Elyria scooted over to one of the chairs in front of the fire and plunked herself down. Eyeing the platter of fruit and cheese that had been set on the table next to her, she grinned as she selected a few slices of cheddar before sitting back.
“Victor trumps duchess,” she said with a shrug.
Kit scowled. “I’m not the duchess.”
“While we’re here, you might as well be,Your Grace.”
With an irritated noise, Kit slumped into the other chair. Her face fell instantly, as though she was finally able to shed that diplomaticmask she’d had on from the moment she stepped out of the carriage.
“We’re about to have our hands full, aren’t we?” Elyria asked, though it wasn’t really a question. “If our reception is any indication, I think human-Arcanian relations still have a rather long way to go.”
“I expect you’re right. If only there were someone in charge of all”—she gestured widely—“this. Someone who I’d have thought would have a vested interest in meeting with us as soon as possible, given that we’re here at his own damn invitation.”
The side of Elyria’s mouth lifted. “If only.”
“At any rate, let’s try our best not to actively make said relations worse until we finally do get our audience with the king, shall we?”
Elyria rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mother.”
Kit flashed a grin, though it fell just as quickly. “So, this alleged second half of our party...What do you make of it?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing. Your uncle truly said nothing?”
“Not a word. Dentarius doesn’t know anything either. He isnot pleasedabout that.”
“I am shocked,” Elyria deadpanned.
“I plan on drafting a missive to my mother as soon as possible, but”—Kit raked her hand through her moonlight hair—“I just don’t know what to think of it, Ellie. Who could the king possibly be sending to join us? And why?”
Elyria chewed on her bottom lip. “I have the same questions. Best case scenario, we find out in two days when we get our audience with King Callum.”
“And the worst case?”
“We find out in two weeks, and I don’t like the answer.”
5
HOMECOMING
CEDRIC
Kingshelm’stypically golden glow had faded into the soft blue hue of twilight as Cedric and Tristan rode through the city toward King’s Keep. There was a bite in the air—the first sign of autumn’s long transition to the impending winter.
The streets bustled with activity. Vendors lined the main thoroughfare, their carts laden with trinkets. Minstrels played jaunty tunes while children danced. Despite the complicated sentiment that surrounded the Arcanian delegation’s arrival, it was clear that Kingshelm would take any excuse they could for merriment. The welcome celebration had spilled far beyond the palace gates.
Tristan glanced at Cedric, his face half-lit by the setting sun. “All this for us? They really shouldn’t have,” he quipped,flicking the reins of his horse.
“Once again, you think too highly of yourself.”
“Perhaps you simply think too little of me,” Tristan sniffed.
“Would only that I could not think of you at all,” Cedric said with a smirk.
Tristan barked a laugh, clapping a hand over his heart. “Such sharp words for your best friend. Do you think Lord Church has his tongue equally sharpened for us? I can’t imagine he’ll be too pleased at the hour of our arrival.”
Cedric grimaced. “And whose fault is that? Am I the one who waylaid us in every town we stopped in on the way back?” A dull throb pulsed in his chest, faint but persistent, and growing stronger the closer they got to the palace.
He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the feeling. They’d been riding hard for a long time. Perhaps it was simply the effect of the exhaustion blearing his eyes or the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
