Page 7 of Path of the Dark
Ryana glanced over at her friend. Mira didn’t look as if she was struggling with her attire at all. A long black gown hugged her curvaceous form as she mounted the steps with ease. High-necked and slinky, Mira’s gown fell straight to the ground without all the layers of material that Ryana was struggling with. Mira’s thick black hair, which she usually wore loose, was piled on top of her head.
“You talk as if that’s easy,” Ryana grumbled. She wasn’t usually beset with envy for other women, yet she was now. Mira—who was Asher’s consort, and these days trained the apprentice enchanters in combat—looked an exotic beauty in that gown. Usually dressed in black hunting leathers, it was a dramatic change for her.
“Just copy Ninia,” Mira quipped. Her grin turned teasing. “She knows how to walk like a lady.”
Reaching the top of the steps, Ryana turned to see Ninia following at her heels. The young woman, a princess of the fallen kingdom of Thûn, looked at ease in a wine-red gown. The color suited her pale skin, hazel eyes, and rich brown hair. Ninia glided past the two women, chin held high. “Relax your shoulders, Ryana,” she instructed. “You appear a hunch-back standing like that.”
Ryana frowned although she straightened her spine at the reprimand.
Mira arched a delicate eyebrow. “Come on … we’re late.”
Ninia and Mira moved off. Ryana released a heavy sigh before following them.
If I turned around now and walked off … would I be missed?
She wished she’d remained inThe Black Boar Inn. She could still be there now, tucking into a dish of boar stew, a second tankard of ale at her elbow. She would have begged off if Asher hadn’t insisted. As Head of the Dark, she was expected to attend these events.
Like the afternoons she spent in the Hall of Charms—forced to wear an ‘official’ persona—evenings such as these made her feel restricted.
The three women entered the palace, past liveried servants and flaming torches, following a trail of candles to the throne room. Asher would already be there—as High Enchanter of the Order, he’d gone ahead with Wray, who was the new Head of the Light.
Ryana entered the throne room behind Ninia and Mira. The massive vaulted space—impressive enough during the day—took on an otherworldly quality at night. The immense space was the playground of deep shadows and burnished torch and candlelight. Banks of torches burned upon the walls, and a huge chandelier of candles hung overhead, its flaming majesty dominating the room and casting a gilded light over the crowd below.
The forest of marble pillars made the throne room look like some enchanted woodland glade, where brightly dressed nymphs with blood-red lips and rouged cheeks laughed and mingled to the sound of hauntingly beautiful music.
And beautiful it was. Despite her reluctance to attend the ball, Ryana’s step slowed as the strains of a harp flowed over her, accompanied by a woman’s sweet voice.
They were singing ‘Remember Me’, a tragic ballad about an enchanter and a fairy maid who fell in love. However, when he tried to use enchantment to bind her to his world, his lover died and her family wreaked terrible vengeance upon him.
Ryana hadn’t heard that song in years; it had been one she’d avoided during her time as a wandering scop upon the Isle of Orin—for it was a song that she and Gael had performed often.
Those evenings seemed a lifetime ago now.
Ryana stopped, letting Mira and Ninia draw farther ahead. Ninia swept into the throne room as ifshewere the guest of honor. Mira appeared less sure of herself. Unlike Ninia, who made her way toward the dais where Queen Eldia sat chatting to retainers, who fluttered around her like brightly colored exotic birds in their expensive gowns, Mira wove her way through the crowd toward Asher. Dressed in flowing white, the High Enchanter stood to the left of the dais, deep in conversation with Wray.
Watching Asher reach out and wrap a possessive arm around Mira’s shoulders, Ryana experienced a hollow sensation settle in the pit of her belly. She was happy for her friends, but the sight of them together just highlighted how alone she felt. Most women of her age were wed, with a brood of children.
But that wasn’t to be Ryana’s story.
A servant passed by, bearing a tray of silver goblets. Ryana helped herself to one and took a large gulp of rich red wine.
She’d only just arrived, and already she felt suffocated and on-edge. High-born women drifted around the floor, their expressions distant. Despite the wide vaulted space above her, the air in the hall seemed stifling, and she felt self-conscious in her flouncy dress.
If I can get away early, there may still be time for a few songs at the inn.
Ryana drained her goblet and handed it back to the servant before helping herself to another. She then moved through the crowd, clutching her goblet like an anchor, and headed toward the nearest pillar, where she could skulk and avoid mingling.
The ballad ended, and another, jauntier tune, began—one of Ryana’s favorites. She began to hum along. She knew the words to this one and wished she was standing before a tavern audience so she could sing it. The song grew steadily louder when a flutist accompanied the harpist and singer. As it reached its crescendo, Ryana’s gaze alighted on a tall, dark-haired figure standing at the pillar opposite her.
It was the man of Anthor she’d seen on the King’s Way.
Ryana’s discomfort dissolved, and she watched him with keen interest.
The man leaned against the pillar, goblet of wine in hand, his gaze surveying the crowd. He was handsome, or might have been if he smiled, although there was a hardness to his sharp-featured face that warned others from approaching. He’d changed clothing, yet his style of dress was distinctively southern: a dark leather vest and breeches with a scarlet silk shirt underneath.
Ryana tensed, a tickle of recognition flaring. She didn’t know him, but instinct told her she should.
“I see you’ve spied Nathan’s guest of honor.”
