Traitor's Masque (9 page)

“I wanted to spare you that,” his father whispered softly. Ramsey placed a strong, warm hand over his father’s cold and furrowed one.

“I know, Da,” he whispered back. “I know.”

 
Chapter 3
 

Trystan was rather late returning home. She’d lingered at the King’s Tree for far too long and nearly lost her way again in the Kingswood. By the time she found her way back to the edge of the manor, it was beginning to grow dark.

After turning Theron loose in one of the horse pastures, she sneaked in through the back of the stables and left her filthy tack in front of Theron’s stall with a note of apology. By then it was too close to dinner to sneak in through the kitchen, so she was forced to climb in her window.

Leaving her without enough time to wash. Muttering self-admonitions under her breath, Trystan ripped off her rather pungent riding clothes, stashed her still-dirty boots back under the bed, and pulled on her single respectable dinner gown, a green wool crepe that was nearly two years old. It was wrinkled, her stays were too loose, and she still stank of horse, but to her dismay, Trystan’s mind persisted in focusing on something other than her stepmother’s disapproval.

Which was dangerous. As she wrestled a brush through her tangled hair, Trystan tried desperately to remain in the moment. She would need to be sharp at dinner. There were sure to be questions about her day-long absence, and Trystan had no idea what Vianne’s “arrangements” had been.

But her attention kept slipping away, dwelling not on thoughts of her birthday, or melancholy memories of her past, but on him. That fascinating, irritating man she would never see again.

He was not one of her stepsisters’ suitors, she was sure. She would have remembered. Due to the size of her stepsisters’ dowries, quite a number of eligible men had come calling, and all of them were almost excruciatingly dull.

This man had been many things, but never dull.

Their conversation had followed no rules that Trystan had ever been taught. There had been no deceptive pleasantries, no words wasted on pointless flattery. Only truths. They had both had secrets to protect, but what they shared had been honest. She had never, Trystan realized, stopped to consider whether lying would be wiser.

And why not? Even now, she could offer herself no justification. She was no starry-eyed innocent, nor so sunk in despair as to behave entirely without discretion. But when he made her laugh… no, when she realized they laughed at the same things, she could not find it in her to fear him.

At least there was no need to berate herself for being captivated by a handsome face, or an inspiring physique. The man had possessed neither. Not that he was unpleasant to look at, he simply did not conform to traditional ideas of male perfection. And yet… she’d felt drawn to him anyway.

At first he had seemed so ordinary, but then she’d begun to notice other things. Those kind, weary gray eyes. Rebellious brown hair, like a little boy who’d escaped unbrushed. Surprisingly strong, capable hands. Hands that wrapped themselves around her dirty boot as though it were a queen’s slipper. And his smile… it seemed determined to trouble her peace. Not just the unexpected beauty of it, but the warmth, that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made it impossible not to smile back. Especially once she had seen behind his smile and found a battered but persistent hopefulness that echoed her own.

As Trystan hastily pinned up her hair and slid on more or less clean slippers, she wondered which disturbed her the most: that she felt like she knew him or that she knew nothing about him? That she would never see him again, or that she wanted to see him again?

With only a moment or so to spare, Trystan bolted out her door, not bothering to be quiet, only concerned that she not miss the gentle chime which signaled the beginning of the evening meal. Malisse was especially unforgiving about lateness, and it would not do to repay Vianne’s generosity by failing to honor the cook’s one request.

Trystan ran all the way to the dining room, a serious lapse in decorum, but it was late enough that the rest of the family would already be seated within, rather than lurking without to catch her in yet another breach of protocol.

Opening the door with as much haste as propriety permitted, Trystan remembered to cast her eyes down and mince demurely to her seat. She could feel four pairs of eyes following her progress. Three of them glanced away when the chime sounded at the very moment she took her seat and unfolded her starched linen napkin. Glancing up, Trystan happened to meet the eyes of Hoskins, the butler, just as he was beginning to pour the wine. He looked as proper as ever, but his eyes were perhaps a trifle wider than usual. Worried? Had he, too, been a part of Vianne’s scheme?

“We are all so pleased that you chose to join us, Trystan.”

The deceptively sweet, girlish voice interrupted Trystan’s thoughts, in a tone that suggested its owner was not being precisely truthful. Trystan paused for a polite moment before replying.

“I regret having kept you waiting, Stepmother.” She could not resist looking up, just then, to see the woman’s lips tighten ever so slightly.

Malisse hated being called stepmother. She hated anything that might make her feel, or sound, old. At only thirty-six, Malisse Titania Colbourne was still as slender and shapely as she had been at twenty-six. Her thick, golden hair fell nearly to the floor unbound, without even a hint of silver, thanks to plucking and constant vigilance. Malisse’s fine-featured face matched a stature that would barely top Trystan’s shoulder, paired with a youthfully curvaceous figure and flawless porcelain skin.

It was little wonder that Lady Colbourne was considered by much of society to be a great beauty, and nearly as marriageable as her daughters. Which, Trystan knew, displeased her stepmother not at all. Malisse quite enjoyed the popularity ensured by her genteel widowhood, and seemed to have little intention of giving up either her popularity or her power by marrying again. As long as her inconvenient stepdaughter remained neatly under her dainty thumb, there was little reason for her to alter what had proven to be quite an agreeable situation.

An incontinent titter intruded on the silence from further down the table. Malisse cast an icy glance at her younger daughter, which Darya did not seem to notice. It would have taken a great deal more than a look to suppress what must surely be said lest she burst.

“I know where you were today, Stepsister!” Another giggle, followed by nudges and whispers.

“Ladies, if you cannot control yourselves, you may be forced to eat in silence.” Malisse was coolly controlled as usual. Trystan did not make the mistake of assuming that her stepmother meant to prevent the discussion of her personal shortcomings. If anything, Malisse would go out of her way to make such familial unpleasantness even worse. “If you have something constructive to say,” Malisse continued, “I suggest you address all of us.”

Trystan rolled her eyes. Discreetly. She was not interested in a lecture on dining decorum. Though Anya and Darya could apparently have used one.

“Tryssie had to go to the healer at Evenleigh today,” Darya taunted, in a sing-song voice she reserved especially for Trystan.

Anya nodded and added viciously, “For warts! On her…”

“Anya!” her mother snapped firmly. “We do not discuss embarrassing personal ailments at the table.”

“But mother…” Anya was never one to give up on a juicy bit of gossip.

“I will not be disobeyed. You will find a more acceptable topic of conversation or choose to remain silent.”

Trystan wasn’t about to thank her stepmother for intervening. Nor was she certain whether to thank Vianne for the diversion. Warts? On her…? On her what? Probably something humiliating if Anya’s expression was any indication. Trystan knew she’d find out after dinner, whenever her stepsisters could catch her alone. Anya and Darya would probably consider it a priceless sisterly moment.

Trystan picked at her food and tried again not to think about the day, without much success. Too much had happened, and the discoveries she’d made after her strange companion guided her to her destination had done even more to overset her peace. Worse, they had forced her to question long-held beliefs about her own life.

She had probably been rude, but once she finally reached the King’s Tree, Trystan had desired only to recover her equilibrium. As a result she had dismissed her guide rather abruptly, reluctant to share her memories with anyone. Still less did she want a stranger to see the tears that seemed inevitable.

The first one fell when she finally sat down and opened the bag Vianne had given her that morning. Along with the usual bread, cheese, and apples, someone had neatly wrapped a napkin around a tiny cake, with pink sugar icing and a swirling letter T across the top. Exactly like the ones she’d had at her twelfth birthday. The last birthday she’d celebrated alone with her father.

By the time she finished unwrapping the precious gift, considerably more than one tear had fallen, as much for regret as for memory. How could she have missed, for so many years, that there were people in her life who cared about her?

With that thought she had remembered the tiny package Alexei had handed her early that morning, and slipped it out of her pocket. The object was tightly wrapped, hiding something small and firm. She loosened the cloth, and it fell away, to reveal what was probably the most beautiful thing Trystan had ever seen.

It was a tiny figurine, worn smooth and shiny, warm from her pocket. It was grained like wood and hard like stone, fiery chestnut in color, throwing off fierce golden sparks in the afternoon sun.

The stone was carved in the shape of a horse, featureless and ancient, with a proudly arched neck, and legs outstretched to run. In style it was rough, but compelling, and appeared to have been worn to smoothness by many centuries of handling. A talisman of some sort perhaps. Meant to be carried, for identification, or for luck.

Trystan wondered where the brothers could have found it. And why they would give up such a rare and precious object.

But it was hers now. When she curled her fingers around the tiny horse, they fit so neatly that it seemed meant for her hand. A reminder that however unexpected, however undeserved, she was not without friends.

A brief, genteel clearing of throat brought Trystan’s attention back to the present, and back to the table, where Malisse had apparently determined it was time to discuss whatever sensational rumors she had uncovered the night before.

“It seems, according to my sources,”—she turned slightly so that it was clear she was addressing only Anya and Darya—“there is to be a renewed push for Prince Ramsey to marry.”

“Oh mother, why?” Darya whined. “It’s not as if he even wants to be king.”

“No,” Anya chimed in huffily, “and why should he be? Prince Rowan is twice the man Ramsey is, and at least ten times better looking.”

Malisse merely raised a delicate eyebrow. “Their looks are hardly your concern, girls. The point is, there may be a crown to be had, and there’s no reason why you should not try for it.”

“No reason,” Darya replied nastily, “except not wanting to spend the rest of my life with a stodgy prig.”

“I assure you,” Malisse put in drily, “no matter how stodgy you find the man, there is nothing boring about a crown.”

Trystan knew almost nothing of politics, except for the rumors that circulated amongst her sisters’ female acquaintances. The king, they said, was sick, bad-tempered and politically old-fashioned. The heir, Prince Ramsey, was ugly, uninteresting, and nearly as backward as his father. He was said to hate court and spend most of his time doing paperwork. The elder brother, Prince Rowan, was apparently the possessor of almost all the family virtues. Breathtakingly handsome, popular, engaging, and a friend to progress, he was the embodiment of perfection to legions of merchant nobility and their swooning daughters. And yet, he had been passed over in favor of his younger brother, all over a most unfair bit of family gossip that no one really remembered any more.

Trystan didn’t particularly care. The kingdom seemed to function well enough, and Malisse would still be able to bully her no matter who was king. Trystan actually rather hoped one of her sisters caught the wretched Prince Ramsey. It sounded very much as though they would deserve each other. Both ugly, boring usurpers. Which was probably being unfair. Her sisters at least were regrettably attractive, as long as they kept their mouths shut.