Prison of Night

A little more and there would have been grounds for a quarrel, for weapons at dawn and injury or death waiting one or both. Crushing another nut Dumarest wondered if the baiting had been deliberate but the man had ended in time and left the comment as a compliment. And yet, if he had added 'no matter who he might be' what then?

"A fine chef, skilled entertainers, a magnificent selection of wines-what more could any man want?" Alacorus, gruffly polite yet a little clumsy in his choice of words. He, like Howich Suchong, like Navalok, like the Lord Roland Acrae also belonged to the Council. An accident that so many should have gathered at this time?

A triple beat signaled the ending of the dancers' performance. It was followed by a scatter of applause and the ringing jingle of thrown coins. Flushing the girls picked up their reward and ran with a flash of silken limbs from the platform. The flutist, tall, thin, his hands like those of a woman, took his place, coughed, waited a moment then began to play.

From his place at Lavinia's left hand Roland said, "Lavinia, my dear, you are looking positively radiant."

Her smile was enigmatic.

"You have blossomed since Dumarest came." The glass he held was of fragile glass fitted with a delicate stem. He looked down at it, now snapped, a thin smear of blood on one finger. "I-. My apologies, Lavinia, how did that happen?"

"An accident, as you say." Imperiously she gestured to a servant to provide a replacement. "Your hand?"

"It is nothing." He sucked at the minor wound, his eyes searching her face, the mane of her hair now held in a silver mesh sparkling with gems. "Are you happy, my dear?"

"Roland-how can you doubt?" She turned to him, lips moistly parted, the gleam of white teeth showing between the scarlet. "I never thought I would ever know such fulfillment. Earl is a man! With him at my side-"

"If he stays, my dear."

"If he stays," she admitted, and a shadow misted her eyes. It lasted a moment then was gone. "He will stay," she said. "And together we shall rule. His lands and mine together." She saw his momentary frown. "Roland? Is something wrong?"

"Later, my dear. It is nothing but-well, later. We have plenty of time."

The entire night if necessary-once trapped by the darkness none could leave. Until dawn each would do as he wished to beguile the tedium. There would be talk, more wine, sweetmeats, mutual entertainments and, finally, sleep. And, at dawn, freed of the prison of the night, life would begin again.

The flutist finished his piece, offered to play another, was refused and stalked from the hall. The table was cleared, the servants making a final survey before they left to enjoy their own repast and, within minutes, Lavinia and her guests were alone.

"A good meal." Navalok rose and stretched and took a few steps to where a fire glowed in a heap of embers on a dulled platform of stone. He held his hands to it for a moment, enjoying the sight, the comfort of the flame, then turned. "The dish of broiled meat dusted with nuts and spiced with that pungent sauce. The one adorned with the head of a stallion in pastry."

"You want the recipe?" Lavinia smiled at his nod. "You shall have it if I have to torment the cook to obtain it. A friend like yourself can be denied nothing."

An offer with qualifications unnecessary to stipulate as he knew. And yet, if he had been younger, perhaps…

As if reading his mind Roland said, quietly, "Think of your youth, Navalok. If you had been the consort of such a woman would you have been gentle to those who hoped to gain what you held?"

"No."

"Then-"

"Spare me your warnings, Roland. I am not wholly a fool." Navalok glanced to where Dumarest stood beyond the table. In the somber glow he looked ghost-like in the plainness of his clothing. A man who wore no gems and who scorned the slightest decoration.

Was there a reason?

Navalok studied the clothing. The tunic was high around the throat, the sleeves long and snug at the wrists, the hem falling to mid-thigh. Pants of the same material were thrust into knee-high boots and the hilt of a knife rose above the right. A man who looked what he was, he decided. A traveler, a fighter, a man who walked alone.

"Grey," mused Navalok. "Why does he wear grey?"

"Camouflage, perhaps?" Roland ventured a guess. "Bright colors could offend as well as attract possibly unwelcome attention. Habit? A cultural conditioning? There could be many explanations but I think the obvious is the answer. We tend to forget that, for some, clothing is a matter of functional necessity and not of stylish fashion. For a man on the move, needing to carry little, his garments must be both tough and efficient."

"But now that he is living here in the castle?" Navalok glanced to where Lavinia was deep in conversation with Suchong. "Why now?"

"Habit."

"But surely, now he's with Lavinia-"