The Supreme Warrior

By John Viril

Calidon Dannik fell in love with Alynde, the daughter of Horgeond's most powerful Baron, when he was 10 years old. Now, Cal's father schemes to win her hand for Henrick, Cal's older brother. Unable to accept his father's decision, Calidon attempts a bold gambit to win Alynde for himself. The aspiring Knight soon finds himself enmeshed in elaborate plots that extend far beyond the confines of his homeland.

His adventure takes him from his father's Barony to the vast dwarf warrens of Nidafall and finally to the fabulous City of Selinger---whose Prince has struggled for decades to bring the warring Barons under his sway. Cal must accept the destructive nature of knighthood before he can help Prince Keldrinthwart the corrupt powers that yearn to dominate Horgeond.

If you like epic fantasy that embroils you in vicious intrigue, takes you to far lands inhabited by strange creatures, and explores big themes like the relationship between war, religion, economics and ecology, then The Supreme Warrior is for you.

The Foolish Warrior attacks enemy Soldiers. The Supreme Warrior battles the Mind

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Viril
• Release date: Dec 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311741066

John Viril

John fell in love with fantasy worlds when his sister handed him The Hobbit when he was in seventh grade. After tearing through that book, The Lord of the Rings and then any other “big” fantasy novel or sci-fi series he could lay his hands on, he was hooked.Reluctant to pursue such an "unrealistic" goal as becoming a writer, John first earned a Biology B.S. at Tulane University, then a J.D. at University of Missouri Kansas City. Rather than growing out of his desire to pursue "unrealistic" goals, he became more adamant about chasing his dreams.John is a proud Filipino-American, who early in life learned about different worlds through his immigrant father (who came to the United States in 1956) and his Ozarks-raised mother. After dealing with the differences within his own family, figuring out elves and dwarves was a snap.Today, he is a founding member of an early-stage venture in the health care IT field, and writes in his spare time. John considers J.R.R. Tolkien, Frank Herbet's Dune, George R. R. Martin and Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games as his primary inspirations, among many others.

Book preview

ONE: The Hûrd

The Foolish Warrior attacks enemy Soldiers. The Supreme Warrior battles the Mind.

—Caraazor 1:2 The Alchemy of War

The full moon glowed through the sacred memory grove as Hoëlwin watched his narn brethren gather in the clearing. From all across the vast wilderness, they came; many had emerged from glades they had tended with delicate care for years beyond reckoning.

They gathered in thousands—tens of thousands—in far greater numbers than Hoëlwin had seen in his entire life. They came to tap the hûrd’s ancient memories. They came to gather their collective will.

They came to destroy Mankind.

Hoëlwin briefly surveyed the smooth male and female faces, their ageless features blurred under the eerie moonlight. In silence, the tall, ethereal norns arrayed themselves before the monumental elenium trees. They waited for Kafláen. For Kafláen was the trigger. The hûrd’s eldest member was the catalyst that would allow the vast gathering to become one.

Hoëlwin reached out with a reverent hand and linked his mind with the ancient memories stored in the tree at his fingertips. The rest of the gathering linked with other trees in the grove. When Kafláen added his touch, the norns truly were a hûrd: their individuality joined with the trees and the grass to form a single consciousness.

Past and present merged.

In an instant, Hoëlwin’s mind expanded. Eons of experience flooded his awareness that had simply not been there before. As his mind explored the cornucopia of new information, he assembled scattered knowledge into a whole he had never dreamed possible.

He knew how to stop the men who chopped down the hûrd’s forest.

He knew how to save the ancient memories that had been stored in the trees.

He knew how to attack the minds of his enemies.

While the hûrd could not change thoughts or control actions, the hûrd now recognized it could deepen a tide-pool of sorrow into an ocean of misery or magnify mild pleasure into delusional ecstasy. The hûrd would assault the emotions of mankind’s leaders until they could no longer cling to sanity.

Hoëlwin dropped his slender hand from the tree. The young norn’s mind suddenly constricted after isolating his consciousness from the hûrd. Stunned, he glanced around the grove, searching the befuddled faces of the other norns. No one spoke. No words between individuals could compare to the absolute symbiosis shared by the hûrd.

Silently, the tall norns melted into the woods. The hûrd needed to gather even more of their kind because this task would require a historic effort. The hûrd would have to entice key human leaders into the norvish forest in order to touch their minds. For long years, individual norns would surrender their independent existence and remain locked together with the forest. However, the results would be worth the sacrifice. Mankind’s fragile peace would end.

TWO: The Fair Maiden

Foreknowledge cannot be divined by Prayer, nor can it be deduced by Reason. It can only be acquired from People: people with Knowledge of the Enemy.

—Caraazor 17:2 The Alchemy of War

Calidon Dannik doodled on his lesson slate as his aged tutor droned on.

Cal glanced to his right, and saw his sixteen-year-old younger brother Earwin absorbed by the lecture, his head bobbing up and down on his stick-like neck. To his left, he noticed eight-year-old Coriss playing solo games of tic-tac-toe with his slate tilted back to hide his ‘work’ from their tutor’s view.

In contrast to Coriss’s hurried scratchings, Cal handled his chalk—nestled in thick fingers—with surprising care. He leaned his torso back in his chair, trying to bring his slate into focus. The massive young man carefully shaded a life-like portrait of their tutor, but he had removed the tired age lines and filled in the wild strands of hair that dangled from the tutor’s scalp. Instead, he depicted Immel as a virile young warrior—as Cal imagined him before the long-ago injury that had crippled the old man’s right arm.

Despite the seeming absorption with his artwork, Cal picked up his slate the moment the lecture ended. He sprang from his seat in the chapel, where Immel held his tutoring sessions, and stashed his lesson materials in a storage chest. He hurried through the door before his brothers had finished putting away their writing utensils. Cal crossed the fountain court, passed through a small parlor, and entered the armory of Dannik Castle before the bell tower had finished tolling the tenth hour.

It was time for sword practice.

Uncle Aldon waited in the armory, sitting on a short stool next to a rack of practice swords. Aldon’s short, iron-gray hair and stern features made him look almost as metallic as the weapons which inhabited his world. Cal automatically opened the lid of his storage chest to remove his chain mail, but Aldon interrupted him with a blunt command, Rapiers today. No armor.

Aldon rose from his stool and stalked from the room.

Rapiers. Why today, of all days?

While Cal still stared in disgust at the rack of plain practice swords, his younger brothers finally appeared in the armory. Earwin, who at sixteen was only two years younger than Cal, quickly selected a blade. His surety irritated his much larger brother, who did not want to use one of the vile things in the first place.

Reluctantly, Cal removed one of the rapiers from the rack. He examined the rebated edges and balled point to make sure it was safe to use for training. The thin, easy-to-handle sword looked ridiculously fragile compared to his powerful left arm and thick wrist.

He looked out the armory’s window. Along with the housecarls and squires who regularly trained in the practice yard, a swarm of spectators crowded the field. The practice yard always attracted a crowd just before Dannik’s spring fair. Many caravan guards, tradesmen and other travelers had little to do before the fairground opened, including a large number of unattached young ladies.

Great, I have to use this stupid toy in front of everyone.

Rather than entering the yard, Cal sat on a stool beside his stored gear, and closed his eyes. He fed annoyance, and fear of failing into his mind until he felt restrained anger pulsing through his brain, accelerating his senses into a hyper-reactive pitch. Now he was ready.

As Cal opened the armory door, the housecarls and guardsmen practicing in the yard looked up from their training to watch him. This subtle deference still surprised him every time he noticed it. Sometime in the last year, his training sessions began to distract the household soldiers from their drills.

As the brothers walked onto the yard, Earwin blurted out, "Holy Gods! Is that Alynde?"

Cal’s angry edge vanished. Involuntarily, he stopped as his eyes anxiously scanned the young women lining the edges of the yard.

At that moment, eight-year-old Coriss hurried to join his brothers. A puzzled look crossed his small features as his older brothers lowered their voices to a murmur.

Where, said Cal.

Earwin raised his arm...

Cal snapped, Don’t point! Just tell me which one.

By the well, green dress, answered Earwin, mimicking his older brother’s clipped tone.

Gods! She’s got a better body than Elena.

A few moments ago, neither Cal nor Earwin would have considered that to even be possible.

After blankly returning Cal’s gaze for a few moments, Alynde’s face broke into a welcoming smile. She raised her hand to give him a small wave. He walked over to her, struggling to reconcile the spectacular woman he saw with the skinny girl he used to know. He stopped about three full paces from her, trying to keep her outside his blurry near vision, but she smiled and closed the distance between them.

Alynde! How long has it been? he asked, even though he knew exactly when her father had sent her to study under the Priestesses of Abbindi.

Alynde shook her familiar blonde tresses as she looked up at him, seemingly startled at her need to do so. She promptly answered, Four and-a-half years.

Are you a healer now?

No, I’m an apprentice. The Temple sent me home to treat patients under supervision of our Healer, she replied, running her eyes over the heavily-muscled chest Cal had lacked four years ago. If I wish to advance, I’ll have to return to the Great Temple in Cinessia, she added with a small pout.

Though he forced his eyes to look at her face, Alynde’s ripe figure remained imprinted on his mind. He knew that men across the Baronies could not fail to notice her. Not now. She’ll be wed well before she can even think about going back to the Temple.

Cal did not know how he should react to that realization.

Are you happy to be home? he asked, more out of a desire to hear her voice than any real interest in the information. He pressed his thick forefinger against his right eye-socket, trying to bring her into better focus.

She grimaced at his question, and then replied, I’m glad to be here.

Aldon’s terse voice cut him off before he could continue. You two fence, commanded Aldon, glaring at Cal and pointedly looking back toward Earwin.

Coriss, come with me.

Cal’s gaze touched Alynde’s face once again. A slight grin touched her lips. Her eyes drifted to the left and she bobbed her chin in Earwin’s direction.

He turned his eyes back toward his brother. Earwin had already assumed the en guarde position.

Of course, he wants to start. The rapier is his favorite weapon.

Before Cal had prepared himself, Earwin launched a vicious attack. His brother’s long chestnut-colored hair waved like a banner as he beat Cal’s blade aside then thrust high. Cal deflected the attack with a late parry and retreated a few steps. His blurry near vision did not hinder his swordplay. Blocking a sword did not require precise eyesight, though it was somewhat disorienting when opponents closed on him.

Freed from the confines of heavy armor, Earwin rushed forward to close the distance between them, his sword flashing to the attack. Earwin’s point slid past his older brother’s parry to score the first touch.

This time, Earwin glanced in Alynde’s direction. Relief flowed through Cal when he noticed her attention turned toward Saryse instead of watching the swordplay.

Too bad little brother, she wasn’t watching.

Earwin straightened his bony frame, lifted his chin, and brought his sword back to guard with exaggerated precision. His eyes gleamed. During their daily training duels, Cal normally buried his skinny younger brother under flurries of powerful sword-strokes. With the rapier, their roles reversed.

He’s not really quicker than I am. He just spends more time practicing with this stupid thing than I do.

The rapier had no use as a battlefield weapon. Too thin to penetrate the heavy armor worn by knights, the rapier had recently become fashionable among the teeming trading cities in the south as a dueling weapon. Aldon, not wanting his students to be helpless if compelled to accept a naked duel, had insisted his nephews learn to wield it. Earwin immediately embraced the new weapon, because he relished any excuse to avoid bulky plate mail. Rapier practice was about the only thing that pulled him away from his obsessive studies in the Dannik library.

The rapier was also the only real hole in Cal’s weapons mastery.

Think! Think! Think! I must find a new tactic.

Earwin whirled into another attack, his scrawny arms and awkward legs aligning with formidable grace. This time, Cal met his brother’s sudden thrust with a firm parry. As their blades darted through a rapid sequence of blows, he sensed Earwin gaining momentum.

How can I use my strength?

Suddenly, he closed with Earwin, their blades crossed between their bodies. He shoved his gangling brother and sent him sprawling. Before he could recover his balance, Cal jabbed his sword-point into his brother’s chest.

A red-faced Earwin sneered, You stupid ox. That’s all you can do, push and charge like a dumb bull...

Cal barked, And you’re not man enough to stop it!

Anyone can skewer an ox.

Uncle Aldon’s harsh voice interrupted their squabble. Earwin, work with Yorik.

Aldon turned his disgusted gaze on Cal for a long moment, and then said, You’re with me.

Cal’s eyes lit with hope when he noticed that Aldon held two wooden greatswords in his hands. Aldon extended one of the hilts toward his nephew.

It’s about time!

He glanced at the wooden weapon and wished it were his superbly crafted greatsword, with a bejeweled hilt and unadorned blade. That was what he really wanted to wield. For now, however, the practice sword was a reasonable facsimile.

He gripped the leather hilt with both hands and joyfully swung the bulky training weapon through a brief series of strokes. The wooden greatsword had been carefully weighted and balanced to handle like his real weapon. Despite its large size, Cal swung it with terrifying agility.

Aldon summoned two pages, who stepped forward bearing long leather hauberks and iron-rimmed helms. Even though the weapons were crafted from wood, the combatants needed padding to prevent against training injury. As Cal slipped the long weighted garment over his shoulders, he could not help but look in Alynde’s direction. She gave him another little wave.

He tried to sharpen his fighting instincts with his typical method: by focusing on the anxiety that pulsed in the core of his being. But, his recalcitrant brain continued to churn. Henrick, Cal’s eldest brother, had fought in his first tournament soon after his eighteenth birthday. Also, many of Cal’s peers had crowed at the winter festival that they would appear in the lists in the spring. Yet, when he had broached the issue with his uncle, Aldon insisted he was not ready.

Aldon had growled, I didn’t appear until I was twenty—and I was well-served by the wait. So shall you be.

What about Henrick?

He is Heir. His duties require the Accolade.

Cal shook himself free from the memory. Here’s my chance to convince him I belong in the Tournament.

Aldon moved with blinding speed, showing no sign of the back injury that had forced him to retire from the Tourney circuit. He aimed an agile stroke at his nephew’s neck, but Cal met the blow with an immediate counter-cut. The seasoned knight twisted his sword, attempting to bind his nephew’s point with his cross-hilt; but Cal slid his blade free of the trap. The older man lifted his foot into his pupil’s broad chest and pushed him back. Cal reeled across the yard.

His uncle closed with a rush, aiming cuts faster than Cal had ever seen from him before. Aldon’s flurry forced him to make passive parries. Numbness exploded in his forehead. He belatedly registered the ringing crack of his helm as he fell to the ground.

Cal did not even see the blow.

For a moment, he blinked at the late morning sky. He was lying on his back. Then he realized he had lost.

Slowly, he sat up, his helm still vibrating from Aldon’s strike. He heard heavy boots approach from behind. His uncle’s shadow loomed over him.

A knight, Calidon, must learn to transcend thought. Distractions lead to defeat.

The older man glared at Alynde, and then barked, Enough for today.

Cal felt his facial muscles slacken with surprise; Aldon had not allowed him to cut short a workout since he was a child. Calidon Dannik sat in the middle of his father’s practice yard, struggling to blank his features, and then rose to his feet—too humiliated even to glance in Alynde’s direction. His face burned with shame.

Coriss joined his brother from across the yard, the little boy cheerfully swinging his wooden sword. As the two walked back to the armory, Calidon felt like a child chased off of the field before the big boys could begin serious training.

On the practice yard, Earwin still fenced with confidence and skill while Uncle Aldon beamed.

* * *

Cal retreated to his father’s stable after his humiliation in the practice yard. A tall, roan stallion strained against his stall and nickered his welcome when Cal entered the barn. The young man smiled. He grabbed an apple from a nearby barrel and fed it to his childhood favorite.

Cal opened the stall without concern, knowing Thistle would be so busy greeting him, that the friendly horse would not think to struggle or try to break free. He grabbed a stiff brush and began to groom his favorite’s long black mane.

I’ll bet you’d love to carry me into the lists, wouldn’t you boy?

The stallion whinnied as if he understood, desiring nothing more than to share another adventure with his companion.

Cal sadly patted him, knowing such glorious days to be behind his old friend. Thistle had carried him through his first knightly lessons. Though the warhorse had been old even when Cal was ten, he had been a loyal friend as his young charge learned to handle arms from the back of a horse.

As he brushed Thistle’s short-haired coat, frustration overwhelmed the well-built squire. He simply could not tolerate another year rearming the contestants on the Tourney field while wondering if he could take the prize. The time had come for him to enter the lists, especially with Alynde’s return to society. He decided to persuade his father to override Aldon’s decision.

Cal immediately ordered a nearby boy to finish grooming Thistle. He hurried out of the stable, passed what seemed to be an endless row of wooden compartments, and skirted the edge of the still-crowded practice yard. He entered the Throne Room through the north entrance, blinking his eyes to adjust to the dim light after the brightness of the yard. After his vision cleared, he made out the imposing image of his father seated at the far end of the hall.

He could not help but recall a long-ago voyage across this same dark expanse. Three-year-old Cal had escaped from his former wet-nurse, and toddled toward his father. The Baron had looked up from his circle of advisers, and lifted his son onto his lap. Pulling out a book of heraldry, Grelig displayed a veritable menagerie of fantastic creatures to his enthralled son.

Somehow, Cal doubted his father would offer a similar welcome to an unbidden squire. Hardening himself to remain true to his purpose, eighteen-year-old Calidon strode toward the throne. He stopped about three paces from the High Seat.

Father, I need to speak with you.

I’m glad you are here, Calidon. I have a task for you.

Wait, Father. I must speak to you about the Tournament.

Shafts of light shone through the windows high above and played across the headstones built into the wall behind the throne as a resigned Grelig glared down at his son.

Say what you must.

Cal suppressed a sudden jolt of fear. He knew his father had guessed his intent and was not pleased. Stung by his father’s attitude, Calidon spoke boldly. I’m no longer a child. It’s time for me to take the field. I’m ready.

The Baron’s voice was mild. Are you your own master now?

Tension prickled his stomach as he recognized his father’s tactic. Grelig had enticed his second son into proud statements many times before, just to cut him down moments later. This time, Calidon refused to fall into the same trap.

No Father, I am not, he answered carefully. I’m Sir Aldon’s squire. And yet, I most humbly suggest that I would best serve you...

The Baron rose to his feet and barked, "Silence! You’re not fit to serve anyone until you learn to obey!"

But, Father...

Do not try my patience.

Baron Grelig waited a moment, as if he expected his son to continue. Cal, however, was wise enough to stay silent. The Baron gave his son one terse nod. I have an errand for you.

Grelig reached down to his right and pulled a large burlap sack into his lap. Go into town and visit your tailor. You’ll pick up a new suit of clothes for the fair. While he’s fitting you—make sure you are alone—give him this, the Baron handed his son the knapsack. Tell him I can sell his guild six thousand bolts of silk at four silvers a bolt.

The Baron continued, Bring back his reply. And do not tarry.

Cal’s uncertain voice asked, Four? As annoyed as he was by this insipid task, even he knew that to be a ridiculously low price.

Grelig thundered, Just do as you are told.

The young man fumed.

Henrick gets to fight in the Tournament, while I play messenger. I might even understand the decision if Henrick had the guts to fight me on the practice yard. But, he’s barely bothered to train after he won his Knight’s Belt.

Grelig glared at his son once again.

Yes father.

Cal left the Throne Room and returned to the stable. As he saddled Thistle, he briefly considered opening the knapsack, but he did not care what it contained. All he wanted to do was finish the stupid chore as soon as he could.

* * *

As night fell, guests filled the Great Hall for the fair’s opening banquet. If this meal had been the closing banquet, which followed the Tournament, Calidon would have been obliged to serve Sir Aldon as his squire. Tonight, as a member of the Ruling Baron’s family, he would dine.

Alynde will be here.

His mind continued to chew over her marriage prospects. How do I feel about that? Despite the internal question, he already knew. It tore the very core of his being. Thinking about it was simply a futile attempt at reasoned denial.

Broad beams of dying sunlight filtered into the Great Hall through the west windows, casting the profiles of the guests seated along the opposite wall in a red-gold hue. Cal entered the strange, half-illuminated environment with his three brothers, mother, and father as trumpets sounded.

The guests stood.

Baron Grelig and Lady Adrienne slowly proceeded down the center of the hall in quiet dignity, followed by their four sons.

Cal remembered his father’s words from his boyhood: Walk slow! Don’t look at them; they should be looking at you. They won’t know you rule here unless you know it.

In the past, Cal had often wondered if these processions accomplished anything but exercise the pride of rulers. On this day, however, he relished the ceremony.

Five visiting Barons sat at the center of the High Table. They did not rise for Grelig: they were his equals. After Baron Grelig reached the High Table, he stood before his seat for a long moment while he majestically surveyed the crowd.

Meanwhile, Cal searched for Alynde and soon spotted her seated halfway down the right side of the table. His eyes spotted an empty chair next to her. With a pang of regret, he noticed Steward Lapian had seated Henrick on her right. Cal’s eyes marked his own cup at the board. Right across from her! Perfect!

As protocol required, the Baron proclaimed, Let the banquet begin.

Baron Grelig bent down to sit, as a servant smoothly moved his gilded chair beneath him. Almost as if he were absolving himself from blame, Grelig dipped his hands in a great silver urn set before him by his ewerer. The guests followed the Baron’s lead as servants brought towels and clean water for every diner.

After the guests had washed, the dinner bell sounded. Pantlers entered the Great Hall bearing loaves of fresh bread piled like cordwood on plain wooden platters. Behind the pantlers, dairy maids brought saucers that held blocks of new butter.

Just after the pantlers had finished serving the bread, the butler and his assistants carried casks of mead and wine into the hall. As the servants filled goblets all across the room, the diners relaxed and conversation began to flow.

Careful speech soon began to fill the Great Hall.

Cal quite happily sat across from Alynde; but, after his performance on the practice field, he was too tongue-tied to do more than exchange polite greetings. His traitorous mind painted an elaborate vision of Alynde in her wedding gown standing next to an ominous groom. He quailed from this painful composition and turned his attention to the powerful Lords seated at the center of the table.

The Barons drank in stiff silence punctuated only by polite inquiries from butlers. Since the fair was a commercial event, aimed at bringing trade caravans to Dannik, the Steward had seated wealthy merchants at the High Table to mix with the nobles. Grelig began an awkward conversation, attempting to include one of the wine-sellers. Ah, Master Roncar, drink deep, for the wine was purchased from your wares.

The prematurely balding wine merchant flashed a quick smile and raised his goblet with his stubby fingers. He answered in a formal tone, It’s kind of you, m’lord, to serve my humble vintage.

Oh, ’tis certainly not a humble wine, replied the Baron, deeply inhaling the wine’s aroma from his cup. Seems rather bold to me.

A graying silk merchant interjected, Then perhaps it should have been served to our guardsmen. A caravan guard captain set his goblet down firmly, but he did not rise to the bait.

Baron Grelig gave the small textile merchant an inquiring glance. Instead, Master Roncar responded for him. We were attacked by bandits on the way here. The silk merchants, among others, lost a large portion of their goods. They’re agitated because it’s part of a pattern. Bandits have been targeting them all spring.

Not on my lands, I pray, growled Baron Grelig.

Oh no m’lord, soothed Master Roncar. We were in the wilds, near Baron Chulert’s territory.

Baron Garvin of Chulert started, sluggishly lifting his gaze from Grelig’s wife. He realized he was under attack. He attempted to pitch his voice into a low growl, but the slight wheeze that rattled his chest ruined the effect.

No Baron is responsible for the bandits of the Wild, he answered.

Chulert attempted to suppress the quavering of his disloyal lungs with a quick sip of wine. His cobalt blue eyes flashed with anger and his muscular shoulders hunched into a protective sheath about his neck.

Not at all m’lord, replied the Keeper from the nearest Temple of Maht-Hildis, his shaven head reflecting the torch light. Highwaymen eat silk I suppose, and don’t sell it in the Baronies.

The six Barons seated at the table fell silent.

Though the Temple possessed vast estates, the Warrior-priests of Maht-Hildis scrupulously avoided taking sides in disputes between settled Baronies. They stuck to their mission of protecting the roadways and wild places across the Northland. Recently, however, itinerant monks had begun to whisper that the Barons of the Meiselen Valley tolerated bandits as a source of cheap goods. Now, a Keeper had directly accused a local Baron.

An outraged Baron Chulert hotly retorted, How can anyone expect a noble to tell one type of thief from another?

Chulert’s dinner knife began to tremble, as if he wanted to plunge it in the Keeper’s neck. A Baron, however, could not indiscriminately attack a Priest of Maht-Hildis.

Deathly quiet fell over the High Table.

Grelig looked at his five fellow Barons and carefully said, How indeed...since we all steal from one another.

Uneasy laughter rippled across the group, then settled into terse silence.

Bereft of his pretext to ignore Alynde’s allure any longer, Cal turned his gaze back toward his childhood companion. He envied his brother’s seat as he watched Alynde turn toward Henrick, the ends of her long blond tresses resting just above the curve of her right breast. He admired her smooth beauty as she listened to Henrick talk about preparations for the fair. Cal failed to catch the exact words of her response; he only heard the sweet melody of her voice.

Alynde fell silent, but Henrick did not respond. He started slightly, apparently realizing that she expected him to answer. Lost in the shadow cast by his father’s canopy, he groped for something to say.

It’s hard for a lord to manage a fair. The Traders and Barons accuse each other of thievery, when they really steal from one another.

His answer surprised her. A small frown crossed her features, which she quickly suppressed. She bestowed a vague smile upon him, encouraging the young lordling to continue.

Elena, seated at Alynde’s right, rolled her eyes.

For once, his older brother’s insufferable arrogance pleased Cal. Gods! What an idiot. He doesn’t know the first thing about her. Talk to her about horses. Ask about her cat. And don’t dare try a corny poem. She’ll eviscerate you.

Henrick rested his smooth-shaven chin on his fist, idly stroking the invisible bristles that his razor had missed. He oozed his eyes over the pale blue silk of Alynde’s bodice. His pupils lost their clouded glaze as they weighed her beauty.

Keeping everyone happy is where the Lady can be valuable to the Lord. My mother stays in the background, but knows all that passes, expanded Henrick.

He gave her another assessing glance, then said, ’Tis important for the wife of a Lord to understand his concerns, then she can be of great value to him.

Alynde listened while looking at his curly chestnut hair. Apparently, she wanted to know all about his affairs.

What’s wrong with her? Did a dopplegänger consume her brain in the Temple of Abbindi?

After the bread and wine, the cooks brought the meal. Course followed course in a dizzying succession. Steaming venison circulated around the table on trenchers of dried bread. Stuffed pheasant garnished with a full panoply of noble peacock feathers made the diners gasp with appreciation. They slavered over the candied swan. Swordfish, salmon and rock lobster rounded out the fare. The cooks had prepared these dishes with a bewildering array of sauces and seasonings.

For dessert, the head chef wheeled out an enormous, multi-tiered cake covered with beautifully sculpted white icing.

It was an orgy of consumption.

After the meal, acrobats and clowns twirled into the room. One juggler seized the dishes of a startled young woman and tossed them to his partner. As the evening went on, diners who called for more wine began to receive no more than watered dregs when the dispensers answered their call. Steward Lapian ordered his servants to tap the new mead and clear the floor for dancing.

Discordant notes rose into the air as the musicians tested their instruments. Cal walked to Alynde’s side, feeling almost as awkward as the clashing musical tones that accompanied his trek. Saryse, who had been whispering in Alynde’s ear, tossed her mane of straight black hair and suddenly fell silent. Elena looked up from her small hand-mirror and glanced at Grelig’s second son. A resigned shudder ran across her pleasant features. Ignoring her friends, Cal spoke to Alynde. M’lady, may I have the pleasure of this dance?

Maht-Hildis help me. Why can’t I talk to her—like when we were children?

Alynde turned her attention to him slowly. Elena’s soft lips hardened into a sour line, while Saryse suppressed a giggle behind her small fist. For a moment, Cal thought she was about to decline as Henrick shot an unhappy glance in his direction. Alynde’s face lit into a smile. She answered, I shall be honored.

She seemed pleased.

Cal guided her to the dance floor, his callused hand swallowing her slender one. Pairs of men and women scattered across the wide expanse of the floor and twined their opposing arms together in a convoluted weave, the interlocking grip marking them as a couple. As the dance began, each pair spun in their own orbit; yet, like the planets, they remained tied to a greater pattern.

The artful swirl of Alynde’s voluminous skirts and her effortless steps entranced Cal as they moved through the dance. Her natural sense of balance had always astounded him, especially when she taunted