Chapter 111

“My goodness, my goodness—Duke Benzef has come here!” Cura’s face was alight with excitement as she darted glances between the window and Elena. If he bore the title of duke, he must have been of the same lofty rank as Kennard, and so Elena assumed that was why Cura was making such a fuss.

“Would you like to see as well, Lady Elena?” asked Luna, who had been adding lace to the back of the dress, when she noticed Elena’s gaze linger on Cura instead of the mirror.

While the fitting went on, Cura had stayed plastered to the window, when at other times she would have been circling Elena, chattering away about one thing or another. Elena wondered what exactly had seized the girl’s attention so thoroughly. After a brief hesitation, she nodded.

Luna took her hand and guided her down from the stand. Lifting the hem of her dress slightly, Elena moved toward the window, where Cura obligingly stepped aside to make room. Like Cura, she drew back just enough of the curtain to peer down. A procession of carriages was entering the castle gates, each adorned with plumes or banners, each bearing the crest of its noble house upon the door.

“The gentleman speaking with Butler Lassino—that is Duke Benzef,” Cura whispered, pointing him out.

Elena followed her finger. The man was elderly, clad in a blue frock coat and a tall black hat. She could not see his face clearly, but she caught a glimpse of a mustache not unlike Lassino’s. At his side walked a lady of striking elegance, her arm entwined with his, a fan raised to conceal her features. Duke Benzef lingered outside, exchanging greetings with the arriving nobles as though he himself were master of the estate.

“Moments like this really make you realize how extraordinary His Grace is,” Cura murmured, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it with a sigh.

“Yes. To think so many nobles would come,” Elena replied, forcing her expression to remain composed. But her chest felt tight. All of these people would attend tomorrow’s ceremony. The thought of standing before them already made her knees weak.

“Well, there’s that,” Cura said, letting the curtain fall back into place, her words trailing.

“What is it?” Elena asked.

“The truth is… the timing overlaps with His Majesty the Emperor’s hunting tournament. No matter the weather, it is held at this season every year, and the highest nobles always attend. His Grace has never gone, of course, but still…” Cura twirled the ends of her braided hair between her fingers. For a fleeting moment, Elena saw worry flicker in her eyes, and her own heart lurched.

“Don’t tell me this year as well?”

“If my memory serves,” Cura admitted softly.

“Cura is likely correct,” Luna interjected, motioning Elena back toward the stand before the mirror. “I heard the same from townsfolk on our way into the castle this morning.”

Reluctantly, Elena followed, yet her eyes strayed once more to the window. Below, nobles and ladies descended from their carriages, and Duke Benzef greeted them with booming laughter.

“Do you think His Majesty will take offense?” The question slipped out at last, the worry coiled in her chest unspooling like a snake.

Cura and Luna exchanged uncertain glances, neither quick to answer.

“We cannot say for sure,” Luna replied at last, smiling gently as if to steady her. “But those people know what they are about. And all the more so His Grace. Tomorrow, Lady Elena, you will become the wife of the most noble and most powerful man in the Empire of Baruchella. Think only of that, and do not trouble yourself.”

***

“Duke Benzef has arrived,” reported Serin as he entered the study.

“I know,” Kennard answered. He turned from the window, where he had been observing the steady stream of arrivals since early morning, and crossed to his desk.

“He doesn’t even go inside,” Serin added with mild irritation. “He just stands outside greeting the guests. Why does he always do that?”

“Leave him be. He does no harm.”

“As if even Duke Benzef would dare cause Your Grace harm,” Serin muttered, placing a thick stack of documents from the side table onto the desk. “But Montefiano has been unattended for so long, a great deal of business has piled up. You ought to review these.”

He plucked the first from the pile and laid it before Kennard.

“Were the urgent matters not handled by correspondence?” Kennard asked.

“These are not urgent, but they are things you should be aware of nonetheless.”

“Do them yourself,” Kennard grumbled, though he bent over the densely written pages anyway. They detailed the repair of dilapidated buildings across the domain, the improvements made to farmland, and the costs incurred.

“Your Grace.”

At the quiet summons, Kennard lifted his head. Serin stood with the next document in hand, his expression taut with unspoken thought.

“What is it?”

Serin’s mouth twitched, as if words pressed against his lips but would not come. Kennard urged him on.

“We sent the invitations as you commanded, but I confess I am uneasy. I never imagined so many would attend.”

“Because it coincides with His Majesty’s hunt?”

“Yes. It is one of the most important events of the year, held for two full weeks. And yet Your Grace’s wedding is set in the same period, and the bride is not Lady Hazel, whom His Majesty chose. On top of that, the high nobility are all here, though surely they also received the Emperor’s summons.”

“And so you fear His Majesty’s wrath?”

“Is that not natural? The hunting grounds must be half-empty, with only lesser lords attending. Given His Majesty’s temper, it is inevitable that his anger will fall upon you—or upon Lady Elena. After all, has he not already delayed and delayed his summons to bring her to the palace?”

Kennard leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Serin.

“Serin. Why do you think the nobles come to me rather than to His Majesty?”

“Because… because you are the Grand Duke. The purest-blooded of the Black Wolves, the strongest…” Serin faltered, rubbing at his temple. “Which means my suspicion was right, wasn’t it?”

“And what do you suppose that suspicion is?” Kennard asked with a brief, sharp smile.

Serin’s mind was ever crowded with conjectures, his complaints little more than the surface froth of deeper calculations. Kennard knew the final answer he had arrived at must align with his own intent.

“You foresaw this. You mean to use the occasion to show His Majesty where true power lies—that in the Baruchella Empire, it is not the Emperor but the Grand Duke who holds real authority.”

“The choice was theirs,” Kennard said simply, lowering his gaze once more to the desk.

“But a choice that cannot be ignored. Is this not too open a provocation? When the late Emperor favored you, you were indifferent. When nobles flocked to you, you would not even look at them. Now, suddenly, you embrace them—”

Kennard signed the bottom of the page and pushed it aside. Serin replaced it with another.

“You wandered battlefields, hid yourself in places like Terradmorte, always disinterested. No, worse—you found it all burdensome. But since Lady Elena, you have changed so much I can scarcely keep pace,” Serin muttered under his breath.

Kennard ignored him. For a time he worked quickly through the remaining reports until, at last, he set down his pen and stretched, rolling his shoulders and kneading the stiffness from his neck. Hours of paperwork left him more weary than months of campaigning.

“Shall I have Lassino bring tea?” Serin asked quickly, sensing his master’s restlessness as he placed the next document before him.

“Are we nearly done?”

“Almost.”

Kennard shot him an irritable look before lowering his eyes again. But suddenly he looked up, fixing Serin with a sharp gaze.

“Marten?”

“Count Remid? I saw him after breakfast, taking tea in the rear garden. Shall I fetch him?”

“No. Assign one of our stronger attendants to keep watch near him.”

“Not the count’s own servant—one of ours?”

“Yes.”

“Is that necessary?” Serin tilted his head, bewildered.

Kennard frowned, tapping the quill toward the window. “You saw the arrivals outside.”

“I did. But what has that to do with—ah.” His voice cracked in a strangled exclamation. “You mean the ladies.”

“Then you understand. See to it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Serin hastily set down the papers and hurried from the study. Just before the door shut, Kennard caught a glimpse of his pallid, contorted face—no doubt seized with the fear that Marten might somehow ruin his lord’s wedding.