“Never mind, there are plenty of other young lords here, and I haven’t seen one of them that would make a bad alliance.” He stopped, and gave her a brusque push in the direction of another group, this time of dancers. “Go on, get over there, let yourself be seen, talk to people. You know what you have to do, or you should by now.”
With those gentle words, he left her, striding purposefully after another knot of men with that indefinable air of importance about them, leaving her standing stupidly at the edge of the group of dancers.
This time someone did step on her train. Fortunately, she wasn’t moving.
“Oh, bother, I’ve gone and done something stupid again!” the young man said, a little thickly, and she immediately suspected he’d been drinking too much. He managed to get himself off the train without tangling his feet in it, and turned toward her, giving her a better look at him.
He wasn’t very handsome, and his eyes had the sort of vagueness about them that she tended to associate with too much to drink.
In other words—he’s the same version of Lord Ardeyn that I am of Katarina. A bad, blurred copy, and rather flawed.
“Excuse me awfully, would you? Terribly sorry and all that. I’m a clumsy brute, or so they all keep telling me.” He laughed a little, a high titter, and she realized at that moment that it wasn’t the wine that was making him silly—he was that way all on his own.
Correction. On his copy of Lord Ardeyn, they forgot to pour in the brains as well.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to have a dance with a clumsy brute now, would you?” he asked hopefully, with another titter for his own “cleverness.”
“Perhaps if you’d loop up that tail thing, I wouldn’t get tangled up in it again, and we could have a pleasant turn or two around the floor, eh?” He stared at her hopefully, and added, “They say I’m a silly ass, but they all admit I’m a good dancer.”
Under other circumstances, she might have declined his awkward invitation, with an awkward refusal of her own. But she felt rather sorry for him—here he was, quite probably dragged here by his father as she had been dragged by hers, and for the same reason. He was supposed to be making the acquaintance of eligible females with good alliance potential.
In fact, it has to be harder for him! I just have to stand here, properly modest, and hope someone notices me. He has to make advances.
So she smiled kindly at him, and his dull eyes lit up with pathetic cheer as she nodded.
He must have been turned down an awful lot this evening to be so happy to dance with me. I’m not exactly a prize beauty.
His name, it transpired, was V’keln Gildor er-Lord Kyndreth; scion of one of the older and more powerful Houses. And he was probably quite a disappointment to his noble High Lord father. Everything he said to her about his “lord father” indicated that the patriarch of the family had more than once wished there were some way he could prove poor Gildor was someone else’s offspring. She felt so sorry for him that she even danced with him again, several times, and let him bring her wine and a few refreshments.
He wasn’t a really good dancer, although he wasn’t a bad one, either. “Passable”; that was what her own dancing master would have called him. He didn’t know anything but the most old-fashioned of dances, either, which left them standing on the sidelines watching, more often than not. He tried to make clever conversation, but he was, unfortunately, just as dull and stupid as she had feared he was. Still, he was company of a sort, and be seemed to like the tame animals—though he kept talking about how exciting it would be to hunt them instead of petting them. And as long as she was with a male, she was obeying Lord Tylar’s orders, and he certainly couldn’t take exception to that.
Finally, though, he spotted an older man making his way purposefully toward them, and said, with a trace of apprehension, “Oh, curse it. There’s my lord father, and it looks as if he wants me. It’s been grand—”
And he was off like a called dog, bumbling his way through the crowd as if summoned to his father’s side by a whistle, without another word to her.
She sighed, and worked her way back through a thin crowd of onlookers toward the edge of the illusory “forest.” Evidently her lack of charms—or perhaps, lack of status—was noticeable even to a dolt like Gildor. He hadn’t even offered to introduce her to his father, which probably meant he didn’t think she was worth introducing to him.
Well, the rabbits and birds didn’t care if she looked like a wax doll in an absurd costume—and while she stood here, in the shadows of the overhanging boughs, there wasn’t anyone treading on her train.
If this had been some other occasion, she might even have managed to enjoy herself. The birds and animals were very sweet. The expected headache did not manifest itself, due either to Myre’s careful work with her hairdressing, or to the rather excessive amounts of wine she’d been drinking.
In fact, she felt very flushed, and not entirely steady, now that she came to think about it. Maybe all that wine had been a mistake.
I’m not used to drinking this much, but Gildor kept pressing wine on me. Rather desperately, actually. I think perhaps he’d been told to make sure whatever lady he was with always had a glass of wine in her hand when she wasn’t dancing. That was probably a good idea, really; if he made sure his partners were tipsy enough, they might not notice he was such a dolt. Anything seems amusing when you’re intoxicated.
She thought seriously about asking one of the servants to find something for her to sit on, and was just at the point of intercepting one, when her own father came striding through the crowd, clearly looking for her.
He sported her, too, as the animals scattered into hiding, perhaps sensing her surge of apprehension. He made straight for her with an air of determination, as the crowd of young on-lookers parted respectfully for him.
He took her arm again, and this time she was grateful for his support and did not resist at all as he pulled her along, back toward the entrance to the ballroom-cum-glade.
“Are we leaving, Father?” she asked, hopefully.
He didn’t notice the hope in her voice. “I won’t be getting any more business done tonight,” he said shortly. “And the wine’s flowing a bit too freely for my liking. It’s time we all went home.”
Has he noticed that I’m tipsy? She thought, panic making her go cold.
“Ardeyn has some fairly wild friends—he’s in thick with Lady Triana’s crowd—and I don’t want you around them if they start to get rowdy,” he continued. “I’ve heard tales of that one—well, never mind. He’ll be safe enough, shortly. The match with the House of Vittes is all but confirmed; I expect there’ll be an announcement tomorrow.”
Why am I not surprised?
She wondered if she ought to make some kind of comment, but he didn’t seem to expect one.
“It’s not the best match—you would be better, insofar as inherited power would go—but it’s satisfactory, and the old man seems bent on indulging the boy by letting him make his own choice.” The tone of his voice said what his words did not: I’d never allow my son to be spoiled in such a fashion.
“Yes, sir,” she said automatically. He hardly noticed.
“Viridina has already gone ahead; I was just looking for you.” Finally, as they broke through the edge of the crowd and entered the deserted corridor, he turned to look at her. “Did you do as I told you? Did you make yourself agreeable to some of the young men?”
Now she was more than grateful to Gildor the Dolt, and not just for his company; he had made it possible for her to tell the truth to her father.
“Yes, sir,” she said, earnestly. “I was even asked to dance several times.”
Lord Tylar did not smile, but there was some grudging approval in his nod. “Good.”
That was the last thing he said to her; he simply towed her along like so much baggage, through the first Portal, across the floor of the Council Hall, and through the second. Once on the other side of the two Portals and back in the pink-marble hall of his own manor, he abandoned her, taking her escort of guards with him, and leaving her to make her own exhausted way back to her rooms and the sullen ministrations of the blond slave waiting there for her. Whether it was the wine or her own exhaustion, she hardly noticed the girl’s surly manner; it barely intruded on her dazed thoughts.