Draig

A Dance

Lady Bronwyn collected each whisper, each rumor sent to her, reading them from the parlor of her uncle Hector's manse. When she was in town, an invitation to one of his extravagant dinner parties was prized highly. Her brother had performed countless favors for noble houses throughout the Weldenlands through his unique connections with the Spinners. The Spinners were a network of rogues who clandestinely safeguarded the true Song. Tabor, and by extension, the Lady Brownyn, were repaid handsomely with any tidbit that a courtier could glean in order to gain favor and win a seat at a Demitri table.

The chief bit of information which Bronwyn wished for was not forthcoming, not even from the Spinners. She had been in the city for two weeks and still had no word from her brother. It tried her patience. Tabor had left her a note with her breakfast a month and a fortnight prior, saying he had business in the Middewelde and would send word when it was finished. In the meantime, Cantors had both visited in person and sent missives to their manor in Baehnt. These demanded immediate audience with Lord Tabor Demitri and each request proved more insistent, insinuating that the Baron's prolonged absence was a tactic to avoid their scrutiny. Bronwyn had replied to them with apologies and finally had come to Bestua herself in an attempt to placate the Arcantor and intercede with the King if she could. She wanted to at least discover the charges against her brother.

The day after her arrival, the King died.

However, the tournament had changed everything. Not only had every Conclave visit and message abruptly ended, but Bronwyn had been deluged with other visitors. Officially each came to pay their respects and welcome her to the city, but all were keen to learn what they could about the upcoming challenges without exciting speculation.

Bronwyn tapped her writing desk, pensively reading the morning's correspondence. It all must be answered or she would receive twenty more anxious notes this afternoon.

Her dark hair was swept up into a mass of loose curls that complemented her blue, silver-corded dress. Embroidered at the neck, hem and sleeves in a matching silver knotwork pattern of her native Lowewelde and bound in finely worked silver filigree belt, the dress proclaimed her station without being cumbersome. It also matched her eyes.

She glanced up at the single Watcher that sat above the hearth. Its wise stone gaze fixed on the ceiling of the room as it had for decades. The grotesque had always been inert, even when she was a child, but it still made her nervous. She pushed the fear away and turned back to her correspondence.

The invitations to that evening's various balls and parties she declined, begging their pardon and hinting she was ill. Her only available escort was her aged uncle and while he was a dear soul, he was no match for the suitors who tended to become ever more eager with each dance. Last night was proof of that. They're afraid of Tabor, but Eddard?

Eddard thought she was best married and soon. Bronwyn sniffed and looked at the other letters. There were three. The first was from Seth, written in Spinner's Cant.

The upright man's found his briers but we are carding wool.

Her brother was in trouble but the Spinners were en route to help him. She translated, then checked over the note carefully, looking for any other clue. Nothing. Raising one brow, she held the note over a candle and was gratified to see words form. She read them quickly before consigning the letter to the fire. He was in Siarad? Why?

The second letter carried no signature but held the seal of the High King. A masked and hooded courier had come early this morn and insisted on its immediate delivery to her brother. She broke the seal and stared at the single line, incredulous.

I named my heir. If this finds you without a King, know beyond doubt I was betrayed and murdered. Keep my sons safe. Stop Modric. The heir apparent is –