Not that she cared about their clothing choices, but… “Did you two want to stay for this? You’re welcome, of course, and will be meeting whoever Ellas has sent soon, regardless. But you’ve made your opinion on formal events clear, and this dinner is about to get a lot less relaxed.”
Nik looked to Daemon. Daemon adopted his usual pose, arms folded across his chest and scowl in place. “You think I’m going to pass up the chance to intimidate an Ellesian the moment he arrives? It’s like you don’t know me at all.”
She smiled. Then didn’t. “I imagine you realize how desperate the leadership of Ellas is for magic. They’ll probably try to lure you to come there. Promise you riches, power, whatever you want.”
He held her gaze, nothing in his eyes betraying even the slightest flicker of temptation at her words. “What I want is a fair Fjordlandi, Kyrja. I want to live in peace in my mountain, knowing my people are thriving and that I’m a part of that.”
Exactly what she wanted too—minus the in-the-mountain part. She nodded, throat too tight for words.
Was that enough to be a good queen? The desire to serve her people? Just because she’d overpowered her father and his High Council, did that really mean she had what it took to lead? To correct the course her nation had been on for centuries?
Taking up the reins as they’d been held so long would have been easy. Or doable, at least. Like she’d found with her siblings’ duties, maintaining the status quo wasn’t that hard. It was changing things that kept her up all night, shivering in her own cold. Changing things that took more strength than she was sure she had.
Changing things that she’d been willing to fight for to begin with. So if it was the Giver’s will, he would just have to provide her with the strength to achieve it.
She missed her mother. It hit in odd moments, sometimes a prick of snow on her cheek, sometimes an iceberg to her stomach. Mamma had always been there to greet new ambassadors too, with a fur stole around her shoulders and a welcoming smile on her face, even though they all knew the appointees wouldn’t last more than a few months. She’d still tried to make them feel welcome, while she was in the room.
“There they come,” Nik said, still peering out the window. “Looks like a man in a black coat and gray trousers seems to be the central figure. But that is quite a guard around him.”
Kyrja moved back to the window, though by the time she looked down, the trailing members of the guard were all she could see. They were always something to behold though, with their gold-toned uniforms and flowing red capes. “All diplomats travel with their own logade of hoplites.”
Perla and Elianne both made it into the room before the procession was shown in, the princess in what she’d called her “standard Daryatlean garb”—a royal blue gown, this one cut to fit through the torso then billowing out in a wide satin skirt—and Elianne in, of course, black leathers.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, all marching in time. Kyrja had heard it dozens of times, and still it made her spine go rigid, her shoulders edge back. She took her place where Fodur usually would have stood, in the center of the room with the table to her right and the lounge area to her left. The others arranged themselves behind her. She didn’t turn to see what formation they’d chosen. When it was her family doing the greeting, Mamma had always been on his left, Einar on his right, both one step behind Fodur, and Kyrja and Krystiana between them, but another step back.
The first two hoplites entered, so similar in appearance with their bronze helmets complete with nose pieces that they could have been replicas of each other. They peeled off in opposite directions, still marching in time toward the far corners of the room. Two more soldiers would follow and take up their stances just inside the door. Then, of course, the ambassador. A final two hoplites would follow him in, but the rest of his logade would wait in the corridor.
But when the second two hoplites turned, revealing the diplomat, all her expectations froze. Shattered.
King Stefanos himself stood before her, surveying the room as if it were his next conquest.
Behind her and to the left, Perla growled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Stefanos’s gaze snapped to the princess, a smile on his lips that Kyrja could only describe as ruthless. “Princess Perla. With such a gracious greeting, as usual. You could take a few lessons from that delightful sister-in-law of yours.” Well. At least those introductions didn’t need to be made. He gave a little bow that looked more mocking than respectful.
Perla glared. “Iraja is nice to everyone. Don’t take it personally.”
He chuckled, straightening again. “For once, it seems we had the same idea.” He set his gaze on Kyrja.
As a child, she’d been intrigued by Ellas, the only land that had no magic but was still considered a threat to every other nation. They were a land of warriors, widely recognized as the fiercest in the world, with more advanced technology—when it came to weaponry, anyway—than anyone had attained since the ancients. While the rest of the kingdoms had focused on might gained through magic, they’d compensated with their inventions.
But it was their aristocracy and monarchy that both intrigued and frightened her still. Birthright was no guarantee of either title or crown—knowledge and intelligence ruled Ellas with an iron fist. Ironic, people generally thought. Pure muscle being ruled by pure mind.
But she’d seen the results of it in their histories. How their king, each of whom won the crown through cunning, ruled with strategy and doled out knowledge as the sharpest of weapons, the most advanced of machines. The crown always seemed to stay in the same few families, but every ten years the king had to defend his right to rule through a series of grueling examinations.
Thus far there had never been a queen, which Kyrja found entirely suspicious. They said women were eligible, but somehow one had never proven smarter than her male counterparts?
Very suspicious indeed.
Stefanos had ascended to the throne, ousting his uncle, when he was only seventeen. And had defended the next decade of his reign so successfully last year that each of the four ambassadors from Ellas they’d had since boasted he would be their king until his dying breath—something no one before him could claim. The longest-reigning king of Ellas thus far had been in his position for thirty years.
Kyrja had long ago outgrown the hope of meeting an Ellesian king one day, having no particular desire to be outwitted in every sentence. But it looked like her wants were no more important today than they’d been any other day in the last two weeks.
Silently, she said a prayer for peace. Strength. And wisdom enough to get through the evening without falling into some sort of mental trap. Without Fodur here to answer to, she’d attended the two weekly services in the Grand Kyrka so far, and in both,the dominie’s words had reaffirmed that the Giver was walking with her.
Tonight, he would most assuredly have to take the lead.
Stefanos bowed, without the mockery he’d given Perla. Kyrja curtsied, low enough to be respectful, shallow enough to say that she was this man’s equal. “King Stefanos, Fjordlandi welcomes you.” What was it she’d read about Ellesians?They value honesty above diplomacy—and wit above honesty.She rose, lifting her brows in challenge. “Though we’d have done so with more aplomb had we been aware of your coming.”
