Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 124
prominently, but instead of glorious victories, as true nobility
would boast, the few battle scenes showed Boros' militia
sweeping away mobs of rioting citizens. A huge fireplace
roared at one end of the hall, silhouetting the raised chairs and
table of Yuri Boros and his family and filling the room with the
smell of woodsmoke. Long tables had been laid out down the
sides of the hall, each length overhung by wrought-iron arches
holding a lamp and trailing flowers. People were seating
themselves now with the aid of black-coated servants, who
paced up and down in the clear runway that stretched from the
main doors at the foot of the room to the raised table and
fireplace at the head. A low murmur of voices lofted up and
echoed down from the arches.
When Jordan was very young, he had once watched a
gathering like this through a crack in the kitchen doors at
Castor's hall. He remembered none of the logic of the occasion,
only the brightness and laughter, and the amazing variety of
food that was carried past him. All adults had been like gods to
him, the controllers and inspectors more so. He longed to find
some door to hide behind, some safe vantage from which to
watch the tables. At the same time, he wanted to be here,
seated with his betters as if he had the right--for at least
tonight, Calandria’s aura protected him. So, as they took their
seats at an obscure table at the back of the room, Jordan sat at
his place in wonder and delight, and wished fervently he could
also be peering through the crack in the kitchen door, his Self
there pulling the strings of his Self here.
He glanced at Calandria’s perfect face, and had a flash of
insight: were she and Axel standing somewhere aloof from
themselves at moments like this, pulling the strings of their
public faces?
His contemplative spell was broken by the bray of a horn.