Thornlost (Book 3) by Melanie Rawn Page A

them, somebody’ll have to explain why.”
    Rafe was shaking his head again. “The ‘why’ I’m interested in is a Steward asking us to change it now, for Trials. Somebody in the audience we might offend?”
    “The Archduke will be here,” Mieka suggested.
    “The Archduke has already seen it,” Jeska reminded him.
    Cade snorted. “Who’ll take the bet that he didn’t care for it much?”
    As expected, Touchstone’s performance of “Treasure”—rewritten by Cade with help from his Fae ancestress, though nobody but Touchstone knew that—won them Second Flight on the Royal. Mieka was so elated that he didn’t even scowl when, on the walk back to their lodgings to celebrate, Cayden muttered, “It isn’t as if we could’ve
lost
, is it?”
    “Last year we did,” Mieka reminded him.
    “The swizz was on then, too.” He kicked at a curbstone. “The first Trials, we got that on merit. Last year was rigged for Black Lightning. This year, for us.”
    Mieka rolled his eyes at Rafe, who shrugged by way of reply. Neither of them mentioned that Cayden had spent the entire journey from Gallantrybanks fretting over whether they’d make the Royal Circuit at all. Instead, Mieka told him, “Well, then, we’ll just have to wait for next year, won’t we, and blast them and the Shadowshapers and everybody else right off the stage and into the river!”
    Cade thought about this and then laughed, and in the way Mieka intended him to. Not with sarcasm, or with bitterness, or with skepticism, but with real anticipation.
That’s me Quill
, he reflected, much satisfied: show him someone or something to slam his head against, and he was happy as a Sprite on a springtime spree.
    Trials had thus far been lacking in surprises, but one was waiting for them when they got back to their inn. Mistress Luta had planted her considerable bowlegged self in the vestibule, the handles of the inn’s largest silver platter gripped in her fists. On the platter was a letter: finest parchment, sealed with brown wax and sporting pale blue ribbons. Mieka thought the letter looked a little lonely, right in the middle of all that shining silver. The Trollwife’s eyes were glowing with excitement as she proffered the platter with a deep nod of her head.
    “We got Second Flight on the Royal!” Jeska told her, and, lacking a convenient wrist to kiss, leaned over to peck at her cheek.
    “Naught it be to
this
,” she growled, blushing.
    Cade opened the letter, scanned it, and grinned. “Naught, indeed! We are hereby bidden to lunching at the castle on the morrow.”
    “Who with?” Mieka demanded.
    “ ‘With whom?’ is the correct form,” Cade chastened, “you illiterate blatteroon.” He waved the letter in front of Mieka, ribbons fluttering. “Whose eyes does this color remind you of?”
    Snatching the parchment from Cade’s hand, Mieka ignored all the words except for the signature at the bottom. He was disappointed not to see Lady Vrennerie’s name there.
“Whom,”
he asked deliberately, “is this ‘Lady Dylas Clickpine’ when she’s at home, then?”
    “Lady-in-waiting to the Princess. Says right there at the bottom. And it’s ‘who,’ not ‘whom.’ ”
    Rafe made big eyes at him and drawled, “Amazing, innit? What a drop or three of noble blood will do for one’s understanding of proper grammar.”
    Cade shrugged. “You went to the same littleschool I did. Not my fault if you never paid attention. If we’re all four of us to go to lunching, three’s the limit tonight. Can’t go see the Princess all surly with a hangover.”
    Mieka whined because he was expected to, but privately he considered this wise advice. His mother would throttle him if he disgraced himself in front of Royalty.
    Once again the Shadowshapers turned up at their inn—no astonishment, as the drinks were the best in Seekhaven. Jeska, it seemed, now had competition for Mistress Luta’s affections: the Trollwife actually blushed when Chat bowed