Traitor's Masque (12 page)

Her father had clearly been wealthy, and was just as clearly long gone from her life, whether by distance or death he was unsure. Her eyes twinkled merrily as she related tricks played on a long-ago governess, apparently one of the many whose presence in the house had not lasted even so much as a month. The girl beside him was obviously educated, and probably accomplished as well, though not, Ramsey reflected with amusement, for want of attempting to avoid it.

With every word, he grew more determined to unravel the mystery he knew was better left unsolved. Who was she, and why did she hide? What drove her to sacrifice her reputation by disguising herself as a man and riding alone?

It served, at least, to distract him from his own despair.

Choose a wife, his father had said, or I will choose one for you. The guilds were insistent, his brother insouciant, and his friends sympathetic, but no one seemed to care what he wanted. The best he could hope for now was to choose a wife his own way. Even if the prospect filled him with nothing but foreboding.

If only he had more time. If only he could afford to make a choice that had less to do with his kingdom and more to do with his heart. This girl… she made him wonder what he might be missing, by entering into a marriage of state. But of all his “if-only’s,” the one that weighed the heaviest was Rowan. If only Ramsey was not bound to make up for all of Rowan’s mistakes. Perhaps then he could consider marrying someone unexpected, someone who might not be precisely what his father and advisors had in mind.

But as his father had so recently reminded him, Ramsey was to be king. The only thing he was truly free to do was to think of his kingdom first, and a girl whose dress and behavior would be considered a scandal by the court was not what the already divided kingdom needed.

For a time, the two rode side by side, following paths that wound in more or less the right direction through the wood. But at last, when they reached an undistinguished forking, Ramsey forged briefly ahead and blocked the way, pulling his horse to a stop with a serious expression.

“There is still a place I would be pleased to show you, if your time permits. I promise it will take only a moment, and then you can be on your way.”

The girl glanced up as if to see the sun, but the trees were too thick for a very clear sense of the time.

“I believe it is just after midmeal,” he added, “if that aids in your decision.”

“In that case, Sir Villain,” she intoned gravely. “I would be most pleased to visit your lair. Lead and I will follow.”

His laugh mingled with hers as she trailed behind him down the narrower path he took. It led deeper into the trees, then disappeared altogether, only to reappear behind a pile of boulders. A few moments later, he stopped, dismounted and beckoned wordlessly. After both horses were securely tethered, the girl walked silently behind him through a thicket and around an enormous oak… and into what had always seemed to Ramsey to be a different world. His private refuge. The heart of the Kingswood.

A pool lay in front of them, small but deep, ringed by moss-covered rocks and surrounded thickly by ancient trees. Ferns grew lush and green from the craggy boulders, interspersed with lupin and phlox, while pink and white water lilies bloomed from the margins of the pool. It was so still that the water lay calm and clear as glass, the lazy white clouds reflected on its mirror-bright surface mingling with the wavering shadows that lay beneath.

Ramsey stole a glance at his companion’s face, feeling absurdly nervous as he watched her absorb the peaceful scene, hoping she would understand, but unable to put into words what he offered. Neither of them spoke, as though in silent agreement that words might destroy some part of the moment’s perfection, but when their eyes met for a brief instant, Ramsey had his answer.

After they lingered there a few moments more, he touched her arm and led her back to where the horses were waiting.

“Why?” she asked.

There was no need to elaborate. Why had he chosen to share something so personal with a girl he barely knew? “Because,” he answered helplessly, “it’s all I can give you.” He paused. Told himself he was a fool. Took a deep breath. “Except this.” He took her hand and said, without preamble or explanation: “Donevan.” And then he waited. Hoping for he hardly knew what.

“Donevan,” she repeated, wide-eyed, as if testing it for fit. Unsure of her response. In silence, she untied her horse. Used a nearby rock to mount. Turned back, bit her lip, and answered.

“Embrie,” she said. Then turned and rode away as if she could escape the consequences of what they had done.

But there was no taking it back now. And Ramsey would not wish it back, even if he could. He had a name, and he carried it with him as a promise that he would, no matter how unlikely, see her again. Even if the seeing could bring him nothing but heartache in the end.

 
Chapter 4
 

Trystan made it home before the party-goers were awake enough to demand breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever one called the first meal of the day when it happened not long before tea-time. She was changed and grubbing industriously in the garden before a dressing-gown-clad Malisse peered out of her window with a satisfied smirk on her lovely coral lips. Trystan could not help feeling a bit gratified when her stepmother winced directly afterward, having perhaps underestimated the effect of the sun on a champagne headache.

In the past, Trystan might have occupied herself for some time with the satisfaction of having outwitted her tormentors once again, but on that day she could not seem to content herself with such a dull emotion.

She was thoroughly on edge, tense with some indefinable blend of fear and anticipation. A half-formed scream lurked in the back of her throat, borne of joy, frustration, and the urgent suspicion that she no longer fit her own life. She could remember its rhythms, its shape, and her own place within it. But even thinking about her quiet, contained existence made her itch, like clothes that were too small. She could not possibly have changed so much in a single morning, but she felt as if she had.

And she wasn’t even sure how it had happened. When had she decided to trust him? She had broken nearly every rule, told him so much she had never intended to say. She had told a truth and ten more had followed and before she could stuff her tongue back behind her teeth she had told him her name.

Malisse would have her drawn and quartered if she found out. No, that was too messy. Malisse would simply follow through with the threat that had held Trystan helpless since her father died: she would be turned out of the house, accused of some crime, or saddled with the hint of a ruined reputation. The rest of her very short life would be spent either locked in prison or walking the streets, depending on how great a scandal her stepmother was willing to have associated with her own precious daughters. Though Trystan considered it unlikely that her stepmother would court scandal of any sort, she was not certain enough to ignore the possibility, and the fate of friendless young women in disgrace with society was not one she cared to experience.

Straightening from the border she was trimming to stretch her back, Trystan tried reasoning with herself. There was really no reason for Malisse to know. Trystan doubted if very many people outside the family remembered her existence, let alone her middle name, and since she never went out, she would never encounter her friend in public. It was possible, she knew, that she would never encounter him at all.

Her friend. In spite of her dour imaginings, the thought produced an irrepressible smile. Glancing around to make sure no one had noticed, Trystan stuffed the grin back where it belonged and kept on trimming.

That afternoon, Trystan was summoned to the sitting room to read improving lectures aloud while her sisters stitched and Malisse plotted. She almost fell asleep in the midst of a long passage on virtue and was jerked awake only by a pointed “Ahem!” from Anya. Before Trystan could continue there was a gentle knock on the sitting room door.

“Enter.” Malisse was always stiffly formal with the servants, even when no visitors were present.

“Your Ladyship,” Hoskins intoned solemnly as he entered with a single white envelope on a silver tray. The staff responded to their mistress’s formality with an exaggerated degree of deference, which only Trystan seemed to realize was actually a kind of mockery.

“That will be all, Hoskins,” Malisse took the envelope from his outstretched tray and nodded grandly. “You may go.” He retreated silently, with a flicker of a significant glance at Trystan. Not sure what to make of it, she was looking for her place in the lecture when Malisse hissed triumphantly.

“It’s true! Finally!”

Anya and Darya exchanged glances.

“Well, what is it?” Darya had always been the least patient of the two.

“There is going to be a royal wedding soon,” Malisse announced. “Prince Ramsey is ready to seek a bride.”

Trystan rolled her eyes, secure in the knowledge that no one would be watching her with such news afoot.

“A very odd missive, this,” Malisse’s triumph turned to a frown as she tapped one tiny slippered foot on the rug. “King Hollin is holding a masqued ball in one month. Prince Ramsey will, at that time, accept applications for his hand in marriage.”

Trystan nearly groaned aloud. Applications? Was it to be a contest, or was Prince Ramsey really so much the reclusive clerk that he would choose a bride by her pedigree and ability to do sums? Whichever was the case, he was obviously quite certain of his appeal. It would serve him properly if he were to be stuck with a creature like Anya or Darya for a wife.

“Application?” Anya asked, confusion wrinkling her porcelain forehead. “Whatever does that mean? Are we to audition? Fill out… paperwork?” She shuddered delicately.

Malisse shook her head, appearing momentarily baffled. “This does not elaborate. I suppose we will be kept informed.” Odious and vindictive she might be, but Malisse was not particularly ignorant or foolish, except as concerned the feelings of others. Trystan could see her considering schemes and plotting strategies as her silk-clad foot continued to tap the floor.

Thinking to make her escape, Trystan closed her book and rose, as unobtrusively as possible. But she did not manage to take so much as a single step towards the door.

“Trystan, my dear, I trust these past weeks of reflection and penitence have given you an appreciation for the luxuries you are permitted to share.”

Trystan looked up, unable to stop her jaw from dropping just a fraction. “Of course, ah… Stepmother,” she tripped over her words, having been unprepared for an attempt to sound suitably chastised. “I’m sure I will do better in the future.”

“Yes.” Malisse smiled without humor. “Well, I’m sure I wish I could share your optimism.” She fixed her stepdaughter with a pointed stare. “I hope it’s understood that there can be no further outbursts in this household. A great number of preparations are in order and I cannot afford distractions when my daughters’ futures are at stake. If you cannot comport yourself with dignity and discretion then I will be forced to take measures I’m certain we will both regret.”