Astrophel’s words wipe the smirk off Blayze’s face. He blanches, then turns thunderous. Does anyone else notice the tremor in his hand as he drains his glass of shimmerwine?
He glowers at the floor for the remainder of the feast, a storm in his narrowed eyes as he chafes, in turn, his torc and signet ring. He speaks to no one, touches none of the remaining courses placed before him.
Minstrels circle the room as we eat, strumming moon-lutes and reciting traditional ballads. I make a show of watching their performance, of clapping in the right places. I try to listen to Tansy and Carmentis discussing our departure from Meissa, but my gaze keeps drifting back to Blayze. His silence unnerves me. It’s out of character for him to allow a slight to go unchallenged, especially one that so clearly struck a nerve. I wish I could break through the wall that keeps me from reading his thoughts, for my brandsong still whispers danger, and I can’t afford any more unpleasant surprises tonight.
The delicate threads that bind us mustn’t be allowed to snap.
*
ONCEATTENDANTSCLEARthe final course, the musicians resume their places in the minstrels’ gallery. It’s time for the Garland Dance to close the festivities. And even though I’ll be forced to open it with Astrophel, this moment can’t come quickly enough, a chance to end this wretched evening on a harmonious note.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. Standing behind me to claim the dance is not Astrophel, but Blayze. He extends his hand, expression blank, save for his eyes, which flash like jewels in the candlelight, ablaze with mischief.
So, this is his plan to get back at Astrophel? Clever, I have to admit. My betrothed has been looking forward to leading the Garland Dance, to cementing his position as king-in-waiting before the assembled court, ever since the ball was announced last moonsquarter. And now I understand he meant to lead it with us already handfasted.
From the corner of my eye, I see Astrophel’s nostrils dilate, his body snap even straighter in his chair. But there’s little he can do without risking a public altercation. Maris’ lips are pursed tight like she’s just sucked on a snowberry. Safe to assume she didn’t put Blayze up to this, then.
I’m trapped. I don’t want to give Blayze the satisfaction of dancing with him, of enabling this petty act of revenge, but I can’t refuse without further public insult – a risk to our alliance. And I want to dance with Astrophel less than I would a frostfang. I place my hand in his overwarm one and allow Blayze to lead me to the dance floor. A grin steals across his face as he claims his spoils.
We face one another, waiting for the musicians to strike up. The ballroom is eerily silent, all eyes upon us. None of them friendly.
‘Do you remember the steps?’ I hiss. The Outrealmers received only a cursory introduction to the dance.
‘Can’t say I do.’ His eyes smoulder as they roam my body, amber flecks glittering in a sea of gold. ‘Remind me – where am I supposed to put my hands?’
I ignore the rakish innuendo, a deliberate ploy to unsettle me. Instead, I channel Astrophel, directing Blayze’s movements in what I hope passes for cool indifference.
A lilting triple-metre sounds through the room. I curtsy to my mother, still seated at the high table, then bob half-heartedly in Blayze’s direction.
He reciprocates with an equally feeble attempt at a bow.
‘Position yourself to my left and offer me your hand,’ I whisper, doing my best not to flinch in response to the heat of his body as I lay my hand lightly atop his. The man carries a star-damned furnace within him. ‘Got it?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage,’ he replies, sweeping me up with risible ease into the lift and spinning me with unnecessary force so my head rattles.
Blayze is as heavy-footed as I expected, by no means a natural dancer, but to his credit he follows my instructions and has a good ear for tempo, keeping in step with me and in time with the music.
Blayze never breaches the limits of propriety, not like he did when he commandeered my training in the Armoury, but nonetheless, there’s something decidedly improper about his touch. His fingers, as they fan my ribcage, radiate heat, searing through my gown, through my skin, altogether too knowing and familiar. My heart’s beating fast; I can’t draw enough air into my lungs. Each time he lifts me, he draws me closer into the circle of his arms, closer to the hard planes of his body, close enough that the warmth of his body swathes me and I can see the candlelight dancing in his eyes, inhale the woody scent of the bark he chews incessantly, and behind it the warm amber and musk at the hollow of his throat.
Astrophel is watching grim-faced as we move across the floor, his arms folded, his lips so tightly clenched they’re almost bloodless.
Beware.
‘What instrument is that?’ Blayze nods at a minstrel playing a moon-lute, distracting me momentarily from the whispers and my brewing fears of reprisal.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘It has a beautiful tone.’
I stare at him.
‘You needn’t look so surprised, Sparkles. Maintaining this body takes effort, but there’s more to me than muscle. I don’t spend all my time in the training pit.’
‘You play an instrument then?’
‘Beyond learning to sound the battle drums, my father set little store by music. But nights are long in the pit – I taught myself the lyre. So, you see,’ he jeers, as we stumble through the sequence of arm postures, ‘I’m not such a savage, after all. I read and everything…’
‘And… And what kind of books do you enjoy?’ I don’t know where to look.
