AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Her hand shook as she traced word after word, as she made the connection from the spoken word to the written. She leaned back against the pillows, wondering when he’d even had time to make this for her, and listened to him teach her how to read.
Inexplicably, she felt like crying.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Stone Dragons
Clare spent two hours with the first book before she decided she had to go out. She hadn’t planned her first day here, because she hadn’t planned on being abandoned by Marquin and Verol the moment she arrived. She hadn’t planned on a white throne or a white room, and given both of them she couldn’t help but wonder, since it was the king who had called the Arrendons away, if he had planned on her being alone here.
Yet no one had come to her room to demand her attention since the Arrendons had departed, so she was likely giving herself over to paranoia with that thought. The king had set his snares with his displays of chosen color and, so long as she did not stumble into them and become trapped, he would have no cause to take further interest in her.
She decided she was, for the moment, forgotten. Unemployed, unchaperoned, and likely unwanted by a good number of the palace’s guests. What were all of them doing now? If Alaric required his court to reside here half of the year, how many of them were now in residence? She supposed that depended entirely on who all was considered part of his court.
Faelhorn was comprised of twelve provinces. Each of those had a proconsul whose fealty was sworn to Alaric, and each of those would have titled nobility beneath them. There were, undoubtedly, hundreds per province. She had no doubt the proconsuls and perhaps the dukes and duchesses fell under the half-year requirement, but surely not everyone did.
She would have asked Fitz, but she’d heard his door open an hour ago, followed by the main one, signaling his exit.
So much for being at my disposal, she thought, though in truth it was a relief not to have to deal with him. No one had ever been at her disposal before, even grudgingly, and she wouldn’t have known what to do with him. So, though he might have been a speedy—albeit perhaps biased—source of information, she didn’t need him. Acquiring information unnoticed was her area of expertise.
She changed out of the dress she’d worn, no longer looking to set a scene, but looking instead to blend in. Unfortunately, her options for pants were limited, because Galina’s options had been limited. It wasn’t that women in Veralna didn’t wear pants, it was that, since pants were considered practical, women of higher rank clung to their silk skirts with such ferocity that a shop like Galina’s didn’t see much demand for pants.
She’d managed to find a single pair of soft brown riding breeches that—aside from the overly detailed white embroidery down the sides—was serviceable. She slipped them on, paired with the matching shirt Cynthia had insisted Clare needed—because Ferrian forbid the shirt not specifically match—and her new riding boots and slipped outside.
This wing of the palace, clearly residential, was not entirely without activity—servants came and went, and every now and then a door opened to reveal someone of obvious prominence—but no one paid her any mind. She knew how to walk and display herself so that, while no one questioned her right to be here, she didn’t draw any interest, either.
She descended to the ground floor, intending to exit and explore the grounds—her mind still equated long stretches indoors with confinement, and she itched for the freedom of open skies—but as she entered the palace anteroom, a rustle of laughter halted her. Something about it—it was the way everyone had laughed at Numair the prior evening. She followed its origin, letting the sound draw her through first one doorway, then another, until she came upon an inner courtyard where Alaric’s entourage had apparently departed to after his dismissal of them.
She might have ducked back inside before anyone saw her, except that Numair lounged at their center, leaning against the low wall of yet another fountain. A young woman with long brown hair nearly the shade and length of Clare’s own was doing her best to end up in his lap.
Dahlia of Moria, Clare supposed. She made a snap decision and walked into the courtyard. She ignored Lady Meraland’s faux-whispered, “The Black Diamond graces us once more with her presence,” ignored too the light ripple of laughter that followed it. Alaric’s court was a fickle creature it seemed—they didn’t care who they laughed for, so long as they laughed.
She walked straight to Numair, fighting the desire to smile as Dahlia straightened territorially. She pretended as if none of them were there, and addressed Numair. “You promised to show me around the palace. I’m here to collect.”
Dahlia stiffened, and Numair gave Clare a look that said, What the hell are you doing? Aloud he asked, in a confused voice, “Was I drunk at the time?” That was good for another ripple of laughter.
Clare grinned. “Of course you were drunk, but a promise is a promise, and I’m holding you to it.”
She could see him weighing it—whether he should go with her, whether he should stay. In the indecision, Dahlia glared at Clare. “He doesn’t have time to?—”
Numair abruptly pushed off the fountain, bumping Dahlia and cutting her off. “Never let it be said a prince of Faelhorn doesn’t keep his promises.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and followed her out of the courtyard. He waited until they were in the empty antechamber to whisper, “What in Ferrian’s hells are you doing?”
“Rescuing you. Again.”
As he steered her away from the main palace entrance and down a side hall, she had the sense of being watched, and caught the barest flicker of a shadow from the mezzanine above. She casually glanced up, spying Fitz blending in with the shadows in between two seven-foot-tall phoenix statues. So he hadn’t entirely left her to her own devices, then. Pity. She couldn’t believe he was that bad at remaining hidden, if he wished to, so he either meant for her to see him, or he was trying to determine how observant she was.
To let him know she’d seen him, or not?
“Are you going to be making a habit of that?” Numair asked.
She decided on ignoring Fitz, for the time being. “I don’t know, are you frequently going to be in need of rescue?”
Numair muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t make out. “Did you actually want me to show you around?”
“Yes. Marquin and Verol ran off to do mysterious, no doubt ill, deeds for your uncle, so I find myself adrift in foreign seas.”
“And neither of them thought to give you the basic layout?”
She shrugged. “Marquin knows I’m resourceful, and Verol thinks I’m a fragile flower he no doubt hoped would stay in her room all day if he didn’t tell me where anything was.”
