her eyes made Lady Belissa smirk and flutter.
After polite clapping, Count Luestor rose, his knees popping, and muttered his way through something totally unintelligible.
Third was Corlis Medzar, one of Gillian’s friends. She batted her eyelashes at Spaquel, lifted her fine nose, and launched into a loud, dramatic ballad dedicated to a lover. Judging from the astonishing list of his superlative qualities, a very imaginary lover. It was difficult to tell if she actually had a good singing voice because she added so many flourishes and trills that she sounded like a bag of demented parakeets.
Next was Spaquel’s turn. He drew himself up. Jewel leaned forward, her gaze limpid.
Spaquel warbled:
I rise at dawn to watch the sun
Don the colors of the day.
Its sumptuous plumage melting into brightness…
I sigh in melancholy hope
That the colors will shine,
Reflected in her eyes,
Already the color of the sky,
Gazing humbly otherwhere
Like doves cooing on a rooftop
And flying, flocking to the sun
Like arrows
They rise to my face.
Oh yes! Oh yes! My heart cries
As dawn fills the skies of my mind.
Jewel fluttered her eyelashes at that reference to sky-colored eyes and simpered at Spaquel. He smirked as the polite applause ushered him back to his seat. Then he looked out of the gazebo. I wondered who else he could be expecting. Anyone wise had surely taken a detour and was on the other side of the gardens. I longed to be back inside and practicing my harp again. After my month away, my fingers had lost some of their flexibility, and I had two or three new songs forming in my head.
The second of the older ladies rose to sing a love song. The melody was a familiar one to which she’d adapted a popular witty, dashing old poem, and she’d gotten the cadence and the rhymes to fit. Jewel and I were enthusiastic in our clapping this time. But the third countess made up for the lapse into talent by unloading a forty-eight-verse epic dedicated to the summer song of her dove.
Then it was Jewel’s turn.
Her voice sweetly intoned:
Elegant are the peacocks
In plumage glitt’ry and bright
Loudly the bantams strut about
Displaying raffish might.
Oh, the peacocks’ display
The bantams gray
The sight, I say,
Display and gray,
A glorious bold parade
But making up this admirous flock
Are lesser and greater kind.
Some peacocks then, some plainly stout
Or plumed, mismatched dull you’ll find
Oh, lovely as snow
Or distressingly low
Their numbers grow
The snow, the low,
All make a sumptuous show.
And with a melting glance Spaquel’s way, she launched into her third verse:
The bantams too own fine and flat—
That’s as far as she got, because the four arched doorways went dark.
Silent men in Maxl’s new blue battle tunics blocked the exits, swords drawn. But I had never seen any of these fellows before and they did not act like our guards, unobtrusive and distant.
“No one move,” said one of them. His gaze swept us all, stopping when it reached Jewel. He nodded and two more came in, passing their fellows in silence, and moved to her side.
“Stop it,” Jewel exclaimed. And then, in utter disgust, “Oh, I don’t believe it. I don’t !”
The leader ignored her, frowning at each of the young women, his gaze turning my way—
And Spaquel gasped, waving a hand at me as though shooing away insects. “Oh, not her highness ! Princess Flian, you must flee at once !”
I’d already gotten to my feet, but there was nowhere to go. The leader stared at me, motioning to two huge fellows. “That’s t’other one, then. Right.”
Moments later a thin dagger flashed near my neck. Over it I met Lady Belissa’s terrified gaze. The countess with the dove had fainted. Poor old Count Luestor was wrestling with the dress rapier at his side, but the two strong young men had pulled me—struggling mightily—from the gazebo before he managed to get it free of its scabbard.
Down one of the paths
After polite clapping, Count Luestor rose, his knees popping, and muttered his way through something totally unintelligible.
Third was Corlis Medzar, one of Gillian’s friends. She batted her eyelashes at Spaquel, lifted her fine nose, and launched into a loud, dramatic ballad dedicated to a lover. Judging from the astonishing list of his superlative qualities, a very imaginary lover. It was difficult to tell if she actually had a good singing voice because she added so many flourishes and trills that she sounded like a bag of demented parakeets.
Next was Spaquel’s turn. He drew himself up. Jewel leaned forward, her gaze limpid.
Spaquel warbled:
I rise at dawn to watch the sun
Don the colors of the day.
Its sumptuous plumage melting into brightness…
I sigh in melancholy hope
That the colors will shine,
Reflected in her eyes,
Already the color of the sky,
Gazing humbly otherwhere
Like doves cooing on a rooftop
And flying, flocking to the sun
Like arrows
They rise to my face.
Oh yes! Oh yes! My heart cries
As dawn fills the skies of my mind.
Jewel fluttered her eyelashes at that reference to sky-colored eyes and simpered at Spaquel. He smirked as the polite applause ushered him back to his seat. Then he looked out of the gazebo. I wondered who else he could be expecting. Anyone wise had surely taken a detour and was on the other side of the gardens. I longed to be back inside and practicing my harp again. After my month away, my fingers had lost some of their flexibility, and I had two or three new songs forming in my head.
The second of the older ladies rose to sing a love song. The melody was a familiar one to which she’d adapted a popular witty, dashing old poem, and she’d gotten the cadence and the rhymes to fit. Jewel and I were enthusiastic in our clapping this time. But the third countess made up for the lapse into talent by unloading a forty-eight-verse epic dedicated to the summer song of her dove.
Then it was Jewel’s turn.
Her voice sweetly intoned:
Elegant are the peacocks
In plumage glitt’ry and bright
Loudly the bantams strut about
Displaying raffish might.
Oh, the peacocks’ display
The bantams gray
The sight, I say,
Display and gray,
A glorious bold parade
But making up this admirous flock
Are lesser and greater kind.
Some peacocks then, some plainly stout
Or plumed, mismatched dull you’ll find
Oh, lovely as snow
Or distressingly low
Their numbers grow
The snow, the low,
All make a sumptuous show.
And with a melting glance Spaquel’s way, she launched into her third verse:
The bantams too own fine and flat—
That’s as far as she got, because the four arched doorways went dark.
Silent men in Maxl’s new blue battle tunics blocked the exits, swords drawn. But I had never seen any of these fellows before and they did not act like our guards, unobtrusive and distant.
“No one move,” said one of them. His gaze swept us all, stopping when it reached Jewel. He nodded and two more came in, passing their fellows in silence, and moved to her side.
“Stop it,” Jewel exclaimed. And then, in utter disgust, “Oh, I don’t believe it. I don’t !”
The leader ignored her, frowning at each of the young women, his gaze turning my way—
And Spaquel gasped, waving a hand at me as though shooing away insects. “Oh, not her highness ! Princess Flian, you must flee at once !”
I’d already gotten to my feet, but there was nowhere to go. The leader stared at me, motioning to two huge fellows. “That’s t’other one, then. Right.”
Moments later a thin dagger flashed near my neck. Over it I met Lady Belissa’s terrified gaze. The countess with the dove had fainted. Poor old Count Luestor was wrestling with the dress rapier at his side, but the two strong young men had pulled me—struggling mightily—from the gazebo before he managed to get it free of its scabbard.
Down one of the paths
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