The Vampire & Her Witch

While the assembled lords and knights dug into the generous breakfast, Owain took a moment to plan his approach before stepping down from the high table with his cup in hand. It was a practiced gesture, the powerful host making his way among the lower tables with an air of casual interest, as though the simple act of sharing a few words over breakfast wasn’t a tool as sharp as any blade in his arsenal.

He started with Wes Iriso because Wes was the easiest to read and the hardest to manipulate, and because starting with the most familiar face in the room would make the rest of his circuit look more natural.

A Marquis had the right to question his vassals, but calling his men to the question over something like attendance at his hunt would only diminish his prestige in the eyes of the March. For something important, he wouldn’t care what people thought of him, but for something that was simply... irritating, there were better ways.

”Lord Iriso,” Owain said, settling himself onto the bench across from the baron with an ease that suggested he did this sort of thing all the time. ”It has been too long since we shared a table. I trust the roads from your barony weren’t too difficult this time of year?”

Wes looked up from his plate with the unhurried calm of a man who had learned, somewhere between his twentieth year and his thirtieth, that there was no need to perform eagerness for other men, even if the man in question happened to sit above him.

He had changed since the tournament days, Owain noted. The lean, sharp-edged swordsman who had once defeated him at tournaments, and might have been his rival for many years, had thickened into something more settled, more grounded.

His dark hair was shorter than he’d once worn it, his jaw broader, and his hands were scarred in places that suggested quarry work rather than swordplay. He looked like what he had become: a man who managed the ledgers of his domain, settled disputes among the common folk, and went home to a wife and child at the end of the day.

Owain found that transformation mildly disappointing.

”The roads were manageable, my lord,” Iriso replied with an easy nod. ”Traveling when the days are so short is a strain on everyone, but thankfully, we didn’t have to come as far as some others did,” he said, nodding in Baron Fayle’s direction.

”I missed this, though,” he said, gesturing to the gathered knights. ”It’s almost enough to make a man’s hand itch for a practice sword again, and some friends to pass the time with.”

”I could oblige that,” Owain said with a wide grin that was almost genuine. ”It’s been years since you and I crossed blades. We could show the young ones a thing or two about what real swordsmanship looks like,” he said, gesturing to the trio of squires at the table.

A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the second table. Even Reynold Aleese, whose heavy brow and squared jaw gave his resting expression the look of a man considering whether to strike something, allowed the corner of his mouth to turn upward at the thought.

”I yield, I yield,” Wes said, holding up his hands above his head and laughing as if there were no shame in instantly backing away from Owain’s challenge. ”I might manage to keep up with Lord Reynold if he’s unhorsed, or Baron Fayle, but I’d never best the greatest demon-slayer the march has ever seen,” he said, picking up his cup and raising it to offer a toast of his own.

”To Lord Owain,” Baron Iriso said loudly. ”The man who will carve a path to the summit of Mount Airgead and beyond,” he praised. ”Long may he conquer!”

”Long may he conquer!” the crowd called back, though the response was scattered, and it felt like only half the lords and knights took up the toast.

Owain held his hand up high, accepting the compliment with graciousness even as he fumed that Wes had sidestepped his challenge. At least the man knew who the better swordsman was, but it would have been so much more satisfying if Baron Iriso had given him an opportunity to display just how wide the gap had grown between them over the past several years.

But Owain was a practiced showman, much better than his brother Loman, who wore his heart on his sleeve and used his genuine passions as the core of his oratory prowess. That might work for a priest, but it would never suffice for a lord who intended to join the ruling council as the first Lothian duke.

”I was glad to see the Iriso banner when I arrived this morning,” Owain said as the ragged toast died down, allowing his tone to shift just enough to signal that the banter was over and the real conversation was beginning.

”The lodge feels a bit sparse with so many families sending their heirs rather than riding out themselves,” Owain added, very deliberately not looking in the direction of the heirs gathered at the table. ”I hope Lady Sorcha didn’t scold you for leaving her alone today,” he said in a teasing tone that was much friendlier than the two men really were.

Wes took a measured bite of bread and chewed it before answering, which was itself a signal that he understood the shape of the question.

”My wife insisted that I represent our house properly,” Wes said, and there was a warmth in his voice when he mentioned her that Owain noted, even though he had no idea how a former rising star like Wes could be content with a woman as plain and potato-shaped as Lady Sorcha.

”Though I’ll admit she was less pleased when I told her that the hunt was restricted to men,” the baron added, taking the risk to say what lesser lords couldn’t easily mention. ”I had to leave Sir Colman and Sir Drewe behind to escort her and our son to Lady Ashlynn’s memorial.”

He said it casually, as though it were a matter of simple logistics, but the words landed on Owain like a splash of cold water.

”Your wife felt she needed an escort to attend a memorial in Lothian City?” Owain asked, keeping his voice light and his expression curious. The question was genuine, even though Owain already suspected the answer.

Wes could have demurred about traditions and propriety, but he chose not to and instead met Owain’s gaze with a directness that bordered on impolite.

”With everything that’s happened in the west, my lord,” Baron Iriso said pointedly. ”And the rumors about demons growing bold enough to strike at the Summer Villa itself, I wasn’t comfortable leaving her and my boy without protection. Even in the city.”

”Besides,” Wes added with the ghost of a smile. ”Sir Colman isn’t much of a hunter anyway. He won’t miss the ride.”

It was an honest answer, and Owain respected that about Wes even as the implication settled into his thoughts like a stone dropped into still water. Iriso had brought four knights to the Grand Ceremony. Two were here at the hunt. Two were escorting his wife.

It was a rational, logical decision, one that Owain could choose to accept gracefully and move on, and Iriso clearly knew it. It wasn’t enough for Owain, however. Jocelynn had claimed that the memorial she was holding for her late sister would be a small, private affair, so what was Lady Sorcha doing attending?

But as much as that question gnawed at him, Owain knew better than to press it. He could hardly blame Wes’s wife for attending a funeral when it was the funeral for his own late wife. Even now, from beyond the grave, Ashlynn was still causing him problems.

For a moment, the mask slipped and Owain’s hazel eyes hardened, but he regained control quickly enough that he doubted anyone had noticed the brief shift.

”Thank you, Lord Iriso, for honoring my late wife,” Owain said smoothly, plastering on a solemn expression and reaching out to rest a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ”I regret that I couldn’t be there myself. I’m glad that Lady Sorcha will be there to support Lady Jocelynn.”

He moved on before Wes could read anything further from the exchange, turning his attention to the young baron sitting beside Iriso...