The Vampire & Her Witch

The corridors of Lothian Manor opened around them like the throat of a great beast as they left the guest wing behind.

The wide public hallways were built on a scale that dwarfed the private passages of the guest wing, broad enough for twelve men to walk abreast beneath vaulted ceilings of pale stone. Heavy tapestries lined the walls, many of them old enough that their colors had softened with age, depicting the history of the Lothian line from the founding of the march to the victories of the War of Inches.

Jocelynn had walked these corridors a hundred times before, but tonight they had been transformed. Brass oil lamps had been fixed to the walls at close intervals, their flames casting a warm, steady light that made the faded colors of the tapestries bloom as though the scenes woven into them had come alive.

Between the tapestries, displays of armor stood on wooden stands like silent sentinels, their polished steel catching the lamplight and throwing it back in bright, hard fragments. Each suite of armor bore the scratches, dents, and in some cases even tears and holes that told the story of its wearer’s triumphs or fall, and for a moment, seeing them brought a smile to Jocelynn’s lips.

Owain had placed them here to demonstrate the proud warrior tradition of the Lothian Lords, but to Jocelynn, they were a reminder that even wrapped in the greatest armor that money could buy, a Lothian lord could still die.

Her smile was short-lived. The floor had been swept and strewn with dried herbs, rosemary and lavender and wintermint, that released their fragrance under the feet of anyone who passed. The scent was meant to be welcoming, but it reminded Jocelynn of the dried herbs that High Priest Aubin had woven into the base of Ashlynn’s memorial pyre, and she had to push the memory down before it could reach her face.

Behind her, Anne and Mary followed in silence, each holding one edge of the long train that trailed from her gown. The cerulean silk whispered softly against the stone floor, a sound so faint that it was almost lost beneath the rhythm of their footsteps. She’d told the maids to go to the kitchens after the ceremony, to find Jean and eat a proper meal in the hopes that the strange Master of Kitchens could spirit them away, but they’d insisted on walking with her to the great hall first.

They wouldn’t let her walk alone. Even now, even after she’d all but told them she wasn’t coming back, they wanted to stay with her until the very last moment.

The first guards appeared at the junction where the guest wing corridor met the main passage, two men in Lothian yellow and blue standing at attention on either side. They straightened as Jocelynn approached, their eyes bouncing off of Jocelynn to track Albyn with the careful watchfulness of soldiers who dared not be caught staring at a beautiful young lady lest their lord gouge out their eyes for coveting his woman.

Albyn’s arm was steady beneath her hand, and he walked with the easy, rolling gait that no amount of polished boots or fine wool could disguise. He wasn’t performing the part of a knight. He was simply Albyn, moving through a space that didn’t belong to him with the same confidence that he’d once used to sail between the narrowest of straits in the roughest of seas, moving forward because any attempt to retreat would only crush him against the rocks.

More guards waited at the next turn, and the next. By the time they reached the long gallery that led toward the great hall, the corridors were lined with soldiers standing at intervals, each one armed with a sword at his hip and a spear held upright at his side. Their kettle helmets had been polished to a dull luster that gleamed in the warm lamplight, and even the coats of mail they wore under their yellow and blue tabards had been thoroughly scrubbed and freshly oiled for the occasion.

The sounds from the great hall grew louder with every step Jocelynn took. The murmur of hundreds of voices, the clink of goblets, the scrape of furniture being adjusted. The entire Lothian Court was gathering behind those doors, and for a moment, her steps faltered at the thought of entering that hall and pretending to love Owain in front of so many witnesses.

The noble ladies of the court would understand if she were stiff and wooden through the ceremony. Baroness Peigi and Lady Ragna had made that clear when last they spoke. Only a fool would believe that this wedding, just days after her sister’s memorial, was anything other than a political arrangement. No one in the audience would expect her to be loving and affectionate toward her groom.

But Owain would. Owain believed she was still besotted with him. And in order for her knife to find its target tonight, she needed to stoke the flames of his desire so that he would be careless when the time came.

”My lady?” Albyn asked gently as she hesitated in the hall. His free hand hovered near the hilt of his ceremonial sword, and his eyes flicked to the soldiers lining the hall. This had to be the worst time for Jocelynn to make a run for it. Or the second worst, since escaping the great hall would be even harder, but if she was willing to flee...

”Jocelynn,” Albyn said softly, watching her out of the corner of his eyes while most of his attention moved to the guardsmen, looking for a weakness or a vulnerability he could exploit. His ceremonial sword would be useless in a real fight, but it might last long enough to strip a real weapon from an inattentive guard, and with a few moments of confusion, he was certain that he could claim the life of at least two men.

”Just say the word,” he whispered. ”There’s still time to join Anne and Mary in the kitchens...”