Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(7)

Whatever truth was behind the story, there did not appear to be any ill feeling between the earl and the gryphons. As she watched, Constantine threw back his head and guffawed at something Weston said, his handsome face creased with laughter.

Beside him, his fellow sentinel Graydon grinned as well, his rugged features creased with good humor. While Weston’s slim height hinted at a falcon’s grace, the gryphons were heavier and taller, the rangy bulk of their muscles indicative of their Wyr form’s lion bodies.

Of the three men, Graydon was the biggest. He towered over the other two like a lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain, his masculine form broad and powerful. In defiance of the masque’s tradition to go masked until midnight, he had pushed his plain, black domino down so that it hung loosely around his neck like an extra cravat.

Caught by Graydon’s easy, relaxed demeanor, Bel’s gaze lingered on his face.

There was something about his expression, a kindness perhaps, that touched a place inside of her that had gone cold and quiet a very long time ago. Troubled at the deep, distant ache, she frowned and pressed a hand to her chest.

Unexpectedly, Graydon’s gaze shifted. He looked directly at her. In contrast to his relaxed demeanor, his eyes were sharp and alert.

Caught off balance, she felt stabbed by his scrutiny. She heard herself suck in a breath.

The humor faded from his expression. Subtly his posture shifted, until he looked intent, tense.

Even . . . concerned.

That was totally unacceptable. Forcing her spine ramrod straight, she schooled her features so that nothing of her inner turmoil showed. Giving him a polite nod, she turned away to focus on the two young Elven women hovering at her elbow.

“Damn Oberon’s need for ostentatious display,” she muttered. “Do either of you see Ferion anywhere?”

In defiance of convention for the chilly masque, Bel’s attendants, Alanna and Lianne, eschewed the warm woven brocades and thick furs. Like Bel, they wore light, silk gowns with short, bell-capped sleeves, the delicate blue and green colors evocative of a brighter, warmer season.

The King’s wintry magic had no power over Bel. As long as the two younger women remained with her, they stayed as comfortably warm as they would if they were in the Elven great hall. All three wore delicate dominoes made of transparent silk that did nothing to mask their identities and everything to enhance the feminine shape of their faces.

In answer to her question, both Alanna and Lianne shook their heads wordlessly.

The sharpness of Bel’s anxiety dulled to a leaden disappointment.

She said, “Retrieve your cloaks and weapons, and go search for him. Be careful if you go off the main paths. The dark places here are kept so intentionally. If you find him, tell him I need to see him immediately.”

“My lady, I don’t think we should leave you,” Lianne replied.

While Bel’s attendants had young-looking faces and slender figures that gave the impression of gentle, wide-eyed innocence—and they were, in fact, youthful Elves—in reality they were several hundred years old and experienced members of the demesne’s military guard.

Even though Lianne questioned her orders, Bel didn’t waste energy on frustration or getting angry.

Instead she said in a gentle voice, “I’m in the heart of the masque. This area is well lit and populated, and I know the names of almost everyone present. Many are friends of mine. Besides, I can take care of myself. Do as you’re told, and be discreet about it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Alanna, bowing her head.

They had barely taken their leave, when a deep, masculine voice said from behind Bel, “It has been so very long since the Elven Lord and his Lady have arrived together at a function that almost no one remarks upon it any longer.”

Briefly, her mouth tightened in annoyance, before she made her expression ease. She turned to face the Daoine Sidhe King.

Whatever else one might say about Oberon, he certainly made a compelling figure.

Bel was tall, but he was taller still. His tailored evening coat and waistcoat fit his powerful frame like a second skin, the cloth made of an intricate, silver brocade. His mask was also silver and just as elaborate, with a sharp pointed nose and an outward flare like wings at the temples.

The outfit provided a striking contrast to his dark, glittering eyes. Light from a nearby bonfire shimmered over his raven hair, giving it a blue-black sheen.

Raising one eyebrow, she replied coolly, “Indeed, the subject of how my husband and I choose to attend parties is so boring, the only thing remarkable is that anyone would wish to discuss it at all.” She waited a heartbeat to let whatever small sting from her words sink in. Then she offered her hand to him in greeting. “Oberon.”

Gracefully, he bowed. Instead of brushing the air over her fingers, he touched her skin with his lips. At the same moment, his cold Power brushed alongside hers, like a massive snow cat sliding along her legs, its fur chilled from the winter’s night.

“Beluviel,” he murmured against her fingers in a deliberate caress. “As always, your radiance is nonpareil. No matter how I might try to outdo myself at these masques, you remain the brightest star in my night. How your husband can dance with others without giving you so much as a single glance is quite beyond me.”

She flicked her forefinger against his full lower lip in rebuke for his forwardness. “You pay far too much attention to that which does not concern you.”