Shadows Past: A Borderlands Novel Read online

  “Delia is discriminating,” the skinny matron said. “Unlike Aveline—and unlike you, Emlyn. You look like a fat cow in that purple gown. Then, you never did have any taste.”

  “At least I’m not a dried-up prune,” Emlyn snapped, her chins and the matching purple plumes in her hair quivering. “My husband satisfies all his appetites at my table. But you should ask where your husband goes to sup—” She suddenly turned on a comely woman who was watching both them with a slight smile on her face. “Right, Irmtraud?”

  Still smiling, Irmtraud shook her head. “I’m not his cook, Emlyn,” she said as a man standing next to her took her hand and tucked it into his arm.

  “Of course you’re not, sweetling,” the man said. He glowered at Emlyn. “You will apologize to my wife—”

  “I’m his lover,” Irmtraud said.

  “—and apologize now …” The man trailed off. “What?”

  Irmtraud was still shaking her head, but her smile had vanished while her eyes rounded and damn near crossed as she tried to stare down at her mouth. Her free hand went to her magnificent stomacher, embroidered in gold and studded with gemstones. “He had this brought for me, all the way from Svlet.”

  “You said your great-aunt sent it to you,” Irmtraud’s husband said, dropping her hand.

  “I lied,” Irmtraud gasped, her face frantic.

  “Ha!” Emlyn said into the shocked silence. “No aunt sent her that. I remember that shipment. And I remember what your husband gave you, Frauke: winter woolen hosen. And you said that they itched. Abominably.”

  “Trollop!” screeched Frauke, finding her voice. She grabbed at Irmtraud’s stomacher, but missed and caught her bodice instead. The dress ripped, revealing stays, lacing and much of Irmtraud’s supping charms.

  “Cuckoldry!” Irmtraud’s husband bellowed, and swung at a man who was as thin and desiccated as Frauke. The thin man ducked and Irmtraud’s husband instead hit a burly fellow. The burly man roared and swung back. He also missed and hit a fourth man.

  “Mother!” screamed a skinny girl as she rushed to Frauke, but Emlyn planted herself in the way, smirking.

  “Stick of a girl—”

  Without breaking stride, the skinny girl hit Emlyn with a right cross, and Emlyn went heels over arse backwards, taking several folks with her.

  “My wife!” an even rounder man shouted. He grabbed the skinny girl, but before he could do anything, an equally skinny lad my age leapt on his back.

  “Leave my sister alone!”

  The fat man spun around, sending the skinny lad’s legs flailing, and more folks went down, shrieking.

  “Mama! Papa!” cried a pretty, plump maid as she waded in, waling on anybody she could reach with clenched fists and pointed-toe shoes. The skinny lad tumbled off the fat man, knocking the burly man aside just as he was swinging on Irmtraud’s husband, who then went after the thin man, who was hiding behind a trio of sea captains.

  “What the hell?” Lord Idwal said. We were all standing still, stunned at how fast the violence had escalated, but he shook it off and strode into the middle of the fracas, pushing combatants apart. “Gracious sirs and gentlewomen,” he called out as he struggled to detach Frauke’s grip from Irmtraud’s hair. “Please stop! Remember His Majesty’s presence!”

  Seeing their lord move, the castle servants joined him, risking life and limb (or at least a black eye) as they also tried to quell the guests, but the brawl rapidly spread as several townsfolk took the opportunity to settle old scores. Javes, Thadro, and I remained with Jusson, Lady Margriet, and Berenice, just in case the fight shifted our way, and we were quickly joined by Suiden, Jusson’s nobles, and his royal guard. It seemed that the fighting was confined to locals, so we remained relaxed, watching the action, Jusson bright eyed as he ignored the sotto voce betting going on around him (odds were heavy in the skinny girl’s favor—it was truly a wicked right cross). But suddenly, in the middle of the odds taking, Frauke, who must’ve been stronger than she looked, gave Idwal a one-handed shove, causing him to stumble back. Before he could catch his balance, he tripped over Emlyn, just rising to her feet. They both went down, disappearing under the mob as the fight surged towards us.

  “Papa!” Berenice cried out.

  “Protect the king!” Thadro shouted at the same time.

  We formed a tight circle around Jusson, Berenice, and Lady Margriet just as the scrum hit us. I thought we held firm, but I heard another cry and turned to see that some of the Own had been knocked down, collapsing the defensive circle on one side. Jusson had nimbly moved out of the way of the fighters, keeping a firm grip on Lady Margriet. However, Berenice was gone. I quickly scanned the scrum and saw a flash of a brown dress underneath the downed royal guards just as the fighters washed over them.

  “My daughter!” Lady Margriet said, struggling against Jusson’s grasp.

  “Berenice!” I shouted, but it was drowned out by a deep roar. Glancing up, I saw Idwal had regained his feet and was smashing heads together as he and the castle servants fought through what was fast becoming a riot to get to his daughter. More servants poured in, along with the rest of the noncombatant guests. Laurel and Wyln both were spinning folks out of the fray and into the Turalian soldiers’ grasps—who damn near had to sit on them to keep them from returning to the fight. Kveta snapped trouser legs, skirts, and sleeves with her teeth and dragged fighters away, some sliding on rumps and some even prone, kicking against the wolf. The local doyen had hold of the skinny girl, but she broke loose, hit the doyen with an uppercut, and flung herself back into the heaving mob. Even Jusson, standing before Lady Margriet, was grabbing brawlers and handing them off to Thadro, who passed them to the remaining guards. The air was filled with grunts and thuds of fists hitting flesh, as some of the castle servants joined in and started pounding on folks. I tried to push into the crowd to also reach Berenice, but couldn’t get through. I had begun laying about with my staff when I caught the gleam of a knife held in a pale hand out the corner of my eye.

  I’d been in tavern brawls before and once had even been caught in a fight between two rival factions in the Freston garrison. And of course there was my battlefield experience. While a very small part of me was astonished that someone would dare to pull a knife in the presence of both His Majesty and Lord Mearden, I was mainly focused on how easily said knife could slide into all the unprotected flesh around. Including mine. I shifted so that I could keep both the blade and the blade wielder in view. Or at least I tried to shift. The mob suddenly solidified and I couldn’t move, no matter how hard I struggled. I caught another flash of steel, this time nearer. Doing my own bellow, I slammed my staff’s end against the stone floor. A peal rang out, growing louder and louder until it drowned out all noise. The fighting slowed, then stopped altogether as those involved dropped clenched fists to clap hands over their ears, staring at each other as realization dawned about exactly what they had been doing in their lord’s hall, in front of their king. For a very hard, heart-thumping moment, their bewildered expressions reminded me of another fight, where folk, ridden by nightmares only they could see, had killed family, neighbors, and friends. But then the bewilderment drained away, leaving behind years’ worth of sullen anger over old slights and resentments filling the faces before me.

  The peal faded and silence flooded in. Shoving unresisting folks aside, I made my way to Berenice, all the while looking around for the knife wielder. However, whoever it was had the presence of mind to tuck it away and all I saw were empty hands. Reaching Berenice, I helped her to her feet. Her brown gown showed dusty footprints and her arms had vivid red marks that would soon turn to bruises. As I helped her off the floor, her snood fell off and her hair tumbled free in a riot of curls that flowed down her back, heavy and warm against my hands. I held her against me as she swayed, feeling the shock of the violence still trembling through her body. Shoving my staff into the crook of my arm, I caught her chin and angled her face up, noting a rising bruise along her cheekbon
e and a dazed look in her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” I said quietly. “You’re safe.”

  Those dazed eyes blinked at me. But before Berenice could respond, Lady Margriet and Lord Idwal pushed through the former combatants and pulled her from me, Idwal wrapping his arms around both wife and daughter. I stood outside the familial embrace for a moment, then became aware of the stares from not only the townspeople, but also Princess Rajya, the wizard, the Turalian soldiers, the local doyen, Kveta, and assorted castle servants. Deciding that it was a good time for me to return to my king, I turned—and nearly ran into the air sphere spinning in front of me.

  It had been over a month since I’d done any talent work, over a month since I’ve been face-to-face with any of the aspects. It was certainly in my face now. The sphere and I stared at each other. Well, I stared at it, while it seemed to contemplate me. I slowly raised a hand, whether to beckon it closer or knock it away, I didn’t know. It seemed to have no doubts; the sphere flitted to my palm, nestling against the truth rune and symbols etched there. I felt that contact, the reverberations of the bell-peal reawakening in the bones of my body. I brought the sphere before me to stare down into its swirling depths—

  “Interesting. A tiro summoning and controlling a major aspect as easily as any senior adeptus.”

  I quickly curled my fingers around the sphere and held it behind me as I once more turned and for a second time came face-to-face with the unexpected—the wizard Munir. Equally unexpected were Princess Rajya and her guards ranged behind him, all of their faces speculative as they stared at me.

  “Tiro, Lord Munir?” I asked.

  “It means ‘young soldier,’ ” Wyln said, as he and Laurel appeared on either side of me.

  “It’s also used to describe a new wizard,” Suiden said, also appearing. He stepped in front of me, as if to block Munir’s view. They stood eye-to-eye—well almost eye to eye. Munir was a tad taller, his tattooed dome topping Suiden’s closely cropped crown by a finger’s breadth or two. “So you accept being called ‘lord,’ Adeptus?” Suiden asked Munir.

  Munir smiled, a flash of white in his dark face. “It is but a title, sa Abbe, one among many—”

  “And where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?”

  We all looked up to see Lord Idwal, his arms still around his wife and daughter, his hazel eyes turned a deep forest green in his anger. He was aiming those eyes at a gaggle of townsfolk near the hall doors, trying to slip away quiet-like. They hadn’t quite made it. One of them, braver than the rest, stepped forward. It was Mistress Emlyn, her purple gown torn and dusty, her purple plumes broken and sticking out every which way, and one eye in matching purple as it swelled shut. She bobbed a curtsey.

  “Begging my lord’s pardon, we thought that as we weren’t presentable, we’d go home and change—”

  “No,” the Lord of Mearden said.

  “But—”

  “Announce dinner,” Idwal ordered, now aiming his green gaze at one of his servants. The servant bowed, winced, and limped away. A few moments later a gong rang.

  “Your Majesty, Your Highness, my lords, ladies, gracious sirs and gentlewomen,” the servant announced. “Dinner is served.”

  Eight

  Dinner was very quiet. Nobody dared talk. Lord Idwal glared over the battle-scarred guests, his eyes still forest green they rested on split lips, bloodied noses, black eyes, and swollen jaws (the skinny girl truly, truly had a wicked punch). None of the townspeople would meet his gaze, and quite a few of the servants limped around with lowered heads and averted eyes. The only sounds were the occasional scrape and clink of silverware against porcelain, with the musicians valiantly trying to fill the awkward silence.

  As befitted my rank, I was seated at the high table. But as befitted others’ higher rank, I was not seated next to Jusson. Which was all right. What surprised me more, though, was that I was also seated away from Berenice. I’d expected that Idwal would’ve used dinner as a way of throwing us together. However, she instead sat next to her mother. With the help of Lady Margriet, she had neatly tucked her hair back into her snood and straightened her gown the best she could, but she still looked battered. Unlike Lord Idwal, she kept her head lowered as she ate, the knotted bruise along her cheekbone darkening. Lady Margriet did lift her head from time to time, mostly to cast worried glances at either her husband or her daughter. However, one time I caught her looking at me—or rather at the air sphere now hovering over my shoulder. As was Munir. Figuring that the last thing my fellow guests wanted with their dinner was a reminder of the recent brawl, I tried to discreetly dismiss the sphere. I was more resigned than surprised when it ignored my efforts.

  The only person who seemed to be completely enjoying himself was Jusson. I could see his black eyes gleaming as he dug into his food; however, that may have been because Bertram had somehow managed to insinuate himself with the castle’s kitchen staff. The boy appeared with the first course and remained, bouncing around the members of Jusson’s entourage as each subsequent course was served. Sitting next to Berenice, Princess Rajya watched, her own eyes bright in subtle derision with her guards a dark wall behind her. But, at her first spoonful of soup, her gaze flashed back to Bertram, those same eyes narrowed in calculation. Even Lord Idwal forgot to glower for a moment at his first mouthful, taking a lingering second mouthful just to make sure the first hadn’t been a fluke.

  I too made short work of the food that came my way. With the taciturn Marcher Lord on one side more interested in eating than talking, and the southern lord on the other side involved in a softly murmured conversation with his equally southern neighbor, I settled into my own thoughts, which were divided equally between Berenice and my unintentional summoning. The daughter of Mearden had stopped communing with her plate to join in a polite three-way conversation with her mother and Princess Rajya. Even making allowances for her injuries, there was nothing about her that would make me want to give up my bachelor status; as Javes said, she did not fit my idea of who’d I planned on eventually marrying in the dim, distant future.

  But that didn’t explain the panicked jolt I felt when she was crushed by the scrum or why I could still feel the weight of her hair on my hands, still smell its light perfume. She looked just as plain and ordinary, especially in contrast to the princess who glowed in the candlelight. Her Highness smiled in response to something Lady Margriet said, causing her eyes to narrow in amusement, and I found myself thinking that politics probably had very little to with Suiden’s marriage to her mother. At that moment, on that, Princess Rajya looked up, her smile lingering, her dark eyes now narrowed on me. Hiding another jolt, I quickly returned to my food, hoping against hope that Suiden did not see me eyeing his daughter.

  Dessert finally arrived (a towering confectionary construct of the castle, its surrounding forest, and its port, complete with tiny ships sailing in a blue harbor) and was dispatched in due course. And the moment Jusson set his fork down, Lord Idwal immediately signaled the local doyen, who just as quickly stood and said benediction. As His Reverence blessed us, he too glared out over those of his congregation sitting in the hall, his jaw swollen and sporting scratches along the side of his face that were bright and painfully red. I figured that there would be a series of thundering sermons in the coming days and weeks denouncing infidelity, embarrassing one’s lord in front of one’s king, and violence against a doyen of the most holy Church. As soon as he was done, Idwal rose and dismissed his guests with a firm “good night.” He then bowed at Jusson.

  “There was supposed to be dancing after dinner, Your Majesty,” Idwal said with a smile that sat oddly with his still green-eyed rage. “But I think that with all things considered it would be best to skip that.”

  “We agree,” Jusson said with his own easy smile. “After our travels, we would be glad of an early night.”

  “In that case, I beg to be excused,” Idwal said, “to tend to my family.”

  “Of course,” Jusson sai
d, his gaze going to Lady Margriet and Berenice standing together.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty—”

  “In fact, we will retire to our chambers now,” Jusson said. He grabbed Idwal’s arm, tucking his hand in it. “If you would escort us, Idwal?”

  Idwal paused midthanks, those green eyes on the king. Then he looked around. The hall had rapidly emptied with the townsfolk jamming the front doors in their efforts to flee. All that remained were those guests staying in the castle. I did my own looking around and, finding Bertram helping the castle servants clear the tables, beckoned him to me. I’d left him behind once; I wasn’t about to do it again.

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  I glanced back to see Idwal smiling, the laugh lines fanning out from his eyes almost hiding his rage. He then raised his voice, aiming that smile at the remaining guests. “After the excitements of this evening, we are going to retire. But those of you who find it too early to seek your chambers, please enjoy the hospitality of the Hall. Again, good night and God bless.”

  With that, Idwal turned and escorted Jusson up the grand stairs, Lady Margriet and Berenice climbing with them. Any thought I had of maybe slipping off and joining Arlis and Jeff in the barracks was nipped in the bud by Thadro’s slight head jerk, indicating I was to follow His Majesty. I fell in line behind them, my hand firmly clamped on Bertram’s shoulder. A sizable group followed us—Javes, all of Jusson’s aristos, the King’s Own, and (to my mild surprise) the armsmen captain. However, Suiden was not with us. Neither were Wyln and Laurel. But I did hear the clicking of toenails and looking down saw that Kveta had worked her way through the climbing mob and was walking between Javes and me. She grinned when she saw my attention on her.

  “Great evening,” she said softly. “I’m richer by several gold.”

  I found myself grinning back. “Mistress Frauke’s daughter did have a punishing right cross.”