A Wilderness of Glass - Grace Draven Page 0,3
This was her first time at Castle Banat, and while she was awed by the structure and its rich trappings, she didn’t fancy spending a night under the same roof as the hostile Ospodine.
After a few more pleasantries exchanged between them, his lordship left them to tend to his hosting duties. The steward returned to lead them upstairs to the balcony where stools had been placed in preparation for their arrival. Brida claimed one placed where she could look over the balcony without standing up. The view from above turned the great hall into a sea of flickering lamplight, glittering jewels, and colorful skirts as guests mingled, conversed, and laughed.
Janen moved his seat to face the other four. “Let’s start with something slow and soft. Background as they talk and eat. We’ll play something livelier if and when they choose to dance.”
He struck up the first chord to the first song, and Brida and her companions joined in. They played through the evening, until the candles melted low, the oil lamps burned dry, and the guests emptied the casks of wine manned by a pair of servants who refilled cups as fast as people drained them.
During the brief respites between sets, Brida dabbed at her perspiring brow and wet her lips from the cup of water a servant had brought her while she played. She was tired and on edge, the weight of one man’s relentless scrutiny heavy on her skin as she played.
What about those notes had elicited such aggression from a complete stranger? Ospodine had glared at her as if he’d just discovered the thief who’d stolen all the silver from his house. Brida bristled inwardly, even as her fingers danced down the length of the flute and her breath teased music from the hollow bone.
By the time the steward called a halt to their playing, their quintet was exhausted. Janen stood to follow the steward down the stairs. “Pack up,” he instructed the group. “I’ll be back with our pay.”
Rejuvenated by the prospect of returning home and falling into her own bed, Brida put away her flute, tying it under her skirts as a precaution. Better it not be seen should she be unlucky enough to cross paths with Ospodine a second time this night.
Janen returned to distribute the payment they’d received, and Brida kissed the small purse of money she held before tucking it into her bodice. Despite her encounter with one of Lord Frantisek’s unpleasant guests and the prospect of a wet ride home, she was glad she came. She’d made enough to repair the leak in her roof and help her brother’s family with their ever-depleted larder, at least until the seaweed harvest started in earnest, and they could sell what they gathered to the farmers of adjacent towns.
A quick peek outside assured them that while the moonlit squall line in the distance still threatened, the troupe had a little longer before the line made landfall. At Odon Imre’s impatient gesturing, the five settled into the dray for the trip back down the bluff. Imre’s mare, Voreg stamped her hoof, splattering mud, as if to echo Odon’s silent encouragement that they hurry it along. Soon they rolled out of the bailey and through the barbican, leaving behind the dark castle.
Brida turned for a last look at the majestic keep, searching for the source that created a prickling itch between her shoulder blades, the same sensation she’d experienced all evening under Ospodine’s unwavering stare. Only stone stared back at her, along with a pair of guttering torches. Still, she shivered and turned away, certain down to her bones the nobleman watched her leavetaking from somewhere in the castle.
“It won’t be worth going to bed if I have to be back up before the sun’s rise,” Haniss groused, breaking into Brida’s thoughts.
Like the Imres, Haniss and her husband owned a pair of the big draught horses that trawled the Gray for shrimp during summer. With the arrival of autumn, rakes replaced nets, and they put the horses to work harvesting the seaweed that choked the shallows and shrouded the rocks in the aftermath of storms. Heavy clouds and distant lightning hanging over the Gray earlier in the evening prophesied a tempest guaranteed to hurl a rich bounty of seaweed onto the beaches by morning.
Brida patted her shoulder. “I’ll meet you on the beach. I may even beat you there.” She yawned. “Norinn told me Laylam plans to sleep in his boots, in the stables, with the