Summer rolled in all at once over Val Royeaux, the heat settling in lazily like a lion in the sun. Ladies removed their sleeves and wore powders instead of creams while gentlemen suffered in silence, sweat pooling under their velvet doublets. All throughout the city, servants hovered over their masters, their own faces flushed as they waved jeweled fans and wiped noble sweat from beneath masks and wide-brimmed hats. Shaved ices flavored with lemon and honey were all the rage, and at noon the city fell quiet as Royans took to their beds for a midday sieste.
Outside the capital, the sun baked the highways dry, kicking up clouds of dust that chased travelers away and kept the nobility firmly holed up in their country palaces. Orlais in the summer was unbearable, and there was nothing like heat to grind society to a halt. This, at least, was what the inhabitants of the Palais de Valmont told each other to explain why their salons were so empty and why no invitations were rolling in.
The real reason, of course, had nothing to do with the weather. All of Val Royeaux had felt the shift in favor following Clarisse de Montfort's funeral, and suddenly Prince Reynaud and his daughter were no longer welcome in the ballrooms of the capital. On the other hand, it was common knowledge that the Prince and Princesse de Chalons spent more time at the Imperial Palace than in their own country chateau. The succession was almost certainly decided, whispers around the city confirmed. Gaspard de Chalons would become the next emperor.
None of that, however, was of any real importance to Briala. Sleeping soundly in Celene's bed with the princesse in her arms, the elf was enjoying the gentle dreams that had eluded everyone else in the palace for months. The curtains had been drawn over the open windows the night before, letting in a light breeze from the gardens that drifted over the lovers and gently kissed their heads.
Suddenly, there was a light tinkling of chimes, and Briala slowly opened her eyes. It took her a moment to remember where she was, just as it always did when she slept in Celene's chamber: why the air smelled cleaner, why the sheets were smoother, why she couldn't hear her father snoring. Then she looked down at the tousle of blond curls nestled on her shoulder and smiled. Celene was always beautiful, but she never looked as peaceful as when she was sleeping. Gently sliding out from under her, Briala reached over to the nightstand and pressed a button on the Dwarven clock, cutting the music short before it could wake the princesse. With everything that had happened over the past few months, it was best to hold onto those moments of peace for as long as possible.
She then sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and silently stretching her arms. The bedchamber somehow seemed to be in an even greater state of disarray than it had been the night before. Dirty plates and wine goblets littered the floor, the tables were covered in books of poetry and philosophy, and the overturned game of chess still had not managed to pick itself up. It was her fault, of course – keeping the room in order was her duty, and she hadn't done much of anything in the past few days. She was getting indolent, she could feel it in her bones. Yet given the circumstances, who could have really resisted the temptation to lapse into laziness? Trapped in the palace, she and Celene had suddenly found themselves with more time alone together than they had had since they were children, and they were both determined to take as much advantage of that fact as possible. They had spent long nights playing games, acting out plays, and lying in each other's arms with the taste of sweet wine and summer on their lips. It was the happiest Briala had been in a very long time.
Quiet as a shadow, she stood up from bed and pulled off the silk chemise Celene had given her, replacing it with the scratchy wool of her serving dress. Tying her apron around her waist, she slipped on her wooden mask and picked up her shoes, tiptoeing over to the chamber doors. Before she could sneak out, however, there was a gentle rustling from the bed below her. "Bria," Celene said weakly, lifting her head up from her pillow. "Don't go."
Briala smiled and sat down next to her, kissing her softly on the cheek. "I'm only going to get breakfast," she said. "We can start our day right after I get back."
Celene scoffed gently, her eyes still bleary. "Start our day – another day trapped in here, you mean."
Her smile faltered for a moment. For as happy as Briala had been, the passing days had only made Celene more and more restless. "You'll be in a better attitude after you eat," she said finally as she stood up again. "Is there anything you want Arsine to send up in particular?"
"Anything with chocolate," Celene said, lounging back into the bed. She then looked up at her longingly. "Hurry back, Bria. Please."
There was nothing she wanted more than to rip off her mask and jump back into the bed with her. Still, duty was calling her elsewhere, and after a deep breath she was able to break away and slip out the door. Sunlight flooded through the windows in the hallway outside Celene's chamber, making her blink behind her mask. Smoothing back her hair, she began to make her way towards the kitchens, the heels of her shoes clacking gently on the marble floors. It was going to be another beautiful day – one more day of peace.
The kitchens lay underneath the east wing of the palace, hidden out of sight from the rest of the building. As Briala started down the stone steps that led to the basement, a strong scent of roast meat floated through the air around her, carrying with it a wave of heat. The smell made her stomach growl, and she quickened her pace. The sooner they both could eat, the better.
The kitchens themselves were as chaotic as ever, full of a sea of servants preparing food, scouring pots, and stoking the palace's many fireplaces. Arsine, the head cook, was closely inspecting the large roast spinning on the spit in front of her. A tall woman with a long nose, Arsine had consistently been the most harried woman Briala had ever known. "Whoever marinated this bird, I'll have your head!" she roared, turning back to the terrified kitchen staff. "Dry and tasteless, not at all how Monsieur le Prince likes it! Do you think this is some sort of joke? I'll whip all your hides, I will!"
Briala knew better than to provoke Arsine when she went into one of her moods. Instead, she hugged the back of the room, sidling up to a weedy elf with a smattering of freckles and nervous eyes. "Demat, Iwan," she murmured, keeping her head down. "Who pissed off Arsine today?"
"More like who didn't, honestly," Iwan answered. He glanced over at her and blushed. "You look very nice today, Bria."
She nodded at him, still keeping her eyes down. Iwan had been smitten with her since they were children, and she was always a little embarrassed to be caught around him. "Merci," she said, keeping her tone polite. "Do you have Mademoiselle's breakfast ready?"
Still blushing furiously, he nodded and pushed a silver tray laden with fruit, boiled eggs, soft bread rolls, and a pot of steaming hot tea towards her. "You better get out of here now," he said, glancing back at the fireplace. "Arsine's gonna blow at any minute."
Briala smiled and picked up the tray, careful not to drop anything. Turning around to leave, she had almost reached the steps when someone's voice cut through the chaos of the kitchens. "Briala!" Béjart called from the palace pantries. "Wait for me there!"
She turned around slowly and set down her tray on a nearby counter. The housekeeper made his way stiffly through the throngs in the kitchen, his moustache curled to perfection despite the oppressive heat. Briala bowed her head respectfully while secretly wondering what he could want with her. "Bonjour, Béjart," she said calmly. "I trust you are well?"
He nodded back to her. "Follow me, please, Briala," he said. "Monsieur le Prince would like to have a word with you."
It was all Briala could do to keep from blinking. Prince Reynaud hardly ever interacted with any of the staff, preferring instead to let Béjart supervise the household. If he was reaching out to her now, it had to be for something serious. "Of course," she said, her mind whirring behind her mask. "Someone will have to send Mademoiselle's breakfast up to her, though."
"A kitchen servant will be sent up to her chambers," he said. "This way."
They made their way back up the kitchen stairs into the polished hallways of the palace. Already the morning sun was heating the marble floors; both Briala and Béjart had to squint against the beams of light streaming in through the windows. Briala kept close behind the housekeeper, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain her composure. As always, she was filled with dread at the thought that she was finally about to be relieved of her position. I have to find a way to convince him to let me stay, she thought firmly. I will think of something, I will.
It soon became clear that Béjart was leading her to the palace's library, which was no surprise to anyone. For the past few months, the prince had made the room his private headquarters, holding late night war sessions with allies and informants. The emperor's show of disapproval had hit Reynaud hard, but the prince was determined to shift the tides back into his family's favor. Despite her general dislike of the Game, Briala couldn't help but feel a shiver go down her spine as she stood patiently in front of the library doors. The fate of the empire was being decided in that room, and it felt too surreal to think that she had a part to play in it.
Béjart reached forward and knocked on the doors, nodding at the soldiers guarding the entrance. There was a moment's pause, and then the doors opened, letting the two servants enter. Briala immediately dropped to one knee, her eyes to the floor. Above her, someone coughed lazily. "Rise, Béjart," Prince Reynaud said. "You as well, Briala."
Briala rose to her feet, still respectfully keeping her eyes lowered. The prince was not alone; Duc Prosper was seated at a table with him, his goatee dyed a bright yellow. "Votre Altesse, Monsieur," Béjart said, bowing his head. "Forgive my intrusion."
"Do not be silly, Béjart," the prince said. "It was I who asked you here, after all. Prosper, this is the handmaiden I was speaking to you of."
The duc sniffed, and despite her dread Briala felt a surge of disgust. "I recognize it from the Grande Royeaux," he said. "Are you sure it is wise to trust it with such information?"
"We must make allies where we can find them, Prosper," the prince said. It was all Briala could do to keep from clenching her fists in rage. "Béjart, have you brought the ledger I asked for?"
"Bien sûr, votre Altesse."
There was a rustling of papers and a soft grunt from the table. "Merci, Béjart," Reynaud said. "That will be all."
The housekeeper bowed deeply and left the room. Briala stood there awkwardly, waiting for someone to address her. "Tell me, Briala," Prince Reynaud said finally. "How long have you been in my daughter's service?"
She took a deep breath and raised her eyes. Even behind his mask, she could tell that the prince looked tired. The nights of planning and plotting had clearly taken their toll. "Twelve years, votre Altesse," she said calmly. Practically her entire life. Had there ever been a moment when her purpose hadn't been to serve Celene? It was why their relationship was as natural as breathing, why they shared a link that was closer than sisters or even lovers. It was the only part of her life that felt separated from the Game – although, to be fair, the Game had been what had started it. After all, hadn't her mother pinched the other little elf girl sent to play with the princesse to make her seem cross and surly in front of Madame Clarisse? As usual, the thought that her fate had rested solely on a playdate made her head spin, and she needed to take a measured breath to calm herself.
The prince did not seem to notice, however, preferring instead to flip carefully through the ledger Béjart had given him. "Twelve years," he said, his voice even. "I know for a fact, then, that you know my daughter better than any other person in the empire. All her strengths…and her weaknesses."
Briala caught her breath. In any other situation, this would have been a trap. Coming from Celene's own father, however, she wasn't sure how to react. "Mademoiselle is a very gifted young woman," she said quietly.
"Exceptionally so," Duc Prosper said hotly, as if offended by her guardedness. "Celene is a natural player of the Game – I have never seen anyone with such abundant talents for conversation, wit, intrigue—"
"And drinking," Reynaud said harshly. The room fell silent as the tips of Briala's ears flushed. So this was why she had been summoned. The prince gestured back to the ledger, his eyes flashing black in the morning sun. "Over the past month, 57 bottles of claret, port, and table wine have vanished into my daughter's bedchamber. We might as well lay a mattress out for her in the palace's wine cellar."
"She is living through a period of great duress!" Duc Prosper protested. "Many others have turned to far worse outlets."
"Celene is a Valmont, Prosper," the prince snapped. "Valmonts do not bend, even where others might break." The duc fell silent again, and Briala almost smirked with the satisfaction. Reynaud turned back to her, his face cold. "My daughter is weak, Briala," he said calmly. "In her grief, she has found a crutch that will cripple her. Maker willing, we can crush this habit before it ruins her entire future."
She paused for a moment. "'We', monsieur?"
"Your duties are to protect Mademoiselle at whatever the cost," Reynaud said, raising an eyebrow. "And now she needs your help more than ever. The task falls to you to ensure that my daughter turns away from the drink."
A lesser person would have gasped. Tearing Celene away from her wine was akin to ripping the mask off the face of the emperor himself. "You flatter me, monsieur," she said quietly. "I do not hold the sway you think I do over the princesse."
"There is no one else who could do it," the prince said. "Celene does not listen to me – you are the only person in the empire able to bring this about. This is not negotiable," he said sharply as Briala opened her mouth to respond. "Rest assured, Briala, should my daughter disgrace herself further, you shall bear the punishment."
A shiver went down Briala's spine. As a lady's maid, she was normally spared the rod and the lash that hounded other members of the staff. Still, she knew all too well the horrors that awaited a servant who displeased the Imperial family. "I shall do my best, monsieur," she said finally, dropping into a deep curtsy.
"Très bien." Prince Reynaud rang a small bell lying on the table next to him, and the team of servants waiting outside opened the library doors. "That is all, Briala. You may go." She curtsied again and turned to leave; however, before she could, the prince cleared his throat. "Remember, Briala," he said coldly. "Do not disappoint me."
She paused for a moment in the doorway and nodded at the two men. Then she left for Celene's chambers, her heart beating heavily in her chest.
Breakfast had already arrived by the time she walked back into the bedroom. Celene was sitting cross-legged in front of the breakfast tray, her mouth stuffed with bread as she flipped through a pile of pamphlets that had been brought in for her from the city. "There you are!" she cried as Briala walked up to her. "I ate a lot of the bread, but I didn't touch any of the pears, I know they're your favorite – have you seen any of the newspapers? Apparently the king of Nevarra is causing trouble again."
Briala sat down at the edge of the bed, unsure of what to say. Before she could get comfortable, however, Celene looked over absentmindedly and pulled a crystal carafe of red wine out from under her nightstand. "Sorry, could you just get some goblets for us?" she asked, pulling out the carafe's stopper. "Oh, look, today the new bards are being presented in the city! Sweet Andraste, am I tired of being holed up in here…"
Briala had frozen. This was why it was impossible – what could the prince expect her to do? Refusing her would only make Celene angry, and if she lost her trust… Unable to keep her hands from trembling, she picked up one of the goblets and handed it back to the princesse.
"Merci – oh, are you not having any?" she asked, looking up in surprise. She then started and set her glass back down on the nightstand. "Saint Créateur, Bria, what's wrong? You look terrible!"
She reached forward and gently slid the mask off of Briala's face. Celene's eyes were full of soft concern, and for a moment Briala almost told her everything the prince had said. Then she took a breath and shook her head. "Just a headache," she lied, gently grabbing her hand. "Nothing too serious."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Celene tutted, stroking her cheek. She reached back for her goblet, and as she drank Briala felt her heart flutter. "It has to be the air in the palace, it's driving us all crazy." Her face lit up. "Bria, why don't we head into the city?" she asked excitedly. "We can go listen to the new bards – it'll be sure to help clear your head!"
Briala frowned. "But what about the shift in favor?"
"What better way to shift it back?" Celene asked innocently. "Besides, this isn't about the Game, it's just a chance to finally leave this place! Come on, you have to admit it would be a little fun?"
She did not, of course. It would be even harder to control Celene out in the city, and any failures would be out in the open for all of Val Royeaux to see. Beyond all that, she had gotten accustomed to spending their days together locked in the room. Yet she knew Celene better than to try to resist. "It sounds lovely," she said, her mouth filled with dread. "Let's do it."
"Great!" Celene leapt up from the bed, sending part of the tray flying. "Oh, merde – whatever, we'll have someone else clean it up. Come on, let's get dressed now – I can't wait to get out of here, I'm going crazy!"
She dragged Briala to her feet with a kiss. Her face forming a mask of its own, the elf followed her to her vanity, her heart plagued with the impossible task that lay before her.
The Summer Gardens lay at the heart of Val Royeaux. Nestled against the Imperial Palace, the park was a hidden paradise, thirty acres of flowers, trees, fountains, and statues that looked like something fallen out of the Fade itself. Their shaded promenades and secluded alcoves made the gardens the preferred refuge of the city's nobility during the hot summer months, and it was one of Celene's favorite places in the world. The fact that the gardens were also the stage for her escape from the stifling air in the palace only made them all the sweeter.
"Oh, ma très chère, it is so good to see you!" Liselotte cooed as Celene and Briala approached the table she was sitting at. Her friend was dressed in light pink silk and had kept her hair down, a choice that made Celene shiver with heat. "This self-imposed exile has been unbearable for all of us! The city is remarkably dull without you."
"She was being wise, Lise," Hélène chided, rising up to kiss Celene's cheek. "Sometimes it is best to keep a low profile, though it may shock you to hear it."
"Oh, Léna, Celene has not done anything wrong," Liselotte said, rolling her eyes as she took her seat. "Why should she be banished just because someone else is dining with the emperor? Would you like some wine, dear?"
"Yes, please," Celene said, taking the goblet Liselotte's servant was offering her. Behind her, she felt Briala go stiff. Her eyes twitched over to her in worry as she took her seat – the elf still looked as pale as she had back at the palace. Barely able to keep her eyebrows from furrowing in concern, she took a sip of the chilled wine and turned back to her friends. "I am not trying to cause a scandal, in any case," she said. "I just wanted a bit of fresh air – is that so wrong?"
"Of course not," Hélène said, taking her own goblet from the servant. "And it is so good to see you, ma chérie – I am just surprised your father let you out of your estate, that is all."
Celene smiled coyly. "My father may not exactly know that I am here."
Hélène gasped. "Celene! That is not like you! It is so reckless – you are starting to act like Lise!"
"About time, too," Liselotte yawned, eating a strawberry off the pile of fruit in front of her. "The two of you can be so frightfully boring."
"Boring is the price of a good reputation," Hélène snapped. "And reputation is all we have."
"All you and I have, dear," Liselotte said. "Celene will always be a Valmont."
Celene smiled politely and started to look around their section of the gardens. Half the city had turned up to hear the bards sing, and all the tables were full of masked faces. As she caught their eyes, the assorted nobles bowed their heads, albeit less deeply than before. Suddenly feeling a little chilly despite the heat, she turned back to her friends and gently cleared her throat. "Enough talk about responsibility and reputation," she said lightly. "I am here, and what is done is done. Tell more about the bards."
"Now that is the spirit," Liselotte said satisfactorily. "And you have not missed much – only a few have been presented so far."
"Merveilleux," Celene said, taking another sip of wine. "Were they any good?"
"Some of them, yes," Hélène said. "The one who went first was quite good, in fact – a pretty young thing with bright red hair. Called herself la Rossignole."
Celene laughed. "Someone thinks very highly of herself."
"No, really, she did sing like a nightingale," Hélène said. "Of course, whether or not that makes her a good bard is left to be seen."
Celene nodded and looked up to the makeshift stage that had been built on the grounds. Bards in Orlais were more than just singers and storytellers. In fact, they played a crucial role in the Game. Travelling as they did from palace to palace and court to court, bards collected as many secrets as they did songs, and more than one noble line had been extinguished at the end of one of their blades. Still, in one of the great paradoxes of life in Orlais, aristocratic families clamored to have bards in their households, and the greatest among them could become as wealthy as kings. Though Celene had always been trained to be wary of them, she couldn't help but be fascinated by their stories and their lifestyle. There were even times when she wished she had become one herself.
A young man had taken the stage now, dressed in light blue silk and wearing a simple mask. Gently strumming his lute, he began to sing a haunting tune about a forbidden love between a lady and her knight. The music lilted through the air like perfume, and Celene had to close her eyes as she felt herself be carried away by the passion in his voice. Secrets and poetry, death and love – the bards were the very souls of Orlais itself.
As the man stopped singing, however, Celene suddenly heard the rustling of skirts behind her. Opening her eyes with a start, she found a striking mask in the shape of a horse staring back at her. "Ma chère cousine," Calienne de Chalons purred, offering her cheek. "How lovely to see you again."
Celene rose to kiss her, glad that her mask helped hide the hatred she held in her heart. "Calienne," she said warmly, fighting back the urge to slit her throat. "You look very pretty today."
"As do you, my darling," Calienne said, squeezing her hand. "It has been so long! I almost felt I should write Reynaud myself to bring you back to us!"
Celene smiled, imagining how her father would have reacted to such a letter. However, she knew that the key to their plans was maintaining a front of friendship with the Chalons, and so she squeezed her cousin's hand back with as much tenderness as she could muster. "You remember my friends, of course, chérie," she said, gesturing back to the table. "Liselotte, daughter of the Marquis de Chevin, and Hélène, daughter of the Comtesse du Mellifort."
"Un plaisir de vous revoir," Calienne said, bowing her head. Hélène and Liselotte rose and bowed back to her, their cheeks slightly flushed. Calienne then turned to a man standing silently behind her. "Cousin, allow me to introduce my husband's uncle, Duc Germain de Chalons, head of the Council of Heralds."
Duc Germain bowed before the table, his stiffly trimmed beard flashing in the sunlight. "Mesdemoiselles," he said. "Such a pleasure to see so many young flowers in the gardens today."
The three ladies rose again and curtsied. The Council of Heralds was a panel made up of representatives from seven of Orlais's most prominent families; Duc Prosper and Liselotte's father, the Marquis de Chevin, also counted among its members. An ancient institution, the Council was the utmost social authority in Orlais, settling feuds between families and determining noble titles. They were also the arbiters of any questions in the line of succession. As a result, Celene had spent her entire life attempting to curry as much favor with them as possible. "You flatter us, monsieur," she said with a smile, wishing she had had a bit more wine. "I trust you are well?"
The duc grunted. "As well as can be expected, with my niece spending the family's fortune on her pleasure palaces in Antiva."
Calienne sighed. "Gaspard's sister has a rather lax attitude towards her purse strings, it is true."
Celene smiled. Her cousin Princesse Florianne was widely acknowledged to be the family dolt. "Well, we long to see her back in the empire," she said graciously to the duc. "Will you not stay to enjoy the music with us?"
"You are too sweet," Calienne beamed. Celene turned politely back to her, careful to keep her smile firm. "Sadly, we were just leaving – the emperor has just summoned us back to the palace. Apparently some exceptionally good Rivaini jugglers have arrived at court."
It was all Celene could do to keep from starting. "Is His Radiance not coming to the performances?" she asked calmly. "I was so hoping to see him today."
"Oh, you know how attached our uncle is to his quarters," Calienne laughed, placing a hand on Celene's arm. "He can be such a recluse, the dear man – but then, when one is the emperor of Orlais, one can do as one chooses, no?" She tittered again and blew Celene a kiss, the curls of her hair rustling gently in a light summer breeze. "Au revoir, my pet – do enjoy your afternoon."
Celene watched her disappear behind a wall of bushes and immediately reached for her goblet. As the wine washed her bitterness down her throat, Liselotte sighed dreamily and said, "She is so elegant, is she not? Celene, you must think about inviting us to tea with her one day."
"My cousin is far too busy for that, Lise," Celene said coolly, turning her attention back to the stage. Not even her friends could know that her father was creating a plot. "I do wonder who will go next."
Before the next performance could begin, however, a series of shocked whispers rippled through the crowd. Frowning in confusion, Hélène looked around and gasped at something over Celene's shoulder. "What is she doing here?" she said. "The Duc de Ghislain is not even with her!"
Celene glanced over to where she was looking at a table in the back. A beautiful young woman wearing a simple commoner's mask had taken a seat, her shimmering white gown contrasting magnificently with her dark skin. The mage Vivienne had come without her noble protector, a bold move from someone in such a weak position. Celene nursed her wine glass for a moment, reflecting on what that must mean. For all of Duc Bastien's cavalier attitude, the rest of the de Ghislain family had to be nervous to have such a wildcard in their midst.
She finished her wine suddenly and stood up. The rest of the table started and looked over at her. "I am going to stretch my legs for a moment," she said clearly, correcting her posture. Behind her, Briala moved to pick up her skirts. "No, no, there is no need," she said, looking her lover knowingly in the eyes. "I will only be gone a moment."
"Oh, well, if you are sure," Hélène said uncomfortably as Celene stepped around her chair. "Do hurry back, then."
Celene nodded and began making her way through the sea of tables. The nobles rose out of their seats in respect as she passed, all eyes tracing her route through the gardens. Her heart began to pound in her chest as she started to wonder if her idea was really as good as it had first seemed. Before she could turn back, however, it was already too late. "Madame Vivienne," she said, feeling the horrified stares of Orlais's brightest burn a hole through her. "How lovely to see you again."
The mage looked up at her in shock, her eyes both wary and excited. "Votre Altesse," she said, rising from her chair. "You honor me."
"No, you must not say that," Celene said, bowing her head. Vivienne really was stunningly beautiful, enough to almost make her falter. "What honor can I give compared to the gifts that you have?"
Vivienne blinked in surprise. "Your Highness has an interest in magic?"
"A family trait, I am afraid," Celene said. "We Valmonts are not satisfied with conquering this world, we must dominate the other as well." The whispers around them had almost gotten as loud as the music from the stage; she chose to ignore them and instead focused on Vivienne's clothing. "Your gown is exquisite," she said sincerely. The garment was shining in front of her, as if sunlight had been trapped within its fabric. "Is it magic that makes it shimmer so?"
The mage looked down and laughed. "Only the magic of tailoring, mademoiselle," she said. "I have a particularly good dressmaker in the city – I could give you his name, if you like."
Vivienne truly was bold to make a suggestion like that to a member of the Imperial family. That was good – Celene needed bold. "I would be delighted to enlist his services," she said politely. Tilting her head, she quickly switched gears. "It is a pity you arrived when you did," she said casually. "You missed Duc Bastien's daughter by a few minutes."
"Ah." Vivienne's back had immediately gone stiff, which was very encouraging. "I see."
Celene smiled gently, the rush of the Game making her pulse pick up. "Madame Calienne did tell you she would be here, of course?"
The mage smiled politely back at her, her eyes suddenly a bit cooler. "The princesse de Chalons is very busy," she said smoothly. "It would be presumptuous of me to demand notice from her for every small social engagement."
"Indeed," Celene said, always appreciative of a diplomatic answer. She paused for a moment and then smiled. "It is always difficult, when members of one's entourage find themselves too busy to focus on their familial relationships. I imagine it must weigh heavily on the poor duc's mind."
Vivienne stared at her for a moment. "Monsieur de Ghislain is very fond of his family, though he may not show it," she said finally.
"Which makes it all the more painful," Celene said. "I do wish I could be of some help."
"Ah."
"But you know how tricky families can be," she continued, sighing theatrically. "I should so hate to put my nose in, only to find I have made things worse. If only I had a bit more information, just to know how I might best be of service to you."
The two women fell silent for a moment, letting the music in the gardens wash over them. With a flush of satisfaction, Celene could see in Vivienne's eyes that the mage understood exactly what she was talking about. "You are too kind, mademoiselle," she said, nodding her head. "I am sure that with time, we will find some sort of solution."
"Yes," Celene said. "I am sure we will."
At that moment, the music stopped, and suddenly the garden was filled with applause. Smiling to herself, Celene nodded her head. "I must return to my table," she murmured. "It was a pleasure speaking with you, as always, madame."
"And with you, mademoiselle." Vivienne rose and curtsied, and with one last nod Celene turned to rejoin her party. All around her, however, nobles were staring back in shock and alarm. She tried to ignore their looks as she took her seat, picking up her goblet and taking a sip. "Do forgive me," she said. "I feel quite refreshed."
Her friends, however, were staring back at her in horror. "What on earth possessed you to do that?" Hélène hissed, clutching nervously at her necklace as she stared at the people looking back at them. "Talking to that woman – you are a princesse!"
"A princesse can do as she pleases, ma chouette," Celene said, staring up at the stage as she took another sip of wine. "But hush, my dears, the next performance is starting."
The next singer was a young man wearing bright purple clothes and a feathered mask. Despite that, he was undoubtedly handsome, making Liselotte lean forward and sigh appreciatively. Still, to Celene he looked more like a parrot than anything else. She glanced back to catch Briala's eye and winked quickly, making the elf blush. Then, the bard bowed before the audience and cleared his throat. "I dedicate this song to a lovely young lady, the pride of her house!" he said. He then strummed his lute and being plucking a quick, catchy tune, perfect for the early afternoon.
The melody was infectious, and suddenly most of the nobility began clapping along to the beat of the song. Her mood vastly improved after her talk with Madame Vivienne, Celene began clapping as well, almost laughing with glee from her victory. She felt light, free – better than she had felt in months.
Then the bard began to sing.
"Hey, now,
Hey, little lion,
Hey, little lion,
What have you there?
Your teeth, now,
Hey, little lion,
Hey, little lion,
Are red with wear.
A drink, now?
Hey, little lion,
Hey, little lion,
Do take care.
Stop, now,
Hey, little lion,
Hey, little lion,
There's wine to spare.
Oh, pour another one!
Pour another one!
Pour another one, lackey!
My glass is dry and the sun is high,
And I'll not stop with my drinking."
The song carried on for another few verses, but Celene had stopped listening. Her joy had vanished as quickly as it had come. The other nobles had stopped clapping; however, one look at the crowd told her it was not from respect or solidarity. Hélène and Liselotte had gotten very still, and it was all she could do to keep from looking at them. Don't let them see, she thought. Don't let them see you know it's about you.
As the music ended, a wave of silence fell over the Summer Gardens. Celene sat for a moment, counting her heartbeats until her hands felt steady again. A smile frozen on her face, she rose for the last time and curtsied to her friends. "I am suddenly rather tired, mes chères," she said. The two ladies' faces were still, more like masks than she had ever seen them. "I believe I shall take my leave of you now."
She turned to go slowly, once again aware of the weight of one hundred pairs of eyes crushing down on her from behind gilded masks. Holding her head high like a lion, she moved through the crowd with Briala at her back, determined to not let anyone see her fall.
There had been no tears when they arrived back at the Palais de Valmont, and no anger, either. Briala had expected much worse. Celene, however, had been eerily calm. All she had said, in fact, was that she wanted to be alone for the night. Though the request stung, Briala understood. The song was a terrible insult, one that would likely haunt Celene for a while. Yet again, the Game held its grip over them.
But that was life in the palace, after all. Duty and the Game – the two pillars dictating her life. For now, however, politics would have to wait. The pile of laundry in her arms had to be washed, and if she was lucky she'd be able to—
She froze for a moment at the entrance to the servant's quarters. Béjart was waiting for her, his face grim. "Good evening, Briala," he said. "Monsieur le Prince would like to have a word."
Please feel free to review! Huge thanks to the lovely mille libri, Urs, dominicgrim, and Noirmalfoy!