Chapter 4: Control
(by: Whystfylle)
A young sylvan passed the bard on his way to his bedchambers, and he stopped to thank her for the excellent job she had done with his hair. Conjuring a rose from the palm of his hand, the Dhe’nar swiftly tucked the flower behind her ear in an easy, practiced gesture. She flushed vividly and startled away, obviously unused to having any sort of attention paid to her.
The black petals of the blossom contrasted with the blonde of her hair and the gold of her collar. She curtsied uncomfortably and continued her journey down the corridor. He smiled after her, watching until she hefted the serving tray onto her bony hip to knock gently upon a guest’s door.
That morning, the Lady’s servants brought word that the sorcerer had passed in his sleep. In a beastly reaction to something that he must have ingested, his carcass was bloated and unpleasantly marked as though the man had tried to claw out his own stomach. The vile fellow had never been one to pay much attention to things he should not devour, tittered the guests over breakfast. The bard and Lady Gylaume merely smiled along with the rest, then ventured into the sunny, rain-washed courtyard to bid them pleasant journeys.
Weeks pass, and Lady Gylaume organized a new gala to celebrate her new promotion at the Palestra.
The evening had been dreadful. Each new partner only left her aware of his inadequacies when compared to the one man whose steps never faltered and the conversation never flagged. She had no desire for other companions, and this forced intimacy of the formal dance left her reeling in distaste.
Every graceful turn made her more aware of the imperfect man opposite her. Her mind wandered until she found herself scrutinizing their unpleasantly large pores, or slightly crooked teeth. Her smiles barely concealed cringes, her demurely lowered eyelids hiding the disgust she had developed for all the males that would never measure up to ‘him’.
Watching over the rim of her crystal glass, she ignored the rich, drifting scent of cabernet in favor of another more alluring sense. Her eyes were drawn to the flawless posture, the commanding gestures and the white flash of his grin.
One giddy woman clung to his arm, obviously vapid and floundering in boring, married life. The threads of gray blending into her dark hair did not make her any less child-like as she fluttered her lashes and fairly pranced with the simple pride of standing beside him.
Another lithe beauty lounged against a black marble column, looking on from behind ringlets of ruddy mahogany. Her violet eyes flashed like a cat stalking prey, feasting on the fine sight of male flesh in silk and velvet.
She observed, enraged and fascinated. Her nostrils flared with indignation as she recognized the hussy’s gaze as one of her own, and realized that his steely gaze were meeting it levelly.
The red-haired temptress extended a languid hand in offering to the bard, graciously dismissing his more elderly companion in the same gesture. Her bejeweled fingers drew several sidelong glances as they glittered against the night of his sleeve. Leaning closer to him, a few words stirred her upturned lips, something darker blazing in her stare.
The bard did not hesitate, responding to the invitations in her touch and look without breaking either. He took to the floor, guiding with pressure at the small of her back, though the true lead was the intensity of the gaze they shared. She followed in dainty steps that mirrored his, responding as if drawn by a web of intricate, invisible threads.
The Lady, garbed in emerald this evening, nearly flung her still-full goblet at the nearest passing attendant. Gathering the lush green brocade of her skirts, she entered the gray of the ballroom unescorted. She dodged waltzing couples left and right, light on her feet and focused on her mission.
Her bosom heaved against the heavy stays of her gown, the pure rage igniting her veins and stealing her breath as she made her way toward the couple. The other woman shifted nearer still to whisper a few words and bare a coy smile. Another wave of adrenaline shot through her to see him so close to anyone else.
Her extremities felt numb as she came upon them, with the unfamiliar sensation of a growl building at the back of her throat.
“Whore!”
The sound of her hand meeting the other woman’s cheek was almost as startling as the sting it left behind on her palm. She stared at the red welt blossoming against the dark skin, feeling nothing but the haze of anger and the answering physical pain.
Startled fingers flew to clutch the injury she inflicted, the flashing of their gem encrusted rings once more drawing attention.
The silence was complete, but for distant strains of conversation from the lavish courtyard and the rustle of skirts coming to a halt. Forty pairs of eyes focused on her, some narrowed to slits, some wide and offended. The musicians stood on the dais for a better view, barely able to contain their smiles at the shift of entertainment.
Her lips thinned to a pale line as she strode forward, the brilliant facets of the enormous emerald at her throat washing her face in lurid green. She stopped a bare inches from the injured woman, her expression suddenly twisting to an ugly sneer as she raised her hands and shoved with all the weight of her slight frame. The taller woman tottered on her tapering heels, then like a dying flower, she collapsed in a puddle of carmine satin.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, though they seemed frozen with indecision. She rounded on the Dhe’nar with her small hands balled into fists at her sides.
“Fetch my cloak, ” she hissed through gritted teeth, “I believe…. it is time to return to the manor.”
Stopping to bestow a light kiss on her forehead, he touched her cheek as he straightened. His fingers lingered, that sly trademark grin beginning to slowly spread across his face.
“Lady Gylaume, surely you who most often keeps my company would not begrudge your friends the same,” the bard replied, his countenance an impression of perfectly restrained amusement.
The Faendryl began to smile involuntarily in return, and then the full implications of his words were realized. She jerked back, shocked by his rebuttal and suddenly aware of the gaping social faux pas she had performed.
He regarded her with a mild expression as she swiftly backed away in horrified disgust, then turned on his heel to offer a hand to his fallen partner.
She waited, hoping still and glaring at the broad curves of his shoulders. He made no move to face her, smoothing the dark fabric of the other woman’s gown as he helped her to her feet.
“I only asked if he would dance with my sister…” Tears had smeared the kohl around her eyes, and the fall had disturbed her elaborate coif, giving the woman with the auburn locks a tragic, pathetic air. “She is lonely since her husband passed, and this gentleman is adept at making one feel wanted…”
The tinkling of female laughter pursued Lady Gylaume as she fled the dance floor. She could feel the crowd pulsate and writhe with the burgeoning rumors of her undignified, unforgivable transgressions. The weight of collective revulsion left her with a film of shame, relieving her of pride and poise more skillfully than any rogue might lift a gem. And it only grew more intense as she waited for her ever-faithful servants to inform her of the Dhe’nar’s return.
Daylight found her curled beside the only window in her chambers facing the interior of the city. Her eyes were red, and held a vacant stare. In her lap, her fingers wrapped with a white knuckled grip around a large band of golden metal.