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Red sheened once more across Metternich’s gaze…and then he let out a shuddering sigh and lowered his head. “I remember, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed.” The emperor nodded in return, his tone low and regretful. “And we remember how hard you worked to ensure that our empire would not topple twenty years ago, when it was last in grave danger. Will you send it crashing down around us now for the sake of your own personal pride?”
“No, Your Majesty.” Slowly and stiffly, Metternich lowered himself to the floor in a kneeling position that looked deeply unnatural for him. “I must beg your forgiveness for my actions before every ruler here and offer my resignation from Imperial service.”
“Granted,” said Florian. “All who’ve gathered here, including yourself, can witness and agree that we have no choice but to order your exile, never to return within one hundred miles of this city or this empire’s rulers...and to request your oath upon the empire itself that you will never again involve yourself with politics.”
From the expression on the kneeling vampire’s face, Margaret wondered if execution might have been a more palatable option. Still, he grimly uttered the words, “I so swear.”
“Now, you may remove your sash and take your leave from all of us.” The emperor paused a moment before adding, “Naturally, you have our permission to assure anyone who asks exactly how necessary your departure truly is.”
“Your Majesty.” With a final, tight bow, Prince Metternich rose, yanked off his Imperial sash with quick, rough movements, and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby chair. Then, with one final, furious glare in Margaret’s direction, he stalked out of the room...
Not, Margaret noted, in the direction of the ballroom this time, but through the still-open inner door that led deeper into the Hofburg palace.
As the door shut behind him, King Thomas let out a gusty sigh. “Well! Time for drinks all ’round, eh? Thank goodness that’s finally sorted out.”
“Not quite,” retorted the Saxon king. “What about that dangerous supernatural relic—the Wand of Whatever-it-Was—that Metternich used to attack us in the first place? That ought to be broken into pieces before we leave this room.”
“Oh no!” The words burst out from Margaret’s lips before she could stop them. She cringed in her seat as four pairs of regal eyebrows rose in reaction to her disrespect, but she didn’t give up. “That is, I beg all of Your Majesties’ pardons, but surely, there’s no need to destroy such a unique and irreplaceable supernatural artifact. I’d never even heard of it before!”
“And trust me, this lady knows everything about the supernatural,” King Thomas put in with a good will that Margaret tried to appreciate...even as she winced at that desperate inaccuracy.
“So, you’d wish us to leave it open to misuse again?” demanded King Manfred.
“Ahem.” Lord Riven bowed gracefully to the group. “If I may, I would simply note that even more physical danger could result to everyone here if anyone should attempt to destroy such a powerful artifact. I am not the expert my wife is on the matter, but I believe she would agree with me on this?”
Ohh. As she met his gaze, Margaret knew exactly which secret incident in their shared past he was remembering...and her skin tingled with the memory of the flames that had resulted.
“It’s true,” she said honestly. “The effects could burn this palace to the ground.”
“In that case...” Tsar Piotr shook his head dolefully. “We certainly cannot risk such an attempt ourselves. No, the wand itself will have to be kept safe, but with a firm understanding that it will be far better protected from now on.”
“It shall be,” said the emperor gravely. “You have our word upon the matter.”
“Hmmph,” grumbled the Saxon king. “It had better be—because from now on, if there’s ever any hint of it being used again, we’ll all know exactly where it came from, Florian!”
The emperor’s expression didn’t change, but his words sounded chipped from ice. “You have had our word upon it.”
“And we appreciate it!” said King Thomas hastily. “Come, now, Manfred.” He clapped his fellow king on the back with clumsy good humor, seemingly oblivious to the man’s irritable twitch in response. “Let’s return to the ballroom. There’s plenty more drinking and dancing to be done!”
“You’ve already done more than enough drinking, as usual,” Manfred muttered. Still, he turned under the British king’s guidance and walked with military precision through the outer door, forgoing any courtesies along the way.
The tsar waited until that door had fully shut before he turned to Margaret and her husband. “You have my thanks, Lady Riven, for your work tonight. If you ever have need of my patronage—or assistance in accessing any of the lands I rule—you have only to ask.”
“Thank you.” Margaret was too weak to stand, but she bowed as deeply as she could from her chair in sincere appreciation of that gift.
Nodding, Tsar Piotr turned to the emperor. “I’ll see you in the ballroom, Florian—and in tomorrow’s talks as well. I expect them to go much better from now on!”
The Habsburg emperor bowed in return but did not speak as the tsar strode out of the room. He continued to maintain an ominous silence for a long minute afterwards, until the next door opened and closed as well.
Finally, when there was no chance of being overheard, he turned to Margaret, his expression inscrutable. “Lady Riven.”
“Your Majesty.” She forced a wan smile. Behind her seat, she could hear Amalie’s quiet intake of air.
This was her final moment of true danger, and everyone in this room knew it.
“You are certainly all that the stories claim and more.” His pale grey gaze held hers. “We trust you are neither careless nor irresponsible enough to share all the secrets that you’ve ferreted out?”
