The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [13]
When he reached the spot where he had begun, Baerer stopped as if unable to retreat any farther. His parries became even more rapid, even tighter and closer to his body. Enemies were all around him, close enough for their hot breath to stir his hair. The drum fell silent and only the viol played on. A long note—the same note that had begun the dance—soared on the air. Baerer’s movements became tighter. Tighter. His sword rose before his stiff, quivering body—
And the note faded away, leaving man and sword once more in silent rigidity. Baerer held the pose for a moment longer, then lowered his sword and bowed low before Tariic.
Vounn spoke into the silence that gripped the hall. “Tariic of Rhukaan Taash, emissary of Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor, in the name of Baron Breven d’Deneith, patriarch of this House, be welcome in the halls of Sentinel Tower.”
Tariic pulled his eyes away from Baerer. “Lady Seneschal d’Deneith,” he said, “Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor sends his greetings.” His voice was deep and rough but pleasant and assured, with no trace of a Goblin accent. He nodded back at Baerer. “Deneith honors us with a performance like nothing I have seen before.” He stood straight and shouted, “Paatcha!”
The goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears of Tariic’s guard burst out in a deafening roar of admiration, made even more deafening by the slapping of gauntleted fists on armored chests and by the screams of one unnerved tiger. Vounn, wearing a barely concealed expression of triumph, turned and made a small gesture to the members of Deneith gathered on the dais. Released from the bonds of ceremony, they added their applause to the din. Baerer bowed and bowed again, his face restrained but his eyes bright with pleasure.
Ashi focused on breathing and not killing anyone before she could get out of the hall.
The chambers she had been assigned were down the hall from Vounn’s suite. Even in private, she couldn’t be away from the lady seneschal. Ashi thrust open the door to the chambers, then slammed it behind herself. Dust that had probably been lodged in the frame for decades or more drifted down over the old wood. Ashi passed through the sitting room and into the bed chamber, tearing off the dancing garments as she went. The veil fell, crumpled, across a chair in the sitting room. The enveloping robe dropped to the floor of the bed chamber. The sword, a light piece of metal intended mostly for show, clattered alongside it. Ashi started to rip at the fitted shirt—a seamstress had all but sewn her into it that morning—then stopped.
There was a gown laid out on her bed. It was deep crimson silk, with full Fairhaven sleeves and a stiff collar of fine gnomish lace. Something inside her stirred and she knew that the cut and color of the dress had been chosen to flatter her height and features—
With a wordless cry of fury, she snatched up the sword and plunged it through the gown, stabbing deep into the mattress beneath. The blade pierced silk, bed-clothes, ticking, and stuffing to jam hard into the wood frame beneath. Ashi released the hilt and staggered away, her lips drawn back. “It’s not supposed to be like this!” she snarled through her teeth.
A year ago she hadn’t known about the cut of gowns or the origins of lace. She’d barely known anything of the world outside of the Shadow Marches. She’d been content as a hunter of the savage Bonetree, one of the most feared of the Marcher clans. She’d dimly been aware of the thirteen dragonmarked houses, knowing them only as distant clans rumored to carry magic in their blood.
Then she’d discovered that she carried that magic, too.
She raised her arms in front of her. Bright blue-green lines traced her skin from the backs of her hands to her shoulders, disappearing under her shirt. The Mark of Sentinel wrapped her in a pattern that covered almost her entire body, from feet to face. Only her fingers and palms and a strip