Page 93 of White Horse Black Nights

Lady Eleonora, in a feathered peacock mask that sits askew on her face, barely glances at me, far more interested in the wormwood-laced wine that stains her withered lips. The other Valveres and nobles at the high lord’s table raise their glass in a curt toast.

As high lord, Rian takes the heavy oak chair at the table’s head, then motions to one draped in golden ribbons at his side.

“Sit, my lady,” he commands. I sink into my chair as tightly coiled as a bundle of nerves, struggling to get comfortable with the costume set of wings against the chair back. I feel like an imposter. My chair and Rian’s are practically thrones. Such finery should be treasonous for anyone to flaunt other than King Joruun. But the king is elderly and in poor health, so who’s going to stop the Valveres?

The instant my backside hits the seat, a fleet of masked servants place silver trays before me and fill my crystal goblet.

“Take care with the wine,” Rian warns wryly. “A few glasses, and you’ll be spouting off prophecies by the night’s end like Immortal Meric.”

I glance again at tipsy Lady Eleonora in her ridiculous mask—she looks ready to drunkenly prophesize the awakening of the gods right now, and the ball’s just begun.

Though the food is delicious, my nerves make everything taste like ash. As the night stretches on, my heart knocks insistently in a reminder that this isn’t where I’m supposed to be.

Rian stands and clinks his glass with a silver spoon.

“Lords and ladies of Astagnon, please raise a glass to my beautiful bride. Lady Sabine proved her perseverance on the ride to honor Immortal Solene, and charmed us with a striking demonstration of her godkiss upon her arrival. We are all fortunate to have the famed beauty in our city, but none as much as I.” He gives an exaggerated, playful wink toward the crowd. “Hands off, you rogues. The lady is mine.”

Polite laughter rings throughout the crowd. I stare at my plate, gripping the armrests so hard my knuckles are white, feeling like nothing is real.

“And now,” Rian says, raising his glass. “It is my pleasure to announce that I will wed my bride here in Sorsha Hall, the ancient seat of my family, on the eve of Midtane. And you’re all invited, you roisterers!”

“Here, here!” The attendees raise their glasses to us amid more cheers. The blood drains from my face. He set our wedding date? Midtane is scarcely more than a month away. Naturally, no one involved me in the decision any more than they did betrothing me to Rian in the first place. It was frightful enough when I was merely engaged to him; having this date set feels like an executioner’s blade hanging over my head.

Rian turns to me with an outstretched hand. “Will you honor me with a dance, my lady?”

Sweating under hundreds of sets of staring eyes behind winged masks, I can’t say no. My heart hammers as my trembling feet follow Rian onto the dance floor, where the crowd makes room for us. I don’t know how to dance. When was I supposed to learn, while scrubbing floors? But Rian saves me. His confident hands steer me so that all I have to do is follow his guidance.

As I twirl and spin, my mind reels. Maybe it’s the wine, or my numbing trauma, or the shock of Rian’s wedding date announcement. Attendees’ masked faces whirl around me like a nightmare.

What am I going to do? Rian might not be quite the devil I thought he was, but I’m no fool. I know that I haven’t met therealhim yet. He’s an expert at hiding his true nature, and thus far, he’s only presented a carefully cultivated facade. Still, I’ll take that over a baldfaced villain like his father any day.

At least Rian has been respectful. He’s gifted me anything I could want; but I feel nothing for him. He’s handsome, but it isn’t his face I dream about. He’s rich, but I don’t care about his money.

My heart doesn’t surge for him in that dizzying, terrifying, bone-melting way that it has before. Halfway through the dance, my eyes seek out Basten at the crowd’s edge. His face is stoic, betraying no emotion, the perfect unfeeling soldier. But I know he must feel something. In the waterfall cave, he pledged himself to me. He made love to me like I was the only woman in the world. I don’t know why his sentiments turned, but he’s masking his real feelings now, too. I know it. I want to tear down that mask, stare straight into his soul, and demand to know why he broke me.

After the dance, we return to the high lord’s table, but the music doesn’t restart for another song. With a devilish grin, Rian announces, “I’ve prepared special entertainment for tonight’s celebration. A battle of strength between two of Duren’s most famed fighters, Magnus Lancaster and Roland the Shade!”

He claps his hand together in a signal, and the crowd shuffles backward to clear a wide circle in the center of the ballroom. For the first time, I notice the inlaid wood on the polished floor isn’t just a decorative pattern; it cleverly forms a game boundary. Among other markings, there’s a circle delineating where a pair would fight.

Two hulking men stride in from the back entrance. They’re clad only in leather breeches to show off their stacked muscles. Their faces are hardened as sea-beaten rocks, one with a short beard, the other with a deep scar across his jaw. One has a red “M” painted on his chest, and the other bears a painted blue “R.”

“For an extra treat,” Rian says, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’d like to propose a wager to my future wife. Select a fighter, Lady Sabine. Should yours win, you may name your prize. However, if mine is the victor, you’ll forfeit a kiss.”

The crowd hoots scandalously, delighted by the bawdy wager, though it has to be relatively harmless, as far as Valvere bets go.

My stomach flips, and my eyes skim over the two fighters trying to win my favor by flexing their muscles. The promise of violence at my engagement party, even as a game, seems a tasteless choice. My eyes happen to land squarely on Basten, standing a few paces behind the fighters, and my heart falters.

But then I think about how he smelled of a whore’s perfume this morning, and my hands tighten in anger on the armrests.

“Wager accepted,” I announce tightly, to the crowd’s delight. “I’ll take the one in red.”

The two fighters step into the marked ring, dancing around one another with intimidating huffs. They’re clearly well-practiced at turning violence into a form of entertainment. I let my eyes drift up to the hanging lanterns. Grown men pummeling each other for sport feels barbaric; then again, what better ode to the ancient fae, the original barbarians?

After some performative banter between the fighters, which energizes the crowd, the bearded fighter, Roland, throws a powerful straight punch, which my red fighter evades by sidestepping. Magnus counters with a lightning-fast jab, followed by a kick to Roland’s midsection. Roland responds with a flurry of hooks and uppercuts, adding a theatrical touch of acrobatics, which has the crowd squealing in delight.

My attention flickers between the fight and Basten. He watches in mild interest like he’s seen these productions a thousand times. And hehas. For years, he was one of the fighters. Does it trigger him to see it again? Call back to his rough past?

If it does, he doesn’t show it.

---