Belfries tended to be unoccupied and unilluminated. Good enough.
Sandu went to smoke, just another plume in a very smoky sky. Should any of those revelers jostling below bothered to have cast their eyes skyward, however, they might have wondered at this particular plume descending instead of rising.
Emanations of alcohol, of cava and ale shimmered through him with a near-physical force. Sandu doubted very much anyone was looking up.
He'd already dropped the satchel to the roof, managing to land it damned near the belfry, too. Lucky shot. After Turning back inside the stone shelter—nearly smacking his head on the bell first—it was a simple matter to crawl out and quickly retrieve it.
He descended the tightly wound wooden stairs of the belfry dressed as a gentleman, if not a prince, and stepped into a sea of perfumed, glittering chaos.
Inside the building it was somehow even more crowded than without. It was truly impressive, the decorations and furnishings far more extravagant than the plain brown facade that faced the streets would imply. In fact, it seemed to be an actual palace, with stonework carved into delicate filigree arches, and intricately inlaid walls, and vaulted ceilings so high and tall he could scarcely make out the frescoes in their curves. Chandeliers dripped with strands of cut crystal, blazing with light. What he glimpsed of the floor was pink and blue marble edged in black, geometric patterns repeated over and over.
A palace, yes, yet it was little like his own home. Underneath its thinly sophisticated veneer,Zaharen Yce had been built as a fortress, designed and created by creatures with claws, anchored to its harsh mountain by the will of long-dead monsters. But this lavish and sensual place had never been used for defense, it was clear. This place was purely about wealth. And there must have been plenty of it.
Crushed flower petals stained the marble. Petals rained from the fingertips of the younger children, who carried them in baskets and laughed as they tossed them into the air, at each other. Dabs of falling color clung to wigs and hooped skirts, skimmed the sheer lace veils covering the faces of the women, snared in their combs. Diamonds twinkled behind the lace, a million little rainbowed stars; the men wore pearls and powder and dark satin jackets and spilled their drinks over their cuffs. Somewhere nearby an orchestra labored against the noise, a sudden rising of strings and horns that pierced the highest rafters, overcoming even the hectic human clamor for a few bars.
It was hot and reeking and he could hardly breathe. To his left was a door that would eventually lead him outside; he could taste the fresher air wafting in, getting there was the trouble.
A woman—a girl—laughed in his ear, took his arm and looped a chain of tiny round bells about his wrist. He caught the flash of her teeth, a few whispered words, and then she was gone and a new girl was beside him, handing him roses, yellow roses, their wilted fragrance a sudden assault on his senses, and then his other wrist was captured and Alexandru received more bells, and then the next shadowed girl who moved before him handed him an orange, and as his fingers brushed hers through her gloves he felt the razor-sharp ache of his own kind, and he realized that it was she.
It was Honor.
Behind the netting of her veil, her eyes met his. Her lips curved. She took his hand and led him away.
He was taller than I recalled. He was taller than nearly every man there in the Grand Salon of the palace. If I hadn't recognized him by that tail of indigo hair pulled back with a velvet ribbon, then certainly I would have found him by the bells.
They were small, tin, strung along cheap bracelets like charms for the celebration. Rich or poor, most of the men were wearing them, laughing and gesturing with their hands in that flowing, Catalan way so that they'd chime. But only on Alexandru did the bells sing.
And they did sing, beautifully. Even the less valued metals adored us; on him the bells rose into a sound like raindrops striking a cool, alpine lake. Every note pure and sweet.
When my hand touched his, they swelled from raindrops into a storm. And then I looked into his eyes, and they ceased to matter.
I'd been to the king's residence only once before, but I'd memorized my path for tonight. Carlos himself wasn't here, but two royal cousins were on hand, puffed proud in splendid bronze uniforms to represent him, and on this evening all the people of the province clamored for entrance.
Naturally, most of them were kept out. Only the most rarefied of Spanish society was allowed to step foot in the inner sanctum of the palau.
The rarefied ... and I. But I, of course, had stolen in. I was, after all, drakon .
I'd chosen a veil of net, because it was easier to see through than lace. It was tradition for the ladies on this night to shield their faces, just as it was tradition for us to dress as courtiers from nearly a century past, with wide fan hoops at our hips, and stomachers of embroidered satin, and short trains that swished behind us and caught beneath the soles of the unwary. I wore black, not an uncommon color for formal Spain, not even for a festive gala such as this. I'd powdered my hair and skin and liked the effect: a snow-white face with crimson lips, chocolate kohl about my eyes that made them seem darker and even more blue than they were, pink-hued locks held in place with lacquered combs.
I seldom wore jewelry, mainly because I never wished to lose it in a Weave. But tonight I'd borrowed something of Lia's, a simple choker of rose quartz drops, barely more rose than my cheeks and hair. Beneath all the noise of the gemstones surrounding us, they offered a ballad, a gentle rhythm to match the pulse in my throat.
I hadn't wanted diamonds tonight. I hadn't wanted to distract myself from any single detail of him.
He kept the orange I'd handed him but passed off the yellow roses to a maiden of about twelve, with limp curls and sallow skin and a French-beaded gown that must have cost a ransom, presenting them to her with a smile and a nod of his head.
The child watched Alexandru walk away with startled, adoring eyes.
She could have been me. It was far too easy to see myself there in her, skinny and alone, clutching sagging flowers to her chest.
We reached the palace chapel, sealed off from the rest of the celebracid with a scrolled iron gate that fit snugly from floor to ceiling. The pair of liveried guards stationed beside it did nothing to acknowledge either me or the prince, but when we neared the one by the lock, a guard turned about swiftly, fit his key into the socket and pushed the gate open for us. It shut behind us just as quickly.
I guided the prince into the shadows. He followed with agile deliberation, the heels of his shoes hardly clipping the floor. His fingers curved warm, very warm, in mine.
There were always candles lit above the altar, I'd heard, although their radiance was muted, shaded red and gold by the colors around us. I released his hand and turned to face him, taking a long, leisurely look at him for the first time tonight. For the first time in two years.
Pale and chiseled, deep blue and ivory and an ice-clear gaze. Still a head taller than I, still a world I'd never guessed at shining from his eyes, even though at last our ages were closely matched.
"How much did that cost?" Alexandru inquired in English, his words low and amused.
We could speak nearly without sound; in closed spaces such as this, even with the cacophony beyond us, our hearing was acute.
"Less than a single topaz from your mantel," I answered, just as hushed. "And yet more than a year's salary each." I took a step back, lifted a hand to the softly glimmering room. "I thought it'd be worth it. Do you agree?"
"I do."
He turned to take in the perimeters of the chamber, making certain he remained beyond the timid glow cast from the row of candles; the bells at his wrists subsided back into rainfall.