Veray Bátori
Lady Verayna Alidea Bátori of House Almássy (a.k.a. Veray)
Veray paced the shaded portico slowly. The intricate chimes of a Gárdoni made water clock rang out from the entrance hall of the Sovány house, marking the ninth hour of the morning. She paused. Twelve more hours. Only twelve more and then…
“Lady Bátori?”
Veray straightened and raised her chin as she turned.
The servant had approached on whispered feet, the soles of his shoes most likely charmed to whisk away sound. He extended the gilt tray in his hands.
“Her ladyship begs that, if you will not join them in the receiving room, you will at least accept some refreshment while you wait.”
Veray’s stomach tightened. She’d barely picked at her breakfast that morning, and falling faint from hunger was hardly something she could afford to risk. Of all days, not today. But still, the thought of food… She scanned the offerings.
The etched crystal goblet of juice was already beaded with moisture in the morning’s heat, a heat that would only grow more oppressive as the day wore on. Beside the goblet a cluster of pearlescent grapes from the Glass Isles was heaped in a silver bowl. Nestled alongside was a small plate of cheese tarts studded with golden pomegranate arils from the gardens of the Sothren Empress. Both neatly declared her host’s ability to pay the exorbitant import tariffs. Or, more likely, bribe someone to bypass the tariffs entirely. Around the rim of the tray, spiced cakes of almond paste, each molded and gilded with a sigil of the gods, had been meticulously arranged in order of precedence.
Veray’s hand froze above the cakes. The eighth sigil representing the perfect union of the seven—and the only god-mark proper to offer an Ungifted during the high festival—was conspicuously absent. Slowly, she raised her eyes, pouring every ounce of cold arrogance into the expression she could summon.
The servant was new, at least new to Veray. He was also young, a boy really, barely more than a year past his first shave. His own eyes were fixed with desperate determination on the space above her shoulder, a pale sheen underlying his olive skin. His throat bobbed and the liquid in the glass trembled ever so slightly. Clearly someone else in the household had designed the snub and he—luckless newcomer that he was—was meant to take the blame whether he willed it or no.
The knot in Veray’s stomach cinched a fraction farther, but she dared not drop the mask, not even now. Not when she was so close. She stared at the boy until his careful restraint slipped and his gaze flicked to hers. Another swallow and it snapped back over her shoulder.
“I… If you…” His voice nearly cracked.
“Yes?” The faintest hint of threat purred through Veray’s voice. Bleeding fates, she was beginning to sound like her mother.
“I was… I was instructed—if you find the morning too warm, my lady—to offer you relief.” The boy cautiously shifted his grip on the tray until his right hand was freed. He flicked his fingers and the faintest breeze brushed across her cheek.
Instructed.
Oh, this one was intelligent, making certain the pointed reminder of her own Giftless state was shifted off his own shoulders and onto those above him. Was it one of the upper servants who had it out for him? Perhaps resenting a too swift advancement on account of his small Gift? Poor boy. Or mayhap one of Narasie’s witless sisters. Those preening idiots hadn’t the sense between them to tie their own laces. They certainly wouldn’t care who paid the price for one of their juvenile jokes. She could almost hear the useless twits now: Even our servants have more gold in their blood than you.
Regardless, unless the boy was a far better actor than even herself, he was blameless. And blameless or not, assuming he kept his wits about him—and added a little more polish to that subservient mask—he might actually survive this gods-poxed city. Well, fates be with him, he could have it.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I am content.”
The faintest edge of tension eased out of the boy’s shoulders at her veiled reprieve, along with a thread of pent breath. Veray plucked the goblet from the tray and turned away before a flash of sympathy could break her careful poise. Weakness was not something she could afford today.
Weakness would destroy everything.
Veray drifted to the balustrade edging the portico and scanned the courtyard. The sun had finally risen far enough above the Golden City to edge out most of the deep shadows cast by the high walls and fabled thousand towers. Now it pooled in the Sovány courtyard, baking the white and honey-gold stones and sparkling off the faint mist of effervescence that broke the surface of her juice. She sipped carefully.
Festival banners, each embroidered in the burgundy and white of House Sovány and hung from the crenelated walk atop the walls, twitched and rustled in the light breeze that swept above. The movement was mimicked by the restless guards lounging at post in the twin cupolas spiking the corners of the courtyard. Only two wall guards, and both half drunk with heat and boredom. Useless. Even the best wards did not preclude the possibility of a breach. Her mother would have had them and their captain flogged for negligence of duty. Or for pure spite.
Now the two on the gate… Veray’s gaze flicked lower. Those two were at least attempting to pretend at competence, doubtless in response to the presence her own superior guard. It wouldn’t do to fail their House’s honor in front of outsiders. Veray huffed a breath just short of a snort.
No, if her mother sought her here and demanded her return, the Sovány guards would not be her problem. It would be the cluster of hardened men and women in the blue and green livery of House Bátori, each hand picked by her mother’s pet, Captain Mészáros, who would pose the difficulty.
As if feeling her gaze, the Captain raised his own, irritation embedded as permanently in the expression as the hatchwork of battle scars across his weathered skin. Veray produced her most syrupy smile and raised her glass in a mocking toast. The Captain’s dark eyes narrowed.
Twelve hours. Only twelve more.
Veray took a long draw at her juice. Her mother’s dog could growl all he liked, but soon enough she’d be beyond the reach of his bite. She’d only to evade him for one more day. And then she’d never have to play this game again.
The sound of voices within the house distracted her from the Captain’s glower. Veray half turned her head, straining to hear over the clatter of cart wheels and horse’s hooves in the street beyond the gate.
“…disgrace. Passing a Giftless by-blow off as…”
The woman’s words were cut off by the shout of a passing town crier announcing the evening’s festivities, but Veray already knew where the conversation was going. Her hand tightened on the glass.
“…father was likely a stable lad, but then who’s going to question a princess.”
A flush of heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the day crept up Veray’s neck and cheeks. She’d heard more than enough whispered variations on this theme over the years since her Giftless state had become common knowledge. She shouldn’t care anymore. It was the obvious price to pay. And a fairly painless one if she were to succeed. She should not care.
She did not.
A second voice was speaking. It was muted, but even so the sarcasm was thick and heavy as honey.
“…of course. Because her royal highness makes a habit of carousing with underlings too low to lick the mud from her silk slippers.”
The rattle of a passing temple wagon accompanied by the intoned hymns of acolytes, blotted out the immediate reply. But Veray could well imagine it. She forced herself to take another sip of the suddenly bitter juice. Something else she’d no longer have to deal with after today: the petty and vicious minds of the lesser aristocracy.
The wagon and hymns faded, but the first voice was still harping on it’s overworn diatribe.
“…distasteful but still useful. The royal connection. The family’s wealth. Her brother—”
“So you despise her, but wish me to remain sycophantic. I’ll do my best.”
“Really, Narasie!”
The voices broke off as they neared the door. Veray stiffened her shoulders and turned to face their owners, her expression firmly in place. A moment later, Lady Délia of House Sovány stepped out into the portico, her daughter Narasie at her side.
“Lady Verayna!” the older woman gushed and rushed forward with outstretched hands. “It is such an honor to have you grace our humble home again.”
Veray ignored the proffered hands with their thick fingers squeezed into far too many rings—the wretched female must have emptied half her jewel case before coming down—and turned to replace her glass on the servant’s tray.
“Lady Délia.” Veray gave the overgrown toad of a woman a shallow nod and turned to her daughter. “Narasie.”
Veray clasped her friend’s hands and leaned in to kiss the air by either cheek. A whiff of Narasie’s Gift—a rich dark scent reminiscent of cloves—clung to the other girl’s skin. Fates, what had her sisters badgered her into casting an illusion over this time? The color of their hair? A new outbreak of spots? Poor girl.
“We are so pleased to see you again,” Lady Délia was burbling on. “And your youngest brother? Has he returned for the festival? Narasie was so hoping to see him at the festivities this evening.”
Narasie cast her eyes skyward with a delicate shudder, all unseen by her busily fawning mother, and Veray swallowed a faint flicker of humor.
“My brother,” —as any idiot with half a brain for more than the latest hem length and the guest list for the Adamantean ambassador’s garden party would know— “is still with the army. I don’t believe they’ve been given leave to travel half a kingdom for the holy days.”
Lady Délia’s obsequious manner thinned ever so slightly.
“Well… Perhaps your family would care to join us this evening. Lord Bernat and I have reserved a private booth with an excellent view, and it is always such a great pleasure to host Lord Jaromir and her highness.”
Veray suppressed a snort. As if her parents had ever given the House of Sovány that honor. Her father wouldn’t have cared one way or the other. His wealth and marriage connections were the only things that held his rank above Lord Sovány and his grasping wife. That and a far distant drop of royal blood in his lineage. But her mother now…
Her royal highness, the Princess Cathalin Vrsula Almássy of House Almássy and Lady of House Bátori, would have willingly subjected herself to the pox before crossing such a woman’s threshold.
“My parents will be seated with the royal party, as will my elder brothers. As usual.” Veray gave her most blinding smile. “But I would be most happy to accept your gracious invitation, Lady Délia.”
The older woman’s own smile wavered towards a cringe, and Veray swept on.
“But now I really must be about my errands if we’re all to be ready for this evening. Narasie?”
Veray turned her back before the other woman could think of anything else ridiculous to say, and swept her friend toward the waiting guards and litter. She’d only twelve hours left to prepare and it was past time to make use of them.
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