“You’re in it.” Miles spread his arms. “The woods. All the woodlots hereabouts are like streams, flowing into the huge lake of the forest. We have only to make sure we stay among the trees, and we’ll reach the depths soon enough. Of course, the foresters might find us even there…”
“And are very likely to find us before we get to the forest,” Dirk said grimly. “Well, let’s fetch the horses and find a deer trail. If it has room for stags, it has room for mounted men.”
Half an hour later, Miles led them through the woods and toward the forest. He had only been in this particular woodlot once before, seeking shelter on the way to the reeve’s town, but he remembered it well enough to know how to go toward the deeper forest. As he went, he wondered how Dirk and Gar had come to be near when he needed help.
Because they had been following him, of course—to make sure he wasn’t captured. They had realized he had been gone too long, and had set off to make sure he hadn’t run into trouble! Another tidal wave of guilt swamped Miles.
Orgoru came into the great hall, and found the tables set. His fellow aristocrats laughed and chatted with one another, and he could see that flirtation was a well-established game among them.
“Welcome, Prince of Paradime!” called a tall, middle-aged man with a crown on his head.
Orgoru halted and stared.
“Ah, how well you look, now that you are refreshed!” The Duke of Darambay swooped down to catch him by the arm and lead him to the crowned man. “Your Majesty, may I present Orgoru, the Prince of Paradime! Orgoru, kneel to your sovereign, King Longar!”
Awed all over again, Orgoru knelt to the tall man with the high and noble forehead, the Roman nose, whose royalty fairly shone about him. “Your Majesty! I … I thank you for your hospitality!”
“Gladly given,” rumbled the kingly voice. “Welcome among us, Prince of Paradime! Tonight we celebrate, rejoicing that a new brother is come among us! My lords and ladies, to the festive board!”
They sat and began to dine, laughing and chatting, and using their silverware so easily and naturally that they scarcely seemed to be aware of it. Orgoru did his best to imitate them, blushing more than once when he reached for a fork of strange design but saw his neighbor take another, or used his knife in his right hand when they used theirs in their left. No one seemed to notice, though, and if they did, they only smiled, amused but also as though at a fond memory, and Orgoru realized all over again that he was only going through what all of them had undergone when they had finally been restored to their own kind, after a lifetime of exile. Strange that none of them seemed to have been born here…
The conversation flashed and glittered about him, filled with allusions to stories and sciences that Orgoru had never heard of. He resolved to read every book in his room, and quickly, too.
“I think that perhaps my courtiers spend too much time in pleasure,” King Longar rumbled. “We have the Guardian to teach us anything we wish to know, after all!”
“Yes, but learning, too, is pleasure, Your Majesty,” a young prince said (Orgoru could tell his rank by his coronet, larger than the duke’s).
“I can only praise such pleasuring,” the king rejoined, “though I certainly cannot object to the sorts you seek from one another, either.”
Orgoru looked about the table to see what he was talking about, and noticed how many men were kissing ladies’ hands or counting their fingers, how many long lashes were fluttering, and how many ladies peeked over their fans at men across the table.
Finally the ordeal of the meal was over, and the duke introduced Orgoru to four young noblewomen, one after the other, each beautiful, none so beautiful as Countess Gilda. Lady Amber was tall and graceful, asking, “Will you dance the gavotte with me, Prince?”
“I would be delighted,” Orgoru stammered, “but I don’t know the dance.”
“Why, then, I will teach it to you! Only lead me out!”
The floor of the great hall was polished to a glow, and the dancers took their places as the music began. Lady Amber taught him the gavotte, with good-natured jokes to cover his clumsiness; the young Duchess of Dorent made him practice the dance, with lighthearted teasing about his long years in exile having robbed him of courtly graces; Lady Louette taught him the minuet, and he practiced it with the Marquise of Corobaer—but it was Countess Gilda who taught him the waltz.
She teased him into gracefulness, rallied him into remembering the steps, and by the end of the tune, he was whirling about the floor with her body pressed close to his, blushing furiously and laughing at her jests, breathless with exertion and desire.
“I am wearied, I must confess,” she told him. “Come, let us find something to drink.”
“As my lady wishes,” Orgoru said, and followed her to one of several niches in the inner wall. “Chablis,” she said into the air, and slid back a little door to take out a goblet bedewed with condensation and brimming with a white fluid. She told Orgoru, “The punch is quite good tonight,” and he took the hint, saying, “Punch,” to the air, and wondering what drink could sound like a blow. Then he slid the door back and removed a small round cup with a handle scarcely big enough for a single finger. Turning back to look at the throng, he almost dropped his cup, for as the couples whirled by in the waltz, he saw several joined mouth-to-mouth as they swung, several others caressing openly.
“Surely you’re not shocked by the behavior of noble folk,” Countess Gilda protested. He turned to deny it, but saw the wicked gleam in her eye. “Come,” she said, and led him behind a tall tapestry that hung from the curved wall. In the dark recess behind it, she reached up to cup a hand around the back of his neck and pull his head down, and not very far, for she was almost as tall as he. He resisted for only a startled moment, then bent to find her lips with his—and learned how wondrous a kiss could be.
When they parted, she laughed, with a little breathless giggle. “There now! I’ve taught you two things, and only one of them the waltz!”
Orgoru opened his mouth to protest that he had kissed a woman before, but before he could lie, she was leading him out into the hall again, just as the dance ended and several couples left the floor. She stepped back into the circle, holding up her hands and saying, “Come, my prince. Perhaps you can practice both new skills at one time.”
Orgoru stared a moment; then his pulse leaped, and so did he, back to the circle to catch Countess Gilda giggling to him. Behind her, he noticed several couples leaving the hall arm in arm, but he had no time to be amazed or scandalized, for the music began again, and off they went into a mad, intoxicating whirl, body to body, mouth to mouth.
He was so caught up in the wonder and excitement of it all that he never noticed there were no servants, other than the magic spirits who did everything to serve them, never noticed that the only living people here were all aristocrats. It seemed so right, so fitting, and he would frankly have resented any peasants who intruded.
It also never occurred to him to wonder what would have happened if he had failed the tests of these city people, or if the Guardian hadn’t pronounced him to be of their kind. He was only glad that he was, at last, where he belonged.
CHAPTER 9
Ciletha stared glumly at the gateway, convinced that Orgoru had met his fate. Grief overwhelmed her, and fear of going on without him.
Something moved against the pale forms of stone. Ciletha stared. Could it be Orgoru?