“Darrius!”
Darry let out a grunt of surprise at the all-too-familiar voice. Her left foot caught in her trousers as she turned on a heel and lost her balance, then hit the ground with a solid thud. “Seven
hells.
” She huffed and rolled onto her back, her arms flopping out as she blinked into the sky.
“Darrius Lauranna, what are you doing?” her mother said with a laugh. “By the gods, have you lost your mind?”
“It’s been a splendid morning thus far, yes,” Darry said.
The High Queen of Arravan stood tall in a pale blue skirt and simple white tunic, her fading red hair pinned behind her neck. Her face was quite beautiful, laugh lines showing at her deep green eyes and her fifty-four years exposed only slightly within her graying hair and smooth complexion. “Should I even ask what you’re doing without your pants on?”
“You’re free to ask, of course. But I don’t really know if you want the truth.” Darry sighed as the watch bell within the main bailey sounded. “Perfect.”
“You’re late.” Her mother’s hands landed on her hips. “You’ll be mucking the stables.”
Darry rolled over and found her feet, then yanked up her trousers and tied the drawstring as quickly as possible.
“And no more night duty,” her mother said as Darry slid on the grass and retrieved her boots and socks. “I’ve spoken to Longshanks about his ill-conceived duty schedule, and though he didn’t appreciate my tone, at least he understood my annoyance. He was most happy to put you…what?”
“I’ll be digging postholes for a bloody
month
.”
“What’ve you done now?”
Darry moved forward in a rush and her mother accepted her kiss of greeting with a pleased smile. And then Darry was running and sliding around the fountain, then making for the bailey up the quickest path.
“Dress blacks, sweet Cat!” her mother called.
Darry sprinted along the path until it curved into the smooth stones leading to the solar and the minor halls of the keep, turning to the left beneath the portico and heading for the barracks and stables. The hard-packed earth of the bailey came up fast, and as she turned with the lane she tried to stop her momentum.
Darry felt her father’s hands tighten on her arms and push her away gently. His salt-and-pepper hair still showed traces of black, brushed back from his clean-shaven face. He was tall and still strongly built and wore his age well, though he was a tad heavier about the waist than when in his prime. “You’re a bit
wet
, Darrius,” he said, surveying her clothes and then his hands.
“Yes, sir.”
“A nice long run?”
“Not really, sir.”
“Swimming?”
“Sort of, sir.”
“Sort of swimming?”
“Yes, sir. I, ah, fell in the pond.”
His brow went up in question as the bells of the tower sounded for a second time. “You’re late, Captain.”
“Yes, sir. May I go, sir?”
“On your way then.”
“Thank you, sir,” Darry said, and bolted.
Owen Durand watched her run, noting the speed and the strength with which she moved. Her comrades yelled upon seeing her and he heard laughter as Jemin McNeely, who was quite possibly the largest man Owen had ever seen, jogged forward. Darry called out as Jemin bent at the waist and lifted her up, catching her at the knees as she tumbled down his back with laughter. Bentley smiled and yanked her boots away, then held them up as if they were trophies as Jemin carried her toward the barracks, their friends spilling out of the way at his booming voice.
Owen continued along the path, smiling contentedly.
The summer deepened slowly, and life within Blackstone Keep had settled into its new routine. Owen and his sons engaged in daily council meetings, intent upon treating with the Lyonese delegation.
The ladies of the palace had a different agenda, and Cecelia negotiated her own sort of council. Their days contained activities that were no longer commonplace but had a subtle air of importance. Things had been even more hectic within the past week for they were planning the official ball that would introduce Prince Joaquin and Princess Jessa-Sirrah to the Blooded society of Arravan.
Darry had always made it a habit to disappear rather smoothly at this point in the season, leaving the details to others, saying she had to train for the Solstice Tournament. And while she did in fact train with relish and dedication, this season she had been strangely underfoot.
She sat cross-legged in her chair, her hair tumbling forward as she held her embroidery. Darry had always been good with the needle but she hated it immensely. It was too small and she moved too quickly, the patterns for lace and other disciplines requiring a patience she rarely had. That she sat thus, in her chair between Emmalyn and Jessa with her boots on the floor and her legs so, was a horrible breach of etiquette, but Cecelia had not the heart to correct her. Darry was making a true effort.
Jessa watched Darry as well, and though Cecelia could not hear what was said, the ghost of Darry’s voice floated across the sunlit study. Jessa’s shoulders shook, her eyes on her lace as she laughed.
Darry was an object of extreme interest to Jessa, and Cecelia had yet to decide why. It might have been Darry’s manner, for she could not hide her boldness for long. Jessa had most likely not encountered such a woman before. Lyoness was not a land that allowed a woman her independence, and Darry tended to kiss her freedom with relish upon the throat until liberty spilled her rewards with a sigh.
It might have been that she was a soldier and dressed as a man, though her womanly virtues were unmistakable no matter the clothes she wore.
And it might have been that she was backwards.
In Lyoness the openly backwards were put to death, and though it had not been discussed, Cecelia knew that Owen had to take Darry into consideration as he negotiated with Prince Joaquin. Darry, especially since she was highborn, blatantly displayed the differences in their cultures. If and when might it become an issue? Cecelia had not missed how Joaquin stared at Darry with annoyed interest. But Jessa, she noticed, appeared fascinated.
A few hours here and there, such as now and during meals, at some point each day Darry found her way onto the chair beside Jessa, and Jessa welcomed Darry’s sudden presence with sincere enjoyment. Their conversation seemed to consist of simple things as far as Cecelia knew, but they appeared exceedingly at ease with one another, and Darry was very attentive when Jessa was near.
And if they were not beside one another, they sought each other out, Jessa showing a true intensity of purpose when Darry was across the room from her instead of by her side. Darry had helped Jessa adjust to her new surroundings with respect and humor, and Cecelia was grateful in more ways than one.
They have become friends.
The bell tower rang, interrupting Cecelia’s musings.
Darry gave a winning smile. “Ah, well.” She stretched out her legs and dropped her feet to the floor. “It appears that I must leave you for more important things, such as staring into the sun and standing for hours in one place.”
“Give me that.” Emmalyn held out her hand out for the delicate handkerchief that Darry had been sewing.
“So you may claim it as your own?” Darry said. “My Lady Jessa, if you would keep this for me, please. My sister is most cunning and will steal my hard work.”
“Yes, of course, Lady Darrius,” Jessa said quietly, taking the offering.
“Darry, apologize to your sister,” Cecelia said in mock reprimand. “Your sewing is not as good as hers. What use has she for your threads?”
Darry picked up her boots as Emmalyn laughed at her expense. “Fine. I take time from my busy schedule—”
“Mucking stalls,” Emmalyn mumbled beneath her breath.
“To spend
time
with you, and I become the object of ridicule.”
Jessa lowered the handkerchief to her lap, holding tight to her laughter.
“I would like to see you shovel shit as well as I can, Emmalyn.”
“Darry!” Cecelia laughed.
“I’m quite good with a shovel,” Darry said with pride, making for the door.
Jessa stared at the embroidery. She looked up quickly and Darry caught her eyes as she walked backward beneath the arch. Her smile was true as she disappeared into the corridor, her dimple pressing sweetly in her cheek.
“I will expect you at dinner, Cat!” Cecelia called.
“Let me see, Jessa?” Emmalyn asked. “She’s been hiding that piece for a week.”
Jessa studied the thread that moved in delicate chain links about the outer edges of the handkerchief. A rose flowered upward into a near-perfect rendering of a nightshade in full bloom. A flush of heat spread along the back of Jessa’s neck.
It had been meant for her. Darry had spent her time thinking of her with every thread and careful stitch.
Oh, Darry, it’s lovely. It’s so…it’s simply lovely.
“Jessa?”
“So you might steal it?”
Emmalyn laughed as Jessa placed Darry’s gift beneath her length of unfinished lace. “She has corrupted you. We should’ve seen it coming.”
Jessa smiled, trying to hide the tremble of her hands as she picked up her needles.
“Does she still tend to miss stitches?” Cecelia asked.
Jessa could detect the small mistakes that Darry had made as the sable thread had flowed into the green, and the tiny gaps near the base of the petals. “No,” she answered quietly. “It’s perfect.”
*
Prince Joaquin took up his goblet at the dinner table, finding what he sought farther down the table. Serabee had informed him that Darrius had spent the afternoon sewing with the other women of the keep before attending to her duties, and he had yet to get over his amusement. Her bold manner and offensive dress, her blatant lie of wearing a sword was all absurd, and her engagement of the womanly arts was a challenge he could not pass up. It was time he stirred the pot somewhat to see what poured out.
That Malcolm was complacent in their negotiations and unwilling to broach several key subjects in the presence of his father had not escaped Joaquin’s notice. He was being treated as a pawn and he did not like it. He was an equal player in the game with more at stake than anyone, and though Malcolm acknowledged that fact when they spoke in private, he did not treat him with the proper respect in council. Arravan’s arrogant son needed to learn there would be a price for that.
Malcolm wanted a piece of Lyoness, and he was willing to do just about anything to win it, including marrying Jessa-Sirrah. Joaquin wanted the Jade Throne and all that came with it. He wanted Sylban-Tenna destroyed and the others of his father’s line either dead or in chains, preferably the latter so he might enjoy the sight. His dream was simple, if only he could hit upon the right plan before the others did.
Now
was his moment, but his play would depend upon Malcolm’s, and Malcolm was acting his part like a nervous girl who hid her secrets and played the trembling submissive to her father’s authority.
It was time to shake loose their caution and step boldly, whether Malcolm was prepared or not. Joaquin had always known that blood would be shed in the end.
Though on this night
,
it shall merely be his pride
.
“Will Captain Darrius be joining us on our hunt?”
Malcolm lifted his eyes from his plate. “No, she will not.”
Owen eased back in his chair at the head of the table, his goblet in hand as he studied Joaquin. He had been expecting some sort of challenge for several days. Malcolm had been on the receiving end of several short-tempered comments as of late. Their negotiations were slow, but forming a lasting treaty with Lyoness had never been attempted. They had much to consider, and beyond that, the timetable had been set by Bharjah’s offer of his daughter’s hand in marriage. The protocol involved in such a venture was complicated at best, and the one thing they had now was time. And if Jacob’s spies were right, a little more time was all they might need.
If Owen could believe the missives sent back across the Lyonese border, Bharjah was swiftly dying and all would change in a heartbeat if one bright morning the Butcher of the Plains did not awake with the sun. Perhaps Joaquin knew this, perhaps not, but the young man certainly had
some
thing planned for his part in the negotiations; it was written within his every expression. That he and Malcolm had become thick was no secret either, and though Malcolm loved his games, too much was at stake right now for Malcolm to overstep his bounds.
“Seems a shame,” Joaquin said. “If she is allowed to pursue manly virtues, then she should be permitted the hunt.”
“She’ll not be joining us, Joaquin,” Malcolm repeated.
“But surely her beauty, despite her dress, would allow us a bit of entertainment while away from the feminine comforts,” Joaquin said, pleased by Malcolm’s reaction.
You are weaker than I thought, Malcolm. You’d not last a week within the shadow of the Jade Throne, nor even a day beneath my father’s wrath.
“Entertainment how?” Owen asked.
Joaquin turned to his right, straight into the unwavering gaze of the High King of Arravan, and a tremor of apprehension rippled through his stomach at the steady question within Owen’s eyes. “I am curious as to her skills, that is all.”