Jaene smiled, the same cruel smile Rena had seen on her father’s face as he assigned yet another of his castoffs to Lady Viridina’s household. “I’m sure,” she purred. “I’m sure we will.”
Oh, surely. The chief of his household. As if the household of an er-Lord ever could consist of more than his harem, his personal servants, and his hunting-master! Did his father tell him to tell me that? Probably. And if I pretend to believe it, I’ll prove that I’m as stupid as he is.
Sheyrena could not bring herself to say anything, nor could she bring herself to actually hand the sealed scroll-tube to Gildor. Cheeks hot, she simply placed it on the table between them, avoiding Jaene’s eyes altogether.
Another invisible servant made it vanish before she could snatch it back.
Gildor settled back into his chair, a smug expression of blissfully ignorant happiness suffusing his features, making him look particularly handsome if one didn’t gaze too closely at the vacant eyes. “We’ll have to do this often,” he said to no one in particular. “Just one happy little family!”
Jaene’s smile widened just a little. “Whatever you wish, my lord,” she replied, with mock submission, ignoring Sheyrena altogether.
Sheyrena nearly choked.
Fortunately, a plate settled in front of her, saving her from having to look anywhere else. That was just as well; she found it hard enough just to look at the plate.
She did not say more than two words during the entire painful meal—nor did she eat more than a single bite before her throat closed in rebellion. Jaene continued to smile poisonously and eat slowly, deliberately making each bite a display of sensuality. Gildor inhaled vast amounts of food, oblivious to the tension at the table. Invisible servants came and went with multiple courses, all of which were probably succulent; they certainly smelled inviting, and they looked beautiful. They might just as well have been straw for all that Rena could taste of them. She tried a bite or two, but gave up when her throat refused to unclench enough to allow her to swallow, and thereafter simply pushed the foot around on her plate with her fork until the servant came to take it away.
She did drink the wine, feverishly, and a servant kept her glasses full, a different wine for every course. She probably drank too much of it, for it made her a bit dizzy, but it did not impair her enough to make her lose control of her tongue. She only wanted it as a kind of anesthetic, to keep the pain of the moment at bay.
She said nothing, kept her eyes on her plate, and endured.
The invisible musician played on, supplemented by a harpist. The trees swayed in the breeze that was not there. The unseen servants whisked full plates from under her nose, replacing them with more full plates. Jaene continued to smile, looking more and more catlike with every passing moment as she turned her posture into a lazy, seductive lounge. She had allowed the neckline of her gown to slip, and Gildor was staring at her cleavage with a rapt attention that nearly matched that which he had given the food. She might just as well not have been there by the time the unendurable meal was half-over.
Only the wine gave her the strength to sit there and endure—the wine, and the certainty that, no matter what she did, she (or her body, at any rate) would be wedding Gildor if her father had any say in the matter. She had only the choice that would permit her to keep her mind intact; the choice that proved she was obedient. Her father wanted this wedding; she might get a little of what she longed for only if she earned it with her silence.
And of course, except for Lord Lyon, her father had the only say in the matter.
Finally, as she gulped yet another glass of wine and her feeling of dizziness increased, the dessert course arrived. The invisible servant whisked away the last plate, and replaced it with a tiny white sugar alicorn, romantically idealized, a ring balanced delicately on the end of its single horn. The ring was made of heavy white gold, and was engraved with winged stags and moonbirds. She knew what it was: the betrothal ring, of course. If she accepted it and put it on, it sealed her fate.
She hesitated for just a moment, holding back her fate for an illusory heartbeat. As long as this thing was not on her finger, she could pretend that she was free.
But I’m not. I never was. 1 never will be.
Numb and dizzy, she took the ring and fumbled it onto her finger.
Then, with her fork, she slowly and deliberately crushed the alicorn to tiny, sugary crumbs.
She had thought that her ordeal was over, but Gildor showed no signs of rising, and neither did Jaene. In fact, Gildor showed no signs of noticing that she had even accepted his ring. She was forced to sit there, crushing the dessert into smaller and smaller bits, while Gildor stared at his concubine’s bosom and ignored her. She could not leave until Gildor produced a written and signed betrothal contract for her to deliver to her father, and he didn’t seem to be prepared to do that while Jaene sat there and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Finally, with the alicorn reduced to powder, and her temper smoldering under the influence of the wine, she decided she’d had enough. Let Gildor explain why he hadn’t presented her with the contract. She had gone out of her way to observe the formalities; she had obeyed far more than the mere letter of her orders.
She stood up abruptly, and the chair she had been sitting in fell over as she shoved it violently back. Gildor and Jaene suddenly turned to stare at her as if they had only just noticed that she was there.
“It is very late,” she said, rather thickly, as the wine made speech a bit difficult. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am not often abroad from my father’s house and am unused to such late hours. I must go.”
The moment the last word left her lips, the room changed.
The glade, the sky, and Jaene all vanished, leaving only the table in the middle of a room paneled with dark wood, floored with black marble. The table had not been set for three, but for two—Jaene’s place setting and chair vanished with the human. Two servants stood to one side. Gildor blinked with confusion.
And a tall and powerful elven lord stepped out of the shadows.
“Lord F-father?” Gildor stuttered. “Where’s Jaene gone? Where’s the glade?”
Lord Lyon ignored his son’s questions, turning to regard Rena with a slight bow of amusement. “Forgive the deception, child. Gildor insisted upon the slave’s presence, but of course, I would not have inflicted such an insult upon you. It would have been unacceptably rude.”
Oh no, of course. Not while you could create an illusion instead, one good enough to fool Gildor. I thought you were a better mage than this silly setting showed.
But she bowed her head, meekly, and clasped her hands in front of her. She was afraid to speak, lest her own mouth betray her, but the effect of the wine was swiftly burning away with her anger at such a double-deception. She had been used. She had to endure it, but she didn’t have to like it
Now Lord Lyon turned to his son. “Let this be a lesson to you, Gildor. No slave must be permitted to eat with her masters, ever” he said sternly. “And no slave should be given the kinds of liberties you would have given this Jaene, and have given her in the past; it makes them proud and insubordinate. I had her sent away while you were eating; once you learn how to keep your females in line, you may have her back.”
Once you learn to curb your hounds, you may have them back. And apologize to the Lady who just had her dress drenched with piddle.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gildor flush and bow his head. “Yes, Father,” he murmured submissively. But he did not apologize to Rena. Not that she expected him to.
“My apologies, if your feelings were abused, dear child,” Lord Lyon said smoothly. “But you have displayed a proper maidenly modesty and forbearance that do you credit. Here.”
He held a scroll-tube out to her, this one just as elaborately decorated as the one she had brought, but with designs of moonbirds and winged stags together. She took it automatically, and although it was cool, it felt as if it burned her hand as she clenched her fingers on it.
“Please convey the contract to your noble father, with my thanks,” Lord Lyon said, as Gildor stood dumb. The older man took her free hand, and kissed the back of it, a mere brushing of lips across the skin. Tell him for me that he has just such a daughter as both of us hoped, and I am pleased to welcome you to my family.”