Traitor's Masque (36 page)

Predictably, the older prince had disappeared before he could be questioned. Despite the pointlessness of recriminations, Mr. Ulworth’s missives were growing increasingly acrimonious, and not only towards Rowan. He seemed ready to blame his daughter’s precipitate actions on just about anyone or anything other than himself and his own overbearing nature.

In addition, there was quite a bit of business that the king usually dealt with, waiting for someone with enough authority to take it in hand. Complaints from the guilds, a border dispute in the south, and reports of a Caelani ship lurking off the coast, which seemed ominous considering the recent trade discussions. All told, it was more than enough to fill up his day until the appointed meeting at dusk.

Lizbet glanced up from her papers as he entered, greeting him with a wan smile and a look of concern. Ramsey kissed her cheek and smiled back more naturally, perfectly willing to offer the confirmation she sought—that he was not quite ready to run mad.

“You look… happy.” Lizbet sounded worried, and Ramsey didn’t blame her. He didn’t fully understand his own lightness of mood.

“Not really.” He shrugged, trying to convey his own inability to explain his frame of mind. “Just feeling hopeful.” His eyes met hers over a desk full of problems that didn’t seem quite as big as they had yesterday. “Like nothing is quite as bad as it seems. I can’t understand it myself, but I need it, so I’m choosing to believe in my own foolishness.”

“Hope,” said Lizbet gently, “is rarely foolish. But Donnie,”—she bit her lip and looked away—“I do not want to see you disappointed. I’m afraid, both for your father, and for this meeting of yours tonight. Things may not be what they appear.” Her appeal was so painful that Ramsey longed to comfort her.

“I promise I have not completely taken leave of my senses, Aunt Lizzie. I can probably think of as many ways this could go wrong as you can. And I don’t feel like I’m being blindly optimistic. But”—he touched her hand where it rested on a pile of correspondence—“that’s why I have you, you know. And Caspar, and Kyril and Brawley. To keep me sensible and responsible.”

Lizbet favored him with a look of deepest sarcasm. “Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine, you have always been more sensible and responsible than is good for you. I swear, I used to want to rub dirt on you and throw you in a pond just to see what would happen.”

“Aunt Lizbet, you wouldn’t have!” Ramsey’s jaw dropped a little at the idea of his practical aunt trying to get him into trouble.

“Maybe I should have,” she argued. “You were always far too old for your years.” There was a smile on her lips, but her eyes said she was in earnest. “There has been a weight of expectation on you since you were the age where most boys are falling into ponds on purpose! But not you, Ramsey.”

She was right. He had always been careful to stay out of trouble, sensing very young the need to balance Rowan’s wildness, despite how much he had loved his elder brother.

“You have spent so much of your life trying to be what your brother isn’t,” Lizbet went on thoughtfully, “I wonder if you really know who you are, apart from him. What path you might have chosen had he not always shared it with you.”

Lizbet’s words gave Ramsey no pain he had not felt before, no bitterness that had not already cost him sleep. But what alternative had he been given? Who had the luxury of making decisions with only themselves in mind? Only someone like Rowan.

“Aunt Lizzie, how could I even begin to guess? How could anyone? What would you be without Caspar in your life?” Her answering grimace suggested it was not something she cared to contemplate.

“Without Rowan,” Ramsey admitted, “perhaps I would be less than I am now. Have failed to learn or see the things I need in order to be what I must. I am no shining example of anything but foolishness, but I can, on occasion, be brought to see that foolishness.” He needed his aunt to see why she should not pity him, no matter whether he sometimes pitied himself. “Rowan has taught me how greatly I should fear myself,” Ramsey went on. “That I could become the greatest danger this kingdom faces. For that alone, I should thank him”—he shook his head grimly—“much as it galls me to think of it.”

Lizbet had a peculiar expression on her face as he finished. “You’re wise to see it, Donnie, and I would not change you. Not even the teeniest, tiniest bit of you. Except, perhaps, to see you smile more often.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “But think on it anyway,” she added gently. “If we spend our whole lives reacting to something, it can be difficult to know what to do when the time comes simply to act.”

Ramsey really could not imagine a time when Rowan would not be the axis about which they all turned. When his every decision did not have to take Rowan into account. But his aunt was rarely wrong, so he promised to consider her advice before turning the conversation to other matters.

They worked for hours, barely pausing for lunch. Advisors came and went, Parry and Prisca played under their mother’s desk for a time, and several of the healers stopped in to make their reports. Ramsey had decided to close the court for a few days, until his father’s illness took a turn either for the better or the worse. They had a system in place for handling emergencies, and he simply didn’t have the time or energy for dealing with the face-to-face business his father conducted every single day. There was a reason Ramsey had gained a reputation for being fond of paperwork: he infinitely preferred it to most people.

It was nearly mid-afternoon when they paused to stretch and get a breath of air. Ramsey had poured a cup of cider and was standing at the window, drinking thoughtfully, when the door burst open without much warning. Expecting Parry, or Prisca, who often lacked enough forethought to knock, Ramsey turned with the beginnings of a fond smile, only to be confronted by Brawley, his expression cold, grim, and determined.

“Countess Norelle, apologies. Your Highness, you need to come with me.” This was not the resigned and apologetic Brawley Ramsey spoke with most days. This was the Brawley who felt the weight of responsibility for his prince’s life, and would let nothing, not even the king, stand in the way if he felt there was a threat. Immediately alert, Ramsey motioned for his guard captain to come in.

“Shut the door, Brawley. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, Your Highness, but until I do I want someone with you and armed at all times.” His face said this was not an option, but an order.

“Slow down, Brawley.” Ramsey tried to sound as calm as possible. The captain did have a tendency to jump straight into over-protective mode. “Something has obviously happened and I need to know what.”

Brawley would not look him in the eye. It was bad, then. His captain clearly didn’t want to be the one to tell it, but somehow found the words.

“Two of our men just returned from a trip north. They were on their way back, two days ago, when they were caught out near nightfall. Spotted a house, back off the road and went to ask for shelter for the night. There was no answer, but something seemed off, so they went looking around. Ended up being attacked by a couple of mercs who obviously held no respect for the king’s colors.”

“Were they harmed?” Ramsey found he had enough remaining energy to feel outraged. No one waylaid the king’s men. The green coats had been a guarantee of safe passage for many more years than he had been alive.

“Nothing serious,” Brawley told him impatiently. “They searched the house. It seemed rundown, barely lived in, except for one of the upstairs bedrooms.” Ramsey waited patiently as his guard paused, his lips thinning as he pressed them together, still not quite wanting to say what he had come for.

“Brawley…”

His man looked up at him, eyes hard, but regretful. Sad in the midst of terrible anger. “There was a girl, Your Highness. She’d been kidnapped, held hostage there for some time.”

Ramsey was stunned. Kidnappings were rare and usually for money. He’d heard nothing of a missing girl, or any ransom demands.

“Is she hurt? Has she been returned to her family?”

Brawley shook his head. “She’s frightened, but whole. She has no family.”

Ramsey gestured impatiently, hoping Brawley meant to come to the point. There was obviously more to this than a kidnapped girl, odd as the circumstance was.

“Your Highness, she says her name is Elaine Westover.”

It was the longest day of Trystan’s life. The day her father died, the day he told her he would marry again, even the horror of his funeral paled in comparison to this interminable dread that seemed heavier with every moment that passed. Each hour seemed more surreal than the one before. She could barely eat her breakfast, watching the woman who had plotted someone’s death spread jelly on her muffin with sublime unconcern. Trystan’s nausea had nearly overwhelmed her at luncheon as Lady Isaura spoke of how happy Trystan would be, married to the man she loved. It took every scrap of self-control learned under Malisse’s tutelage to pretend that everything was fine. That she was overjoyed. That this day was not going to end in tragedy.

Trystan went to her room to dress as afternoon wore on towards evening. Lady Isaura had provided her with yet another gown, a green satin that was, of course, meant to replicate the king’s own color. Trystan did not wear it. Instead, she reached into the back of her closet and pulled out the green wool crepe. The one dress she had brought from home. She doubted she would be returning to Westhaven and would feel more comfortable wearing her own clothes. Underneath the dress she put on her boots, the most sensible shoes she owned. And best for running, she was practical enough to admit. Over it all she put on a cloak. The cloak was not hers, but it was necessary. Long and dark, with a deep hood, it covered her dress completely, and hopefully would hide her identity until she told Donevan what he needed to know. She did not bother re-dyeing her hair, merely braided and pinned it up tightly. Into her pocket she slid the hard warmth of her little horse, gripping it for comfort and courage as she stood, fully dressed and ready, before the window.

Lady Isaura would not be accompanying her this time, preferring, as Trystan now understood, to distance her “cousin” from her own political preferences. Her cause would hardly be aided if Ramsey should see the two of them together.

Standing motionless at her window, thoughts and limbs frozen, Trystan watched as the sun dropped towards the trees. It was so very nearly over. However hard she tried, she could not quite banish the questions that assailed her as the shadows in her room began to lengthen. What would she do if Prince Ramsey chose not to imprison her for treason? She supposed she would run. As far and as fast as she could. Any other choice might mean death. The shadowy conspiracy that had plotted the murder of a king would hardly cavil at taking their revenge on the friendless girl who had betrayed them. On second thought, Trystan’s lips twisted at the idea, perhaps she should beg for imprisonment. It might be the only way to keep her life. If that sort of life were truly preferable to death.

At last it was time. Trystan waited to descend the stairs until she was verging on lateness. She did not want to be stopped in the hall for an inspection, or be forced to endure any words of either wisdom or congratulation from Lady Isaura.

True to her hopes, her hostess only shooed her frantically through the door and into the waiting coach, smiling like a proud parent as she shut the door and waved Trystan off down the drive. Even in her dread and despondency, Trystan spared herself a hopeless giggle that sounded more like a sob. Riding off into the sunset to meet her true love, like some dreadful novel gone wrong.

The journey was not long enough. It was perhaps some eight miles from Westhaven to Evenleigh, but it seemed like two. Even the cobblestones were louder than Trystan remembered, and the castle seemed larger. Everything loomed. When the coach stopped inside the Evenburg bailey, she almost shouted for the driver to keep going. Back home? Back to Westhaven? Were there really any choices anymore?

The footman opened the door for her, expressionless as always. Was that a test, she wondered, if one had aspirations to be a footman? Or were they all merely carved from granite to be animated when needed?