Chapter 103 – Politics and Parties II

  The hall shimmered with light and laughter, a thousand tiny reflections caught in the gilt of mirrors and polished stone. While her husband stood among the high lords in the gallery above, Lady Seraphine, the Lady of Avalon, moved among her guests with the serenity of one born to noble diplomacy. Her gown, the hue of Avalon blue, caught the candlelight like a living flame as she passed from one circle to another, her smile practiced yet never hollow.

  Everywhere she went, heads bowed; hands reached to touch her sleeve or offer blessings for her son’s recovery. It had become the refrain of the evening, ’Your son’s strength returns, my lady. May the Veils favor him.’ She accepted each sentiment with the same composure, a gentle incline of her head, though her heart grew heavy beneath the weight of sympathy.

  Still, she made it her purpose to greet all the lesser houses personally. There was power in acknowledgment, in being seen and remembered by Avalon’s lady. The minor lords from the southern valleys and the traders from the coastal guilds left her presence with renewed warmth and soothed ambition.

  Then came the ministers—slick and smiling, their bows too deep and their eyes too sharp. Each requested a private word, hinting of “future arrangements,” of “alliances yet to be spoken.” Seraphine knew the tone well. Betrothals. Dowries. Quiet maneuvers disguised as concern.

  She parried with grace.

  “It warms me to hear the realm so hopeful,” she said, “but perhaps tonight we might celebrate what already is—not rush what might be.”

  A deflection cloaked in gentility, enough to end each pursuit before it became a proposal.

  Until one of the ministers, bold in wine and greed, leaned closer and murmured, “And tell me, my lady, of the shadow beast you sold in the merchant states. Do such curiosities remain in your keeping?”

  A hush fell in their circle. Trade talk in the midst of a royal gathering—an indecency barely short of treason.

  Seraphine’s eyes cooled, though her smile did not waver.

  “My lord,” she said softly, “the matters of my husband’s house are not curiosities, nor for sale. But I thank you for your… enthusiasm.”

  The man paled, bowed awkwardly, and retreated amid nervous laughter.

  It was not long after that Lady Eryndel of Cluterrax approached—a woman older than Seraphine by a decade, still regal, still calculating behind her fan of white lace. Her gown shimmered like moonlight on ice; her voice was sweet as cordial and twice as treacherous.

  “My dear Lady Avalon,” she began, “what a splendid evening. The tales of your hospitality scarcely do justice to your grace.”

  “You are kind, Lady Eryndel,” Seraphine said. “I am glad the road from Cluterrax was gentle to you.”

  “Gentle enough,” the woman replied, her gaze sliding across the crowd. “And most worth the journey. I have long meant to renew our acquaintance—especially with your family growing into such renown. I hear your son Aldric’s name spoken well in every court.”

  The compliment was a probe, and Seraphine knew it.

  “He honors his house,” she answered. “As every son must.”

  “Ah, indeed,” Lady Eryndel said, pausing delicately. “It is precisely such sons that inspire… friendship between our houses. My granddaughter is coming of age, you see. A thoughtful girl, modest but well-bred. I should so like to send her to Avalon for a visit.”

  Seraphine’s lips curved, though her mind was already at work. Aldric. The woman’s play was transparent enough—a courtship bid under the guise of friendship.

  “Perhaps next spring,” Eryndel continued, her tone lilting. “When your next caravan departs. I hear Avalon’s summers are milder than ours—it would be a fine season for her to… make acquaintances.”

  That gave Seraphine pause. This lady was wise enough to know Aldric would travel with the caravan. So, it wasn't Aldric; then the target was Caelan.

  Her smile cooled by a fraction. “The roads can be uncertain that time of year. And the Vale is —isolated.”

  Eryndel’s eyes glittered. “Ah, but isolation breeds refinement, does it not? And I hear the younger Lord of Avalon is… gifted. A rare quality among men these days.”

  The air between them tightened like drawn silk.

  “He is recovering,” Seraphine said evenly. “The healers are hopeful.”

  “Of course, of course,” murmured Eryndel, her voice honeyed. “Rumors often distort what is true. One hears such… fanciful tales. That he sees what others do not, that his mind dwells half in dream.”

  Seraphine inclined her head slightly, the movement controlled.

  “Dreams,” she said, “are the language of the Veils. Those who listen too closely may hear what others cannot—but that is no illness, Lady Eryndel. Only insight.”

  “Then I rejoice to hear it,” Eryndel said, though her smile faltered just slightly. “It will be good to know Avalon’s halls still keep such… insight alive.”

  “Alive and guarded,” Seraphine replied, her tone silk over steel. “But perhaps we might speak again in the spring, when the caravans are decided. Until then, enjoy the warmth of Avalon’s hearth, my lady.”

  Eryndel bowed, retreating with grace, but her eyes lingered. Seraphine watched her go, the faintest chill prickling her neck.

  She knew well the scent of schemes when they walked the ballroom—cloaked in perfume and polite laughter.

  And tonight, they were everywhere.

  …

  The night crept nearer to midnight. The clamor in the ballroom softened, slipping into a low hum as servants threaded through the guests with trays of wine and citrus water. Their reflections shimmered and swayed across the marble floor. Behind thick gold curtains, Avalon’s nobility continued—their every action deliberate, the whole affair taut as a chess game.

  Far down at the hall’s end, where the light grew faint, and the air hung heavy with wine and melting wax, Lord Eldric stood among the other lords. These were men who wore the weight of their ancient lineages like armor—commanding the coasts, holding inland fortunes, and more. Beside him stood Eldric’s uncles, Malric of Isenford, Lord Branric of Litus Solis, the most vocal of the group, with his sea-tanned face flushed from wine and temper.

  Around them clustered Lord Verrant of Culterrax, Lord Varlen of Eastwatch, Lady Seryn of Windwatch, sharp-eyed and foxlike Lord Harlian of the Galeden Vale, whose laughter masked calculation, and Lord Marwen of Frostmarch, pale and silent, a man who missed little and said less. Orbiting this group were lesser houses and lords.

  Their voices, though hushed, thrummed with shared frustration.

  “It is absurd,” said Branric, slapping his goblet down so the wine leaped over its rim. “A million silver crowns from Avalon’s coffers alone—while the King’s ministers dine in marble halls and demand grain from starving farmers. It is an insult, not a levy!”

  Varlen lifted a hand in caution. “Softly, Branric. Even here within the walls of Avalon, the King’s spies have long ears.” His eyes flicked toward a pair of courtiers hidden and lingering near the columned arch. “Be careful, you forget yourself.”

  “I forget nothing!” Branric hissed, though he lowered his voice. “The King grows fat on trade through the south, yet it is we who bleed silver for his appetites. And when the Crown Prince comes, he’ll smile, bless the realm, and leave us poorer for it.”

  Eldric just let the man’s words linger in the air. He didn’t so much as twitch—his patience unbroken, his tone cool and precise. “Still,” he said, “I will pay it.”

  Branric looked at him. “Pay it?”

  Eldric nodded, steady as always. “As much as we’re able. Avalon keeps its word, just as the King ought to keep his. That’s how kingdoms endure—not through shouting, but by maintaining balance.”

  A silence settled, thin and taut—like the edge of a blade.

  Lady Seryn of Windwatch lifted her cup, a faint smile touching her lips. “Careful words, my lord. Some might call it loyalty.”

  Eldric didn’t flinch. “Loyalty and caution can be hard to tell apart,” he replied.

  That was when Marwen of Frostmarch spoke, his voice dry and brittle. “Each year, the King asks more. He stretches himself thin—east, west, north. Perhaps the realm’s forgotten that not all its borders are watched by his men. Avalon keeps the south. Frostmarch holds the northwestern heights. The court’s coffers never know hunger or cold.”

  “Indeed,” Varlen murmured, his smile thin. “And now they send their golden son to soothe us. Tell me, Eldric—what will you do when the Crown Prince arrives?”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Eldric’s brow furrowed, but his tone remained steady. “I’ll greet him, with full honors. That’s my duty. The heir is owed respect. But he will be reminded that honor isn’t a one-way path.”

  A quiet ripple of understanding passed through the gathering. No one wished to press the matter.

  Branric, ever restless, muttered, “The Crown Prince will arrive with scribes and treasurers, not warriors. He’ll demand allegiance and likely claim the finest of our crops, just wait.”

  Eldric sighed. “We’ll grant him words. Careful ones. The Kingdom secures its frontiers with blades, but it governs its nobles with words. Let’s make ours matter.”

  A servant slipped past with a new decanter. Silence lingered among them. The music swelled, smothering anything they dared not speak aloud.

  At last, Varlen leaned in, his voice barely a thread. “You know what they say in Eastwatch, my lord—that Avalon chafes once more. That your banners will rise for no crown but your own. The ministers’ insults to your house are not forgotten, my lord—and the whispers swell with every passing tide.”

  The air in the circle grew taut. Even Branric’s wine-soured breath caught.

  Eldric looked up slowly. “They say many things in Eastwatch. Most of them are wine-born.” His tone was mild, but his eyes gleamed faintly in the lamplight—hard as flint.

  Varlen inclined his head, the hint of a smile returning. “Of course, of course. Merely gossip.”

  Lady Seryn changed the subject deftly. “Still, the levy is untenable. My scribes tell me even the coastal ports struggle to meet half their quota.”

  “And yet,” Eldric said softly, “we will find a way. Because if we fail—if Avalon breaks faith—the King will not send aid, but auditors, and then soldiers. And I have no wish to see our sons standing against each other beneath foreign banners.”

  A murmur of assent. None dared disagree.

  The lords broke away soon enough, drifting back to their own groups, already sizing up alliances and positions. Eldric stayed put. He lingered at the edge, eyes sweeping the hall—laughter ringing out, wine being poured, silk dresses swirling as if the revelry might never end.

  Lady Seraphine slipped away from the noise, ascending the marble staircase to the balcony. The hum of conversation followed her—a haze of laughter, music, and whispered plots. From above, the ballroom seemed almost ethereal, like a painting in motion: silk and jewels spinning beneath wavering candlelight, every smile measured and compared to the next.

  She rested her hand upon the cool balustrade. It was not weariness that brought her here, but the need to see—to look down upon the play in all its forms. A lady must know her board, and tonight the pieces moved swiftly.

  Below, Aldric found himself encircled by three girls, each clad in the vivid colors of her house, each one stealing glances at her parents—mothers with piercing eyes, fathers offering small, approving nods. Aldric stood tall and impeccable, all grace and courtesy, though it was clear he was on his guard. His mother watched from across the hall and thought, He stands just like his father. But that caution? That’s me in him. His every gesture was unfailingly polite, but she could see the way his eyes flickered, or how his shoulders tightened ever so slightly when one of the bolder girls brushed his arm.

  The parents made no attempt to hide the encourgement. They watched intently, as if this were a livestock auction and Aldric was the prize on display. Every smile, every lifted eyebrow—it was all part of the bidding, and nothing else.

  The orchestra struck a new chord, and suddenly another wave of guests pressed forward, all eager to claim a dance partner. She spotted Lord Varlen’s daughter threading her way through the crowd toward Aldric, her silk skirts swirling behind her, as bold as a standard. Nearby, the girl’s uncle feigned a conversation with a minor royal official, but his voice carried too far, and he lingered a little too close. It couldn’t be more obvious if he’d declared it outright. The entire affair was a game, and everyone in the hall understood the rules.

  Lady Seraphine let her gaze drift across the crowd, noting the pairings, the groupings, the unspoken pacts written in body language and sidelong glances. These are not dances, she thought. They are treaties made in silk and perfume.

  To one side, the priests—pale in their vestments of silver, gold, and ash—kept to themselves, hovering near the pillars. None dared approach her family, not after the steward’s reminder of tribute paid and doors closed. For that, at least, she was grateful. The Veils have enough shadows; they need no priests to deepen them tonight.

  Her gaze found Lissette then, and for a moment, her breath eased. The girl stood in the glow of the chandeliers, a circle of youth gathered around her—some her age, some a touch older, all drawn as moths to her brightness. Seraphine smiled faintly. Her daughter did not yet realize how well she played this game, how instinctively she read people.

  When a young man—too confident by half—stepped forward to bow, Lissette’s lips curved with practiced sweetness. She said something that made her friends laugh softly, the young man blush, and the circle close around her again. Charm and wit are her armor, Seraphine thought. And already sharper than most swords.

  The sight filled her with pride, but also unease. For every strength drew notice, and notice bred danger. The court was not merely a nest of courtiers tonight—it was a den of watchers. There were eyes here that measured fortunes in whispers, futures in glances.

  And my children stand at the center of it, the most fantastic prize.

  From her vantage above, Lady Seraphine could almost believe she stood apart from it all—an observer, not a player. Yet the truth pressed heavily in her chest. These alliances, these courtesies, these smiling predators—they were not merely threats to Avalon’s position in the realm. They were threats to her family, to her blood.

  Every whispered proposal for Aldric, every glance cast toward her daughter, every mention of her youngest son’s “mystery” or “recovery”—each was a knife wrapped in civility.

  She had long learned the language of power: how to yield without bending, to smile while building walls. And so she stood beneath the balcony’s torchlight, her expression serene, her thoughts ironbound. If the realm sought to test Avalon, if these courtiers thought to entwine her house in their designs, they would find she had teeth beneath her grace.

  Downstairs, the music swelled, violins shimmering, laughter rising up to join it. Lady Seraphine lingered in the doorway’s shadow, watching her daughter’s easy laughter, her son’s measured composure, and all those guests who believed themselves the masters of the room.

  Very well, she thought. Let them circle. I’ve weathered tempests fiercer than a ballroom brimming with courteous grins.

  And with that, she descended once more into the light, every step measured, every thought sharpened to purpose.

  For Avalon’s enemies would find that its lady was as courteous as moonlight—and just as cold.

  Lady Seraphine approached her husband, her voice low. “You held them well, my lord.”

  “For tonight,” he said. “But words are like embers. Sooner or later, one catches flame.”

  Her hand brushed his arm. “Then we had best make sure the fire burns where we choose.”

  Eldric nodded once, his gaze lifting toward the great banners of Avalon that hung above them.

  “Oh,” he stated as just remembering something, “I will be dispatching the White company in 2 days. Let the children know if they want to prepare letters.”

  …

  The musicians lessened their music, opting for a quiet song for talking and shared looks instead of dancing. Servants circulated, offering silver trays laden with honeyed fruits, sugared almonds, and pastries that smelled of spice. Clove and orange flower’s scent was in the air, reminiscent of a memory.

  Lissette stood near a marble column, her laughter bright and carrying all the way to the chandeliers. She caught a servant’s eye, gestured to a tray, and declared, “I must have one of those before I waste away completely. Honestly, do you want me to faint right here in my father’s hall?”

  The startled servant bowed low, and the tray was offered instantly. The jest earned a ripple of laughter from those around her. Lissette turned with a satisfied smile and noticed that Aureline of Galeden Vale—the quiet, fair-haired girl she had seen earlier—was standing near the edge of the group, polite but pale, her gloved hand resting lightly on a pillar for balance.

  In a breath, Lissette’s amusement turned to concern. “No, no, that won’t do,” she said firmly. “You’re about to wilt, and I simply won’t have it. Chairs! Two of them—quickly, please.”

  The nearby servants blinked in confusion, uncertain if this was a jest or a command, until they saw the unmistakable authority in the young lady’s eyes. Within moments, two cushioned chairs appeared, and Lissette guided Aureline into one with all the ceremony of seating a queen. Then, with perfect disregard for decorum, she sat herself down beside her.

  Aureline’s eyes widened. “My lady, you didn’t have to—”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Lissette said, waving a dismissive hand. “If anyone scolds me for improper posture or conduct, I’ll remind them that I saved a guest from fainting. That’s noble manners, you see—just terribly misunderstood ones.”

  The older girl couldn’t help it—she laughed. A soft, surprised laugh, but real, and Lissette grinned as if she’d just won a battle.

  “I was told,” Lissette said conspiratorially, plucking a sugared almond from the dish, “that proper young ladies should be seen, not heard, and preferably only while walking slowly or dancing gracefully. Have you ever heard such nonsense?”

  “I’ve heard worse,” Aureline said shyly, “and sometimes believed it.”

  “Well, don’t,” Lissette replied at once. “If you’re quiet, people will invent words for you—and they’re never as nice as the ones you’d choose yourself.”

  Aureline smiled faintly, studying the younger girl. There was something disarming about her—she wasn’t performing for attention, not truly. She was claiming space without apology. “You’re very bold, Lady Lissette.”

  “I prefer interesting,” Lissette said, her tone arch. “Bold sounds like I’m about to leap from a parapet.”

  That earned another laugh, brighter this time.

  The conversation meandered easily—flowers, festivals, a dreadful tutor who smelled of ink and onions—and gradually the circle of onlookers drifted away. When they were nearly alone, Lissette leaned in, her tone dropping low.

  “Tell me, Aureline… you have an affinity, don’t you?”

  Aureline hesitated. “I—yes. It came when I was fifteen. It wasn’t… gentle.”

  Lissette nodded with sudden understanding. “Mine was scary,” she said softly. “I thought the Veils hated me. I affect everything around me, windows, floors, and even my tea cups. It just happened.”

  That startled Aureline into silence, then laughter again—half shock, half relief. “You say that as if it were nothing.”

  “It is nothing now,” Lissette said with a shrug. “It only frightens the ones who don’t have it. But we can talk about that another time. Too many ears here tonight.”

  Aureline followed her gaze—the hall was alive with glances and whispers, and she realized the younger girl was right.

  “Tomorrow,” Lissette said lightly, her eyes bright, “you must come walk with me in the gardens. We can talk about affinities, dresses, and the way people pretend to be clever when they’re not. And flowers—because I like flowers. And sweets, because I like those too.”

  Aureline blinked, caught between amusement and disbelief. “You plan your conversations?”

  “Of course,” Lissette said solemnly. “Otherwise one risks wasting them.” Then, with a sudden grin, she added, “And I suspect you have a great many words worth not wasting.”

  The older girl flushed but smiled again, warmth in her eyes this time. “You’re very strange, Lady Lissette.”

  “Good,” Lissette said, popping a sugared fruit into her mouth. “There are too many ordinary people already.”

  With the music growing and candles dimming, the two girls, of distinct ages and personalities, laughed together, their first friendship formed amidst politics and masks.