Chapter Twelve

I flung open the shutters, my dagger still in hand, and found him crouched on the stone railing of the little balcony, his feathered cloak hanging down behind him. The wind ruffled his black-tipped hair.

He broke into a grin. “There you are!”

I leaned on the door frame, a certain giddy weakness flooding my limbs that was not exactly relief. “Yes. Here I am, because this is my room. So it makes sense that I’m here. Whereas it makes no sense whatsoever that you’re here.”

He raised his brows. “I heard they’re throwing a formal reception for you this evening, so of course I stopped by on my way back to Let.”

“Of course you did.” I glanced past him into the castle garden. Guards patrolled the battlements of the thick outer stone wall, and my balcony was a good twenty-five feet off the ground. I rather suspected my grandmother would have mentioned if she had a Witch Lord as an expected guest. “I’d invite you in, but I don’t want to compromise someone else’s wards without their permission.”

I stepped out onto the balcony with him instead, to be friendly, but regretted it almost at once; there wasn’t much space, and we were quite close. My pulse quickened—nerves, I told myself.

“Another thing we don’t have in Vaskandar. But then, I don’t need wards in my own domain.” He leaped down from the railing, graceful as a cat. Now barely a foot separated us. His lips curved in a mischievous smile. “I’m glad you still trust me enough to meet with me alone like this. I was worried, after the Lady of Thorns was so rude to you.”

“I’m a Cornaro. Our trust is always conditional.” I lifted an eyebrow. “Though perhaps you’re only interested in my Lochaver blood.”

“My lady, I assure you that both sides of your legacy fascinate me. But what we two can do together is most intriguing of all.”

I gripped the railing to keep my balance. I didn’t know how to begin to peel back the layers on this man. “And what is it you hope we could accomplish?”

“Oh, all manner of things. The possibilities are wide as the sky and deep as the sea.” He cocked his head. “I’d say you should come visit my domain, to know me better. But you’d have to pass through Kazerath or Sevaeth to get there, and you might not make it alive.”

“Perhaps we could meet somewhere,” I suggested, feeling daring. “Like at the Conclave.”

He laughed, the feathers on his shoulders rustling. “The Conclave! Strike at the heart to slay the beast, eh? I’d love to see the stir if I brought you along. The Lady of Thorns would tear the mountains themselves with her rage.”

“Is that an invitation?” I pressed. “You did imply you could bring me as your guest.”

“You’re far too eager to fling yourself into that nest of chimeras.” Kathe shook his head. “Vaskandran politics are different than your little games of gold and poison. You don’t even know the rules.”

“I could learn.”

He caught my hand in his, quick as a snake, and panic flashed white-hot through my chest. But he only turned it in his cold, graceful fingers, examining it as if it were a gem of some worth. “In Raverra,” he asked thoughtfully, “what do people want from you?”

“Money,” I said at once. Half of me wanted to snatch my hand back, and the other half hoped he didn’t let go. His touch left a strange tingling in its wake, less unpleasant than Prince Ruven’s twisted magic. “And influence. A shortcut to my mother’s power, and the doge’s ear.”

He traced the scar on the back of my wrist, from an assassin’s dagger long ago. “And what do I want from you?”

I stared into the vivid yellow rings around his pupils. “That,” I said, “is a fine question.”

“You don’t know.” He released my hand. “You can’t win a game if you don’t know the stakes your opponent is playing for. What do you think a Witch Lord wants?”

Graces have mercy. I didn’t know what to do with him—his glittering eyes, the haughty planes of his face, the power that thrummed in the air around him, all far too close on this wretched balcony. It didn’t help that I wasn’t so certain I wanted more space between us.

“Power,” I guessed, rubbing my hand. “But that means something different for you than it would for me.”

“We’re all fighting for the same prize.” He tilted his head. “Do you know the secret of a Witch Lord’s power? What makes us so much more than a mere normal vivomancer?”

I leaned in eagerly, my pulse quickening. “Tell me.”

His eyes gleamed. “You tell me. When you can, I’ll take you to the Conclave.”

Of course he couldn’t answer the question he’d posed himself. He had to make it a challenge—in this case, a magical theory challenge.

Good. That was my specialty.

“I’ll hold you to that,” I warned, smiling fiercely.

“Please do. I’d love to see what you might unleash there.” He drew closer, bending until his breath stirred the hair by my ear. “Here’s a hint for you.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, taking on a mesmerizing, singsong quality.

“One lord, all alone

Ten spires made of bone

One realm circles round

All roots underground

Ten streams through it all

One wood growing tall

All things quick with life

One sharp, bloody knife

Ten drops fall on stone

One lord on the throne.”

A delicate chill settled over me like mist. “Is that a riddle?”

“A rhyme the Yew Lord sang to his children.” He drew back, his eyes shuttered and solemn. “And they to theirs, and my mother to me.”

A nervous, breathless laugh escaped my lips. “It’s hard to imagine you having a mother.”

“Even Witch Lords are born, and even Witch Lords can die.”

A knock sounded on the door to my rooms, far more diffident than Kathe’s had been. “Lady Amalia,” a servant called. “I’m here to help you prepare for the ball.”

I turned and called to the door, “One moment.”

When I swiveled back to Kathe, some word forming on my lips, he was gone. A breeze swept across the balcony railing, brushing away any invisible trace of him. He might have been nothing but a vision of madness.

Balls in Durantain were more ceremonial affairs than in Raverra. A herald announced arriving guests in order of rank, from lowest to highest, and everyone needed an escort. While the heralds worked their way through the lesser nobility, the royal family and honored guests gathered in a private antechamber with comfortable seats, a platter of fruit, and chilled beer (again, much to my dismay), attempting to work out who was escorting whom at the last minute.

“I’m with Terika,” Zaira announced, wrapping an arm around Terika’s waist. “The rest of you lot can draw straws for all I care.”

Marcello was with Istrella, awaiting introduction in another antechamber, somewhere after the lesser gentry. Zaira’s presence had occasioned endless argument among the court heralds over what her effective rank should be, since she technically had no title but clearly merited some special attention as the sole fire warlock in Eruvia and a person well capable of burning Durantain to the ground if offended. They’d finally decided that her close connection to a member of the royal family and her status as an honored guest from the Serene Empire meant she could be introduced just before the royalty without offending any but the stuffiest aristocrats.

“I’m stuck with him,” Bree complained, elbowing Roland. “I wanted to bring a lad I met in a tavern last week, but Grandmother said no.”

I eyed my grandmother, uncertain.

“I always enter alone,” she said. “In your grandfather’s honor.” She frowned. “We need to find someone for you, Amalia.”

I hadn’t even thought of arranging an escort; I’d been too distracted worrying about the inevitable speech I’d have to give. I waved my hands. “I can come in by myself, too. It’s all right.”

“It’s a custom,” my grandmother said, with severe gravity. “It would show disrespect to my guest and my granddaughter to let you enter alone.”

“Really, I don’t mind.”

The queen tapped her lips. “Perhaps one of the march lords, or a general. Anyone would be honored. I’m sure we can find someone.”

“No need!”

We all turned toward the new voice.

It was Kathe. Of course it was Kathe, brushing off a flustered guard as he strode into the room, feathered cloak swirling, eyes dancing. “The Lady Amalia and I are courting, after all. There could be no more appropriate escort.”

Bree and Roland gaped. Zaira appraised Kathe openly; Terika and she exchanged an appreciative look, and heat crept up my neck. Grace of Mercy, don’t say anything, Zaira. Please.

My grandmother’s stony gaze didn’t waver. “The Crow Lord of Let. I was unaware we would have the honor of your presence at this occasion.”

He bowed, forcing the queen to return a deep, respectful nod. It would take an expert at protocol to figure out which of them outranked the other.

“I’m gratified to hear it, Your Majesty. I do try to avoid being predictable.”

“Announcing the Lady Amalia Lochaver Cornaro, Princess of Callamorne, heir to the Council of Nine; and her escort, the Crow Lord, Witch Lord of Let.”

The herald’s artifice-amplified voice almost cracked, and his eyes bulged as if he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Every face in the room turned to stare at us as we stood framed in the curtained entryway to the cavernous great hall, the sea of courtiers hushed to stunned silence.

I was used to having eyes on me, as La Contessa’s eligible daughter, but a room of a few hundred people openly staring at me was a new experience. At once, I became paralyzingly aware of every part of my body.

Kathe’s arm shook in mine from repressed laughter. “Look at their faces. This was a bit out of my way, but oh, it was worth it.”

Most of the nobility and dignitaries in the crowd wore the more sober fashions and muted colors of Callamorne: deep plum and navy, forest green and chocolate brown and charcoal gray, all in fine wool or velvet with only modest touches of lace. Some, especially the younger set, sported the more flamboyant embroidered silks and brocades of Raverran fashion, in brighter colors, with a sprinkling of jewel tones like bright flowers poking up through a winter garden. But all of them wore the same expressions of open surprise and shock.

No one had warned them a Witch Lord would be attending the reception. I could sympathize.

I tried to school my expression into something calm, regal, and reassuring, as if of course I knew exactly what I was doing and was in complete control of the situation. It was my mission to give these people confidence that the Empire had their backs, and by all the Graces, I wasn’t going to let Kathe’s mischief undermine that.

I held up my skirts as we paced our stately way down the steps to the great hall floor. Just before we descended to the level of the crowd, I spotted Marcello and Istrella; the latter waved enthusiastically, grinning. Marcello tried on a wan smile, but it sat poorly on his strained face.

Good Graces. I hadn’t meant to flaunt Kathe in front of him without warning.

Then the swirl of people pressed around us. The guests nearest us recovered admirably from their surprise and offered me words of welcome, not without alarmed glances at my escort, before opening a certain space around us. The heralds proceeded to announce Bree and Roland, providing enough of a distraction that I could move away from the densest part of the crowd, Kathe still chuckling at my side.

“This isn’t funny,” I murmured. “I’m here to help them not be afraid.”

“That’s perfect. You can help them not be afraid of me. It’ll be like practice for more dangerous Witch Lords.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious.

All around us, ball guests gathered and hesitated, like bees dancing around something they weren’t yet sure was a flower. I was the guest of honor, so everyone wanted to talk to me, but with Kathe at my side, even the bold people of Callamorne had to gather up their courage before approaching us. Kathe’s yellow-ringed stare and sharp grin didn’t help put anyone at ease.

It was up to me. I tried on a gracious smile and extended my hand to the first noble I recognized. “Lady Maroc! So pleased to see you again!”

She broke into a tentative smile, and the atmosphere around us relaxed a little. Courtiers took turns stepping up to exchange a few pleasantries; Kathe nodded at them but said little. I did my best to project reassuring confidence, to offset his unsettling presence, approaching people with a warm smile if they hesitated to step up themselves.

My inner fuming at Kathe’s interference was only stronger for the knowledge that without the need to counteract the nervous fear his presence fostered, I’d never have worked the room this actively or come across so confident. I wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

Finally, between greetings, Kathe let out a sigh. “This is dreadfully boring. How do you stand it?”

“It’s my job. Do you not have a royal court in Let?” I asked, curious.

“Not like this. I have my Heartguard, who are advisers, guards, and companions; and I have my Seconds, who manage various aspects of my domain for me. But they don’t hang about the castle going to parties and gossiping. We’re very informal.” He lifted his eyes to the banner-hung ceiling far above us. “I think my entire castle could almost fit in this room. Not quite, but nearly.”

“That sounds …” I searched for the right word.

“Provincial?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Relaxing,” I said.

Kathe laughed. “Oh, we find ways to keep busy. My Seconds tell me I need to stop trying to solve every problem in the domain with my own two hands.”

Another guest angled his way through the crowd, approaching us; I turned to offer a courteous greeting and found myself face-to-face with Marcello.

Determination set his jaw in rigid lines as he stood before Kathe at last. Hells, I wasn’t ready for this.