It was not part of their pact—forbidden.
Somehow, that made it even more exciting.
Somehow, it made her wish that Girion wanted an heir right away.
Chapter Eight
“This is General Raghnall and his wife, Lady Somerlynn. My parents.” Cole guided Jocasta to a man of imperious stature and a gorgeous, glowing woman with flaxen hair, standing as tall as her huge husband.
Jocasta felt like a piece of bait, even though she was dressed in something that would have emptied the bank vaults at Frost Hills and Alban Leigh combined.
“I am so pleased to meet you,” she said in a low, carefully controlled voice.
“What a lovely tone. Very melodious,” Lady Somerlynn said.
Cole winked and whispered. “They’re going to look after you until Girion’s done greeting everyone. When you’re announced, go straight in, up the path,” Cole pointed to a long silvery runner that went from the doors of the ballroom to a single throne at the other side.
“I know, then I curtsey and go stand to the side.” She had read and re-read the guides that had been thrust at her.
“You will be saved until last, so it’ll be a long wait, but then you will be close to Girion, and he will take your arm straight away. That’ll start tongues moving the right way.”
General Raghnall snorted.
“His dancing shoes pinch. He wants his boots,” Lady Somerlynn said, patting Jocasta’s arm. “Pay no attention to him.”
“If his shoes pinch, perhaps he has a blister?” Jocasta thought, too late, that discussing foot ailments might be rude.
“Just painful from years of leading missions on foot in this cold,” Raghnall grunted.
Jocasta smiled, nodded, and thought about blood and air, water, and earth. Support. Strength. Water rushing, blood flowing better, the blood in a body forming a bridge and repairing the broken things she could suddenly see in her mind. Torn bits of sinew and flesh that needed to be bound back together.
Raghnall gasped and clutched at his son’s shoulder suddenly, rocking from foot to foot.
“Better, General?” Jocasta whispered.
The General simply stared. He took a tentative, rocking step forward and back, a look of relief and awe on his face. “Why... Why, how?” He appeared to be at a loss for words.
Lady Somerlynn looked delighted. “How wonderful! It is always so useful to have a mage in one’s circle, isn’t it, dear?”
“My feet! My feet!” The General hissed, doing a little jig in place.
“Settled down, Raghnall, you’ll rumple your good cloak.”
“We can dance, Somer, we can dance like we did when we were just young things,” the general crowed, and put his arm around his wife’s waist.
“Take good care of her,” Cole said, kissing his mother’s cheek and saluting his father.
“I can take care of myself,” Jocasta insisted, but nonetheless, she was glad when Lady Somerlynn whisked her around to meet the other general’s wives and introduced her as “Miss Jocasta Waterman, Mage.”
GIRION PACED. TUGGED. His robes were new and stiff. The leather overlays were stiffer still and smelled faintly of leather polish and burning from the branded markings on his chestplate, the seal of Caledon and fancy scrollwork. He looked handsome and regal, according to the Master of the Wardrobe,but he creaked and clinked when he greeted his generals with a handshake and their wives with a bow. When nobles arrived, the bowing increased, with his guests bowing from the waist and him nodding his head in acceptance of their gestures. He was going to have a stiff neck by the end of the night.
“Archduke and Archduchess Reynard, and their daughter, Lady Renata.”
Curses filled his thoughts, and his mouth refused to smile.
The Archduke walked in with his arms out, as if embracing a dear son, neglecting to escort his wife the entire way to the throne. His daughter trailed behind, purposefully creating an island of space around her so everyone could observe her.
Objectively, he had to admit that she was something to look at, dazzling in dark violet and black, hair in some outlandish festoon of jewels and pins.
