The Count of Stowgardyn looked nothing like the paintings strewn all about the manor. A thin man, Count Edmond Stowgardyn was bare faced and just as balled, with cat-like yellow eyes that peered into one’s soul. Standing at the front of the ballroom he raised his glass and, with a silver fork, tinked it ever so lightly to gather attention to him, although all eyes had been on him since he entered the room.
“My dear guests,” he began. Alden stopped listening then. A formal speech, filled with flowery pleasantries and devoid of true meaning. Instead his eyes flicked back and forth, measuring the room and its occupants. On the right side the noble daughters had flocked together like sheep, centered around Aelfwynn, the Count’s own daughter. Her older sister, Alden noticed, was absent.
On the right the noble sons were spread about in disjointed fashion, some in groups, others alone, all of them waiting, as Alden was, for the speech to finish.
“...and it is with great pleasure that this ball now commences. Enjoy!”
With the Count’s expressed permission, the lakelords and their children began the politicking in earnest. The lords and ladies moved in pairs, mingling with this family or that. An exchange of polite greetings, followed by small talk of trade or war or Hilva, then they would move on to the next pair. On occasion there was a joke, always too quiet for Alden to hear, followed by a lord’s bawdy laugh that was impossible to miss.
“Who first?” Alden asked. Beside him Amice plucked a morsel from the table at the edge of the room, its surface adorned with more food than could be eaten by the entire congregation, then tossed it into her mouth and chewed.
“The choice has been made for us,” she said without turning from the table.
“My lord!” a voice called out, coming from the Count’s very own mouth. With him was a woman of age with himself, dressed in the house colors of Stowgardyn, as well as a man a few years Alden’s senior. The Count’s wife and heir, respectively.
“Count Stowgardyn, it is a pleasure,” Alden said, hand outreached for a handshake. The Count obliged, his grip firm despite his years.
“You truly are as tall as they say, my lord! A true giant! I hope your accommodations are suitable? It was more trouble than I’m willing to admit to find a bed that would fit you. In the end I had to have one commissioned from scratch.”
“It is more than suitable. I expect I shall rest more easily tonight than I have in months.”
The Count smiled, causing his cheeks to puff up and redden. “It is the least that can be done. You are a baron now, my lord. A daunting thing given your history, I’m sure, but not without its rewards. The courtesy of others is but one. Business is the other, of course, as I’m sure you know, and I must say that business along Chaudlac lake is a fickle thing, a fickle thing indeed. It has been no small effort on my part to keep the lakelords afloat, metaphorically and literally, and among my many tasks is keeping the lakelords docile, at least with one another. If I am to impress anything upon you, Lord Alden, it is that the lands around Chaudlac are strongest when united, a fact the other lords are remiss to admit. They fight, they squabble, they threaten, they cajole. In the end, Chaudlac and all who rely upon it suffer. Eventually, if not immediately, which I feel is partially to blame. One does not fear a wound soon to be infected when there is treasure at hand.”
Alden nodded along. “I understand completely, my lord,” he said.
The Count smiled at him. “Good, good. It is important, I must say, for you, specifically, to know. As Count I am…well, let us say that I view myself as the father figure among the lakelords, if I may be so presumptuous.”
“From what I’ve seen your presumption is more than correct,” Alden replied.
“I thank you for that. It is hard, at times. Keeping the balance. That’s what this ball was for, after all. To bring us all together, as allies, bad blood be damned.”
“Bad blood?”
The Count turned his head back and forth, as if in search. Then, deeming the coast clear, he leaned in an whispered. “Being new you might not know, but the Bradfirth and Wickea houses have a history. Not between the lords themselves, mind you, but the families proper, a real as clay feud going back some hundred and fifty years. Nothing to worry about, more often than not, but I am a Count. My word isn’t law by any means, but it’s damn close enough that the others usually leave me out of their problems. Usually being the operative word. You do know what ‘operative’ means, don’t you?”
“I do,” Alden said.
“Pardon my asking, but it isn’t often that a soldier becomes a baron. I’m not certain what kind of education you’ve had. But, back to it, Lord Bradfirth and Lord Wickea come to me to act as arbiter for their quarrels. I agree, of course. It’s my responsibility to do so. So I get to sit in a crowded room with a lord on either side of me, each one shouting words into my ears about who’s right and who’s wrong, and at the end of it all they both expect I side in their favor. An annoyance, but I get by since they listen to me and, more importantly, adhere to my rulings. But that power comes from my title, and little else. You, my lord, have no such protection, I’m afraid.”
“So stay clear of them?”
The Count grinned. “Be as the air on a windless day, unseen and unheard,” he said.
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With a turn, the Count’s attention moved to the party at large, and Alden’s attention went with it. In the span of only a few minutes the party had shifted entirely. Noble sons and daughters intermingled, their parents melded together in ever changing groupings, and their servants lined the walls like statues.
“I suppose this is a momentary farewell,” the Count said. He drank from his glass of wine as he turned, and with a steady stride he moved toward a short, thin man in a suit of blue and purple.
“The dancing will start soon,” Amice said. She plucked another morsel from the table, a small pastry of some kind, and tossed it into her mouth. Alden licked the inside of his cheek, wondering at the flavor. “Fish,” she said, sensing his question. His mouth turned sour.
“When do I ask?”
Amice turned around. “Don’t be the first,” she said. “Lesser families dance first, to set the pace. Younger ones first, usually third and fourth daughters, if there are any. Children, sometimes, but not today. That girl there.” Amice pointed to a young woman in a yellow dress that was almost gold. “One of Baron Axemere’s daughters. Wait for her to dance, then ask.”
“And if Aelfric asks before me?”
“He won’t,” she replied.
“How can you know?”
Amice smirked. “Because of the way he’s looking at me.”
Alden searched him out amongst the crowd, saw Aelfric’s piercing blue eyes directed at her. He noticed Alden’s gaze, their eyes met. Aelfric looked away. Alden balled his hand into a fist, his nails biting against his palm.
“Don’t worry,” Amice said. “He doesn’t have half what you have.”
She moved from him, her dress flowing behind her as she left.
Resisting the urge to cross his arms, Alden walked to the nearest crowd of boys near his age, exchanging half-hearted pleasantries with them.
“You’re as tall as they say,” one said. How many times had he heard that now?
“I am,” Alden replied, barely listening. Though the noble sons were in his line of sight, he did not see them. His attention was fixated elsewhere. Not to Aelfwynn, where it should have been, nor to the girl in the yellow dress, but to Amice.
Across the room, she was by herself, glass of wine in hand. She sipped from it, ate another morsel of food. Waited. Then, from the left, came that suit of white even more impeccable than his own, that blond hair that glowed like gold, and those blue piercing eyes that settled over a woman who was nobility no longer.
Alden bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.
He looked away from them, suddenly overwhelmed, only to see, near the center of the room, the girl in yellow dancing with a young, not quite handsome man. His eyes flicked to Aelfwynn who, though not alone, was surrounded only by women. The men did not dare approach.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, putting his glass of wine on the table beside him. “There’s someone I’d like to dance with.”
Aelfwynn, surrounded by a flock of sheep-like girls, appeared mature by comparison. She wore a dress of white and green that, though luxurious, was more modest than most. When she looked at him he half-expected her to smile. Instead she barely seemed to notice him until, mere feet from her and enveloped in his shadow, she had no choice.
She looked up at him.
“My fair lady Aelfwynn, would you care to dance?” He held out his arm and waited.
“I suppose I can,” she said, disinterested. As if it were she who was doing him a favor. Truly an actor. She wrapped her arm around his and, with a few graceful steps, followed him to the center of the ballroom.
He started slowly, taking his time to study her gait, her frame, even her weight as he took the lead, guiding her from one movement to the next. She was shorter than Amice, and light. And, as his hand felt the flesh of her back beneath the fabric of her dress, he could tell that she was softer. No muscles, he thought. Staring up at him, Aelfwynn was anything but impressed.
“So you can dance after all,” she said.
“I studied with Dame Amice as oft as I could, in preparation,” Alden replied.
“A good thing. You’re at an acceptable level, I think. Not great, mind you, but passable at least.”
Alden bit his tongue. On the far edge of the dance floor he saw that suit of white. His eyes flicked to it, saw that dress of emerald and silver pressed so close against it. He must have grimaced, as he felt Aelfwynn’s hand tighten against his own.
“Eyes on me,” she said.
He obeyed, though only after a solid stare. Even in dancing Aelfric seemed his better, moving with a steady, even flow, leading Amice through the motions in a way he had never been able to.
There was a sudden heat in his cheeks. He frowned.
“Focus on us,” she said, tightening her grip once more. “He just wants to get back at you. He has no interest in Dame Amice.”
“Is that meant to make me feel better?” he said, bile leaking into his voice.
Aelfwynn’s nails bit into the flesh of his skin. “Enough of that,” she said. “Eyes on me. Now.”
He looked into her green eyes, eyes that demanded more of him, and lost himself for a moment. A ruler must impress, he thought.
Left, right, forward, back, spin. The basic movements, nothing too showy, each step taken with intent. Then, with confidence wrapped around his heart, he raised Aelfwynn’s hand above her head, separated a half-step. She twirled.
Congratulations!
The Dancing Skill has advanced to B Rank.
Reward: ??xp.
The crowd was focused on them now, several hundred pairs of eyes watching them, some in awe, others in anger. But Alden didn’t care for them or what they saw. For a moment he didn’t even care about what Amice saw. He only cared about the green eyes in front of him, which were now wide with surprise.
Left, right, forward, back, spin, twirl, each movement more fluid than the last, improving with repetition as Aelfwynn adapted to his sudden rise in skill. Skill that now exceeded her own.
Alden smiled. Aelfwynn had the courtesy to blush.
“Were you hiding this all along?” she asked.
“I’m just a quick learner,” he replied. He received an annoyed look in return, which disappeared after he twirled her once more.
“Enough,” she said. “I’m growing dizzy. Tired. And I think we’ve done enough to anger my poor, dear fiance.”
Stepping back from one another, Aelfwynn curtsied as Alden bowed. The two turned from one another without a word. The crowd spoke enough for them both.