Page 95 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
“A bit more discretion next time,” said Tristane.
“Yes, Tristane,” said Leofric.
Tristane released him and turned her imperious gaze to the assembled Fyren. “Keep the information to yourselves. Such crossings of thefrontièresbetween Orders aren’t allowed. The Haelan did me a good turn. Thanks to her, Dinadan’s axe must wait another day to taste my blood.”
She turned to Aurienne. “Those present will say nothing. They form the backbone of the Fyren Order. Allow me to introduce you to every vertebra.”
Aurienne was accordingly introduced to the Fyren present. She was passed around like a novelty and drawn into debates about where was best to stab people for maximum haemorrhages.
She retained few names. Sacramore she had seen at the Stánrocc and liked, his being a Fyren notwithstanding. He muttered into her ear that he had personally objected to the Swanstone job and that he hoped there would be no hard feelings between them. Lady Windermere was narrow and slippery. Lirain was a dangerous red-haired beauty, and if she hadn’t been a Fyren, Aurienne would have been interested in getting to know her better. As it was, their eyes met, and Lirain’s lovely lips lifted at the corners.
Mordaunt fumed a few feet away.
“What’s the plan, Tristane?” asked Beaufort, the broad-shouldered Fyren blaecsmith.
“I shall lie low for a while,” said Tristane. “All of you must claimignorance about my whereabouts. Sacramore will continue to act publicly as the new warchief.”
Mordaunt continued to glare at Aurienne. Not wishing to overstay her welcome, which did not exist, she made attempts to leave the party. She was thwarted variously by Tristane, or Leofric, or Lirain.
Mordaunt was accosted by the elegant Lady Windermere, who pressed a drink into his hand and hooked her arm comfortably in his.
Aurienne did not like Lady Windermere.
The assembled Fyren got remarkably drunk. Beaufort and Leofric sang. Their efforts were expressive of nothing particular save a notable lack of musical talent.
At length, Tristane exchanged some low words with Sacramore and said her goodbyes to the assembled Fyren. “You may contact me through Sacramore. I was never here.”
She was bowed out of the room, though the bows were a little sloppier than they had been upon her entrance.
On her way out, Tristane drew Aurienne’s hands in hers and said, “Hel keep your path dark.”
“Fria’s light be on yours,” said Aurienne, meeting one impertinence with another.
She was punished for the cheek by a vicious squeeze.
“I’d rather you didn’t draw me toherattention,” said Tristane.
“U-understood,” said Aurienne.
Tristane left. Aurienne rubbed her puréed hands together.
Now there was an unfriendly grip at her elbow. Mordaunt dragged her out of the sitting room and into a wardrobe featuring a taxidermised cow head, an orrery, and a collection of medieval torture implements.
In this romantic setting, they proceeded to have a hissed argument.
“Have you lost your mind?” was Mordaunt’s polite opening enquiry.
“Better lost than entirely nonexistent,” said Aurienne. “Why would you lie to me about where you were?”
“Why did you decide to come tonight, of all nights?”
“Why did you invite your horde of miscreants tonight, of all nights?”
Mordaunt dragged a hand over his face. “Trust you to insert yourself into the middle of any given calamity.”
“I’ve been trying to get to the door since I got here.”
“Have you? I’ve seen continents drift faster.”
