Luther's Pride Part 51 (Alt) (Patreon)

Luther took Jo’s hand for emotional support as he stepped toward the duke’s raised table, but he hadn’t taken four steps before Criella interrupted him. She appeared, not by magic, with an older woman beside her, a woman with a black armband around her gown’s upper arm. Given the woman’s age and the older but ostentatious style of her dress, Luther surmised her identity before Criella introduced her.  

“Lord Le Fey, it is my pleasure to introduce Countess Anabelle Burville,” Criella said, stepping aside to reveal the woman in full. 

Luther bowed, as did Jowangshin. 

“Countess, this is Lord Luther Le Fey, and one of his partners, the priestess Jowangshin,” Criella said, gesturing to each, as if the countess might not tell them apart. Given the thickness of her spectacles, it was a valid concern. 

“Countess,” Luther said, rising from his bow as she nodded. “A pleasure.” 

“Is it?” she asked, her voice shrill and as stiff as her spine. “My daughter wrote me yesterday to tell me of Lucas’ death and her courtship with you. Why is she not here? Did you not see fit to offer her a place in your carriage?” 

“I offered to convey her,” Luther said. “But Miss Burville was rather upset by her brother’s death, and wished to mourn.” Untrue, but kinder than the truth. Emily had declined the invitation so that she could spend some time reading in the library—something she much preferred to society life, despite her being better versed in it than Luther. 

“Is it true that you cheated my son out of his life?” Countess Burville asked. “That you tricked him into believing that this devil-woman was unmarried?” 

Luther tilted his head. “No, Countess. If anyone tricked your son out of his life, it was his recent husband. The Feothe clan was abrasive and unscrupulous, but you may take some solace in that your son was mighty, and it was a close fight. It was only a pity he put his lot in with them and picked a fight with a stronger mage without inquiring as to her partnerships. It was only fair that, since they were so ill-informed, we allowed them to fight Criella alone. Alas, the uneven numbers didn’t prove to be the advantage they thought they would be.”

“You sound glad to be rid of them,” the countess said. 

“They intended to execute a woman I love,” Luther said, looking at Criella as he said it. She held his gaze, neither blushing nor looking away. “Should I be sad they failed? If so, then no, I am not. If not, then everything is as it should be.” 

Jo sucked in a breath. It was one thing to say that Criella being alive was right and just. It was another to tell a mother that her son’s death was ‘as it should be’ even if he was correct. 

Countess Burville stared at Luther. The thick, round lenses on her spectacles made her appear owlish. As silly as such a countenance might be in society, owls remained among the deadliest of the birds of prey. The countess grinned, breaking the tension between her and Luther with her teeth. 

“Well, let us hope you hold as much love for my daughter as you do for your other spouses, Lord Le Fey,” Countess Burville said. “I’d hate to challenge you for failing in your duties as her host.” 

“Of course,” Luther said, taking the threat for what it was. He didn’t want to have to fight anyone he didn’t have to, and his potential mother-in-law was among them. “I think the world of Emily and look forward to getting to know her better.” 

“Yes, though it seems you did not take such care with your other partners,” Countess Burville said, looking past him to see that the others had gathered behind him. “Don’t wait too long to court my daughter. She’s a fickle one and is more likely to slip from your grasp and go off on some adventure than she is to pursue a husband or wife.”   

“We have a love for adventure in common, then,” Luther said. “Thank you, that will give us something to discuss when I return home.” 

“If such a thing is to be,” Countess Burville said. “Enjoy the party, Lord Le Fey. We shall speak again, I’m sure.” 

The countess turned aside, circling the dance floor as she returned to her table where she drank wine with her spouses. 

“I don’t suppose any of you care to dance?” Luther asked.

“I’d like to dance,” Rhosyn said, offering Luther her hand. 

“No,” Criella said. “Later. Right now, our Lord has to answer a summons.” She didn’t gesture, but moved her eyes to the duke, and the others followed her gaze. He was watching them, waiting. The only sign of his impatience was his tapping foot, but it was incessant. 

Luther squared his shoulders and strode toward the duke and his party. Seeing his approach, the duke rose from his chair and clapped his hands. 

The musicians changed their tune, and the crowd on the dance floor slid apart to either side as the duke and his union moved to the stairs before their table. They formed ranks, with Duke Beaudivere at the center and apex of their arch. 

“Good people, nobles of the empire,” a herald spoke, using a trick to carry his voice through the hall. “Before we dine, we have a matter of ceremony to conduct. His lordship, Cerebrion Le Fey, has ascended to the heavens after passing away in his sleep. His son, Luther Le Fey, rises to his seat among the nobility. We here bear witness to this ascent. May he prove mighty!” 

A scattering of tepid applause filled the room. It was nothing personal against Luther, or even racist against his demihuman blood. The nobility gave the same unenthusiastic welcome to anything that interrupted their dancing, feasting, and drinking.

“You may approach His Grace, Duke Beaudivere,” the herald said to Luther. 

Luther stepped out from the flanking lines and approached the stairs. His wives appeared from the crowd as well, walking behind him. Criella remained directly behind him, with Eira and Rhosyn on her left and right. Helena stood on the far left, and Jo on the far right. Each seemed nervous, but held their heads high, except Criella. She kept her eyes level, staring at the back of Luther’s head as if she, and not Rhosyn, might read his thoughts. He stopped at the bottom step and knelt, keeping his head bowed and his eyes on the swirling gray in the white marble floor. 

“I, Lord Luther Le Fey of Raefendale, do hereby swear upon my honor and blood that I shall be your vassal,” Luther said. He recited the words as he remembered them from the paper he had signed, and likely butchered them. “I pledge my might, my counsel, and my service to the empire and its nobles above me. I will serve you as you serve the emperor.” 

What was the next part? Taxes. Those who had more of it than others highly coveted money, and gold flowed upward to fill as many vaults as it could. 

“I will render to you the taxes and levies from the lands you have entrusted me to protect.”

Protection. The word reminded Luther of the next piece of the oath—the reason for the nobility.

“I shall answer your summons to war with all the might my union can muster.”

Something, something, trust? Right. That came next, but Luther couldn’t remember the oath, and the words fled before him as he approached them. Rhosyn whispered in his mind once more, feeding him the words after he hesitated for too long. He altered them slightly, making the language less archaic, but the oaths remained the same. 

“I hold my lands in your trust, and pledge to govern them justly as your vassal,” Luther said. “I acknowledge the duke of these lands as my rightful lord and commander, and swear to obey that office in all matters of governance and war.” He’d changed those words from what Rhosyn gave him, but he wouldn’t swear personal loyalty or obedience to Beaudivere. He swore to the office instead, which Beaudivere couldn’t protest. 

Still, Beaudivere wasn’t the only noble who noticed Luther’s careful word choice. Murmurs rippled through the hall, bouncing off the tables.

“I will defend your lands and those of my fellow nobles as I would defend my own. I shall not harm this empire or harbor its traitors within my walls, and I shall destroy its enemies and invaders with overwhelming might.” 

Luther realized that was why the nobility existed. To protect the people. At least, that was the theory, the philosophy. Governance kept the peace between the people, and magical might protected them from threats.

“I swear these things before these witnesses, before the gods above and below, to hold sacred until death releases me.” 

Luther finished his oaths, and the crowd waited for Duke Beaudivere’s response. The duke looked down at him from the top of the stairs and grimaced. He’d clearly expected Luther to climb the steps and have an awkward time kneeling. Instead, Luther’s kneeling at the bottom forced him to descend, to lower himself to Luther’s level, and put his hand on Luther’s head. 

“So you swear, and so shall it be.” Duke Beaudivere raised his other hand with the chalice, distracting the eyes in the room as he released Luther’s head. He wiped his hand on the back of his tailcoat. “To the empire!” He raised his glass. 

“To the empire!” The crowd responded. 

“To our might!” The duke yelled. 

“To our might!” The crowd echoed with a raucous cry, and everyone drank their glasses until not a drop remained. 

The duke smiled as he made Luther wait until he’d downed his glass. Then he passed it to a servant before finally clapping Luther on the shoulders. “You may rise, Luther Le Fey, Lord of Raefendale.” 

Luther rose from the stone in one smooth motion, standing taller than the duke despite his extra step. The duke quickly climbed the steps. “Come! Let us have a demonstration of your might!” 

The crowd murmured and backed away, opening the dance floor. 

“Show us your arcana,” the duke commanded. “We are most curious.” 

“If it pleases Your Grace,” Luther said, knowing that it would not. “I am not an entertainer. I had rather hoped to dance with my wives and meet the other nobles.”  

“I’m afraid I’m a most impatient superior,” the duke said, gesturing to the empty dance floor. “Come, I’m told you and your first bride sparred together to determine if you could marry. You defeated her without even using your arcanum. Show us your might, man! Or half-man, whatever you may be!” 

Ah, so that was the purpose. Disrespecting Luther before the nobility, treating him like an entertainer, so he knew his place as a demihuman would never be equal to what it should be. He knew that already from the lack of a title. Luther and Emily discussed that by rights, he should be a Marquess or Count, but the previous duke had refused to grant his fey father that honor. He had all the responsibilities and taxes of a higher noble, but none of the honor or prestige among society outside his valley. 

Luther smiled. He couldn’t show them his secret, that he had more than one arcanum, but he could mislead everyone at once by showing them one. The only one he had practiced with was the best option: Criella’s. 

“Very well, Your Grace,” Luther said, as if he were a dutiful servant. “But I’m not sure that my arcanum will make a very good showing.” 

The annoyance in the duke’s eyes made Luther want to laugh, but he’d never be so disrespectful as to forbid the duke from taking a graceful exit.

“Make it as entertaining as possible,” the duke commanded, using the question to narrow down which arcanas Luther might have. 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Luther said. “May I have a volunteer to dance with me?” 

Murmurs no longer rippled through the gathered crowd. They crested in tidal waves and smashed against the walls, rebounding as the nobles discussed whether ‘dance’ meant ‘spar’ or ‘fight.’ Many wondered aloud whether Luther combined his mother’s magical might with his father’s physical abilities. Several took more steps away from him and the dance floor, pressing themselves against the wall as flat as the other bodies and furniture allowed.

“Would your spouses not dance with you?” the duke asked. “For your demonstration?” 

Luther looked at his wives. 

“If it pleases you, Your Grace, I will dance with the gentleman,” a strong, feminine voice called from the throng of nobles. A young woman pushed her way through, entering the open space of the dance floor below the duke’s table. 

Luther didn’t recognize her, but judging by his wives’ reactions, some of them did. 

“I shall gladly volunteer to help Lord Le Fey,” the young woman said. 

Luther looked at Rhosyn and raised his eyebrows. She answered him, speaking directly into his mind with her magic. 

“That is Lady Charlotte Talbot. Her mother is Viscountess Elizabeth Talbot, a vassal of Countess Burville,” Rhosyn said. “Be careful, they’re climbers. Elizabeth’s union is four strong. I don’t recall Charlotte’s arcanum, but she was three years ahead of Eira and I at university. She or her mother may be looking to test you. If you appear weak, an official challenge may follow.”

Luther examined the young woman. She was lovely. Her silver hair was the color of a storm cloud. There was no heat in her pale blue eyes when they met his, but boredom. Her dress was black, adorned with black ribbons and ruby jewelry. She hadn’t dressed for battle or action, and Luther wondered if she were mourning someone. The black silk contrasted beautifully with her pale, ghost-white skin. Her build showed muscle somewhere between Jo’s lean frame and Helena’s bulkier frame. Her dress cinched her waist with its outer corset, contrary to the current style, and showed a firm bust above her laces, with her jewelry covering her décolletage. 

Her offer surprised Duke Beaudivere, too. He’d clearly hoped Luther would demonstrate his magic as entertainment, as if he were a dancing bear. He wasn’t such a good actor that Luther thought he might feign surprise for Luther’s benefit. 

“You understand I mean dance when I say dance, not a spar or a challenge?” Luther asked. 

“I understand,” Charlotte said. “What reason should I have for challenging you, Lord Le Fey? You are merely helping me fulfill a promise.”

“A promise, my lady?” Luther asked. 

The woman glanced to her side, where an older, embarrassed woman stood. 

“Yes,” Charlotte answered. “I promised my mother that I would dance with as many eligible partners as would have me.” 

The tight pinch of Elizabeth’s lips indicated Luther was not among those partners she imagined Charlotte might dance with. The tighter Elizabeth’s lips became, the higher the quirk in the corner of Charlotte’s mouth that suggested she might smile. A rebel dame, seeking to annoy her mother by dancing with a lord under the duke’s ill favor? Luther had danced with worse dangers.

Luther looked at Criella, whose eyes betrayed no hint of warning. Instead, she seemed amused.

“Very well,” Duke Beaudivere said, gesturing toward the floor. “Give us your demonstration now that you have your volunteer.” 

Luther nodded. He looked at Charlotte, who waited patiently for him in the center of the dance floor. He strode onto the empty floor and looked toward the band. “A waltz, if you please, but increase the tempo every fourth measure.” 

He offered her his hands, and she stepped into his embrace. The band struck up a waltz, and they began their dance. Charlotte’s bored expression never changed, and she held Luther’s gaze as they danced, not speaking, but dancing faithfully. She kept pace with him and the rising tempo, raising an eyebrow as the strings flowed faster and faster, with no display of magic on Luther’s part. 

“Are you ready, Charlotte?” Luther asked. 

Charlotte’s expression shifted for the first time. It became one of surprise, her lips forming a small o for a brief flash before reverting. “I was unaware you knew my name, Lord Le Fey.” 

“You may call me Luther,” Luther said. “If it helps to annoy your mother.” 

Charlotte grinned. “Oh, Luther, the rumors are true. You are a charmer.” 

Luther returned her grin with one of his own. “On three,” he said, aiming to display his spell when the musicians met the next increase. They were already frantic, playing at a tempo they struggled to meet, and another increase would likely push them beyond their limits. 

Luther cast his spell, sliding his spirit into Criella’s. It was an easy match, since her anxious feelings mirrored his. Each of his partners was nervous for him, and he was nervous that his little joke wouldn’t land well, but he had a reputation to establish. 

At the crescendo, he and Charlotte disappeared from the dance floor in a flash of light, reappearing and disappearing again, and a third time, to the beat of the new tempo. The frantic musicians collapsed the song in their surprise, and the music ended. Silence filled the hall as Luther and Charlotte vanished completely, leaving the dance floor empty.