Free Sword by Amy Bai Page A

fingers.
    With an effort of will, she transferred her attention to the couples on the floor. They danced in her honor: she was seventeen today, newly confirmed, consecrated, and anointed as the official heir of House Marsadron. Implied heir to the throne.
    Never mind that it went so smoothly only because the two other candidates for succession were not present: one had taken a suspiciously well-timed holiday to Orin, and the other had hied herself off to the Fraonir in secret not two years past, and had not been heard from since.
    She straightened her fingers, smiling at the twirling petticoats, the flushed faces. Though her hands were still beyond her governance, in the years since Ky’s abrupt departure, she had at least learned to manage her expression.
    More useful to carry a sword , she thought dourly.
    The past two years had seen a steady swell in the ranks of the Western lords that visited the capital. They wandered the halls, complained about their residences, and drove the cooks to distraction with demands that never seemed to be satisfied. They spoke out of turn when her father held court and spread rumors in the town that panicked the markets. More than one had asked for her hand in marriage repeatedly, as though her politely phrased refusals were no real answer.
    And they watched—mostly that. They watched and whispered among themselves.
    Just dance endlessly with that prig Anders, Devin had written in his last note, when she had sent him a long, despondent letter. He'll make you both looks fools (true: Anders couldn't put a foot right under threat of death) and all their ire will be aimed at him for a fortnight.
    Someone who knew less of Devin might miss the shrewdness of that advice. It was a pity she couldn't take it.
    She missed him, missed his outrageous humor and his steady, if occasionally maddening, presence—missed feeling like she had a brother to watch her back, to laugh with her and at her, and see the things that escaped her.
    Mostly, though, she missed hiding in the servants' secret passages with his sister, who Devin insisted sent her love by letter—but Kyali would never say such a thing, even if she did mean it. And if it hurt too much for her to write, surely it hurt Kyali too, who had been left with as little choice in the matter as she—and, if she knew Ky, had dodged a leave-taking because she hated to weep in front of people.
    I am not angry , she would write, if she could only find the courage to. I was. But y ou were right to leave the way you did. I would only have come with you had I known, and I have no Gift of my own, nor can wield a sword. Either would serve me better than this ridiculous dress does, or the careful words I hardly dare utter to these barons.
    But gods, Kyali, I miss you so.
    Pointless to think of it; it only made her hands clench, drawing more of the attention she worked so hard, these days, to avoid.
    What a wretched birthday.
    The High Chancellor, robed in blue and carrying, as he always did, a handful of court documents rolled and tied with ribbons, leaned toward the king to whisper something—Taireasa caught the word trade and had to squash a grimace. People around the hall eyed this, too: Maldyn's whispers often produced decisions. But her father only waved a hand, indicating that the dancing should not stop. The Western lords watched, their eyes hungry, demanding. Taireasa turned her head, keeping her expression peaceful, trying to see every part of the room at once. She felt like she was missing something, but had no notion what.
    Down in the kitchens, the serving staff would be well on their way to drunken oblivion by now, the meal served and only the court glasses to be filled by the haughtier maids and squires. They slipped among the tables, mute and unusually timid among such a tense gathering of nobility, topping glasses with wines from the Western vineyards. The kitchen staff drank better than the nobles of the kingdom tonight: Western wine was as dry