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“I do not want their love,” Erida replied hotly.
“No, not love. They will never love us.” She shook her head at the court, despairing of the Madrentines as any good daughter of Galland would. Her voice dropped, her eyes flicking over Taristan again. “But they must respect you. Let them live. Let them see what aqueenyou are. How much better you are than the soft kings who came before, who sat this throne and did nothing but drink wine and write poetry.” Harrsing’s fingers tightened on Erida’s arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Show them whatrealpower is.”
Real power.Erida felt it flowing through her veins now, as if drawn from the throne beneath her and the crown on her brow. It was more seductive than anything and anyone the Queen had ever known. She wanted more of it, but beyond that, she wanted to keep it.
She gave Harrsing a reassuring squeeze. “You are wiser than your years, Bella.”
“A high bar to clear,” her lady answered, offering her usual smile.
But Harrsing’s pale eyes remained stern, without a spark. Shuttered like a pair of windows closed.
“You have steel in your spine, Your Majesty,” she said, straightening up. Again she glanced to Taristan, and Erida saw him tighten out of the corner of her eye. “Hold on to it. But bend when you must, lest you—and your crown—break.”
With that Lady Harrsing shuffled away, returning to her place alongside Lord Thornwall. Her smile vanished, replaced by a cool, blank expression, her mask forged by many decades at court, and she dropped her gaze to the pearl-and-marble floor.
Taristan continued to glare after Harrsing, his black eyes gleaming with that red sheen. Doubt twisted in Erida, uncomfortable as a hot hand on a fevered brow. But she dismissed the sensation quickly. Bella Harrsing was loyal to the throne, more than anyone else, her allegiance proven a dozen times over. They sat in a room filled with enemies, but she wasn’t one of them.
And they had far greater matters to attend to than the likes of an old woman.
Erida of Galland and Madrence drew herself up on her throne, gesturing to the steps beneath her.
“Who kneels first?”
18
The First Remembered
Sorasa
The assassin felt torn in two. Sorasa knew better than to sample the prince’s ale, his wine, or his blistering gorzka. She could already see the white liquor burning its way down a dozen throats. But she ached for the numbing embrace of a goblet, if only to take the edge off the memories churning in her mind. She still saw her fellow Amhara in every person and every shadow. They dogged the corners of her eyes, her stomach lurching with each new illusion. Even Oscovko wore the face of a dead man, Luc’s features obscuring his own.
She blinked the vision away, trying to focus. A feast was a good opportunity for an assassin, and Sorasa knew that better than anyone. She’d used her fair share of banquets and galas to disguise a kill, employing the cover of chaos to fulfill her contracts.
Chaos spiraled around them now.
The great hall, so empty only a few hours ago, had been sweptclean, with more long tables dragged in and the shuttered windows thrown wide. Somehow, the hall seemed bigger crowded with hundreds of people. There were Treckish nobles, lords and ladies in fine clothes, with braided hair and beards. Most of the men wore naked sabers at their belts, the steel flashing with every step. Oscovko’s war camp comprised both Treckish soldiers and mercenaries, all men, hailing from nearly every corner of Allward. Their faces were a rainbow, ranging from a milk-skinned Jydi axman to a Nironese archer with a jet-black face and telltale ebony bow. Clearly Trec had no issue with weapons at the dinner table.
Most soldiers sat on the long benches or roved around like errant jackals. A few brawled, exchanging blows as easily as handshakes. Sorasa paid them no mind. The Treckish were quick to fight, and even quicker to feast.
Plates of food ran the length of every surface, platters piled high with roast chicken, salted pork, and more potatoes than Sorasa knew existed. Barrels of wine and ale lined the far wall, overseen by a particularly loud Treckish soldier. Night pressed in at the windows, but many candles and torches flamed, smoking in the close, warm air. Everything smelled of alcohol and meat and sour breath, and Sorasa wrinkled her nose as they walked through the hall. Corayne didn’t seem to mind, her eyes alight, while Dom soldiered on, cutting a path through the crowd of Oscovko’s lieutenants.
The King of Trec was nowhere to be seen. Sorasa wondered if Valtik was still with him in his apartments, tending to the blind ruler, singing her rhymes and Jydi lullabies. She could think of nothing more bothersome.
To Sorasa’s relief, there were other women in attendance. Wives, noble ladies, a few camp women in their finest dresses. But no warriors.Corayne, Sigil, and I won’t draw more attention than usual,she thought.Well, Corayne and I won’t, at least.
Sigil was already among the men, a foot taller than most of them, and easy to spot. Her black hair was getting long, hanging shaggily around her ears. She wore no dress but a tunic and leather vest instead, laced up to her neck, with tapered trousers and her old brown boots. Oscovko drank at her side, a horn of ale in one hand, a sipping glass of gorzka in the other. The history between Trec and the Temurijon was long, written in blood, but the prince’s approval kept off the stares of older soldiers. At least for now.
Corayne eyed the crowd with focus, and Sorasa perceived. She looked for the squire, her head craning back and forth to search through the sea of faces.
“He’s by the windows,” Sorasa whispered in Corayne’s ear.
She gave a grateful smile in reply and set off, crossing the hall to join Andry at the dais. He beamed when she reached him, gesturing to something beyond the open window, down in the city. The empty throne loomed over them, the white limestone like old bone in the candlelight.
Like Corayne, the squire was newly clean, the muck of the road scrubbed away. He alone seemed at home at the feast, used to life in a busy court.Vodin is probably tame in comparison,Sorasa thought, remembering the New Palace in Ascal, and its monstrous halls.
“Leave it to the squire to find the quietest place at a party,” Sorasa muttered, her voice lost in the din of the crowd.
Lost to all but an immortal’s ears.
