer?”
Margaurethe let her gaze stray over the others. The only one not present was Reynhard Dorst, Whiskey’s Baruñal, in charge of the ceremony proclaiming her an adult in the eyes of the European Sanguire. A podium divided the head table, standing to Whiskey’s immediate left.
On the far side of it, Father Castillo and Chano remained in animated discussion, having become fast friends since the American Indian’s induction to the Board of Directors. The priest’s dark head bent toward the elder Indian, contrasting the sparse whiteness of the elder’s hair, and he wore the black cassock of his order. Chano’s nod to this ceremonial event was a red shirt with wide green bands embroidered at collar and cuff. A fringe of green cloth tassels cascaded from his shoulders and across the front of his chest. Beyond them, Valmont slumped in his chair. Despite his insolent slouch, he was a good-looking man with mahogany skin and neatly trimmed beard. His dreadlocks spilled haphazardly across his scalp, hanging to his shoulders. Rather than a standard Western-style suit, he wore a black midlength collarless jacket, perhaps to impress the Indian delegation. He currently levitated his dessert fork to combat his boredom, the utensil flashing in the stage wash as it whirled in a slow circle an inch above the tablecloth.
Ignoring the desire to mentally goose Valmont, Margaurethe reached for Castillo’s mind, sensing dark chocolate. He looked her way, nodded, and waved one of the regular security officers over to begin the next step. “How about now?”
Whiskey swallowed, her color fading.
The lights in the ballroom dropped to their lowest setting, and the hubbub of discussion quieted. Servers disappeared into the service aisle, silently closing the doors behind them. Since Whiskey had followed the European manner of Turning, it had been decided that her ceremony would reflect that despite her American Indian heritage. The Sanguire from other nations had exhibited keen interest in being able to observe as each tribe-faction had its own ways. Spotlights centered on the doors at the back of the room, drawing the attention of eight hundred pairs of eyes.
An altered Dorst stood bathed in the brightness. His facial features remained the same—gaunt and pale, the capacity for withering sarcasm resting in the curve of his generous lips—but everything else had changed. He was Gúnnumu Bargún, a shape shifter, one of the most talented and experienced of the European Sanguire. Gone were the three black mohawks that normally adorned his pate, replaced with shoulder-length brown hair. His clothing remained black, though it was no longer leather and spikes. Instead he wore clothing more appropriate to the 1300s, trousers and boots, tunic and cape. He strode toward the stage, the silver embroidery in his clothing catching the light. A baldric across his shoulder held the large silver and burgundy patch of Whiskey’s sigil—not the raven of Elisibet’s rule, but a stylized scorpion.
Scorpions were solitary hunters, vicious and poisonous, apt to sting first and investigate later. Whiskey had researched the topic for weeks before deciding upon the scorpion. Margaurethe had argued for something less...sinister, but Whiskey had been insistent. Despite her aversion to all things Elisibet, she wanted to make certain everyone knew how dangerous she could be if necessary. Margaurethe wondered how the Agrun Nam would react to the representation.
All eyes upon him, Dorst stalked to the front of the room, radiating strength. Not many knew his identity, but all Sanguire present noted his age, his power. Beside Margaurethe, Whiskey shivered. Margaurethe reached over to pat her shoulder. She wondered if anyone would bolt from the room when he introduced himself. With easy grace, he stepped onto the stage, standing in front of the podium dividing the high table. He bowed once toward Whiskey, and spun around to face the gathered assemblage. “I am Sañur Gasum Reynhard Dorst, advisor and Baruñal to Ninsumgal Jenna Davis.” An exclamation of surprise washed across the audience, and a playful grin crossed his face as knowledge of his notoriety filled the room. “I am here to proclaim that Ninsumgal Jenna has completed the Ñíri Kurám of the European Sanguire.” He turned with a wave toward Margaurethe’s side of the table, one of the spotlights sweeping across to illuminate Whiskey. “Come to me, child.”
To her credit, Whiskey didn’t look as terrified as she had professed herself. Margaurethe watched her rise without stumbling, and circle around the high table to approach Dorst. She was proud Whiskey didn’t display the awkwardness she’d shown earlier in her apartment when preparing for this dinner. She wore a fitted silk suit of dark lavender with an off-white blouse, the satin texture shining beneath the lights. The garb was far outside of Whiskey’s comfort range, she being at home in baggy cargo pants and revealing camisoles, but she moved with elegance. Again Dorst bowed low to her in deference to her rank, not as part of the ceremony. Rising, he smirked at Whiskey’s grimace, and turned back to the audience. “I have guided Ninsumgal Jenna on the Strange Path, instructed her on her role among her people, and now proclaim her an adult. Do any Sanguire challenge this?”
Margaurethe tensed. One of the proofs of Sanguire adulthood was the ability to mentally defend one’s self against attack. The European ceremony required a ritual challenge period where a peer called out the youngling in a mental duel before witnesses. Official challenges could be made and had to be accepted at this point. It was rare that someone utilized this opportunity for grievances, but it had happened in the past. Margaurethe glanced down the table at Valmont. He seemed as restive as she, his fork no longer spinning in the air, eyes scanning the crowd for potential danger just as Castillo did. Chano seemed oblivious to the danger, having never seen a traditional European ritual before.
After a moment’s grace, Castillo stood in preparation of fulfilling his assigned role for the evening.
“I call challenge!”
Again Margaurethe tensed, staring out over the audience. Her gaze didn’t go far, finding one of the Japanese contingent standing at his table. She silently cursed, but didn’t otherwise react. Whiskey took the sudden change in stride, turning to face the man’s table. The question in Margaurethe’s mind was whether or not the challenger was doing this for his empress or some other reason. Had the Agrun Nam wanted to attempt something underhanded, this was when they could legally do so.
The stranger came round his table and approached the stage, stopping when the Aga’gída blocked his way. Dorst smiled benignly down upon the Asian.
“Let him pass,” Whiskey commanded.
The guards followed Whiskey’s order, stepping back. As the challenger came onto the stage, the lights illuminated him. He was tall among his people, with blue-black hair pulled back into a long tail at the base of his neck. His dark business suit was impeccable, silver cufflinks flashing under the brightness.
“Your name, sir?”
“I am Motoori Sadao, servant of Tairo-no-Mitsuko, long may she reign.” He bowed low, eyes remaining on Whiskey who stood across from him.
Dorst bowed and turned back to the audience. “Motoori Sadao, you challenge the right of Ninsumgal Jenna Davis?”
“I do.”
Dorst nodded and stepped back, leaving the two combatants at center stage. “Prepare yourselves.”
Motoori bowed to Whiskey, who returned the respectful gesture. She straightened, chin lowered. Motoori assumed a martial arts stance, causing Margaurethe to tense. Did the Japanese realize this was not a physical challenge? Or was this just the way they squared off in their culture? Her mind feverishly tried to remember, but it had been centuries since their damnable empress had graced Elisibet’s court with her presence.
“Lay on,” Dorst called.
Every Sanguire in the room felt the first volley between them. Whiskey had practiced with Dorst over the weeks, and her strength had grown dramatically with the familiarity of useful strategy and tactics. She didn’t use her full power on Mootori, knowing this was just a test even if he didn’t. The intense mixture of their essences floated around them, plain for any Sanguire to feel. Whiskey had been instructed to draw the fight out for a few minutes, to ensure everyone in the room witnessed her potency. That alone would keep future conniving to a minimum, especially from the European expatriates who would report this to their friends and family back home.
Margaurethe relaxed her diligence as Motoori didn’t physically attack. She remained on alert, and a quick glance down the head table told her that Whiskey’s other advisors were doing the same. The Japanese empress had probably instructed her man to do this in order to gain information on Whiskey. The tactic both galled and impressed Margaurethe; she’d been prepared for an attempt by the Agrun Nam, but not this.
Motoori attempted a breach, and Whiskey blocked him. She didn’t attack, letting him pound against her defenses for several seconds. He found what appeared to be a weakness, zeroing in on one area. She drew him in, luring him with the potential for success before abruptly wrapping around him. Motoori broke into a sweat, completely concentrated on breaking free of her control. When it was clear he would be unsuccessful, he straightened and took one step back, indicating he yielded. Whiskey immediately released him. He bowed low, then wavered. She reached out to stabilize him, and they smiled at one another. “I rescind my challenge, Sañur Gasum Dorst. Ninsumgal Jenna Davis is as you say she is, an adult in her own right.”
Dorst smiled and stepped forward. “Thank you, Motoori Sadao.”
Motoori bowed and shakily returned to his table. His immediate companion leaned over to whisper to him, offering a glass of water. Valmont smiled derisively at their table before noting Margaurethe’s attention. With a grin, he lifted his wineglass in toast. She scowled and focused once more on the ceremony.
“Again, I proclaim Ninsumgal Jenna Davis as an adult. Do any Humans challenge this?”
Margaurethe heard a growl from a number of the dinner guests. Those who had gone through this ceremony were the most inclined to be offended, while the other nations would simply think the idea of a Human challenging a Sanguire an oddity of the Europeans. Whiskey had demanded this change from tradition. Normally a Human was brought forward, and the new adult fed from him or her while the adult Sanguire sat witness. In the dark past, the Human was “wild,” one captured for the purpose of illustrating the youngling’s ability to suppress his or her prey. These days, a kizarus normally stood in, making it more of a custom than a qualification of hunting ability.
“I call challenge.” One of the spotlights swept to a side table, where a kizarus stood. The slender young man was one of the young Humans attached to Whiskey’s pack. Despite the formal dress of most the attendants, he wore jeans and a leather jacket, his dark curls unruly. He threaded his way through the tables, making his way to the stage, smelling as nervous as he looked. Margaurethe had to respect his courage for volunteering to wade through a crowd of outraged Sanguire to reach his destination.
Dorst sneered at him. “You, a Human, challenge the right of Ninsumgal Jenna Davis?”
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I do.”
Dorst backed away. “Then do so at your peril.”
Whiskey, more relaxed after her spar with Motoori, glared at the contender. Though this part had been rehearsed earlier that afternoon, he swallowed audibly under her gaze. His heart raced within his chest, and the aroma of anxiety tipped the scales into fear. Whiskey closed the distance between them, reaching up to grab him by the back of the neck. He tried to duck away, but she was faster and stronger, holding him tight. They stared into one another’s eyes, and he capitulated, turning his head to reveal his throat. She accepted his invitation, and bit him, the smell of blood permeating the air. She didn’t take much, only enough to prove her claim. Still gripping the back of his neck, she stared at him again.
“I rescind my challenge.”
Dorst returned to their sides. “As well you should, Human.”
Whiskey released her hold, and the young man bowed before leaving the stage. He went to the side of the stage, and circled behind the high table where Whiskey’s Aga’gída waited to escort him to safety. No doubt a number of European Sanguire would want to get their hands on him to remind him of his place in the scheme of things.
“Ninsumgal Jenna Davis has been victorious over both a Sanguire and a Human challenge. You are all witnesses to what I proclaimed in the beginning—Ninsumgal Jenna Davis is an adult Sanguire, legally responsible for her decisions and actions, and bound by law.” He stepped to one side, relinquishing the center stage to Whiskey, and bowed. “I introduce you to Ninsumgal Jenna Davis.”
Margaurethe felt a swell of pride and love fill her heart as the applause began. Standing, she added hers to the thunderous sound, clapping in celebration.