Ambrose joined him by the fire, garbed in fine robes of brown and amber silk. He handed Ballard a goblet of wine and tapped his in a wordless toast. He stared at the mezzanine between the stairs. “I’ve learned the sisters abducted Magda, bound her hand and foot and are right now forcing her into a silk bodice and tying ribbons in her hair. Gavin’s gone up there to rescue her.”
Ballard chuffed in disbelief. “I’d sooner believe the sun rose at midnight or that ram you wethered last week grew a replacement pair of bollocks.” He scrutinized his sorcerer for a moment. “Methinks you’d very much like to see your woman in velvet and ribbons.”
Ambrose’s nonchalant shrug didn’t fool Ballard for an instant. “It would be a change from the usual apron and wool frock. I don’t think Magda owns a hair ribb...” He trailed off, and Ballard followed his gaze to the second floor.
The women of his household had flocked to the top of the stairs, laughing and waving to the two men who watched them from the hall. Gavin appeared behind them, a richly dressed gander surrounded by an equally bright-feathered flock of geese. He bowed over Cinnia’s hand and led her down the stairwell first. Cinnia wore a gown of the deepest green that hugged her curves and swept into an elegant train that rippled behind her as she descended the stairs on Gavin’s arm. Her fair hair shimmered in Ambrose’s spelled lighting, and as always Ballard had to look away from such sublime beauty.
He turned his attention to Magda, Joan and Clarimond. Next to Cinnia all three faded, but he nodded in approval at their gowns of blue, yellow and rust, their hair bound in intricate braids or covered in gossamer veils. Ballard glanced at Ambrose who stared agog at a blushing Magda. He reached out and nudged the sorcerer’s mouth closed. “Good thing we aren’t in midge season, Ambrose.”
Ballard returned his gaze to the group and settled on Louvaen. He inhaled sharply, as stunned by the sight of her as he had been by Cinnia, except he didn’t look away. Dressed in a gown the color of new blood, she raised the front hem to clear her feet and scowled. The fabric fell in sinuous folds over her body, hinting at the long line of her legs and lending her pale skin a pearlescent luster. She’d curled her hair and swept it back from her forehead, emphasizing the arch of her eyebrows and high swoop of her cheekbones. She turned to twitch her train to the side, and Ballard mewled behind clenched teeth at the sight of her elegant back, bared to just below the shoulder blades and partially concealed by her long curls.
Merciful gods,he prayed silently.Please let the red sovereign be gone. A hard shove against his shoulder jerked him out of his pleading reverie, and he turned to scowl at a smug Ambrose.
“Good thing we aren’t in the midst of battle,dominus.”
Ballard didn’t answer and left Ambrose to follow him as he crossed the room to meet Gavin’s entourage at the bottom of the stairs. He bowed low before each of the women, even Clarimond and Joan who blushed and giggled at the sight of their lord’s deference. Louvaen’s gaze met his and stayed as she passed him on the way to the table. A faint smile curved the corners of her mouth, growing deeper as his hand reached out to skim the folds of her gown. Desire, hot as her gaze, swamped him, and he barely stopped himself from yanking her into his arms.
They gathered together while Ambrose poured a round of spiced wine or sweet milk and leered at Magda’s modest cleavage. Toasts were exchanged as were blessings for good health, bountiful harvest and peaceful days. Ballard claimed a space next to Louvaen and spoke low enough that only she heard him. “It’s fortunate I’m a man of fortitude and sense, Mistress Duenda, because you test both. The next time you appear in my hall garbed like that, I will hoist you onto the table and take you amidst the plates of apricots.”
Louvaen kept her eyes on Gavin and Cinnia as the two would-be lovers ogled each other. She gave no indication his words affected her except for a stranglehold on the stem of her goblet and a voice gone husky. “That promises to be sticky, my lord—and delightful.”
He had his hand on her elbow with the intention of marching her up the stairs to his chamber, Modrnicht and Cinnia’s delicate sensibilities be damned when Magda destroyed that plan. She clapped her hands and gestured imperiously for everyone to sit and begin the feast. “We didn’t work like dogs all day for this to go uneaten. Take your places. No different from the kitchen mind, just more to clean afterwards.”
Ballard growled softly, and this time Louvaen cut him an arch glance. “The night’s young, Ballard, and my body is mine again. If you wish, I’ll bring the apricots myself.” She smiled then and left him to take her place on the bench by her sister.
They started with dishes of dried apples and pears drizzled in honey, capon pies, potages of mutton stewed with potatoes and carrots and salted fish simmered in a saffron broth. Platters of roasted goose followed, along with a pork loin slathered in a sauce of almond milk and butter. Dragees of cheese wedges and spiced lumps of sugar completed the meal, and the wine flowed as freely as the conversation. As was his wont, Ballard remained quiet through the feast and concentrated on not being too obvious in admiring Louvaen. Magda’s culinary masterpieces were wasted on him. He might as well have been chewing on one of his boots for all the attention he paid the food. Louvaen sparred with Ambrose, laughed at Magda’s acerbic jokes and licked honey off her fingers in a way that had Ballard gripping his fork so hard, he bent the metal. He tugged at the high collar of his cotte and prayed dinner would end soon.
Afterward, they grouped before the hearth, and Magda brought forth a small log cut from an ancient oak tree. She placed the piece of wood on a table Ambrose had moved in front of the fire. A knife and stack of kerchiefs bleached white as milk joined the log. As the eldest woman in the room, Magda held the honor of initiating tribute to the goddesses and the female ancestors of their small group. She lifted the knife and slashed a shallow cut into the center of her palm. Blood dripped through her clenched fist onto the log where it tracked tiny rills across the bark’s ridges. She wiped the blade and passed it to Ambrose who did the same. The rest followed suit until the top of the log glistened red in the candlelight.
Magda intoned her salutation in a voice pitched low and canted. “We honor the all-Mothers; Sigel of the Sun, Erce of Earth, Fulla of the Moon, Helith of the Stag, and Nerthus of Fertility.” She squeezed her hand a second time, and more blood dripped onto the log. “For Ilene of Fallaharen who bore me and raised me well.”
She stepped aside as Ambrose went next, followed by Clarimond. Both paid respect to Magda who gazed lovingly at her lover and her daughter. Joan declined when her turn came and remained where she stood, her gaze shuttered. Ballard caught Louvaen’s puzzled expression. He whispered in her ear. “Orphaned as a babe. She never knew her mother.” Compassion softened Louvaen’s features.
Cinnia went next. “To our mother, Abigail Hallis, who sang me to sleep, dried my tears and loved me.” She clenched her fist and gave Louvaen a watery smile.
Louvaen stepped forward and allowed several fat drops of blood to hit the log before she relaxed her hand. “To our mother, Abigail Hallis, who took up a nonborn child and loved me as her own.”
Ballard frowned when Ambrose went rigid. His gaze snapped to Ballard, and his mouth compressed against his teeth in an obvious bid not to blurt out whatever hovered on his lips. Louvaen continued her venerations.
“To Gullveig who gave me life and died for the effort. I hope I’ve made you proud.”
The sorcerer looked as if he’d burst into flame if he stayed silent any longer. His gaze pleaded for an audience. Distracted by Ambrose’s strange behavior, Ballard bled onto the log and venerated his mother as well as his father’s gentle-spirited leman. If he didn’t fear rousing Isabeau’s enraged spirit, he’d thank her as well; she’d given him Gavin. Gavin obviously thought as he did. Like Joan, he shook his head and stepped away from the log. This time Cinnia wore a puzzled look. Louvaen’s shrewd gaze rested first on Gavin and then on Ballard, silently questioning why neither of them had honored Isabeau’s name.
At the ritual’s completion, Magda tossed the blood-slick log onto the fire. The group bowed to the sparking, crackling conflagration and turned to the business of tending their self-inflicted wounds. Ambrose pulled Ballard to the side as the others waited their turns for Magda to clean and bandage their cuts. “Did you hear what Louvaen said?”
Ballard shrugged. “Aye. What part put you in such a dodder?”
Ambrose wrung his hands and started to pace. “She’s nonborn, Ballard. Cut from her mother’s womb instead of pushed.”
“What of it?” Nonborns were uncommon enough to cause talk but not so strange as to be miraculous. He was even less surprised that Louvaen had survived. So fierce a woman would have fought death from the moment she took her first breath. An admonishment about Ambrose wasting his time hovered on his lips and faded at a sudden recollection of Isabeau’s last venomous words.
“To him I bequeath my bitterness, my rage, my hatred. When he puts childhood behind him, they will manifest. The savage you are shall raise up the savage he’ll become. No woman will love him. All your machinations—your deceit—have brought us to this. No woman born will ever love you. And the son will destroy the father.”
“No woman born will ever love me,” he said softly.
“Yes!” Ambrose glanced furtively over his shoulder to see if anyone else noticed his agitation. “Louvaen Duenda is as much a key to breaking this curse as her sister.”
The burgeoning hope welling up in Ballard’s chest flattened just as suddenly and left a crushing despair in its space. His face must have revealed some emotion because Ambrose’s triumphant grin faded. “What’s wrong?”
