She’d finally convinced Verice to dance, and she enjoyed every move he made. He was dressed in his black leathers, his silver hair braided back, a circlet of gold on his head. He looked every inch the Lord High Baron he was. Part of her felt a bit overawed that a mael like him could desire her.
Part of her just wanted a chance to strip the leathers from his legs and spend a night worshiping the body beneath.
She shifted in her seat, and sighed.
“All’s well?” Charrin asked. He’d sung on and off all evening. Warna was grateful that he’d chosen tunes that were appropriate, neither too sorrowful or too raucous.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s just so lovely, that I don’t really want it to—”
Alarm horns split the air.
The room froze, everyone stopping in mid-word, mid-step. The awareness flooded all of them at the same time that this could not be a drill. Then all at once, everyone moved, warriors pulling their weapons, others heading for their assigned places and or duties.
Verice cast Warna a look, but she was already standing, her heart racing but her feet knowing exactly what to do. He gave her an approving look, then ran for the main doors.
“What is happening?” Charrin asked, a note of panic in his voice.
Warna took his wrist. “Come with me.”
She led him through one of the rear serving doors, and into a side hall. Charrin didn’t resist her, but his voice was anxious. “Warna, please—”
“There’s a disturbance,” Warna said briefly, as she urged him toward the nearest cubby-hole. “Everyone knows their roles, Charrin. Ours is to hide.” She pressed the wall, and glanced around as it slid open. “Kneel down, and crawl in,” she covered his head, protecting it as he obeyed. She followed him in, careful to pull back her skirts as the wall slid shut.
“What will happen?” Charrin asked, his hand on her shoulder as if asking for reassurance.
“Verice will deal with anyone who’s breached the peace of the Festival,” Warna said as calmly as she could. Her heart felt like it would fly out of her chest, and she took a breath to try to slow its pace. “The ‘all clear’ will sound, and Verice will come to us. We aren’t to leave until he opens the door.” She laughed weakly. “Our job is to wait.”
“Ah,” Charrin’s voice changed, its tone dark and determined. He wrapped one arm around her waist, tugging her into his lap awkwardly.
With the other, he pulled the dagger at her waist, and set the blade to her throat. Warna gasped, and grabbed his wrist trying to push the blade away, but Charrin had a strength greater than her own.
“Then we’ll wait,” Charrin murmured in her ear. “And when he comes, he will see you die at my hand.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
The courtyard was eerily silent when Verice burst from the keep with Narthing at his side. It made Verice pause on the top of the steps, surveying the area.
The torches crackled in their braces, the light spilling all around. His warriors were spread around, their weapons gleaming in the torch light. The men on the walls were still on watch, flags flying in the night. Every doorway had a posted watch, but the windows were filled with Festival-goers, all staring down into the courtyard.
Scattered around were the various low wooden platforms that had been set up for dances and musicians. But Verice’s eyes were drawn to the acting troupe’s stage, which had been set between the main gates and the keep. His guards were standing over prone men, swords at the ready.
Ustov came forward. “Report,” Verice snapped.
“Lord High Baron, the crowd was lively, drifting about a bit, watching the various dances,” Ustov said. “We heard a scream, and saw a group of the actors dashing off the stage with drawn swords. The alarm sounded, and the closest warriors responded. There was a quick skirmish, but then the actors flung themselves down, crying mercy.” Ustov glared at captives. “Seems they say it was part of the performance.”
“Or not,” Verice said softly.
“None of our people were hurt,” Ustov continued. “But a few of the actors got sliced up.” He straightened his shoulders.
“Let’s see what there is to see.” Verice kept his own blade out as he walked to the prone men.
Humans they all were, he noted as he prowled around them. Their weapons had been piled to one side, and most of them lay face down, spread eagle on the ground. A few were still on stage, clustered together, eyeing Verice warily.
Master Zester was seated cross-legged, off to one side, breathing like a man who had no experience with pain. He clutched at his arm, where red seeped through the cloth.
Verice sheathed his sword for the moment, accessing the man before him. Zester kept his head down, but he darted a glance up. His eyes had an odd, pleading look.
Verice stared at him, but Zester glanced around at the other captives and then hung his head as if waiting for sentence.
