Work Text:
9:25 Dragon
Nevarra City, Nevarra
There was no avoiding the ball tonight. It was being given in her honor, both in her capacity as the representative of Divine Beatrix and, perhaps more to the point, as a distant cousin to King Markus. So far removed that it seemed hardly worth thinking of to Cassandra, but of course, people in the Nevarran court always did think of it, and so it seemed, did King Markus, when a member of the Pentaghast family stood so near to the Divine.
At least she had avoided wearing a gown for the occasion. As a member of the Seekers of Truth and the Right Hand of the Divine, protocol dictated she appear in formal military dress. Not even the familial claims of the Pentaghasts could take priority as long as she remained in service, especially since she had only come to begin with on a mission from Divine Beatrix.
The silks and sash of the formal military uniform was awkward enough, and the ornamental rapier she wore at her waist was not her customary longsword and shield, but at any rate, it was not a gown.
There was some comfort, too, in having Galyan with her, among the courtiers and clerics from Val Royeaux the Divine had sent along as part of her delegation. There were three Templars, two clerics and a clerk for each of them, and another enchanter besides Galyan, to bring the delegation total to ten principals, less the servants and retainers that had come with them to make the journey more convenient. The Left Hand of the Divine often traveled alone. Cassandra sometimes wondered what it was like for him. Whenever she went anywhere, she had to exhibit nearly as much pomp and power as the Divine herself. Cassandra had grown used to it by this time, but she would never care for it.
But Galyan was there, just to her right and a few paces back, looking splendid in his formal Enchanter’s robes. Of course, he wasn’t nervous. Galyan was never nervous. He reacted to every situation with the same calm competence and smooth charisma. And of course, no one would really be looking at him during the talks this week, or not for very long.
The ballroom of King Markus’s palace had seemed so much larger when she was a girl, Cassandra reflected, as she crossed the floor toward the royal dais. Oh, it was large enough, with marble floors and walls inlaid with gold designs. There were grand tapestries and silk brocade curtains to spare, and the braziers burned perfumed fuel. The glitter of half a dozen crystal chandeliers glinted off the faces and finery of scores of lords, ladies, and servants. But now, it was less the size and grandeur of the palace Cassandra found intimidating—paltry after the cathedrals, palaces, and pleasure houses of Val Royeaux and Halamshiral—and more the crowds. They were always torturous, judgmental, and largely very silly. But this was the first time that the crowds she was facing were her own crowds—her own extended family and all the Pentaghast retinue, retainers, and hangers-on, everyone who had tortured and judged her own girlhood. Until now, she had managed to avoid a visit to Nevarra City. Divine Beatrix had never sent her to Nevarra.
There was Uncle Vestalus, standing in the shadows behind the king in his own court regalia. A lump came into Cassandra’s throat when she saw him. Ridiculous. They had never been close. He had always wanted her to be a lady of the court when she was living in his house. She and Anthony had had to argue with him for any alternative education she received. And after Anthony’s death, she had been so horrid to him—to all mages—that further estrangement had been unavoidable. Still—he was all the family she had. Oh, she had relations by the hundreds—but family, people who stood by you, through thin and thick—that was a rare thing in the Nevarran court. He had probably saved her life after her parents’ execution, and Anthony’s life. He had gained her admittance to the Seekers. And despite his near-perennial disappointment in her as a child, he had ensured she received the lessons she requested, lessons in swordplay and battle tactics instead of music and court etiquette.
His eyes gleamed at the sight of her. But she could spare Uncle Vestalus no more of her time. King Markus took the precedence. King Markus had seemed ancient when she was a child of six, though now she knew he had only been a few years older than her parents at the time. He was an old man now, past sixty, and he looked almost fifteen years older, pale and sickly, with a disagreeable, querulous expression. He wore a jeweled, embroidered cap in lieu of any crown or circlet, and the many thick, heavy rings on his thin, veined, manicured hands made them appear all the thinner and veinier.
Cassandra stopped three meters from the ballroom dais and felt Divine Beatrix’s retinue take their places around and behind her. It would be appropriate for a subject of Nevarra to kneel now, but Cassandra was not a subject of Nevarra. Not anymore. So, she bowed, and rose, and waited for the king to acknowledge her.
“I know you, cousin,” the king croaked by and by, squinting at her through nearsighted, watery eyes and waving his hand for her to rise. He laughed then, but the laugh turned into a cough. “I pardoned you once!” he cried when he had recovered. “Pardoned you, for resisting arrest! Six years old, and resisting arrest!” He laughed again. “You have grown a credit to my mercy that day. Would you not say so, Vestalus? Aren’t you glad I listened to you?” He jerked his head to glance back at Vestalus, grinning. He was missing several teeth.
Uncle Vestalus said something polite, not loudly enough to be heard in the ballroom at large. “Indeed,” the king replied, much more loudly. “A beauty,” he said to everyone in the ballroom. “You’ve become a magnificent beauty, my dear. Not to mention, a dragonslayer to make your family proud, if report is to be believed. No one could just to look at you, but I believe it! Six years old, and resisted arrest!” He went into another spasm of laughter, then stood and addressed the room at large. “We welcome our cousin, Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand to Her Holiness Divine Beatrix III, heheh, and niece to our trusted prelate. Tonight, we shall celebrate her return to Nevarra City, and rejoice to have her dancing among us once again. Tomorrow, we shall hear what the Divine would have her say. Relax! Drink and be merry, my friends! Welcome to our ball!”
Of course, “tomorrow,” for King Markus, could mean actually tomorrow or in a fortnight. There was no time to think of that for now. King Markus had sat down, and since this ball was being given in her honor, she was obliged to begin the wretched thing.
A Prince Steffan of one of the eastern provinces stepped forward to claim her hand and start the first dance. He was probably only a few years her senior, but he was already balding on top, and his mustache was oiled with enough cologne to bottle and sell in the market. Still, of the two of them, she was probably the larger disgrace to the dance. She had not thought to give her ceremonial rapier to one of the servants before she began, and though she was not a terrible dancer—or not anymore—Prince Steffan kept tripping over her scabbard. He was very nice about it, which just made everything that much worse. Cassandra was certain his shins were thoroughly bruised by the end of the dance, and she felt ridiculous. Her cheeks flamed as she shoved the rapier into the arms of Hana, one of the maids in the retinue Beatrix had sent with her. She saw Galyan laughing at her from the side of the ballroom. She wanted to swear at him, but another lord was coming up to ask a dance, and she lost sight of him for a long time.
She wished for Galyan more than once as the ball wore on. He made things easier, somehow. Of course, they could never dance more than one dance together anywhere, and never anything remotely resembling a waltz, but anytime he happened to be at the same event that she was, that one dance was truly a gift. She never felt stiff or awkward or disagreeable as she did with almost anyone else, and it was . . . more than pleasant to be permitted just to touch him in public, with the full approbation of society. If only for a few passing moments.
But their moments passed, and she was obliged to make courteous small talk with every emptyheaded girl and vainglorious peacock she had attended parties with as a girl, as well as with a great many older nobles who had studiously avoided her then as the penniless daughter of traitors and the ward of one of the Mortalitasi.
“My stars, Lady Cassandra,” tittered a young woman about her own age once she had finally safely sequestered herself by the banquet table to take a breath. It took a moment for Cassandra to see past the heavy face paint, poison-green dress, and bump of an early pregnancy to recognize Penelope Allebracht, a girl whose tea parties she had often attended at Uncle Vestalus’s or her nurse’s insistence. Fighting back the desire to sigh, Cassandra gave Penelope her hand.
“Penelope,” she said. “Forgive me. Your husband’s name is—”
“Count Brandeis Seidel,” Penelope told her. “He is not here tonight, but back at Vollisfort looking after our estate. But of course, I would not miss the season.”
“Of course—”
“—And when I heard you were to come all the way from Val Royeaux, I was very glad I had come to Nevarra City,” Penelope said. “Lady Cassandra! Fancy!”
“Seeker, actually,” Cassandra told her, more forcefully than she had intended.
Countess Seidel blinked at her. “What?”
“My formal address is ‘Seeker Cassandra,’” Cassandra said. She had been unable to correct King Markus when he had made the first mistake, but she would not spend the rest of the evening being addressed by an honorific that barely comprehended a fraction of what she was. She had been born into the Pentaghast clan. She had earned her place in the Seekers, and she would not surrender it for the notions of the Nevarran court or for anyone. “It is a common mistake,” she allowed. “But positions in the Templar Order or the Seekers of Truth take precedence over any titles conferred at birth.”
Penelope’s smile was frozen upon her face. “I see,” she said. She curtsied. “You must forgive me, Seeker. It’s unusual for us to encounter one of your order at court. Indeed, once you left Nevarra City, I did not think you would ever return! Court life did not suit you when the two of us were girls, if my memory does not play me false. But now, you must be accustomed to grander courts than even that of King Markus himself! Tell me, what is it like in the empress’s summer court at Val Royeaux? Or in the court of the Divine?”
“Large,” Cassandra answered tersely.
Penelope blinked again, then she tittered once more. “Oh, you are droll, Lad—Seeker Cassandra. Of course, I mean the fashions, the glamor, the romance! It must be very fine indeed. Dear Brandeis says we will take a tour of the Empire, in a year or so, when the baby can be left.” She placed a hand over her stomach and smiled. She was obviously waiting to be asked when the child was expected, if it was her first, and so on.
With ill grace, Cassandra asked to be satisfied on particulars she had not the least desire to be informed of, and Countess Seidel satisfied her happily. “You are not married, I have heard,” she said, when she had finished.
“I have not had the pleasure.”
“No doubt your duties to the Seekers and the Divine keep you far too busy for such trivial pursuits as men,” Penelope said, with such an air of smug world-weariness that Cassandra quite wanted to laugh. “A blessing, let me tell you,” she continued confidingly. “They are such a trial. Still, it’s a pity,” she continued reflectively. “His Majesty was not wrong: you’ve grown into quite the beauty. In your own way. So tall! And I declare, I quite envy you that figure, though I daresay I’ll never have one like it again, and—” she sighed and ended on a laugh— “even if I did, I would never dare show it off in trousers as you do.”
“Would you not?” Cassandra answered automatically, scanning the ballroom for anyone she might find slightly more interesting to speak to. She had hoped to eat a bit more before leaving, but it just wasn’t worth it.
“Tell me, are you ever afraid of scarring, fighting dragons and chevaliers as you do?” Penelope wanted to know. “Or did the mages have to attend you every time you’ve been wounded?”
“Countess Seidel.”
Penelope froze. Her face went pale under its protective layer of paint, and she bowed. “Prelate Pentaghast.”
Cassandra turned to see Uncle Vestalus, a glass of white wine in his hand. “I wonder if you could excuse us,” he said. “I haven’t had a moment alone with my niece since she arrived this morning.”
“Of—of course,” Penelope stammered, bowing again. “I suppose I’ll see you later, La—Seeker.” She hurried away.
“Must you loom up out of nowhere like that?” Cassandra demanded of Uncle Vestalus. “Now you’ve gone and frightened the countess half to death.” A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Although the Mortalitasi were revered in Nevarra, they were feared as well, both for their power and for the nature of their duties. More than a few of them dabbled in magics that occasionally crossed the line into necromancy. It was part of the reason that she was here. But, at the moment, she was grateful for the awe her uncle inspired. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Uncle Vestalus smiled back at her. “You’re welcome, child.” He sipped his wine, looking out over the ballroom. “You are no fonder of parties than you were as a girl, it seems.”
“Is it so obvious?” Cassandra asked, rather ruefully.
Uncle Vestalus chuckled. “You exhibit slightly more self-possession and poise than you did as a girl of twelve. Your manners are not improved. I should be disappointed. But oddly, I find myself relieved. I have missed you.”
“No one howling in the Necropolis these days?” Cassandra returned. She beckoned a passing servant and received her own glass of wine, a red.
“No one but the demons,” Uncle Vestalus said lightly.
Cassandra looked sharply over at her uncle, but he only smiled slightly. “That is why you are here, is it not? Divine Beatrix fears the Mortalitasi are taking too many liberties.”
“Are you?” Cassandra said bluntly.
He scoffed. “Of course not. Though I don’t expect you will take my word for it. I suppose you will make a thorough investigation.”
“I shall do my duty, as it was described to me by the Lord Seeker and Divine Beatrix,” Cassandra answered.
“Will you consent to come home while you do it?” Uncle Vestalus asked her. “It will spare your horses the daily rides. And it’s ridiculous for you to be renting a house in the city for the duration of your stay here. People will think I’m inhospitable.”
“Nonsense. You could have hardly been expected to put up our entire company, Uncle. In any event, the streets of the Grand Necropolis are forbidden to all but the Mortalitasi.”
“Technically speaking, though you have always had certain privileges.”
“You have certain privileges,” Cassandra corrected him. “It would be inappropriate for me to take advantage, especially given the nature of my mission here.”
Uncle Vestalus regarded her for a moment. “You’re an honorable girl, Cassandra,” he said after a moment. “Forgive an old man his fondness for family. Supper then, here in the city.”
Cassandra looked over her glass at her uncle. It was chancy, spending too much time with Uncle Vestalus. She was here to review the current state of the Mortalitasi for the Seekers and Divine Beatrix and to propose and negotiate reforms, if necessary. There were clerics with her who would not hesitate to tell others that she was compromised. And yet, she did not wish to be overly cold. She . . . regretted the way she had parted from her uncle, all those years ago.
“One supper,” she agreed. “We can . . . talk. After negotiations,” she added sternly.
Uncle Vestalus chuckled, but his face had fallen. He seemed hurt. “Very well. I suppose your caution is admirable. Unwarranted. But admirable.”
He resented her suspecting him of conspiring to apply leverage against her in her mission, using their family relationship to forward the Mortalitasi goals. Or perhaps, he was pretending to resent it. “Uncle, I—”
“Don’t let me monopolize you, my dear,” he said quietly. “I am certain you have many people to catch up with.” He bowed and left, and Cassandra watched him go, feeling like the worst, most ungrateful monster ever to walk the surface of the world. But if he was shamming!
She downed the rest of her glass of wine and moved to join a collection of elderly Pentaghast warriors near the ham.
Cassandra entered her rooms in the house she had rented with the Divine’s allowance for their mission to Nevarra City. She was physically and mentally exhausted, and she felt about a decimeter tall. Oh, she had not disgraced herself. She had danced and talked until she was certain she would be hoarse if King Markus defied expectations and actually invited her to speak with him tomorrow. She had not provoked any duels, nor had she risen to any provocation—and there had been enough, a time or two. No matter how high she rose in the world, to the royal court of Nevarra, she would always be the daughter of Matthias and Tigana Pentaghast. No one had truly forgotten. In the royal court of Nevarra, no one forgot anything.
There was a movement to her right, and Cassandra whirled, drawing her reclaimed rapier in a heartbeat.
“Cassandra! It’s me!”
A mage light came up in the darkened room, illuminating Galyan’s face. Cassandra sheathed her sword, unbuckled the belt, and hung both items upon the hat stand. “Galyan. You frightened me. I thought you might be an assassin.”
“Is it so dangerous here?” Galyan asked, shrinking the fireball over his hand until it emanated from a single finger, which he used to light candles around the sitting room. “I had thought Nevarra City safer than Val Royeaux.”
“Mmm. Perhaps it is, for many,” Cassandra assented. “I wonder if we shall find it so this visit.”
“You think the Mortalitasi would harm you? Isn’t your uncle their prelate? I saw you speaking with him tonight.”
“Yes, I’ve agreed to a dinner, after the negotiations are done. I also made it clear that the Mortalitasi should expect no concessions simply because I was raised in the confines of the Grand Necropolis. My uncle seemed offended. I am sorry if I have misjudged him. But if not . . .”
Cassandra sighed and closed her eyes. Maker, give me strength.
“It was hard, for the Divine to send you here,” Galyan observed presently.
“Very,” Cassandra agreed. “I have not seen my uncle in almost ten years—or anyone from Nevarra City. I do not know . . . it’s strange.”
“You conducted yourself with grace and aplomb,” Galyan told her, but could not conceal a telltale smirk. “For you.”
“Oh!” Cassandra smacked him lightly with the backside of her hand. He caught it and pressed something into it. Cassandra looked down to see a round, perfect orange from the banquet tables, one of the fruits imported from Antiva for the occasion.
“And you looked beautiful,” Galyan finished, in a very different tone.
Cassandra looked down. She closed her fingers around the cool, pebbled rind of the orange. “Thank you,” she whispered. She had not had nearly enough to eat at the ball tonight. She had not had the opportunity. And she dearly loved the fruit, which would not grow in the cooler climes to the south but always had to be imported or hothouse-grown. Divine Beatrix did not often indulge in the expense, nor did any of the Seekers.
She poked her thumbnail at the rind. “Galyan, I—did you mind, terribly, being assigned to this mission? It is a long way from the Circle, and I wondered if it might be awkward for you, traveling in my retinue.”
“Why should it?” Galyan asked gravely. “You know I am always at your service.”
Cassandra looked up, blushing furiously, to see his blue eyes dancing.
“I wondered if you might have had something to do with Her Holiness’s request I join the company,” he murmured.
Cassandra blushed even more furiously, and she turned away. “I—made a suggestion. Hardly anything so formal as a request. Stop smirking! I just . . . thought it might provide certain opportunities.”
Their love affair was a shadowed thing, conducted, for the most part, in stolen, frenzied moments in dark, abandoned corners of the Circle Tower or the Grand Cathedral. It was exciting, passionate, but . . . difficult to coordinate. And it was rare that they had anything like real privacy or the blessing of a full night together. Here, they were away from the eyes of nearly everyone who watched either of them on a regular basis. It was unlikely any Seeker or cleric’s runner would disturb her chambers, and they might have the luxury of not just a single night but many, for as long as they stayed in Nevarra City.
Galyan sighed. “And here I thought I had been asked for my skills as a mage.”
Cassandra decided she was tired of being teased. She rolled her eyes. “How would you like me to flatter you?” she asked him. “Would you prefer I say you never would have been asked if you weren’t a highly accomplished mage and high in the good graces of both Her Holiness and First Enchanter Edmonde? Or should I return, in my clumsy way, that true as all of that is, the long and short of it is that I wanted you? You will think me brazen if I say that.”
“Horribly,” Galyan told her, sliding past her to lock the door to her chambers. “You’re far too forward. And here I find you’re meant to be a lady.”
Cassandra snorted, and Galyan turned around, took her in his arms, and kissed her. “Don’t apologize for it, Cassandra,” he whispered when they parted. “I shan’t. I’m glad you asked I join you. Or suggested it. Or whatever. So, you may cool your blushes, love. As charming as they are. You never have to be ashamed for wanting to be with me.”
Cassandra shook her head. “Never that,” she told him, fervently. She reached behind Galyan to put his orange on a side table for breakfast tomorrow, wrapped her arms more securely around his neck, and she kissed him back.