Robin Hardy Online

Book One of the Latter Annals of Lystra

From the back cover:
One hundred years after the Great Surchatain Roman of Lystra . . .

At the spring fair, the beautiful Chataine Renée meets 17-year-old Nicole, daughter of a humble tailor, and insists that she come for a visit to the palace at Westford. Raised in a peasant village on the coast, Nicole is unprepared for the sophistication and treachery of palace life—but her father has decreed that she shall not come home without a rich or noble husband.

Nicole's prospects include Counselor Carmine, handsome but disinterested; Commander Ares, who carries the pain of his past; and possibly even Surchatain Cedric himself. But these are dark times for Lystra, and Nicole discovers that in the presence of evil, even good men may veil the truth. 

Chapter One

The Lady Nicole of Prie Mer, sitting in the open carriage, gazed ahead at the gargantuan, iron-banded palace gates of Westford, marveling at their standing opening--to admit her! She could hardly contain the thrill. All agog, heart pounding, she clasped the padded rail of the carriage as the driver clucked to the horse and the carriage lurched over the bridge spanning the Passage. The driver, an affable soul named Niles, now turned his neverending soliloquy onto the history of Westford. But since Nicole had discovered hours ago that he talked much of matters he knew nothing about, it was not necessary for her to actually listen to him in order to respond with, "Really, you say?" and "My word," whenever he paused.

 It had been a hard day's drive from Prie Mer in Calle Valley, as they had left before dawn and it was now late afternoon. But since her father could scrape together barely enough silver to rent the driver and the rig, much less mounted guards, the early morning hours were the only remotely safe time to travel along the coastal highway of Calle Valley. Once they had crossed the border into Lystra, they could relax, as the Lystran Commander kept the roads mercilessly purged of robbers. So now, only a little tired, with a trunkload of elegant dresses, Nicole had arrived.

 As they passed through the gates into the courtyard, Nicole's gaze traveled up to the scores of soldiers along the parapet, many of whom were gazing back down at her. Unheeding, she looked around the palace courtyard. It was huge, and every bit cobbled, crammed with the chaotic traffic of merchants, servants, and upper-caste townspeople. And above it all, like warrior angels, the soldiers on the parapets looked down in silent watchfulness.

 After negotiating his way through the crowd with agile steering and swearing, Niles pulled the rig up to the steps of the palace itself. A handsome young sentry in an ornamental breastplate of gleaming brass shot down the steps to grab the nag's bridle impatiently. "Get this beast--" his tirade was cut short by a glance at Nicole. He fell dumb, looking at her.

 In righteous vindication, Niles said haughtily, "The Lady Nicole of Prie Mer is here at the invitation of her cousin, the Chataine Renée."

 Nicole had only to smile at the young sentry for him to open the door of the carriage, lower the step, and extend his hand. "Welcome to Westford, Lady Nicole. I will have your belongings brought in and the Chataine apprised of your arrival."

 "Thank you, sir," she replied with a pretty inclination of her head. But once having assisted her to alight, he stood paralyzed. So with a toss of her head, Nicole hiked the skirts of her travel dress and trotted up the steps, where two other sentries opened the great doors into the foyer. Glancing up at one sentry long enough to see his slack, lovestruck expression, Nicole sighed faintly in relief. Her primary concern prior to this visit was whether the men in Westford would react to her the same as they did in Prie Mer. They did, and it bode well for her designs.

 Nicole had never considered herself beautiful. After her mother had died when Nicole was barely toddling, her father Robert was left with no relatives to watch her while he worked painstakingly at his trade as a tailor. Hour upon hour he would sit and stitch, and the quality of his work earned him fame throughout the whole southern region of Calle Valley. Since he himself could not both watch her and earn a living, he hired out her care to a neighbor woman with six children of her own. The woman ignored her completely, and Nicole turned into a wild child of the coastline. She spent her days ranging over craggy bluffs and rocky inlets, white-sand beaches and inland meadows. Then at eventide she would go home to her father, who blithely assumed she had been under the neighbor's watchful eye all day.

 As the shoemaker's children go barefoot, so Nicole wore dresses handed down by the woman's four daughters. By the time the dresses came to her, they were hardly more than rags. So whenever Nicole happened into a middle-caste house not her own, she was roundly scorned and shooed out the back door. She never even looked into a real mirror until, at thirteen, she had encountered one at the fair. (Robert conducted business without one; years later, she was to wonder how.) To her eyes, the reflection was less than spectacular, dominated by the coarse, patched dress, too small and too tight. That was not quite four years ago.

 The seventeen-year-old stood waiting in the grand foyer, lifting her eyes to the staircase that was broad enough to accommodate a team of plow horses. Today, the ragged child was dressed in an elegant travel suit of brown linen. It was simply cut, neither fashionable nor revealing (as the fashion of the time was to be revealing), but tailored so impeccably that the charms of the lady were apparent at a distance of fifty yards to alert eyes. For this, and the entire wardrobe the Lady Nicole carried, were constructed by a master tailor.

 Robert had never lost sight of his daughter's ultimate good. No matter how many hours he might put in on his customers' needs, not a day went by that he did not spend at least an hour on Nicole's trousseau. When a particularly fine piece of silk fell into his hands, he would stash it away in the trunk that sat behind her now. Whenever he measured a lady who seemed about the size of his darling wife (God rest her soul), he cut the silk according to those measurements. Whenever a short string of beads was left over from a gown laden with them, he would add it to a headpiece that went into the trunk. For although the title was entirely fictitious, Robert was determined that his daughter would one day be presented as a lady.

 A bell tolled somewhere in the palace complex. Waiting for Renée, Nicole watched the staring, whispering courtiers. People would always talk; it didn't bother her. They just wanted to know who she was. But as no one approached her directly to ask, she spoke to no one. Thirty feet to her left was a massive fireplace with a comfortable fire. In late April, it was still cool enough to require generous feeding of the flames. But even in midsummer, this fire would be never be allowed to burn out. The foyer fire was always kept burning, year-round. It was the fire from which every other flame in the palace was lit. By the time her visit came to a close at the end of September, other fires around the palace would be burning during the day, as well. She must complete her objective by then. She had five months to find a husband, if not a nobleman, then at least rich. Her father had ordained it. That she had no dowry to offer made the proposition that much more challenging.

 Thirty feet to her right was the doorway to the chapel, open to anyone in the city whenever the palace doors were open. Nicole looked in at the rows of benches and the rough-hewn wooden cross standing at the far end. On the foyer wall beside the doorway, stretching to the very staircase, were the huge banners commemorating the reigns of the houses of Westford: Karel, Galapos, Roman, Ariel, Bobadil, Talus, and Cedric, the present Surchatain. Cedric's was by far the largest and most ornate of the banners; the earlier ones, especially, were rat-gnawed and dirty. Was Cedric married now? As Renée's father, he once had been, but even on the coast of Calle Valley they had heard reports years ago of his wife's infidelity and deposal.

 In the excitement of the moment, Nicole wondered what her chances might be with Cedric, were he single. Then she blushed in shame at the thought, remembering her estate. It would be a daunting enough task to snag a nobleman; a royal husband was out of the question. She put it firmly out of her mind so as not to embarrass herself with overweening aspirations, ever.

 Nicole began walking the length of the wall to distract herself with a closer look at the banners. She knew much of Westfordian history without the tutelage of Niles; the Valley was most interested in keeping up with the affairs of its neighbors. She had even been afforded the rare opportunity of reading the entire Annals of Lystra, written during the reign of the great Roman of Westford. Becker, a monk who lived in a hovel on the shore, had taught her to read and unlocked for her the storehouse of books hidden in his charge. The summer of her twelfth year she had spent mostly sitting on the floor of his hut, reading. Not only did it open her mind to the joy of learning, but it changed her speech--she no longer sounded quite so much like an ignorant pauper. But Becker got to bothering her with his hands that wanted to roam over her developing body. She endured it long enough to finish the last book of the Annals; then she left and never returned.   

She paused in front of Roman's banner. As she regarded the faded lion and cross, something stirred inside her--almost a pain of recognition. But that was quite impossible, as he had reigned a hundred years ago. Under him, Lystra had gained the greatest stature in her history, covering almost three times the territory she had now. Roman's son Ariel enjoyed a long reign of peace and prosperity, but Ariel's son Bobadil, raised without the advantages of hardship and struggle, almost brought the country to ruin. Lystra was only now scrabbling to recover under the watchful eye of her covetous neighbors, including Calle Valley.

 Nicole stepped away from the wall to get a clearer view of the banner and blindly collided with a man striding toward the front doors. The collision would have knocked her breathless to the stone floor had he not caught her shoulders, whereupon her feet got under his, and he was forced to dance a two-step to keep from falling down and taking her with him. Gales of laughter billowed from onlookers all over the great hall, and Nicole looked in the man's face. She gasped as soon as her breath returned. 

 He was tall, broad-shouldered, and solid as a stone wall. He wore black pants and a black waistcoat embroidered also in black, with just the frill of his white shirt showing under the standing collar. He had dark brown hair cut short, out of his eyes. But all she saw--and what made her gasp--was the hideous scar running the length of his face. It separated his right eyebrow, resumed deep and purple on his cheek, and terminated only at his jawline. When she could tear her eyes away from the scar to look at his eyes, she saw them regarding her with no expression at all. 

 He was looking into impish, upturned eyes, effusively fringed. She had luminous skin and full lips. Curiously, her bottom lip had an indention that matched the top, only fuller. It was a small feature that irritated her greatly upon discovery, but that men seemed to find fascinating. They were always trying to put their mouths on it. But her pride was her glossy mane of chestnut hair which (when clean) had the feel of silk. It flowed halfway down her back, and the sunlight glinting off it could blind a man.

 There was little sunlight in the great foyer. As the man set her back on her feet and began to move away, she obeyed the sudden impulse to curtsy and murmur, "Forgive me, my lord." There was nothing in his mode of dress or adornment that elicited her use of the title—only in his bearing. 

His eyes darted back to her face in what might have been surprise. Then he lowered his face, or nodded in response--she couldn't really tell which--before carefully stepping around her to resume his brisk walk, his long sword strapped at his hip. A subordinate who was following him regarded her with a moment's intense curiosity before catching up to the man ahead.

 Feeling slightly disoriented, Nicole returned to stand beside her trunk. She reached down to pat it reassuringly. Everything she had of value--everything that might bolster her status as a lady--was in this trunk. Regardless, she did not really feel nervous about her ability to blend in here, with what she knew of Renée.

 They had met at the spring fair in Crescent Hollow just a few weeks ago--Nicole always accompanied her father when he took his creations to the spring and autumn fairs. One look at Renée's gown told Nicole that she was someone special, but Renée hardly glanced at Nicole's gown—one made by Robert, which Nicole wore in advertisement of her father's trade. Instead, drawn to something in Nicole's face like a long-lost sister, Renée kept her at her side the whole day, and then insisted that Nicole come stay the spring and summer at Westford. Upon hearing, Robert was jubilant. The only other event that would approach a visit at Westford for sheer number of prospects was the annual betrothal fest at Calle Valley, and it had become so decadent that Robert would not permit his treasure to attend. Besides, she wasn't invited.

 The Chataine Renée returned home after that one day at the fair, leaving instructions for Nicole to come as soon as possible. In the twelve days before Nicole's departure, Robert almost wrecked his health staying up till all hours finishing her trousseau, while she received intensive training from a local nobleman in palace etiquette (in exchange for free tailoring).  

 "Nicole!" The scream resounded in the great hall, and everyone turned to look at Renée poised on the enormous staircase. Her objective accomplished (in getting everyone to look), Renée then lifted her brocade skirts (revealing a naughty, bare ankle) and skipped down the stairs to greet her guest.

 Nicole embraced her. "Oh, Renée, you are so beautiful!"

 She was, actually. Renée, two years older than Nicole, had blond hair and fair, pampered skin. Her eyes, very large and very blue, could beseech anything out of anybody, which she did, frequently. And she was always dressed in the most sumptuous clothes. "Take her baggage up to my apartments," Renée ordered a nearby soldier. Interrupted, he looked at her, looked at the trunk, then shrugged and gestured at a fellow to help. Watching them hoist her treasure, Nicole observed the smiling whisper that passed between them. "Come, let's get you out of that drab dress," Renée chirped, hugging her arm, and Nicole felt her heart sink.

 Upstairs, Nicole tried hard not to stare at the opulence of the Chataine's quarters. It was an astounding act of generosity for the Chataine to invite a commoner to share her personal quarters during her visit. Nicole gazed at the cloudlike feather bed in wonder--but no, that was presumptuous. She would sleep on a pallet.

 Meanwhile, Renée was bending over her trunk in delight. "Hurry and open it. I can't wait to see what you have! Oh, we're going to have fun today!" Nicole removed the trunk key from a ribbon hidden in her bodice, and unlocked the trunk. Renée threw open the lid and began to dig through the contents. Nicole bit her lip, watching the precious fabrics being pawed like so much hay.

 Renée lifted out the first dress, holding it up by the shoulders. "My, how . . . lovely. How quaint," she murmured, then draped it carelessly over her arm to rifle through the others. "No matter," she decided, standing. "Change into this quickly. I've so much to show you."

 Renée's personal attendant brought water for Nicole to wash and a light meal, since she had not eaten since early that morning and dinner was still hours away. In front of Renée's full-length mirror (a thing Nicole had never seen before), she slipped into a dress of yellow silk and fur-lined surcoat. A beaded silk cap held her hair back over her shoulders, and little yellow slippers went on her feet. Nicole stood before the mirror, touching her father's handiwork with fondness and pride. She turned to the Chataine, beaming, and Renée took her hand. "Come," she said with a devilish grin.        

 Hand in hand, they raced down the corridor toward the stairs. Most of the servants and courtiers had the good sense to get out of the way, but one man in elegant robes, wearing a gold chain of authority, planted himself in front of them and bowed formally. Nicole slid to a stop within inches of his pert nose. "My dear Chataine, please introduce me to your captivating friend," he said in a prim tone.

 Renée drew up impatiently. "Counselor Carmine, this is my cousin [another fabrication] Lady Nicole of Prie Mer. She will be summering with us."

 Nicole bowed low to him, knowing that the counselor was second in status only to the royal family. He held out a hand heavy with gold rings. "How charming," he said.

 "I am honored, my Lord Counselor," she replied, touching his hand in the appropriate manner. One must not grab or clasp the proffered hand of a superior, but touch it with the respect due a religious relic. Kissing the hand was also appropriate, but Nicole was not forward enough to carry that out.

 "You will give the Commander a rest today, darling?" he addressed Renée.

 She laughed wickedly. "Where is he?"

 "In the pugiling pen, I believe," he said, cocking his head as he studied Nicole. He had nice features, and beautiful light brown hair that curled to his shoulders, but there was something dissipated and weary in his manner.

 "Perfect!" Renée laughed, seizing Nicole's wrist to drag her in another direction. She turned to attempt to bid a proper goodbye to the Counselor, but Renée said, "Don't bother. He won't be marrying anybody." Without Nicole's objective ever having been stated, Renée knew what it was. Her own father had similar designs for herself.

 They raced to an interior row of windows that looked out over a huge grassy quadrangle. At the far end of the complex were the soldiers' barracks and servants' quarters, stables and pens. In between, in neatly demarcated plots, were training fields--the archers in a corner plot, swordsmen in another, hand-to-hand combatants in another--all receiving tutoring in their disciplines. Sheep grazed placidly in unoccupied plots, until that ground was needed for an exercise and they were shooed to the next.

 Renée leaned far out of the window to look. "Good! He's there." Nicole looked down. Six feet from the wall, thirty feet beneath them, a shirtless man stood in a roped-off ring holding a pugil stick--one of those long poles with pads of wool and leather on each end. Scores of soldiers circled the ring, attending as he lectured on its use. He twirled the pole expertly as he talked. When several of the soldiers grinned knowingly at the girls in the upper window, Renée pulled Nicole away. "Come quickly."

 They darted back into the corridor, where Renée seemed to be searching for something. Nicole was startled by the sudden tolling of a bell, very loud and clear. "What is that?" she cried, covering her ears.

 "The bell, darling. The bell tower is just around the corner here." Renée stopped to count. "Six. Dinner is at eight. When the bell tolls eight, we must be at table." She spotted a chambermaid lugging a bucket. "Aha!" Renée pounced on the startled maid and seized the bucket, which slopped wash water over their feet. Nicole gasped as the soapy water drenched the hem of her silk dress. "Help me with this!" Renée ordered. Nicole obediently assisted her in carrying the bucket to the quadrangle window and hoisting it onto the sill.

 Renée looked out cautiously, and Nicole saw the man in the ring below demonstrating maneuvers with the stick. Just when a few of the onlookers stepped away from the ring, seeing a prank in progress, Renée tipped the bucket with well-practiced accuracy. The wash water cascaded down to drench the man. "A perfect hit!" she exulted.

 As the victim turned to look up at the window, the two culprits retreated. Renée tossed the empty bucket at the feet of the chambermaid, who was giggling. "It makes my whole day worthwhile to get him once really good," Renée gloated.

 "Darling, surely--surely that wasn't the commander of your army?" Nicole asked in subdued alarm.

 "Yes," Renée admitted.

 "Whatever will he do to you? Won't he be furious?" Nicole asked. She had heard whisperings that the Lystran Commander killed his own soldiers when it suited him.

 Renée laughed. "Silly dear, he's madly in love with me. He would sit on his haunches and bark like a dog if I asked him to. Men are either beasts or patsies, and he is my patsy."

 "Shall you marry him?" Nicole asked hesitantly.

 "Don't be absurd!" Renée screeched, laughing. "Chatains from around the Continent are standing in line to meet me. Do you know that the eldest Chatain of Polontis traveled for weeks over mountains and plains to come beg for my hand? I sent him away just two days ago."

 "Why?" Nicole asked in wonder.

 "A Polonti? Never, darling," the Chataine sniffed.

 "But--your own Roman was half-Polonti," Nicole said. Renée laughed in disbelief, and Nicole insisted, "He was the son of a Polonti prostitute."

 "Oh, you will go on so," Renée laughed again. "Then you should have been here. You could have had the Chatain. There will be more coming."

 "Oh, no," Nicole ducked her head self-consciously, remembering the middle-caste houses that were too good for her. "I wouldn't dream of it. I would be content only to aim a water bucket as well as you." She looked up slyly.

 "Then you shall practice tomorrow," Renée avowed. "Come." Hand in hand, they trotted down a back stairway and through a passageway floored with rough-hewn planks. Nicole hobbled, picking splinters from her soles, then they continued on to the back entrance of the kitchen pantry. Nicole gazed in awe at the long shelves stocked with jars of compotes, sacks of grain, spices, salted meats, dried fruits, and many other foodstuffs illuminated by the narrow shafts of waning sunlight descending from holes in the roof. Grain dust rose in the light like offerings of incense. A servant was up on the roof now, patching it on the outside with tufts of hay and pitch.

 Renée knelt beside the wine rack to remove a bottle by its neck. "Hurry now." She seemed a little more anxious in this escapade, as if it were riskier than the last.

 With the purloined bottle, they headed down the rough-hewn passageway until it intersected a stone portico; this they traversed, emerging into the open-air laundry pit. Renée plopped down on the edge of the great stone pit where the washing was done. A dozen laundresses worked around them, stirring the clothes in the soapy water-filled pit, beating them, rinsing them, then hanging them to dry. Nicole sat gingerly as Renée popped out the cork from the bottle and took a swig. A sudden splash jolted Nicole to her feet again, and she turned to look at the new stains on her skirts.

 "Here." Renée offered her the bottle, and Nicole took a drink. It was much stronger than the heavily diluted varieties she was used to, and she swayed a little in sitting again. "Hey ho, Merle," Renée called, and a wimpled woman came over, to whom Renée offered the bottle. "Tell us what you know," Renée invited.

 After the laundress had quenched her considerable thirst, she began a recitation of palace gossip: who was sleeping with whom, who lusted after whom, who had rejected the attentions of whom, and who had fallen out of favor with whom. Not knowing any of the persons involved, Nicole found all of this less than intriguing. But she came to attention when Renée asked with dripping irony, "And what of the Commander's love affair with Lady Rhea?"

 Merle snorted, spewing little drops of wine. "He's upped his offer to her father to fifty royals--he's desperate to be married. Her father wants it so, naturally, but the lady drags her feet. Lucinda herself heard her tell Portia that she'll never marry him, just wants to see how high he'll go." The nearby Lucinda nodded confirmation of this information. "He's too proud to go to the whores or chambermaids--says he'll produce no bastards for the abbey's care. But I think that beggars shan't be choosers, and he'd best take what's offered," Merle squinted judgmentally.

 "Oh!" her small eyes widened in remembrance of something crucial. Setting the bottle on the stone ledge, she drew Renée aside. Nicole picked up the bottle (lest it fall into the pit) to follow. "Tanny said that messengers are to be dispatched to Eurus very soon. One or both of Ossian's sons are to be invited to come meet you."

 Renée cast a knowing glance at Nicole. This particular match made excellent sense. Surchatain Ossian, ruler of neighboring Scylla, had carved out a kingdom for himself from the fragments of vanquished territories, including part of Lystra itself. A marriage alliance might very well satisfy all parties with the least loss of blood. Renée knew this because there had been an unpleasant scene at dinner one evening when the Commander had emphatically advised her father that Lystra was ill prepared to fight any war with Scylla, defensive or otherwise.

 "Well," Renée smirked. Taking the bottle from Nicole, she offered it up in a toast: "Here's to love, gentle ladies." Then she upended the bottle and chugged for six seconds. "Nicole! Try this--" Thrusting the bottle at Merle (who finished it off), Renée took a running start, then slid standing up for ten feet on the slick slate floor encompassing the pit. She caught herself on a wooden pillar to stop. "Now your turn!"

 Both dizzy and emboldened from the wine, Nicole lowered her head and ran the same stretch. She began sliding immediately, and would have tumbled down had she not caught herself on another wooden pillar. Hugging it, she heard the sound of fabric tearing, and looked down at a fresh rip on the inside of her right sleeve.

 "Again!" Renée called happily, trotting back to the starting point.

 "I will watch you," Nicole said. She leaned her head on the pillar.

 Renée did it thrice more, never stumbling, falling, or even soiling her dress. Nicole shook her head, looking down at the ruins of her silk ensemble. "Darling, I must change before dinner," she said dismally. She had brought six dresses, not including her linen travel suit. At this rate, she would have nothing left to wear in a week.

 The bell tolled the hour: bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong. Nicole listened, counting. Then she straightened off the pole. "Was that--?"

 The Chataine was momentarily frozen, then she seized Nicole by the hand, crying, "Come!" They tore through the portico, sliding about in wet slippers. They ran through the pantry and kitchen, down a short hallway to an antechamber that was occupied by a solitary gentleman with a list in hand. "Georges?" Renée breathlessly inquired.

 He looked profoundly relieved. "You are on time, ladies." He peered through the curtained doorway into the great banquet hall, lit by hundreds of candles in the chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, as well as tapers on the table. "Please go in now."

 "Thank you," the Chataine breathed, but Nicole was sick to be presented to the royal table in such a state. Dinner in any palace was the most important and inflexible of institutions. Courtiers could be banished from the royal table forever by a single lapse.

 Two attendants met Renée and Nicole at the door of the great hall and offered their arms. Nicole laid her left hand atop the right hand of the attendant and kept her right arm close by her side, to hide the tear. The girls were then escorted to their seats toward the head of the table.

 Seating was rigorously determined by social status and favor with the Surchatain. Those at the foot of the table, the least favored still able to dine in the presence of royalty, were seated first. The table was then filled by courtiers, merchants, or officials, depending on rank. By the time the Chataine and her guest were shown to their chairs, about thirty people were already present. Everyone was to stand behind his chair until the Surchatain arrived and was seated. The lesser bowed to the greater as they entered, and the whole table bobbed in unison as Renée took her place on one side of the table and Nicole on the other, directly across from her. One never spoke to a person of higher rank first, but it was courteous to acknowledge the presence of those below. So Nicole turned and curtsied prettily to the table, which pleased them immensely.

 "Lady Nicole, may I present Lady Rhea and her father Lord Notham?" Renée offered meaningfully, nodding down the table, and Nicole looked at a man and young woman bowing. The man was obviously a well-to-do merchant--certainly better off than Nicole's father--but the woman had a thin, pinched face, unpleasant even when she tried to smile, and Nicole suddenly pitied the Commander. She nodded benignly to them.

 She then looked at the man standing to her right, and vaguely recognized him from--where? He stood tall and straight, with clean-shaven, boyish features. (She began to realize that few of the men here wore beards.) He was dressed in a smart uniform of leather with some military insignia around the collar. But it was only when she looked in his eyes, and saw his expression, that she remembered where she had seen him. There was that curiosity again--less intense, but still discernible--tinged with a definite glint of humor. He had been at the side of the man who had almost fallen over her in the foyer. The recognition of that, and what it probably meant now, caused something like consternation to rise in her throat. He realized that at once, and responded with a subtle smile of reassurance. He was trying to reassure her.

 As she gazed at him, male voices drifted in, along with the sound of purposeful footsteps. Nicole was about to turn when Counselor Carmine took his place to Renée's right, next to the head of the table. "Ah, Lady Nicole," he said in his cultured voice. "It is so very pleasant to see you again. May I present Commander Ares?"

 In near terror, Nicole turned weakly to the figure in black at her left. And the man with the scarred face looked down at her as he nodded slightly.

Copyright 2003 Robin Hardy

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