Steel's Edge (39 page)

Sophie looked beautiful. She herself looked elegant and every inch a blueblood, which is exactly what Charlotte was trying to project. The music was getting louder. Soon the dancing would start. She wasn't expected to dance but once or twice, but Sophie would enjoy it. And likely cause a stir. Charlotte had asked her to demonstrate a couple of dances, and her footwork was exquisite.

She felt the pressure of someone's gaze, scanned the gathering, and ran into Richard's face. He stood across the terrace, in the shadow of a column, and he was looking at her with shock and longing, as if he were thunderstruck. It hurt. It hurt so much to stand there across from him and know that she couldn't walk over there, she couldn't touch him or go away with him. Charlotte looked away.

No matter what happened around her, deep inside she always remembered that either of them, or both of them, might not survive this. They were in constant danger, and a happy outcome wasn't guaranteed. That knowledge pressed on her like an ever-present, crushing burden. She awoke with it, and she went to bed with it. It haunted her through the day. Occasionally, she would get distracted and forget, but inevitably she would remember, and when she did, the fear and anxiety hit her like a punch to the stomach. Her throat closed up, her eyes watered, and her chest hurt. For a few moments, she would hover on the verge of tears and have to talk herself off the cliff.

She missed Richard. She worried about him more than she worried about herself.

She wasn't made for this, she realized. Some might revel in danger and intrigue, but she just wanted everything to be done. She wanted it to be over. The stress and the pressure chipped at her, and she felt herself cracking under their chisel. The harder the pressure ground, the more she wanted to escape. Last night, she'd dreamed about walking up to Brennan, killing him, and throwing herself from the balcony. In the morning she had been horrified—not by the suicidal fantasy, but because for a brief moment before she returned to reality, she felt relief.

She couldn't shatter. Too many people depended on her, Sophie, Richard, Tulip . . . Speaking of Sophie, where had she gone?

Charlotte turned and saw a group of young people, all on the cusp of adulthood, surrounding a blueblood in a dark green doublet. He was tall, blond, and strikingly beautiful. He was telling some sort of story, and his face wore the comfortable expression of a practiced speaker. His audience hung on his every word.

Charlotte drifted closer, analyzing his gestures. Not just blood, old blood. Not Adrianglian, definitely a Louisianan bend—he'd raised his hand in an elegant gesture, palm up, index finger almost parallel to the floor, three others bent slightly—a clear tell. Louisianan court etiquette dictated that when the Emperor was present, the nobles carried a token, a small silver coin engraved with his likeness, worn on a chain wound around the fingers. The gesture was designed to display the coin and was so ingrained in the manners of the older families, they made it unconsciously when they presented a point during an argument or acknowledged someone's else's point.

She'd drifted close enough to hear him.

“. . . After all, as Ferrah states, excelling in the service of the multitude is the highest calling. The ego can attain its pinnacle only when laboring for the greater good of the majority.”

There were nods and sounds of agreement. He really had them entranced.

“But doesn't Ferrah also say that compromising one's ethics is the ultimate betrayal of self,” Sophie's voice sounded from the back. The group of young people parted, and Charlotte saw her. “And since he defines ethics as the ultimate expression of individuality, his arguments are contradictory and suspect.”

The blueblood looked at her with genuine interest. “The contradiction is present at first glance, yet it disappears if one assumes the moral code of the individual is aligned with the goals of the multitude.”

“But does not the multitude consist of individuals with wildly conflicting moral codes?”

“It does.” The blueblood smiled, clearly enjoying the argument. “But the attitudes of the multitude are aimed at self-preservation; therefore, we have the emergence of common laws: don't murder, don't commit adultery, don't steal. It is that commonality that prompted Ferrah to embark on the examination of multitude and self.”

Sophie frowned. “I was under the impression that Ferrah embarked on the examination of multitude and self because he desired his sister sexually and was upset that society wouldn't permit him to marry her?”

The young people gasped. The noble laughed. “Whose treasure are you, child?”

“Mine,” Charlotte said.

The noble turned to her and executed a flawless bow. “My lady, my highest compliments. It is rare to see a well-read child in this day and age. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

“Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran.”

The noble straightened. “An ancient name, my lady. I'm Sebastian Lafayette,
Comte de Belidor
. And this is?”

“Sophie.”

The noble smiled at Sophie. “We must speak more, Sophie.”

Sophie curtsied with perfect grace. “You honor me, my lord.”

“I hope she didn't upset you, Lord Belidor,” Charlotte said.

The noble turned to her. “Sebastian, please. On the contrary. I often become frustrated at the lack of mettle among the younger generation. It seems that we had . . . not a better education, per se, but perhaps more incentive to use it. They learn, but they hardly think.”

Behind Sebastian, Sophie mouthed something silently.

A woman in the dark blue uniform of the castle staff approached them and bowed, holding a small card out to Charlotte. “Lady de Ney al-te Ran.”

“Excuse me,” Charlotte smiled at Sebastian and took the card. “Thank you.”

On the card beautiful calligraphy letters said,
“His Highness Lord Robert Brennan cordially requests the pleasure of your company for the Rioga Dance.”

Charlotte blinked. The Rioga Dance was an old tradition. The floor was cleared, and a single pair—one of whom was of royal blood but never the reigning monarch—danced alone. It was the official start of the ball, and a privilege most women here would kill for, quite literally.

“It's seems I'm to dance the Rioga,” she said.

“Congratulations.” Sebastian bowed his head. “What an honor.”

Before he straightened, Sophie mouthed something again.
What was she trying to say?

“Give way to the Grand Thane!” the crier barked.

Charlotte curtsied. As one, the nobles around her bowed.

A procession spilled out of the doors, led by the Grand Thane, a huge bear of a man, his mane of hair completely silver. The Marchesa of Louisiana, his future bride, who walked next to him, seemed tiny in comparison. She was only five years younger, but she moved with the grace of a much younger woman. Her dress, a shimmering gown of pale cream sparked with tiny lights, as if studded with stars.

Behind them, the immediate members of both families strode side by side. Charlotte glimpsed Brennan directly behind the Grand Thane. He looked positively splendid in a formfitting jacket, its red tone so dark, it was almost black.
You terrible bloody bastard.

The procession swept through the gathering. The Grand Thane led the Marchesa to a pair of thronelike chairs. She sat.

The women in the audience rose, Charlotte with them. The Grand Thane took his seat, and the men rose as well.

Brennan stepped forward.

“It's time, my lady,” the woman who had delivered her invitation said.

Sophie was smiling. There was something deeply disturbing about her smile.

In the circle, Brennan nodded to Charlotte.

“My lady, it's time,” the woman prompted again.

Sophie's lips moved again.

Spider.

Sebastian was Spider.
Dawn Mother. I am leaving Sophie standing next to Spider.

The opening notes of the Rioga floated on the breeze. Charlotte had no time to stop. All she could do was step forward.

*   *   *

RICHARD
pretended to be bored. Next to him, Rene chattered about something with Lorameh and Lady Karin, Rene's cousin. Soon the dancing would start.

He hadn't spoken to Charlotte for nine days. Nine days of no contact. George's birds didn't really count. Nine days of brooding and sleeping alone, just him and his thoughts, and his thoughts had turned pretty dark. He wanted to see her. He wanted to tell her he loved her and hear that she loved him in return. The moment his mouth didn't have to make small talk, thoughts of her intruded into his mind. He imagined a life with her. He imagined a life without her. Perhaps he was going crazy.

Brennan walked out into the open expanse of the terrace.

Richard had to fight from grinding his teeth. Being in Brennan's presence was becoming harder and harder, both because he hated the man and because Brennan's good fortune brought his own shortcomings into focus. The man who had been given literally every advantage in life, while he himself was given none, used all his resources and talents to profit from the misery of others. He couldn't wait to bring Brennan down.

“I guess Robert is the sacrificial lamb on the Rioga's altar,” Rene quipped.

“I wonder who his partner is,” Lorameh said.

“Angelia?” Lady Karin suggested.

“She wishes.” Lorameh laughed.

The music began.

“I do hope he won't be stood up,” Rene said with mock concern.

The crowd parted, and Charlotte walked out.

The world came to a screeching halt. Her dress flared about her with every step, the diaphanous layers of blue-green fabric thin like gossamer, suggesting the contours of her body, then obscuring them. She didn't walk, she glided.

“Divine. Who is she?” Lorameh asked from somewhere far.

“Lady de Ney al-te Ran,” Rene said. “Exquisite, no? And such a name.”

“Oh no,” Lady Karin said. “She mustn't have expected to be asked to dance. Her heels are too high.”

His memory told him that Charlotte couldn't be as tall as Brennan during the Rioga: he was a man and of royal blood. It would be a critical social blunder. Most people watching her knew it. She had to know it as well.

Without breaking her stride, Charlotte stepped out of her shoes. She didn't slow down; she didn't give any indication of what she had done. She simply kept gliding forward, leaving two high-heeled shoes behind her. Sophie scooped them up and melted into the crowd.

Lady Karin gasped. Someone to the left clapped, then someone to the right, and Charlotte curtsied before Brennan to the sound of appreciative applause.

Brennan bowed, offering her his hand. She placed her hand onto his palm.

Sharp pain stabbed Richard between his ribs on the left side. Suddenly, the air grew viscous. He struggled to breathe.

Brennan rose to his full height and rested his arm around Charlotte's, touching her back.

He was touching her.

The music broke into a fast rhythm, and the two of them spun into the dance, Charlotte's dress streaming around Brennan like water currents around a rock.

His hands were on her. His fingers were touching her skin. She was touching him. Her hand rested in his. She was smiling. She looked like she was enjoying it. She looked at Brennan, and her face glowed with admiration.

A wave of ice rolled over Richard's skin and evaporated, burned off by all-consuming anger. He was watching Charlotte and Brennan turn and turn on the dance floor, helpless to do anything about it.

“They look so beautiful together,” Lady Karin said.

“You've got to hate the man,” Rene said. “Royal blood, rich, smart, good fighter. You'd think fate would disfigure him just out of the sense of fairness, but no, the bastard is handsome, and the moment a sophisticated, enchanting woman enters society, he snatches her up before any of us even trade two words with her.”

That's right. Brennan was handsome, rich, with royal pedigree. And who was Richard? A penniless swamp rat with a sword and a stolen face.

In his mind, Richard stepped out onto the dance floor. He held his own sword in his hand, not Casside's weak rapier. He cut in between them, spun in a burst of magic and steel, and Brennan's head rolled off his shoulders onto the floor.

Charlotte gasped. He walked over to her . . .

The music ended, and he heard his own heartbeat, too loud, like the toll of some giant bell. Brennan was bowing. Charlotte curtsied. Brennan straightened. The emotion on his face was unmistakable: it was the primal need of a man who had found a woman he had to have.

People applauded. It sounded like a storm to Richard's ears. She never said she loved him. She gave him her body in the cabin, perhaps in a moment of weakness, but she never promised anything to him. And if she had, promises were often broken.

Brennan led Charlotte over to the Grand Thane and the Marchesa. She curtsied again, a deep, graceful bow. The Marchesa said something. Charlotte replied. Brennan grinned, displaying even teeth.

The crowd turned into a smudge of faces, the voices blended into a loud hum, and Brennan's face and those gleaming teeth came into sharp focus.

Richard pictured driving the blade of his sword into Brennan's eye. Everything within him wanted Brennan's blood. He stood poised on the edge of his blade, fighting to keep his balance.

“Casside, are you unwell?” Lorameh asked, looking at him very carefully. “You haven't said a word.”

Answer, you fool. Say something.

He forced his lips to move. “I have a headache. I think I shall retire.”

“It's the flowers,” Lorameh said. “That much perfume and pollen mixing together, it's a wonder the lot of us haven't collapsed from breathing it in. Let's get a drink, my friend.”

Richard willed himself to move, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.