Page 23 of Mistress of Bones

XVI

THE COUNT

THREE YEARS EARLIER

De Anví found Nereida de Guzmán in one of the Heart’s grand ballrooms, dressed in her usual colors of deep blue and gold, with her glorious midnight-black hair gathered at the back of her head and adorned with pearls as beautiful as the stars.

She was watching the couples twirling on the floor under the candlelight as if they were strange specimens she wished to study but couldn’t quite bother to understand.

Having not much use for dancing, he could commiserate. And yet…

“Care for a dance?” he asked before thinking twice.

When she accepted and put her hand on his arm, his chest tightened with surprise.

Perhaps it had shown on his face, because her eyes gained a twinkle of mischief.

“Why ask if you didn’t expect me to accept?” she asked as he led her among the couples and joined their twirling. It was a simple routine that allowed the dancers to remain close, their hands in constant contact as they went through the steps.

“I do not know myself,” he found himself confessing.

Nereida laughed softly. “I had given up on you ever approaching me.”

“Why is that?”

“I have known people like you before. They wait for the perfect moment, but the moment never comes, for perfection is beyond our control.”

Yet her existence belied her words. “Or perhaps there is something in all of us that doesn’t believe we’ve earned the right to perfection, and so the moment is gone without us noticing what we have lost.”

“Does that mean you recognized perfection in me, or is your ego so big that you feel you are owed it?”

He thought about the question, and his lack of a flirtatious, glib answer appeared to warm Nereida’s gaze.

“I think to some extent, we all feel we are owed something in life—but, no, I did not approach you because I thought you were owed to me. Rather, the Lady Dream must’ve been at work, for I cannot explain it myself.”

All he could explain was that when he had first seen Nereida de Guzmán not a month before, standing tall in a small plaza behind one of the taverns in Cienpuentes with a rapier in hand and ready to fight, he suddenly understood why there were stars in the sky.

A thought so strange, so outlandish, and so intriguing it had tightened his gut and hastened his heart.

She had stood, tall and defiant, a newcomer to the court, bringing the freshness of the countryside with her.

A pure kind of energy hard to find in places like Cienpuentes, where its jaded gray buildings and cumbersome politics eventually wore everyone down.

De Anví had thought himself impervious to them—after all, he was here only for the duration of his stay in the Royal Guard—but even he was starting to feel the strain.

“To first blood!” De Guzmán’s opponent had shouted, anger turning his face red.

He had already worn a bloody tear on his sleeve, another on his pants, and a red line across his cheek. By the end of the next bout, the man would be wearing a fresh tear on his shirt, and De Anví, Nereida’s name carved on his heart.

“I do enjoy honesty,” Nereida said with another laugh, bringing him back to the present.

“It’s hard to find in places like this,” he agreed.

“Too much glitter. Too much scheming.” A note of disgust edged her words.

He couldn’t disagree. The ballroom was full of elegantly embroidered waistcoats and finely adorned skirts and Anchor, so much Anchor.

Wrapped around throats, dangling from ears, peeking between strands of hair, and winking under the candlelight as if the gods themselves had decided to build a whole new Anchor city and set it inside the Heart of Cienpuentes. “Why are you here, then?”

Her smile was rather wicked. “Why, because I love to play games.”

“Not duels?”

She made a tut-tutting sound. “They are one and the same.”

“Be careful, sirese. I haven’t been at court long, but long enough to know that some games are too dangerous to play.”

“Fear not, De Anví,” she answered in a light but self-assured tone. “For all that I am fresh from the countryside, I know when the lake grows too deep for me to wade.”

De Anví didn’t doubt it and offered no more advice.

By their third dance, he knew he would never tire of conversing with her.

Not a month later, he found himself looking at her on another night, at another ball, thinking of the right words, choosing how much of himself he must lay bare to entice her to stay with him and never leave.

She must’ve sensed something had changed in their usual camaraderie, because she had grown serious and somewhat pensive.

But a tap on his arm had stopped him from uttering the words.

A simple touch from a short woman with Anchor sprinkled into her hair and a lace mask hiding her identity, even though everyone was aware of who she was.

“Who is your companion, De Anví?” asked the queen. “Can I steal her for the next dance?”

And stolen, she had been.

THE PRESENT

The Count de Anví held Nereida de Guzmán in his arms as they twirled around the splendidly tiled floor.

His hands were on her waist, her hands on his arms, and he held her a lot closer than the dance allowed.

Nobody seemed to mind. The other couples were nothing but swatches of colors, blurs that tugged at the edges of De Anví’s mind, but he wouldn’t allow the unease to permeate his feelings. Not here, not now.

Above him, a thousand chandeliers illuminated Nereida’s beautiful face, the sparkle in her eyes as she smiled up at him. Not a wide smile or one full of coquetry, but the one she reserved for those closest to her. And in his dreams, for just him.

De Anví woke up slowly, the lingering colors and sounds of the dream fading away. He clenched his fists, finding both the dream and Nereida well outside his reach, then rubbed his eyes and sat up on his bed.

That had been the last of the Witch’s dreams, damn her soul.

Damn her for tempting him, over and over, and damn him for accepting.

Another day spread in front of him. Another day full of nothing but the longing to be anywhere else clashing with his certainty that one day, he’d be needed. Not by the king or the Witch or even Miguel but by Nereida de Guzmán.

Soon the count was on his way to his daily rituals—washing, shaving, eating—then on to serve his master at the Heart. On the way, he stopped by a small statue of the Lady Dream, her legs and arms covered by hundreds of strings and ribbons, some so old their color had completely faded.

Back home, statues of the Blessed Heart were preferred instead of the Lady Dream shrines usually found in Sancia’s countryside.

Farmers in his area had more need for a good harvest than dreams that might never come to pass.

Being the practical sort, De Anví had agreed with the sentiment.

But Cienpé had a way of muddling your thoughts and upending your life, and now De Anví saw the use of dreaming.

What else did a fellow have at the end of a day containing nothing but disappointment?

And still, De Anví resented being beholden to anyone else, so he tried to walk right past the goddess’s stony face and stop this control she had over his life.

And, like the day before, and all the others before that, sweat pooled under his shirt and on his temples the moment he took one step past. His heart began an uneven thumping in his chest, and he couldn’t quite get enough air.

He could see all his hopes—the small ones that he didn’t allow himself to think about and the big ones that helped him sleep at night—wither and go up in smoke, and, cursing, took one step back and nodded at the Lady Dream, as he had the day before and all the others before that.

A sudden calm washed over him the moment he finished giving his respects. The sweat dried on his skin, his heartbeat evened. And while he hated his lack of will, he welcomed the freeing sensation.

It disappeared once he arrived at the palace and met the guards’ bows at his arrival.

Nothing like the imposing building to remind him he wasn’t free at all.

With a sigh, he took off his hat and walked the corridors tiled with pretty geometric designs that felt more like butcher knives under his soles.

He wondered if the three masked men would attempt another ambush later that evening when he was to meet Esparza again.

The thought that they might brought a spring to his step.

He hadn’t gotten anywhere with his investigation into whom the men belonged to, and at this point, he would willingly go with them to their master just to satiate his curiosity.

“De Anví,” called a voice behind him.

The count turned to see a tall, thin man standing outside one of the open doors in the corridor. He was dressed all in blue, Anchor glittering on a brooch on his waistcoat. More Anchor adorned his ears and the rings on his fingers.

“The Marquess de Mavén,” De Anví answered with a polite nod. This was the head of the City Guard, and though the animosity between the Blue Bastards and the Golden Dogs was a thing of legend, they both ultimately worked for the same child.

De Mavén walked up to him. “Escort me to the back gate, will you, De Anví? I do not wish to end with a golden dagger in my blue back.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Because, truly, what else was he to say?

De Mavén kept a pace verging on the slowest of strolls, and De Anví’s curiosity perked up again. Whatever the head of the blue tabards meant to say would take some time.

“The king is doing well, I assume?” De Mavén asked.

De Anví grunted.

“You know,” the Blue Bastards leader continued, “there are better things to do than to stand at the beck and call of a child.”

So many things, De Anví could spend days counting them.

“There is an opening in the blue ranks.”