The Kingdoms of Evil Read Free

Madene has issues," Istain said, "and one of these days she's going to flip out and kill someone."
    Freetrick could guess who she would go after first, but didn't voice the thought.
    "Hi boys," Zathara glided to a stop in front of them. She eyed Istain, still jerking in a caricature of a gara step. "Still practicing for the dance show?"
    "Not in any productive way." Freetrick glared at Istain, and then smiled at Zathara. "Thanks for coming."
    "Thanks for waiting for us," she said, turning to the mail boxes. She reached up and pressed her rune-stone against her box, somehow making the motion as sensuous and effortless as a cat's stretching. "Madene and Kendrick are on their way."
    "Of course they are," Istain grumbled.
    Freetrick shot his friend a suppressing glance. Without Zathara, he knew, the tension between Istain and Madene would have broken the dance club. Fortunately, Zathara was the sort of person who could stand in the center of a group of people and get them all turning in the same direction.
    Not to mention the fact that, as part of the aristocracy of the nation of the Goddess of Love, Zathara was trained to generate the kind of charisma that could make princes weep. And, at least during practices, she took direction from him . Being the director of a student organization had definite advantages.
    "Strike it out." The Rationalist Union curse sounded like chocolate and pepper in her Love Wielder accent. "When are my candies going to arrive?" Zathara turned from her empty mail box. "I very much hope they haven't all been eaten by the customs agents again. So, what were you boys discussing?"
    " Freetrick's mail," said Istain, "show it to her, Free."
    Freetrick reached into his pack, extracted the envelope, and handed it to Zathara. Was that brush of the fingers intentional? Of course it was, she was a Love-Wielder . But what did it mean? Zathara knew dances far more subtle than any gara step.
    "Well it can't have just come like this," she said. "It has no address on it. It doesn't even have your name."
    " It must have been hand-delivered," said Freetrick.
    "Maybe one of the social houses is hosting a party," suggested Istain.
    Zathara was still rubbing her fingers across the pimply surface of the envelope.
"A Kingdoms-of-Evil-themed party? That's in rather bad taste."
    "Only if you're a cranky old lady." Istain snorted. "A Kingdoms-of-Evil-themed party is a great idea. It'll have goth chicks in metal bikinis, spiky shoulder pads for the gentlemen," he made motions about a foot out from his own shoulders. " Ooh! And monsters … I can be an ogre. What are you two grinning about?"
    "What are you grinning about?"
    Freetrick turned at the deep, slow voice to see Kendrick Fairheart walk into earshot from across the Union's rotunda. In front of him, arms swinging, striding in steps too long for her legs, was Madene a'Legha.
    "The squishy letter. Let's open it," Istain reached down to grab the envelope out of Zathara's hands.
    She pulled it away from him, smiling at the other core members of Freetrick's gara dance club. "Hello, you two. Why so late? Were you snuggling?"
    "We were not . No. Yuck " ." Madene bent down, peered past her curtain of black hair into her mailbox's interior, and then straightened without bothering to open it. "Freetrick," she said, "I think Jubal should dance in the back row on Saturday."
    "What?" said Freetrick.
    Madene wiped her hair back and glared at him. Silver eyes glinting from under dark brows, hands on hips, Madene looked as if she was trying to look like a Warrior Maiden. Unfortunately, she was two generations removed from her martial-prophetess ancestors, and life in the Rationalist Union had given Madene a scholar's stoop and a tummy her jerkin could not entirely hide. "You know, Jubal. He's new. He shouldn't be in the front during a performance."
    Oh right. Parents' weekend. The first big performance of the school year. There were people in the dance club who had less than two months of