The grandeur around us was a silent testimony to wealth and power. The air was scented with a complex mixture of exotic flowers and the faintest trace of tanglewood incense, denoting peace and kindred spirits.
"Easy over the fence," Deric said softly beside me.
We were already at the parlor. I suppressed a grin at the riding term, then stepped forward to curtsy to the Marquise.
"My dear Countess," Lady Arthal said, smiling as she pressed my hand. "Welcome. Permit me to introduce my children, Fialma and Flauvic. The rest of the company you know."
Lady Fialma was tall, brown-haired, with cold eyes and the elevated chin of one who considers herself to be far above whomever she happens to be looking at--or down on. She was magnificently gowned, with so many glittering jewels it almost hurt the eyes to look at her. She would have been handsome but for a very long nose--which was the more obvious because of that imperious tilt to her head--and thinly compressed lips.
"Welcome," she said, in so faint and listless a voice that it was almost hard to hear her. "Delighted to…" She shrugged slightly, and her languidly waving fan fluttered with a dismissive extra flick.
Lord Flauvic, on the other side of their mother, was startlingly beautiful. His coloring was fair, his long waving hair golden with ruddy highlights. His eyes were so light a brown as to seem gold, a match for his hair. "…meet you, Countess," he said, finishing his sister's sentence. Politeness? Humor? Insult? Impossible to guess. His voice was the pure tenor of a trained singer, his gaze as blank as glass as he took my hand and bowed over it. Of medium height and very slender, he was dressed in deep blue, almost black, with a rare scattering of diamonds in his hair, in one ear, and on his clothing.
I realized I was staring and looked away quickly, following Deric into the next room. He fell into conversation with Branaric, Shevraeth, and Lady Renna Khialem, the subject {of course} horses. Deric's manner reminded me of someone relieved to find allies. Next to Bran sat Nee, completely silent, her hands folded in her lap.
Under cover of the chatter about horse racing, I looked around, feeling a little like a commander assessing a potential battlefield. Our hosts, despite their gracious outward manner, had made no effort to bind the guests into a circle. Instead, people were clumped in little groups, either around the magnificent buffet, or around the fireplace. As I scanned them, I realized who was there--and who was not there.
Present: counts, countesses, a duke, a duchess, heirs to these titles, and the only two people in the marquisate: Shevraeth and our hostess.
Absent: anyone with the title of baron or lower, except those--like Nee--who had higher connections.
Absent also were the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus.
"Easy over the fence," Deric said softly beside me.
We were already at the parlor. I suppressed a grin at the riding term, then stepped forward to curtsy to the Marquise.
"My dear Countess," Lady Arthal said, smiling as she pressed my hand. "Welcome. Permit me to introduce my children, Fialma and Flauvic. The rest of the company you know."
Lady Fialma was tall, brown-haired, with cold eyes and the elevated chin of one who considers herself to be far above whomever she happens to be looking at--or down on. She was magnificently gowned, with so many glittering jewels it almost hurt the eyes to look at her. She would have been handsome but for a very long nose--which was the more obvious because of that imperious tilt to her head--and thinly compressed lips.
"Welcome," she said, in so faint and listless a voice that it was almost hard to hear her. "Delighted to…" She shrugged slightly, and her languidly waving fan fluttered with a dismissive extra flick.
Lord Flauvic, on the other side of their mother, was startlingly beautiful. His coloring was fair, his long waving hair golden with ruddy highlights. His eyes were so light a brown as to seem gold, a match for his hair. "…meet you, Countess," he said, finishing his sister's sentence. Politeness? Humor? Insult? Impossible to guess. His voice was the pure tenor of a trained singer, his gaze as blank as glass as he took my hand and bowed over it. Of medium height and very slender, he was dressed in deep blue, almost black, with a rare scattering of diamonds in his hair, in one ear, and on his clothing.
I realized I was staring and looked away quickly, following Deric into the next room. He fell into conversation with Branaric, Shevraeth, and Lady Renna Khialem, the subject {of course} horses. Deric's manner reminded me of someone relieved to find allies. Next to Bran sat Nee, completely silent, her hands folded in her lap.
Under cover of the chatter about horse racing, I looked around, feeling a little like a commander assessing a potential battlefield. Our hosts, despite their gracious outward manner, had made no effort to bind the guests into a circle. Instead, people were clumped in little groups, either around the magnificent buffet, or around the fireplace. As I scanned them, I realized who was there--and who was not there.
Present: counts, countesses, a duke, a duchess, heirs to these titles, and the only two people in the marquisate: Shevraeth and our hostess.
Absent: anyone with the title of baron or lower, except those--like Nee--who had higher connections.
Absent also were the Prince and Princess of Renselaeus.
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Court Duel ]
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