The queen capitulated. “Oh, very well. I suppose I could use a few bells of peace and solitude.”
Gaspare Fellows had lost sight of Lord Bolor.
The nobleman had been here, on the terrace, partaking of the luncheon banquet following the departure of the king’s army. Gaspare had turned to answer a question from one of the courtiers, and when he looked back, Lord Bolor was gone.
He hurried to the edge of the terrace and scanned the castle grounds. Though he couldn’t see Lord Bolor, a flash of scarlet veils caught his eye. In the distance, he could see Jiarine Montevero leading what looked like ashei’dalinaway from the palace.
Gaspare’s heart began to race. The queen had worn scarlet and veils this morning. He lurched forward and Love gave a tiny screech of alarm at the sudden movement.
This morning’s pursuit of Lord Bolor had resulted in more questions than answers. After leaving Old Castle Prison, Lord Bolor had traveled to a pub located near the main barracks of the king’s army. There, he’d met a young man wearing the uniform of a lieutenant.
Gaspare hadn’t been able to get close enough to hear what they were saying, but had managed to get a good look at the soldier on his way out: a young brown-haired man with a distinctive, brownish red birthmark on his left cheek—Shadow’s brand, superstitious folk would have called it. It was a wonder the man had made it to a lieutenancy with a mark like that on his face.
The soldier had returned to the barracks, and Gaspare had continued to follow Lord Bolor, but the nobleman had returned straightaway to his rooms in the palace, presumably to prepare for the king’s departure. The rest of the morning had passed without incident. Lord Bolor had gathered with the rest of the court to cheer the king and his army, and though Gaspare had watched him intently throughout the procession, he’d seen nothing more to rouse his suspicions.
Yet suspicious he still remained.
And now here was Jiarine Montevero leading the queen away from the palace towards the secluded south garden. And Lord Bolor had just disappeared. Presumably into the palace gardens.
Call him a crack-skull, but something about the situation just didn’t feel right.
With no thought in his mind but to stop the queen from going wherever Lady Montevero was leading her, Gaspare snatched up a plate of food and a goblet of red wine and hurried across the palace lawn.
He was out of breath, and half the wine in the goblet had left a trail in the grass behind him, but he managed to get ahead of the women and step into their path. “Your Majesty! I spotted you across the garden. Your Majesty, I heard about your distress, and I know you have not eaten this morning. I took the liberty of bringing you a small plate. I thought you might prefer to eat a little something in private, away from the court.”
“Very thoughtful, Master Fellows,” Jiarine said, “but as a matter of fact—”
“Please, Your Majesty,” Gaspare said quickly. “To put my worries to rest, won’t you have a little something?” He stepped towards them, and with a sigh of farewell to his impeccable reputation as the man who never put a foot wrong, Gaspare Fellows, the Queen’s Master of Graces, tripped on his own feet. The plate of food and red wine went flying.
Directly into Her Majesty.
“You idiot!” Jiarine shrieked. “You fool! Look what you’ve done!”
“Oh, Your Majesty!” Gaspare all but fell over himself a second time to apologize. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry! So very, very sorry!” He whipped out a spotless handkerchief to wipe up the mess.
“Master Fellows!” the queen exclaimed. “Enough! That’s enough! You’re only making it worse!” She batted his hands away.
“Your Majesty—” he began again.
“Not another word, Master Fellows. Not one. I am returning to the palace. Jiarine, you will attend me.” Still veiled, but smeared from bodice to hem with red wine and food stains, the queen gathered her royal dignity, lifted her soiled skirts, and marched stiffly back to the palace. With a final hostile look at Master Fellows, Jiarine hurried after her.
Gaspare trailed behind them, trying his best to look inconsolably embarrassed and apologetic. Not that it was difficult. He’d just shattered his reputation and pride for love of queen and country. But the moment Her Majesty and Lady Montevero entered the palace, Gaspare went directly to the first Fey warrior he could find and warned him, “whatever you do, please make sure someone watches the queen at all times.”
Elvia ~ Elfwood
Ellysetta stifled a groan and rubbed her backside, spinning a light healing weave as she hobbled over to the campfire. After they’d crossed the Elva River this morning, Elves had been waiting withba’houdahorses to speed the rest of their journey to Navahele. As smooth as theba’houdas’gait had been, Ellysetta wasn’t used to riding—let alone riding for bells at a stretch—and she’d developed aches in spots she didn’t even know she had.
Rain watched her with a mix of concern and amusement. “If it hurts that badly, you should spin healing on yourself,” he suggested. He and her quintet—except for Bel, who’d claimed first watch—were ringed around the fire, preparing for sleep. “Or let me spin a Spirit weave to take away the pain.” Though every warrior with the appropriate talents learned emergency battlefield healing weaves—basic patterns used to stanch mortal wounds and keep injured warriors alive long enough to get to ashei’dalin—few had ever mastered more than that.
“I’m too tired to weave, and you should still be conserving your strength.”
“I can spin a healing weave on you, Ellysetta Erimea,” Fanor offered, but before he could get the words out, her pain vanished in a tingling glow of powerful lavender magic.
“Rain,” she chided.
His arms tightened around her. “I am not so weak that I cannot spin a simple weave,” he said. «Nor so far gone I would let an Elf provide a shei’tan’s service to my mate.»
She rolled her eyes at his territorialism. To Fanor, she said, “You keep calling me Ellysetta Erimea. What does it mean?”
