‘Peace be with Your Majesty, King Borto Donolaino of Calestra,’ said her father and bent into a low bow.
Alinore hurriedly dropped into a curtsey too, but no one seemed to notice her.
‘Thom, I’m delighted to see you here finally,finally. I have longed for you to visit for so many winters. What’s taken you so long?’ Without waiting for an answer, King Borto called over his shoulder, ‘My Queen, this is the man I’ve always told you about. He’s come to visit us in the depths of the north.’
A slight, pretty woman standing by a window smiled at them. She had hair the colour of midnight and startling amber eyes. Alinore did not know much about clothes, but the woman’s dress was brightly coloured and full of frills like the maidens in portraits in her father’s study.
‘Peace be with Your Majesty, Queen Flavria Donolaino of Calestra,’ said her father, bowing again.
He had barely straightened before King Borto flung a thick arm around his neck and said, ‘I want to introduce you to my boys. I have two, can you believe it? I didn’t have any when welast rode out together – it must have been almost fifteen winters ago.’
‘We’re surely not so old, Your Majesty.’
King Borto let out a thunderclap of laughter. ‘This is my eldest, Prince Samsel, who is fourteen winters,’ he said, gesturing at a boy sprawled on a nearby chair. ‘And this is my youngest, Prince Ottone, who is thirteen winters.’ He pointed at another boy who sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with Tats playing cards.
They were both black-haired and dark-eyed like the King.
‘Thom and I fought together in the High King’s army way back when,’ bellowed King Borto, steering Alinore’s father closer to his sons.
‘Who were you fighting?’ asked Prince Samsel. He was lounging on a plump brocade armchair, his legs kicking up at the ceiling.
‘It was some dispute over Journier,’ replied the King. ‘One of the many. But quickly resolved after we knocked them back a few paces.’
Alinore knew Journier; it was a country that appeared often in her father’s tales of warfare. It lay to the north of the Kingdoms of Galasque, on the other side of the vast mountains that could be seen from Syonno Castle’s windows. Bordered by five countries and without a ruling monarch, ownership of Journier was always in dispute.
‘Did you win the battle?’ asked Prince Ottone.
‘Yes – no.’ The King scratched at his beard. ‘Sort of …’
‘It was one of the many Journier feuds, Your Majesty,’ Alinore’s father quickly added. ‘I think we all agreed to retreat in the end, but that last battle was falling in our favour, to be sure.’
King Borto thumped his back.
‘You should greet our guests properly, my sons,’ called the softvoice of the Queen. Her Galasquese accent was smoother than the rest of her family, and closer to Alinore’s own. Alinore vaguely remembered being told by her maid that Queen Flavria had been born in the region of Carniva further south.
‘Indeed,’ added King Borto. ‘Some manners you are showing.’
The Princes scrambled up, brushing off their tunics, and stood, all gangly limbs and pointy elbows. Alinore’s father grinned at them and made encouraging noises, praising their health and strength.
‘My King, you must introduce our daughter.’
King Borto turned in surprise to his wife. ‘Oh, yes …’ His eyes drifted across the salon and landed on a window seat in the far corner. ‘Come here, my dear,’ he called.
The curtains at the window twitched and a girl emerged, small and delicate. She had the same black hair and amber eyes as the Queen, and she was wearing an identical, smaller dress with bows and frills.
‘A perfect Princess as well as two strapping Princes, you have been truly blessed, Your Majesty,’ said Alinore’s father.
King Borto laughed and scratched his beard.
‘This is Princess Cressyda,’ said the Queen when her husband remained quiet.
‘It’s a pleasure, Princess,’ replied Alinore’s father. ‘I’m guessing you must be about the same age as my own daughter. Might you have lived through twelve winters?’
Her solemn face broke into a shy smile and she nodded.
‘Princess, may I introduce you to Lady Alinore, House of Mattinias.’
For the first time, Alinore felt the many sets of eyes in the room turn to her. She attempted her very best curtsey, uncurling with aflourish. Her maid always said the wrist flick was unnecessary, but Alinore felt it gave her a certain mysterious individuality.
