An Evening of Finery

  “Trina,

  My dearest love. You know that I am certain to see you tonight at the ball, but I could not help myself, despite the many strings which pull at my attention. Do me the honor of meeting me on the dance floor this evening. I was, am, and ever will be beholden to only your wiles.”

  — Melchan Almund Ozewrath, Twelfth in the Line of Stags; private letter to Empress Trina Storr Ozewrath, 606 I.C.

  Biaun descended the smooth black stairway leading into the Imperial Ballroom and immediately found himself face-to-face with the poorly shaven mug of Captain Ean Ogrebane.

  The captain-of-arms wore the same formal cut of uniform he had sported earlier at the arena, but this one was immaculately clean. More surprisingly, Biaun detected the faint scent of perfume clinging to the hulking man.

  Ove must’ve bullied him into using it, he thought with amusement. Getting Ean to wear scented water was like pulling teeth.

  At the captain’s side stood Ove MacGillavray, her presence a striking contrast to the hardened soldier beside her. The same woman who had wielded a training sword with deadly precision earlier that morning now looked utterly transformed.

  Her fiery red hair trailed over her shoulders, ending at the small of her back. Her emerald eyes sparkled with excitement as she watched the bards and fire-breathers drifting from table to table. Unconsciously, she nibbled the corner of her lip, as she often did when distracted.

  She wore an elegant black dress that hugged her athletic figure, the long slit up one side revealing toned legs that betrayed her martial training. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of diamond earrings that caught and scattered the light like twin stars.

  It didn’t surprise Biaun to see her so comfortable in such extravagant surroundings. Ove came from noble stock—one of the oldest families within the capital's domain.

  Fixing his gaze on Ean, the knight extended his arm. The captain took it, and Biaun was greeted with a handshake that felt like being caught in a bear trap.

  “Captain Ogrebane,” Biaun said dryly. “I cannot begin to tell you what a pleasure it is to see your grinning face this evening.”

  Then he smirked. “And I see Ove has once again convinced you to dab on some of that floral charm. You smell... positively delicate, my friend.”

  The grin vanished from Ean’s face as he let out a huff. “Ye see, I told ye if I wore that damned fool stinkin’ water, I’d not be hearin’ the end of it.”

  Ove turned toward him with mock sympathy, her green eyes twinkling. She pouted slightly, her voice dropping into a gentle lisp.

  “Oh, you poor, abused little bear. One night—one—out of the whole year, you have to act like a proper nobleman instead of the big strong brute you usually are. And nobody understands how very, very silly that must make you feel…”

  Her hand slipped up to gently tug at his cheek, making him growl low in embarrassment.

  Biaun, now thoroughly amused, couldn’t help but snicker. Ean’s face flushed through three shades of red before he calmly reached up, gently removed Ove’s hand from his cheek, and held it in his own for a beat too long.

  That done, the big man turned to the knight, a fresh grin splitting the frown that had begun to settle on his face.

  “Well,” he said with exaggerated cheer, “I suppose I could look on the bright side o’ things. If I keep misbehavin’, she might give me a spankin’ and send me straight ta bed.”

  Ove flushed scarlet. Her hand shot back to her side as she fixed him with a withering glare—the kind only a woman could truly master.

  “It’s too bad we didn’t match blades in the arena today,” she said, coolly. “That may have been the only action you’d see from me, given your abysmal manners.”

  Biaun carefully looked the other way, schooling his face into polite neutrality as Ean straightened.

  His joking demeanor faded, and he stepped forward with solemnity, taking Ove’s hand again—this time with the respect of a gentleman. He brought it to his lips, touching it lightly.

  “Forgive me, Ove,” he said softly. “I promise ta behave meself. There be not a gent nor gal in this world that can say I be no man o’ me word.”

  Pacified for the moment, Ove turned to the knight and offered her hand with elegant grace. Biaun took it and kissed it lightly—a proper gesture under the circumstances.

  He complimented her on her gown and earrings, receiving a faint but appreciative nod in return, then began to usher the pair toward the emperor’s table where they’d be seated for the evening.

  The three took their seats at the inner side of the emperor’s grand dining table, a place of quiet privilege amidst the rising chatter. Soon, all were seated—save for the royal family themselves and their elven guests, whose absence had begun to stir whispers among the lesser tables.

  With a moment to himself, Biaun leaned back slightly, eyes drifting from the table to study the crowd beyond. Ean and Ove had taken to their own soft conversation, affording him a rare pause to observe the room.

  The great houses of the Empire had gathered in full, and many had traveled from the furthest reaches of the realm to attend the Emperor’s Ball. The ruling families of the six lesser-kingdoms occupied places of honor nearest the dais. At the foremost of these tables sat the royalty of Trahern, Iden, and Chad—the three most powerful of the vassal kingdoms. Just beyond them, the monarchs of Venetia, Cynyr, and Vaughn held court.

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  Biaun’s gaze lingered longest on the rulers of Iden—King Ailbert Faulk and his wife, Queen Caroline. Ailbert was, by most accounts, a reasonable man. Just—if a bit cautious. But despite their few interactions over the years, Biaun had always sensed a coldness in him—something just shy of disdain.

  He could never quite place the cause.

  They had exchanged only a handful of formal words, none unkind. And yet, there was a sharpness in Ailbert’s eyes that undercut his otherwise courteous demeanor.

  Perhaps, Biaun mused, it stemmed from that dinner at the Idenian royal manor—years ago, when Thera first began to take an interest in me.

  The memory made him shift in his seat.

  Maybe Ailbert doesn’t approve of my less-than-eager attitude toward his daughter.

  His jaw tightened slightly, though his expression gave away nothing.

  With that thought in mind, Biaun forced himself to glance to the Queen’s left—only to find Thera staring directly at him.

  He mustered a faint, polite smile and inclined his head, holding her gaze for a beat before looking away.

  Aric’s blood, he cursed inwardly. She’s a woman now. No doubt about it.

  She was beautiful, in a way that made this all the more difficult. And though his heart stirred with no desire for her, there was something almost endearing in her unwavering certainty. He felt a flicker of pity—for her hope, and for the awkwardness he knew would come when it was finally dashed.

  Feeling uncomfortably boxed in, Biaun risked another glance. Thankfully, her attention had shifted to a wandering bard dressed in a garish costume of bright purple and green. The man’s crowing voice rose with the gentle strum of a lute, and though his appearance was absurd, his music had a sincere, almost wistful charm.

  Thera’s eyes sparkled as she listened, her smile blooming easily, and for a moment Biaun felt a strange relief.

  Perhaps, he thought, her heart might find itself drawn elsewhere. Someone more eager. More deserving.

  She had definitely changed since last year—when she had been rail-thin and full of restless energy. Now she carried herself with a budding grace, a flower blooming just beyond spring.

  And that—more than her interest—would make his rejection all the harder.

  Before Biaun could finish surveying the rest of the room, a fanfare of trumpets blared above the minstrels, cutting their chords mid-phrase and stilling the movements of jugglers, fire-breathers, and nobles alike. A hush fell over the ballroom like a curtain of reverence.

  From behind the emperor’s table, a pair of extravagantly embroidered curtains were drawn back to reveal a narrow hallway lit by torches—its entrance concealed until now behind the grand dais. The passage glowed softly, casting a golden light upon the polished stone as the royal family and their elven guests began their procession.

  Emperor Melchan Ozewrath led the way, stately and poised, with Empress Trina at his arm. Their children followed in succession: Eros, tall and composed; Talose, whose charm seemed to trail behind him like a breeze; Almund, quiet but sharp-eyed; and Catherine, who led the young Waewulf by the hand with surprising tenderness.

  Behind them walked the elven delegation—Grimus, regal even in his age; Portean, graceful and guarded; and then—Aehyl, of the Crystal-Mist Forest.

  As the procession took their seats upon the raised dais, Biaun felt his breath catch.

  He tried to slow his pulse, to steady the battle-born calm that had served him countless times before, but it was useless.

  His eyes found her.

  Aehyl.

  The pale-skinned elf walked like a breeze across still water—quiet, unassuming, impossible to ignore. Her blond curls fell in gentle waves across her shoulders, framing a face of austere, haunting beauty. Her dress, a delicate green that shimmered like fresh spring leaves beneath the canopy, matched the startling clarity of her emerald eyes.

  His heartbeat surged.

  In all his life, Biaun had never seen such a thing—such serene, unshakable presence. He had been trained to resist illusion, to see past beauty and read the soul beneath it. But in that moment, as her gaze briefly passed his, he knew:

  He had never before looked upon perfection.

  The emperor and his wife were adorned in robes of pearl-white silk, the golden sigil of the stag emblazoned prominently across the fabric. Gold sashes bound their garments at the waist, shimmering beneath the chandelier light. The only distinction between their attire was the ceremonial weaponry each bore, a slender, jeweled dagger for the queen, and a far more imposing longsword for the emperor, its pommel carved in the shape of antlers.

  Trailing behind them, Eros appeared cloaked in shadow. He wore his usual black robe, the deep hood pulled low to obscure his face, as if concealing some terrible scar. A black sash cinched the robe at his waist, and instead of a ceremonial weapon, he carried his ever-present staff—a gnarled oaken thing, ancient and alive with silent power. He made no effort to match the others in formality or flourish. That, too, was expected.

  By contrast, Prince Talose strode confidently through the hallway, his gait a touch too proud, his chin tilted just so. His sharp eyes roved the ballroom even before he stepped fully into view, already seeking out the young women of court like a hawk scouting a field. The knight didn’t need clairvoyance to guess what the prince was thinking; Talose had a reputation that stretched from Jerrico to the outer reaches of the Empire, and likely beyond.

  Though Biaun couldn’t understand the young man’s appetite for fleeting affections, it didn’t surprise him. The prince was charming, undeniably handsome, and in no rush to settle his wandering heart.

  Strapped to his belt was a ceremonial longsword like his father’s, more a symbol than a weapon, and his garments—white silk shirt and pants tailored to perfection—were clearly the work of the kingdom’s finest artisans. Like his parents, the golden stag marked his house and rank, though his was embroidered at the shoulder rather than the chest, a quiet reminder that the crown was not yet his to wear.

  Almund, younger than Talose by two years, wore the simple brown robe of his holy order, tied at the waist with a rope sash. The only ornamentation was the platinum pendant of the Church of the Maker, a gleaming circle resting against his chest.

  He stood nearly a foot taller than his older brother, broad-shouldered and thick-framed, with plainly trimmed brown hair and a closely cropped beard to match. Where Talose was quick with a grin and quicker with a flirt, Almund was slow, deliberate, and contemplative—his piercing blue eyes always seeming to weigh the soul of whomever they studied.

  Only recently anointed as a Father of the Faith, he had already gained a quiet reputation. His presence unsettled some, his eyes perhaps too searching, his silences too full. Yet Biaun respected him deeply. Whenever duty or guilt brought the knight to chapel, he always found himself hoping that Almund would be the one presiding. There was something calming in his grave demeanor, something honest in his stillness. In a palace full of performance, Almund Ozewrath was a man who seemed incapable of pretense.

  Just behind Almund came Catherine and the young fireball, Waewulf.

  At nineteen, Catherine had already spent many years studying commerce under both her mother and father. She was a pretty young woman, though she looked too much like her father to be called beautiful. A handful of promising young nobles had already taken guest rooms in the palace, hoping to win her favor, but Catherine was of the mind that she would wait for a man she could both love and respect.

  Strong-willed and shrewd, Catherine was clearly destined to call the shots in her future marriage, and Biaun admired the Empress Trina for raising such a capable daughter.

  Beside his sister, Waewulf strutted into the ballroom with the unshakable bravado only a twelve-year-old could muster. His long black hair was tied in a warrior’s braid, and he wore a white silk suit as though it were a suit of plate armor. A fading bruise on his chin, likely the result of another failed dive-roll, did nothing to diminish his swagger.

  He had already begun studying the way of the warrior and was something of a courtyard celebrity for his self-modified bow and comically short, short sword. Whenever possible, Waewulf would sneak away from his parents’ side and pelt the Captain-of-Arms or Biaun himself with endless questions about battles, formations, sword techniques, and tactics.

  Though the boy could be exhausting, Biaun secretly enjoyed the curious energy. Still, he knew well that Trina hated the boy’s enthusiasm for warfare, and the way it seemed to grow stronger with each passing week.

  As the skinny child entered the ballroom and passed through the velvet-lined hallway, he locked eyes with the knight and gave him a solemn nod, like a seasoned general acknowledging a worthy rival, before taking the seat directly beside him.

  The last to be seated were the elven druids and their bodyguard, Portean, the Wild One.

  Like Aehyl, both Portean and Grimus were dressed in freshly tailored green finery, elegant and ceremonial but not overstated. Their presence was as commanding as it was otherworldly, a reminder to all that the emissaries of the Crystal-Mist Forest walked tonight among the courts of men.

  The trio was ushered to their seats near Biaun by a small procession of lads and lasses dressed in crisp imperial serving uniforms, their movements as precise as a well-rehearsed dance. As the last of them bowed and stepped away, a quiet hush fell over the table, the kind that marked the final moment before all formality gave way to revelry.