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The Fox's Honor

By L D. Alford

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One

All the young maids, and the old ones as well, discreetly watched
the young men announced to the ballroom. The same was true
of Duke Falkeep’s three daughters. The two oldest, though
already wed, spent a delightful evening weighing the rank, title, and
characteristics of each nobleman who entered the ballroom. They
justified their occupation in the interest of their youngest and unwed
sister, Tamar. Tamar didn’t necessarily agree with their assessments.
Of particular, disdainful interest were the less choice of the young
gentlemen—those who, through valor and accomplishment, attained
noble standing, yet whose manner pointed irrevocably to their previous
unpolished beginnings. One such gentleman aroused even the looks of
the Duke, and a quaint unsettled quiver of his eyebrows left no doubt of
his thoughts.
This young man was arrayed in colloquial finery. An officer’s
uniform, yes, but the style and the natural materials left little doubt
that it and its owner obviously came from a culturally deprived planet.
The gentleman’s boots were real leather; they creaked. His pants
bloused over his boot tops, and as he walked they swaggered like a
Cossack dance.
The seneschal announced the young officer: “Sir Devon de Tieg,
Knight of the Red Cross.” A small number of the Duke’s less cautious
guests let loose a traveling titter that lost its momentum in a few
muffled guffaws.
The knight said nothing. Those who recognized the order of
Knight of the Red Cross instantly sobered, and the Duke made a second
appraisal of the man.
The knight’s eye glinted with his bold smile, and he strode across
the broad floor of the ballroom. His ceremonial dagger clinked against
his left leg, balanced by an oddly shaped cylinder on his right, and his
knight’s spurs jingled with each step. He stopped with a flourish and a
low bow before the Duke. “My lord Falkeep, will you grant me the
privilege of a dance with your daughter, the Lady Tamar?”
Strange knights did not dance with a duke’s daughter; it just wasn’t
done.
The Duke raised his eyebrow, and a smile tripped across his lips.
“You may, young knight. That is, if she will dance with you.”
“My lord.” Sir Devon bowed again and turned toward the ladies. In
a few solid steps, he stood directly before the Lady Tamar.
Tamar Falkeep was a beautiful young woman. Her face was formed
in the most classic shape of an Imperial Princess. Her eyes, shaded by
long, dark lashes were large, a smoky gray that could display fire or ice.
Her nose was slight, curved gracefully from her eyebrows, and matched
the gentle oval of her face. Her heart-shaped lips were full and
seemingly touched by a permanent knowing smile. Her silky, blond
hair billowed over her bare shoulders and shined like satin as she tilted
her head.
Tamar’s figure reflected the perfection of her features: a dancer’s
frame, graceful and yet full. In her stance, however, was the firm
hauteur of a true princess. Not the simple pose of pride or icy frigidity,
but a glance of power and purity that stopped most men cold. Her
femininity beckoned; the princess spurned. It was unfortunate she was
only a lesser duke’s daughter and not a true princess.
“My lady, would you give me the honor of this dance?” Sir Devon’s
eyes glimmered with humor.
The women beside Tamar, including her sisters, turned their faces
from the knight and flipped their noses upward. With their faces
primly averted from Devon, Tamar’s sisters chattered their advice in
both her ears. Tamar looked to either side, then stared piercingly at the
knight. Her flaxen curls laughed at him. Her gray eyes flashed with
rebuke.
The knight’s smile lost its flavor. Under her hard appraisal, the
shine stole from his eyes. The princess that embodied the spirit of
Tamar Falkeep daunted even this knight.
I could disgrace him now, Tamar thought. He’s a fool to try a trick
like this, but he has a style. He risks his honor to dance with me, and he
is not hard to look at. In fact, Sir Devon was very handsome—in a
military sort of way. His burnt blond hair was clipped short on the sides
but left slightly long on top and parted across his forehead. His jaw was
firm, yet his lips turned up humorously, and slight crinkles showed that
was their normal position. He was not tall, but Tamar had to look up to
meet his gray eyes. Her smile softened, and she held out her hand to
him. “Yes, sir knight, I will dance with you.”
Gently for all his bravado, he took her hand and placed his arm
around her waist. With a flourish of noble gown and leather shirt, he
swung Tamar into the dance.
Tamar stepped with a practiced grace cultured by the best dancing
instructors of the finest young lady’s finishing schools on the Imperial
planet Arienth, yet the knight matched her with a strength and surety
that led her into steps she never knew before.
After they made a couple of circuits about the dance floor, Tamar
cocked her head, smirked, and coquettishly remarked, “You know, I
promised this dance to Peter Vigin, the son of Count Vigin.”
Concern crossed the knight’s features. “He is not particularly a
man of honor, my lady. Pardon my forwardness, but I believe you
should seek a more honorable companion. I, on the other hand,
promised this dance specifically for the Lady Tamar, and your honor is
renowned.”
Her retort stuck in her throat. She could only blush and agree with
his reply.
A twirl brought them close to Count Vigin’s party.
“You know, my lady, I confess I came to your father’s ball for two
reasons.”
“I know you didn’t come to impress the Nobility with your
wardrobe,” she returned.
With a light step, the knight gracefully twirled her, sent her
reeling, and brought her breathless back into his arms. His laugh
covered her frown, and the mischief in his eyes made Tamar again
swallow her angry retort.
“I would like to claim that I came all the way from Arienth just to
dance with you, but, alas, that isn’t exactly true. I also have business
with one of your father’s holders. The man and I could not meet
respectably by any other means.”
“Did this person know you were coming?”
“As much as you did, my lady.” His tone was ominous. “But, for
now, please believe I came for only one reason—to dance with you.”
After a few moments, Tamar started, “I am curious, Sir...”
“Sir Devon.”
“Yes, I am curious, Sir Devon. Is your family’s estate on Arienth?”
“No. I hail from Greyholm.”
Tamar’s face fell a little. She didn’t expect the knight to come from
a Duchy, yet she hadn’t expected the fringe either.
Devon evidently noted her look. “And how do I rank?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your pardon, I believe you thought it.”
Tamar blushed again.
He continued, “I am simply the son of a good family who was in
the right place at the wrong time.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“You see, where I was, the beams and bullets weren’t, and so I am
here now. Many men are more worthy than I to wear these knight’s
spurs, but most of them are dead. Don’t feel badly for me. Many more
are truly unworthy of the nobles’ crown they wear.”
Tamar really didn’t want to, but she discovered herself in
agreement with this saucy knight. Until she caught herself, her head
even bobbed an affirmative. She enjoyed the banter with the knight.
Here is a real man, she thought. He spoke his mind and didn’t care who
heard. He was so unlike the common gentlemen of her acquaintance—
so unlike Peter Vigin. Peter was preoccupied with events within the
Empire but had no effect on them.
“Have you ever been wounded?” she asked.
“Many times.” His smile drooped. “Yes many times, but none
permanently affected me.” He smiled again.
“You are a Captain in the attack forces?”
“I, my lady, am a Field Major in His Majesty’s Huscarls.”
Tamar was impressed, and she tried not to let it show.
Sir Devon was an animated and intelligent speaker. As they
stepped in dance after dance, before she knew it, Tamar became
engrossed in his conversation. This oddly dressed knight intrigued her.
In the middle of a step, as they were talking about the upcoming
wedding of the Imperial Prince John-Mark and the Lady Lyral, she
asked, “Did you dress this way just so you would have an opportunity to
dance with me?”
“My lady, I already told you, the reason I came to Falkeep was to
dance with you. You were right when you said I didn’t dress this way
to win a fashion contest.”
They both laughed.
“You just came from Arienth. Have you met the Prince John-
Mark?” asked Tamar.
Sir Devon’s face took on a guarded look, then he smiled. “Yes, I
have seen His Royal Highness. After all, he is the Marshall of the
Huscarls.”
His answer left a lot unsaid, and when he didn’t continue, Tamar
prodded him. “So, what is he like? I know Lyral. She is so sweet, a
beautiful person, and my best friend. Don’t you think John-Mark would
make a great Emperor?” She breathed the last quietly and
conspiratorially.
He looked intensely at her. So intensely, she blanched under his
stare. “I’m sorry, my Lady.” He gazed more gently at her. “Such
thoughts are seriously contemplated, but out of diffidence to His Royal
Majesty Perod-Mark, the rightful firstborn son of the Emperor Maricus,
and especially considering the current security of the Empire, I believe
such thoughts are best left unsaid.”
Sir Devon pronounced this so gravely that Tamar thought for a
moment she’d insulted him. But he continued, “John-Mark is indeed a
favorite with the people and the Nobility, and I fear for his safety from
his brother’s jealousy. But we speak of things too serious for your
father’s ball. Falkeep is beautiful this time of year, don’t you think?”
In quiet conversation and graceful dance, the hours passed like
moments. Tamar, a brilliant woman, discovered a challenge to her
knowledge and thinking few men ever delved. She described her life to
the knight. She talked about her experiences in school on Arienth, the
beautiful estate of her father, Duke Falkeep, the society on Arienth, and
in every subject, she found kinship and agreement with this man.
They danced toward the garden and then out on the terrace. Here
the music was muted. The night was cold and dark, only partially
illuminated by Falkeep’s small moon. The night was still and the garden
deserted. Led by this pleasant knight, Tamar’s steps were sure. She felt
as if her feet barely touched the flagstones. She found herself looking
intently into his face. His features seemed almost familiar, but she
realized how foolish that thought could be. When they neared the edge
of the terrace, the knight stopped suddenly and caught her in his arms.
In a passionate kiss, his lips pressed against hers. The kiss caught Tamar
unawares, but she instantly realized this was just what she wanted. She
returned his intimacy and gently melted in his arms.
The kiss lasted a long time. Then Sir Devon lifted his face and
stepped back. His movements were unusually stiff. He nervously
cleared his throat and looked away from her into the garden. Then his
lips took on their accustomed smile, and he almost seemed as if he were
about to turn and leave.
Tamar caught his arm. “Wait, don’t go.”
“I’m sorry, my lady, but my business requires it.”
Her hand stole to her lips. “You kissed me.”
“Yes, I couldn’t resist, and if I had more time and no responsibility,
I would have taken more of you.”
Tamar punched him straight across his jaw. The blow hurt her
hand, but he didn’t move at all. Tamar stood, on the verge of tears, and
nursed her hand. She wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to know
how much he’d wounded her.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I deserved that.” He smiled
disconcertingly. “But I meant it, and this is the time for honesty. You
are beautiful—so beautiful—and from the first moment I saw you, I
loved you. I’m afraid I will never see you again, nor you me.” With
that, he turned and walked back into the ballroom.
Shaken and confused, Tamar stood alone on the cold terrace. Tears
of anger and remorse filled her eyes. No man ever kissed her like that.
She was a reserved person. She spent most of her school years at Lady
Pembrook’s finishing school on Arienth, and she was to return there at
the end of Falkeep’s summer to complete her last year. At Lady
Pembrook’s, she was generally secluded from the society of men. And
though she was twenty years old, as the third daughter of the least of
the Imperial Duchies, she had few suitors. The Lady Lyral was her best
friend at school, and Lyral always said Tamar acted too much like a
Princess. That characteristic, according to Lyral, scared off the
gentlemen. Perhaps Lyral was right, but no man Tamar met was like
this young knight. Not one of the true gentlemen she knew would dare
to make such a claim on her body and her love. And she knew, if he
asked, she would have given herself to him. Was she in love? She
hardly knew this man, yet she thought she might love him. Tamar
trembled at that revelation and thought fearfully what his loss suddenly
meant to her.
She wanted to chase him into the ballroom and demand why they
would never see each other again, but she shuddered, afraid to let
herself be drawn to him, afraid to recognize the unexpected power he
held over her. She did rush to the French doors, to peer through them.
Sir Devon was not in sight.
Shaking with emotion, Tamar reentered the ballroom. The room
was huge. Her father, the Duke of Falkeep entertained often. His
formals were the main social events of each season. Every noble in this
sector was represented. Even His Majesty, the Emperor Maricus, sent
his emissary, Duke Rathenberg. Tamar caught her sisters’ eyes as they
waved at her. She avoided the sight of Sir Peter Vigin and walked
toward them. She didn’t care to dance again tonight—not with anyone
else…maybe never again.
When Tamar reached her sisters, they kidded her about the
amount of time she spent with the unknown knight, and she dutifully
accepted their thinly veiled criticism in silence. While they spoke, her
eyes scanned the crowd. She fearfully sought the answer to her heart’s
question in a single face. Inside her turbulent thoughts, Tamar tried to
understand what magic transpired there or to determine if anything,
outside her imagination, had really happened at all.

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