Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Like the rest of the young men at the Festival, he wore plain white cambric with silver embroidery, a crown of green spikenard leaves on his head. (For a moment, Lin was reminded of another crown, a gold circlet with winged sides, gleaming against dark curls.) His hair was coppery, his skin sun-browned. He smiled easily, extending a hand marked with the black-ink tattoos of the Rhadanite traders to Mariam.

“I happen to have a friend among the musicians”—he winked over at Mez—“and have been informed that the dancing is about to begin. If you would join me?”

Blushing, Mariam took Natan’s hand. Mez greeted this with a trill of the lior, and a moment later the music had swelled, and Natan and Mariam were dancing.

A swell of happiness cut through Lin’s nerves. She looked over at Mez, who was grinning. Had he asked Natan to dance with Mariam? It didn’t matter, Lin told herself; Mariam was happy just to be dancing. Her face was shining, and in the moonlight she did not look the least bit tired or ill.

Other couples had begun to join them. Lin leaned back against the rough bark of the tree trunk, letting the moment carry her. There was laughter all around her, and the brightness of a community that was glad for an excuse to come together. Something cold snaked under her ribs, even as she watched Mariam. A feeling of dread.

You can’t do this, said the voice in the back of her mind. Not to all of them. The stubbornness of the Maharam is not their fault. And surely there is some other solution. Something less extreme.

Though she had not thought of it, yet.

“Lin.” She stood up straight; it was Oren Kandel, looking down at her somberly. He really was immensely tall. She felt as if she had to crane her neck back to see his face, which was set in somber lines. He was not wearing a leaf crown, like the other boys, and his clothes were somber, without embroidery. He said, stiffly, “Would you dance with me?”

Lin was too surprised to refuse. She let Oren lead her out among the other dancers, let him take her hand and draw her close. He smelled faintly acidic, like bitter tea. As he turned her awkwardly in his arms, she could not help but remember the last time she had danced. And made a fool of herself, she thought, Conor watching her with that bitter light in his eyes—

Not Conor, she reminded herself. The Prince. She was not Mayesh, to use his given name. Besides, he hated her now. She had told him he was broken, and he would be unlikely to forgive an insult like that.

“Lin,” Oren said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. For a moment, Lin wondered if he was going to say, You look troubled, or, Why do you seem sorrowful, on such a joyful occasion? “Lin, do you remember when I asked you to marry me?”

Lin winced inwardly and wondered why on earth she had thought Oren Kandel might have noticed she was unhappy. If he had not had all the insight and empathy of a slug, she might not have refused his marriage proposal in the first place.

“Yes, Oren,” she said. “That sort of thing is hard to forget.”

“Did you ever wonder why I asked you?” His dark eyes were brilliant as he looked down at her. “Though you are obviously unsuitable, and would make a very difficult wife for an ordinary man.”

What was that expression Kel always used? And Merren, too? Gray hell, Lin thought.

“I had not wondered,” she said. “Though, I confess, I am wondering now.”

“I know you’re angry at me,” Oren said. “I helped the Maharam take your books.” And begged him to punish me more, Lin thought grimly. “But I think you’ll come to understand, Lin, that the things I’ve done have all been to help you, even if you couldn’t see it.”

“Taking my books does not help me, Oren.”

“You think that now,” he said, “but that is because you are corrupted. Your grandfather has corrupted you with his worldly values. He wants to make you like those women out there”—he jerked his chin toward the Sault walls, a gesture that seemed to encompass all of Castellane—“too proud, too arrogant, thinking they’re better than we are. But I can save you from his influence.”

“Oren—” Lin tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

“Reconsider my offer,” he said. His eyes were still shining, but it was not with happiness. It was with a mixture of revulsion and desire that nearly turned Lin’s stomach. He might have told himself he wanted to save her, she thought, but what he really wanted was to change her beyond all recognition. And she could not help but think of Conor, who—drunk as he had been, wild and uncontrolled—had told her she was perfect as she was. “I still want to marry you,” he breathed. “I want to—and marrying me will raise you up in the estimation of the Maharam, of all the Sault—”

“Why?” Lin said.

Oren blinked for a moment. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why do you want to marry me?”

“Do you remember,” Oren said, “when we were children, and we would play hide-and-seek in the gardens? No one else could find you, but I always could. I always found you in the end. You are lost like that now, Lin. Only I can find you. Help you.”

A sour note sounded on the lior. Lin glanced over, saw Mez looking at her, his eyebrows raised, as if to say: Do you need me to step in?

“Lin,” Oren said. “What are you thinking?”

She shook her head minutely at Mez, and turned back to Oren. “Just that I wondered if those were the words Sulemon used, when he was trying to convince Adassa to join with him and the other kings. Join with me and I will keep you safe. I will help you. You are lost on your own. Isn’t that the sort of thing he said?”

Oren stiffened.

“Although,” Lin said, “he probably at least told her that he loved her. And you haven’t even done that.”

The music had stopped. Mez must not have been able to stand it any longer, Lin thought, the way Oren was looking at her, and she could not blame him. Nor could she look at Oren anymore. His face was creased with anger, his eyes hard and bright as stones.

She walked past Natan and Mariam as she hurried away from the dancing. She took herself to one of the tables, found a silver cup of wine, and drank, letting the heat of the alcohol settle the vibration in her bones. Turning, she looked about but could not see Oren among the crowd. She let herself relax slightly.

Oren was not the Sault, she reminded herself. Most of them, her friends and neighbors, were not like that: not rigid or judgmental. They had empathy, like Chana. Compassion, like Mez. Wisdom, like Mayesh. (Yes, she told herself, it was all right to think it: He was wise, and cared about goodness, even if he was not always kind.) Most of the elders had not voted to exile the Maharam’s son. It was the Maharam himself, in the end, who had cast the deciding vote.