But Gleamdren, slyly peeking out from beneath her lashes, missed one particular face in the crowd. Her smile slowly melted into a frown and her covert glances became more and more pronounced. “Lumé love me,” she whispered. “Where is he?”
Yet she could not find the one she sought. He stood in the shadows just outside the reach of torchlight and lanterns. One of the side passages leading from Fionnghuala Gate into King Iubdan’s central hall provided darkness enough that a man might prowl there beyond the gaze of searching eyes.
The people of Rudiobus wore green. From the queen’s apple-green gown to the rich forest tones in her husband’s robes to the olive jerkin worn by the lowliest imp, the kingdom of merrymakers were a verdant garden of emerald and spring leaf, moss and teal. This man wore scarlet.
The Merry People of Rudiobus were rarely seen without smiles, and so it was with this man. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, waiting to burst across his pale, angular face. But his golden eyes were serious.
He watched the shadows of the dancers winging across the walls of the mountain hall. He smelled the richness of the fresh-hung pine and holly boughs festooning the rocks and littering the floor. He heard the sounds of ageless voices raised in song. He saw how every man in the room turned eventually to gaze with longing upon Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith. But she would have none of them.
She looked for him. He knew it with a confidence common only in his kind. He lived ever assured of the ultimate desirability of himself. Who would not crave his presence, nor vie for his esteem? He himself admired no man more, for was there ever such a handsome, a quick-witted devil as he?
“We are alike, you and I, my lady Gleamdren,” he whispered to himself as he watched that fair maid scan the crowds, her face sinking into deeper frowns when she failed to see his. “The Flower of Rudiobus. That’s what they call you. Any man here would give his right hand for your pleasure!”
The smile, which had been tugging at his mouth for some time, finally won out. He grinned, and his eyes shone even beyond the torchlight. “You, my sweet, should be my wife.”
“A fine sight, eh, poet?”
The scarlet man did not startle at the gruff voice that suddenly spoke behind him. He turned, his eyes narrowed, and icily replied, “The queen’s birthday is always a fine display, which is nothing new. It holds little interest for me.”
“Little interest, you say?” The speaker took a step nearer to the poet, entering the light of the nearest torch. He wore a moss-green doublet that would disguise him from hunting eyes should he venture beyond Rudiobus Mountain, and he carried a lance. His appearance was stocky, broad-shouldered, and powerful, opposite of the scarlet man’s in every way save for his shock of yellow hair. In that aspect, the two might have been brothers. Perhaps they were. But they, like all the men and women of Rudiobus, were so ancient in their immortality that none could remember their heritage. “You’re blind, my friend, if you can find no lovely face to light an interest in you.”
“Fine sentiments, Captain Glomar of the Guard,” the scarlet man said. “I was unaware that your kind entertained feelings of the higher order.”
Glomar ignored this last with masterful stoicism. Setting his lance momentarily aside, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his face cast into shadows by the torch. “If none other can touch your heart, there’s one I think who might.” His eyes were bright as he gazed across the hall. “Aye, she’s the image of what every lass ought to be; that’s what I think.”
“I’m going to pretend I haven’t the least notion what you’re talking about,” the scarlet man said. “And I’d advise you to take advantage of my pretense and sneak away now.”
Glomar’s sandy eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed for yourself!”
“Noticed what?”
“That lass! What else?”
“Which lass, Glomar? There are a hundred and more ladies careening across the floor as we speak.”
“Ah, but only one so far as I can see,” answered Glomar, settling back comfortably to continue his long-distance admiration. His voice, though rough as dirt and rock, was almost wistful. “I dare you to find a maid alive who can rival Queen Bebo’s cousin.”
The scarlet man was not surprised. Why should he be? Who beside fair Gleamdren could have caught even stony Glomar’s eye? Nevertheless, momentary jealousy surged in the scarlet man’s breast. Had he been a cat, the fur on his back and tail would have stood on end. As it was, his lips drew back in something like a snarl, and he turned on the starry-eyed captain a look that might have pinned the poor man to the wall. But before Glomar saw, the snarl melted into a smile.
“You should ask her to dance, good captain.”