Chapter Twenty-six

Winter's End

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“Winter's End my ass,” Abrizhen muttered, pulling his overcoat more closely about him.

He and Yilina had traveled by portal, but now they must stand outside in the very slow-moving line of people entering Yldratha Manor.

The first of spring was still a month away yet. Although the drive and steps had been cleared of snow, the grounds around them were still blanketed in deep drifts. Only the clusters of snowdrops along the pavement, forcing their green leaves through the frost and nodding their white heads gracefully to the gathering dignitaries, gave any hint that spring was indeed near.

A gust of icy wind blew over Abrizhen's face, ruffling the fur on his collar and giving him yet a third reason to miss Caedra.

Yilina was making lively small talk with other guests around them, but as they finally gained entry, Abrizhen hurried her along, handing their overcoats off to servants in the spacious entry hall. He had no desire to attend this party, but at least he could soon have a drink to warm up. Once inside the ballroom, though, Yilina thwarted his attempt at taking a glass from the tray of a passing waiter.

“Later,” she said firmly. “If you get too drunk we'll have to leave and I have things to do here.”

“What things?” he asked sourly.

“Things for your father,” she answered in clipped tones. “Don't fuck it up.”

“Madame Vysda,” he said in mock indignation, “such language!”

Yilina lightly jabbed him with her elbow and showed him a bright smile.

“There you are!” she said happily.

Abrizhen only sighed and allowed her to lead him to an open table on the perimeter of the ballroom, where she ordered him a cup of tea and he sipped it while glaring moodily around the room.

The enormous ballroom was brightly lit and gaudily decorated for the festival with swags and bouquets of pastel silk flowers, anticipating spring's arrival. It seemed more than half the aristocracy of Valesk had come out, all decked in brightly colored silks and brocades, with elaborate floral accessories in every chignon and lapel. They chatted happily at the side, or danced waltzes to the swell of strings and woodwinds.

It all made Abrizhen want to vomit. The world was falling apart. What did any of these people have to be so happy about?

“Zhen!”

Abrizhen's melancholy was interrupted by a chorus of voices calling his name. He turned to see a troop of five men approaching, a few of them clearly inebriated. Ranging in age from early twenties to Abrizhen's own age, this was the “pack of young aristocrats” Abrizhen had told Tamyn about.

Two of them had locked their arms across the shoulders of Mikhatym Yldratha, the Prince Heir of this house - the youngest of the group. Amid a mass of romantic dark curls, his sweet face had turned the color of a beet with embarrassment, but the others pulled him along between them despite his protest.

Arriving at Abrizhen's table, one man removed his arm from the prisoner only to capture Abrizhen in a similar manner.

“Zhen,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “Thank all Gods you are here. This is so boring. So... so boring.”

“It would seem you have brought your own fun, as expected,” Abrizhen replied, giving the man a smirk.

This was Zevram Yldra, and whenever shenanigans occurred, he was the most common instigator.

“Now we're all here, we should slip out and go into town,” Zevram said. “You know what these spring festivals are like in the villages. Far more entertaining than this.”

“We couldn't take Mikha, though,” said the young man's other captor.

This was Nikhan Urskatha, third child of the Urskathas. Usually reserved and wistfully melancholy, he seemed uncharacteristically lively tonight, his fair face flush with alcohol and his tawny hair escaping the ribbon that should tie it back.

“Right,” Zevram replied, “Zhen, I was going to say... Man, what are you drinking? Tea?”

His unkempt dark hair flopped forward as he peered into Abrizhen's cup.

“Are you sick?” He laid a palm across Abrizhen's forehead. “What the hell happened to you in Caedra? What was I saying... yes. Do you know why this ball was held here in the lovely Yldratha Manor?” he asked.

Abrizhen only returned a quizzical look, as Zevram's tone indicated that he couldn't wait to explain.

“Zev,” Mikhatym whined plaintively.

“For him,” Zevram said, poking a finger into Mikhatym's chest. “To find our little Mikha a wife.”

“Ah!” Abrizhen responded, his eyebrows shooting up. He scanned the room again, and, indeed, the crowd was well-populated with the unmarried daughters of the aristocracy. “Congratulations, Mikha!”

“No, don't congratulate him yet,” Zevram warned, “because look at what else showed up.”

He pointed an accusatory finger to the head of the ballroom before Mikhatym could grab it back down.

Abrizhen's eyes tracked Zevram's pointing finger. On a raised dais at the end of the room sat Prince Yegaran Goskatha, the eldest son of King Halany, and certainly enough, the concentration of women was quite dense in that area.

“Zev, he had to be invited,” Mikhatym reminded his cousin.

“But he wouldn't have come if you didn't send the invitation personally,” Zevram replied.

“Don't worry, Mikha,” said Nikhan, the arm still draped over the poor boy's shoulders now hooking around his neck. “You can use this to weed them out. Those flocking about the Prince aren't the kind you want anyway.”

Abrizhen chuckled at that, but felt a sudden hard pinch on his hand. He turned to look at Yilina, who he had completely forgotten until now. She gave him a warning glare.

“What?” he said. “His father is King, not him. We don't owe him any deference.”

“Good behavior is good policy,” she said coldly.

She swept an icy glare over the group, until her eyes landed on a tall and lanky blonde man of Abrizhen's age standing quietly at the back. Her expression shifted quickly, and she stood to give him a curtsy.

“Cousin,” she said happily. “It's lovely to see you again.”

Kirisliy, Prince Heir of Vysdatha, regarded her with cool detachment.

“And you, Cousin,” he said evenly. “I trust you are well?”

“I am!” she replied spiritedly. “I'm here to accompany Lord Devratha tonight. I'm sure you know that I am one of Prince Devratha's lead Alchemists now?”

Kirisliy's face twitched in an arrested expression of disdain.

“Your mother would be so proud of you,” he said flatly.

Yilina's face fell and she looked away across the ballroom.

“Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me,” she said, turning a smile back to them, “I believe I shall go pay my respects to the Prince. Cousin, please do give my regards to your parents.”

Abrizhen stood as she left the table, then invited the others to join him.

“You all, sit,” he said cheerfully. “Vadi, you've been quiet so far, what's new?”

The fifth member of the group, Vadislin Mera, sat slowly while still watching Yilina wending her way gracefully through the crowd, the ruffled skirt of her black silk ballgown swaying as she walked in time with the music.

“Don't tell me you're interested in her,” Kirisliy scoffed.

“No!” Vadislin said with a grimace. “Just... wondering what she's up to.”

“Don't we all wonder that,” Abrizhen muttered, giving Vadislin a curious glance.

Among this group, Vadislin had always been the hardest one for Abrizhen to get a read on. His parents were raising Elika Mera, the orphaned cousin made de facto heir to the Principality of Meratha after the deaths of the Principal family.

Of all families in Valesk, the Meratha clan surely held the most potential for deep grievance, if the rumors of foul play in that fire were true, but Vadislin would never discuss politics, usually inciting Zevram to some foolishness if the conversation turned too serious. Even such a mild remark on Yilina's activities was surprising.

“Looks like she's heard the rumors,” Zevram said, still drunk and wavering, but aware enough to lower his voice now. “Zhen, I've been dying for you to get back here to hear this. I was at a ball at Goskatha a couple of months ago. That Prince seems to think he'll be the next King. That is your throne, and if you need me to punch his arrogant face, I'll go do it right now.”

Abrizhen laughed.

“If he wants it, then good,” he said. “I sure as hell don't. But how does he think that?”

“They are remaking Valesk,” Vadislin said quietly.

Abrizhen looked around the table. Every face wore a bleak expression, except for Mikhatym who gazed at Abrizhen with a worried sympathy.

“Hey,” he said cheerfully, “you lads know me. I just want to make it through this life and hope there's something better after it. Anyway, Father is next in line, not me.”

“Someone should tell Prince Devratha about it,” Kirisliy said. “Especially if Yilina might jump ship.” He looked across the ballroom and sneered with disgust. “She's flirting shamelessly over there.”

“Better him than me,” Abrizhen muttered.

He looked at Mikhatym, who was still staring at him sadly, and winked.

 

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