Amid the Winter Snow Page 2

  Men were better at controlling their reactions than women, but not by much, and she steeled herself for the swordmaster’s response. It was unavoidable anyway. He would take up residence in her father’s household for four years as her brother’s teacher. Best to get the unpleasantness over with now.

  She shifted to face him fully and drew back her hood first. Next, she tucked her hair behind her ear before pushing her scar further down her neck to expose the skin there. “This is why.”

  No quick inhale, no leap back, not even the telltale glint in the eye that always gave away the most stoic observer, and best of all, none of the pity that horrified her more than any insult ever could. Either Radimar Velus was an expert at hiding his emotions, or he wasn’t repulsed by the mark that had been her burden since birth. She chose to believe her first assumption because it was impossible for her to believe the second.

  He cocked his head to one side. “Ah, kissed by Yalda the Creator.”

  Yalda, god of the sun, of spring, of the day. The festival they all gathered for and celebrated now in the depths of winter was in praise of Yalda, whose ascension after the longest night was only a day away. People had called Jahna’s birthmark many things, none of them complimentary. A kiss from Yalda was the first that wasn’t an insult.

  She hurried to cover up. Despite the swordmaster’s surprising lack of reaction, she was uncomfortable with being so exposed. “You make it sound nice,” she said once she had adjusted her hood.

  A shallow frown line bisected the space between his eyebrows. “There’s no reason to make it sound terrible. It isn’t worthy of so unforgiving a name as Fireface.” His thin lips all but disappeared when he pressed them against his teeth, and the green eyes flashed. “Your mark is why they’re chasing you?”

  She nodded. “So they can tell me in no uncertain terms how offensive they find it.”

  A low rumble escaped his compressed mouth in an unmistakable growl. “Does it jump off your face and bite them?”

  The image his question inspired made her chuckle. “No, but I wish it would sometimes.” Her laughter faded but her grin remained.

  How fortunate Sodrin was—how fortunate they all were—to have this man join their household. Ilinfan swordmasters were famous for their skills with the blade, their services as teachers and guards so prohibitively costly only kings and the wealthiest nobles could afford them. But for Jahna, this man’s value lay in the kindness he’d shown her, the sincerity of his engagement with her. She prayed it wasn’t a false show employed to endear him to her father through the affection of his children.

  Jahna was only fifteen, but she had already developed a keen sense of a person’s mettle and their motivations, if for nothing else than her own self preservation. Though she didn’t put all her trust into her impressions upon a first meeting, Radimar Velus seemed an admirable man in many respects.

  She had no wish to linger on the subject of her disfigurement and grasped for another ready topic. “My brother is eager to begin training with you. You’re all he’s talked about for months now, ever since my father said you were coming from Ilinfan to stay with us. Did you just arrive?”

  Radimar nodded. “Last night. I’de taken lodging in the city and planned to meet with your father and brother during the Delyalda festival but managed to secure a room here in the palace. I was leaving there to find Lord Uhlfrida when I spotted you in the hallway.”

  She whistled low. “I can’t believe you actually found a place to stay anywhere close to the festivities, much less here in the palace.”

  Every inn and stable in the capital was packed to the rafters with visitors who had arrived from all across Belawat to attend the festival. The palace itself, a sprawling structure with countless chambers and corridors, resembled a rabbit warren at the moment with people bedding down in the interior hallways, once-empty storerooms and even the floor of the smithy where the forges offered warmth, if not soft beds, during the bitter nights.

  He snorted. “It wasn’t easy, but I managed.”

  It must have cost him a small fortune to do so. Uhlfrida still complained about the handsome sum he contributed to the royal coffers for a suite of three rooms crammed tight with people and belongings.

  The swordmaster offered his arm to her. “May I escort you to supper, Lady Uhlfrida?”

  She was tempted to accept. Only her father or Sodrin had ever escorted her to the royal feasts. Until two years ago, when she reached the age where awareness of the opposite sex and her own lack of attractiveness to them became more obvious, she’d been content to accompany one of them to the great suppers, even if the meal itself was an ordeal she endured with a blank expression and the pretense of not caring that hundreds of stares rested on her as she pushed her food around her plate.

  Walking in on Sir Velus’s arm would not only generate the usual stares but also furious whispers and shocked expressions. All those people who either tutted over her unfortunate mark with their false sympathy or openly gawked before turning away with a shudder would conjecture among themselves over how ugly Jahna Uhlfrida managed to lure a man other than her parent or sibling into escorting her to the feast. She smiled at the image such daydreaming conjured.

  “Is that a yes, Lady Uhlfrida?” Sir Velus watched her, a half smile of his own curving his lips.

  Oh how she wished it were. Jahna sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sir Velus. I must say no. If Evaline sees me on your arm, her retribution will be swift, and I’d like to enjoy a little of Delyalda if I can.”

  She didn’t exaggerate. Evaline would make it even more of her mission than she already did to seek out and exact vengeance for some imagined slight Jahna visited on her simply for accompanying Sir Velus into the great hall. Jahna would have to spend the rest of their visit hiding under her bed to avoid what promised to be some creative cruelty dreamed up in Evaline’s twisted mind.

  The swordmaster’s piercing gaze sharpened even more, and he lost the smile. “Have you told your father or brother any of this?”

  A flutter of panic beat in her chest. “My father is a busy man with more important things to attend to, and my brother knows. He’s come to my defense a few times. It’s a small matter, really.” She pretended not to see the skepticism in his drawn-down brow and narrowed eyes. “Besides, as a new member of our household, you’ll likely be seated with us at supper anyway.”

  Another thought occurred to her. “Didn’t you say you had to meet someone?”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I did. I have. You.”

  Her young heart beat like a swallow’s wings, this time from excitement instead of fear. She looked forward to the next four years. She held out a hand. “Thank you again, Sir Velus. You saved me.”

  He clasped her fingers with his. She felt the ridge of calluses on his palm that marked where he held a sword. “It was my pleasure, Lady Uhlfrida.” He bowed over her hand, his warm breath skating across her knuckles. He straightened, gifting her once more with one of those measuring stares. His hard face was somber. “Maybe during my stay in your father’s house, I will teach you how to save yourself.”

  She returned his bow of farewell and watched as he strode down the corridor that led to the courtyards, wishing she could follow and admire the falling snow as it blanketed the buildings and garden statuary. Instead, she hurried in the direction Evaline and her toadies took, toward the great hall where the evening feast waited for King Rodan and his bevy of nobles.

  ~ 2 ~

  The Maiden intrigued

  Supper was the dull, interminable thing she expected it to be, a shallow pageantry of aristocrats doing their best to outshine each other either in their clothing and jewels or boasts regarding the size of their estates, the quality of their horseflesh or the fertility of their loins. Jahna ignored the predictable scrutiny of others and did her best to eavesdrop, without being obvious, on the conversation among her brother, her father, and the Ilinfan swordmaster.

  Sir Velus had jo
ined them shortly after supper began, his attempt at slipping unnoticed into his seat foiled by her brother’s loud and enthusiastic “Sir Velus, come join us!” combined with the equally loud and complimentary “Such beautiful hair!” from a drunken noblewoman further down the table from where Jahna’s family sat. For a change, all eyes weren’t on her, and Jahna didn’t know whether to be relieved for her sake or feel sorry for Sir Velus’s.

  He seemed unfazed by the attention, his focus first on her father and then on Sodrin. Only after a round of greetings exchanged with him, did he turn to her and offer both a bow and a tiny wink only she could see.

  The heat of a blush crept up her neck and face, and she ducked her head, suddenly shy in his presence. Her earlier ease in speaking with him had vanished, a distant memory in the face of her current tongue-tied state. She spent the remainder of supper sipping wine and listening as he and her father discussed Sodrin’s lessons, and Sodrin fired off questions as fast and numerous as a barrage of arrows.

  Once the supper ended, and the various diners broke into smaller groups to either gossip, curry favor, or destroy reputations, Jahna edged her way toward the room’s perimeter and the promised freedom beyond the tall, ornate doors flanked by guards. Her father had left her to her own devices, and she had refused her brother’s offer to keep her company.

  “Enjoy,” she said, catching the way his gaze swept the hall, settling on one pretty nobleman’s daughter before moving to another. He was a high-ranking aristocrat’s son and of an age where courtship was not only natural, it was expected. Sodrin didn’t need her clinging to his arm should he try his hand at a little clumsy wooing.

  She almost made it to the doors without incident when Dame Stalt stepped neatly in front of her and blocked her path. The urge to curse her bad timing battled with her delight that the revered headwoman of the Archives sought her out.

  As if by some unspoken magic, the crowd thinned away, leaving a wide circumference of empty space around them. The dame looked more formidable than any warrior queen in her severe-cut gown. She stared down her nose at Jahna, who gave a hasty bow before clasping her hands behind her back to hide the fact she was wringing them bloodless from nervousness.

  “I received your scrolls,” Dame Stalt announced, and Jahna’s heart plummeted to her feet at the grim tone in the other woman’s voice. “You lack structure and need proper training, but the account you sent me is thorough, detailed, and avoids useless fancy.”

  Almost light-headed with relief at the sharp-edged compliment, Jahna gave another quick bow. “I’m so glad, madam. I enjoyed recording the stories the grandfathers and grandmothers of Osobaris told me.”

  The village of Osobaris perched inside lands owned by Jahna’s father. A nondescript community made so by its lack of significant trade goods or strategic importance, it nonetheless possessed the distinction of being a gateway from which the first of the Elder races, the ancient Gullperi, abandoned this realm, leaving behind only remnants of their power in lonely tors, sacred circles and timeless forests.

  Dame Stalt’s gaze was even more piercing than that of Radimar Velus. “You did a fine job of recording what they said without succumbing to the more fanciful aspects of storytelling. I think you would do well as an apprentice at the Archives if you’re interested.”

  Jahna swayed on her feet before catching hold of her shock and wrestling it into submission. Gods forbid she do something stupid such as faint in front of the dame, especially when the news was this wondrous. She measured her words and prayed she didn’t screech or babble. “Oh yes, my lady. I’m very interested. Though I don’t know if my father would be willing to release me to apprentice with the Archives.”

  She hadn’t expected such an offer from Dame Stalt. Her hope in sending the manuscript to her for review had been that the dame would look it over and perhaps consider her for apprenticeship as an amanuensis with possible promotion to first tier king’s chronicler after a few years. This was far better than she ever imagined.

  If only she could get her father to agree to it.

  Dame Stalt waved a languid hand in the air, as if approval from Jahna’s father was a minor and unimportant thing. “Let me speak with Uhlfrida tomorrow. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement that would satisfy everyone.”

  She bid Jahna a short good night and plunged into the throng of dancers and observers, her decisive strides toward the king’s dais at the far end of the room clearing the path as if she wielded lightning strikes to push people out of her way.

  Jahna envied her that particular talent and wished she might be able to employ the same as she tried for a second time to reach the main doors. She wanted to race outside, kick up snow drifts and laugh with joy under the winter moon. Her euphoria over Dame Stalt’s offer wasn’t dimmed by yet another interruption, this one even more welcomed than the dame’s had been.

  “You remind me of a lantern whose flame burns bright, my lady. Your eyes are dancing, though you are not.” Sir Velus raised a questioning eyebrow, his own eyes green as the coveted sea glass brought over the mountains by the intrepid trade caravans and sold as jewelry to rich noblewomen.

  Jahna grinned, still riding on a swell of elation. “I don’t dance because I’m never asked, Sir Velus.” She hurried to qualify her statement in case he thought her remark a clumsy attempt at garnering an invitation from him. “And I value my feet. Too many drunk lords fancying themselves butterflies on the dance floor when they’re really oxen.” His low laughter joined hers, and she thought his as delightful as his speech. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

  He’d been scrutinized, measured and admired the moment he walked through the doors. A person would have to be without eyes or blindfolded not to see it. That he hadn’t been swallowed up by the spinning, swaying crowd, a partner on his arm, puzzled Jahna.

  Wry humor played across his mouth. “Because I’m not important enough or high enough in status to warrant the time. You’re young, but I suspect you know how this works. This is a dance only on the surface. Underneath is a battlefield and those who strategize best are the envy of even the most successful generals.”

  She blinked. He had just neatly summed up why she disliked this particular festival dance. Its air of calculation, of desperate purpose, stripped the joy from it. People used the event as an excuse to maneuver for position in court and negotiate marriages and trade alignments. Her father waded into the thick of it, never dancing but flitting from one cluster of nobles to the next as he bargained and gleaned information that would expand his influence.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t participate, but from here, it feels like I’m watching a battle instead of a dance sometimes. I like the courtyard dances much more, especially the Maiden Flower Dance. Have you seen it?”

  Her companion nodded. “I have. The villages closest to Ilinfan come together to celebrate Delyalda. The Maiden Flower Dance and the Firehound story are always the favorites.”

  “I love the Firehound story!” Jahna blushed, mortified by her enthusiastic outburst. She sounded more like an overly excited seven-year-old than the dignified young woman her father so desperately wanted her to be.

  Sir Velus grinned, the expression one of appreciation instead of mockery. “Mine too. One of the older swordmasters possesses a touch of sorcery and can create the Hound from flame, though to be honest there’s been years where it looks more like a rabbit or piglet.” He winked at her. “Keep that between us.”

  A bubble of laughter escaped her, and she captured it by covering her mouth with her hand. She had met this man only hours earlier, knew almost nothing about him other than his profession and his purpose in being here, but oh, she liked him very much. There was about him a steady confidence, as if he was very sure of his place in the world, with no need to prove his worth to anyone. He’d shown her great kindness, even before he knew she was his employer’s daughter.

  He tipped his chin toward the crowded dance floor. “Your brother is enjoyi
ng himself.”

  She followed the direction of his gesture, spotting Sodrin twirling a girl Jahna recognized as the youngest daughter of a lesser aristocrat. Her father stood not far away, watching, a disapproving frown pinching his face. “I’m glad,” she said. “As the heir, he’s ever reminded by our father of his duty to the line and the inheritance.”

  She shuttered the rest of her words. It wasn’t her place to gossip about her family’s personal interactions nor the swordmaster’s place to be privy to them. It put them both in an awkward position. The heat of embarrassment flooded her face once more. She was a clumsy creature, socially inept and too free with her words when someone showed an interest in talking to her.

  Unlike her, Sir Velus didn’t look the least ruffled and took up the threads of the conversation she abandoned. “Sodrin gave me a quick demonstration before supper of what he knows. He has a natural talent for the blade. He just needs to be lighter on his feet.”

  “And forget for a moment that he isn’t always right.” Jahna loved her brother, but his insistence that he was never wrong, just misunderstood, drove her mad sometimes.

  Sir Velus’s amused snort coaxed a smile from her. “Spoken like a true sibling,” he said. “Taking instruction is the hardest thing for a student of any endeavor to master, and some resist more than others.”

  The wisdom of those words settled within her and stayed. “You have your challenge then with Sodrin.”

  “You know he’s said something similar about you.”

  She scowled. “Is that so?”

  Their conversation was interrupted by Lord Uhlfrida’s sudden appearance in front of them. “Jahna isn’t trapping you here with her is she, Radimar?”

  Her father’s thoughtless question robbed Jahna of breath. Had she trapped the swordmaster here with her awkward attempts at witty conversation? Did he only linger because of her relationship to her father and his own sense of diplomacy?