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“Yes, me. And him.” I began to gesture at Ren and remembered the two deadly pieces of steel clutched in the guards’ hands, nodding at him instead. “Please take us to Astrid. It’s rather important.”
Their eyes moved to Ren. “And he is?” the other guard demanded. He was starting to bald, but unevenly, as if someone had plucked huge tufts of hair from the top of his head.
“Prince Renato Aratorre of Quareh.”
Their mouths dropped open. It would have been quite comical if the air had not felt charged with danger: one wrong move from either of us, and news of our corpses may never even reach the regent upstairs.
“Please,” I said again, and when the pair’s expressions didn’t change, I tried a different approach. “That’s anorder, soldiers. I may not be a Panarin but I’m still a Blessed prince, so get a move on and escort us to the fucking throne room!”
When they didn’t snicker at me like my friends had done but instead snapped to attention, I allowed myself to breathe.
That was hot,Ren mouthed at me.
The two men muttered something to each other and then began to usher us up the corridor, keeping their blades drawn and pointed at our backs. I couldn’t object, considering we were two foreign royals who had seemingly magically appeared behind their own walls, but the amount of fussing it caused among the castle guards as our request was passed up through the ranks was exhausting.
Two hours later, Ren had gotten over the ‘fun’ of the frisk search we’d been subjected to and was starting to torment the guards, testing their patience with overexaggerated sighs and increasingly inappropriate comments.
He managed to systematically drive off all but our original companions that way, sending each of the three higher ranked guards scurrying away with hurriedly tossed excuses about checking on the progress of our request to meet with Astrid. We’d been escorted to the upper levels of the castle so the air was warmer and the surroundings more homely, but a draughty corridor was still a draughty corridor, and even I was beginning to lose my patience.
“I know what you both are,” the balding guard spat out unexpectedly, his lips twisting with distaste as he glared between me and Ren. Clearly, he’d been building up the courage to say it. “Disgusting, is what it is. They should put the lot of you down and be done with it.”
“We don’t recall asking your worthless opinion,” Ren drawled. Both guards tensed, adjusting their grips on their swords, and he gave them a lazy, unaffected smile. “Imagine, Nat,” he added to me, “being so concerned about what others get up to that they feel the need to work themselves up about it.”
“It’s unnatural,” the scarred guard agreed, but there was a hesitation behind the words, a sideways glance at the other man that suggested he was only saying that because it was expected of him. I didn’t call him out on it – here in the north, sympathising with sodomites could attract punishment of itself – and was glad Ren didn’t either, although he gave them both a contemptuous snort that conveyed how little the prince thought of it all.
“I don’t know how you dare show your face here,Your Highness,” the balding guard said to me disdainfully. “After you outed yourself as one ofthem,do you really think we’d have your kind-”
“Soldier.” The word, spoken sharply with dismissal, had the man stepping back into place with a crisp salute. The woman who approached us had been one of those flitting around earlier in the chaos our arrival had caused, and the symbol on her stiff collar marked her as significantly higher in rank than anyone else we’d yet seen.
She gave us an assessing once over and then lay her hand on the hilt of her sword, still sheathed at her hip, in wordless warning for us to stay in line.
“Come. Her Majesty will see you now.”
*
Chapter Twenty-Four
Astrid Panarina of Mazekhstam was nothing like her brother. Despite all his faults, Kolya had been an emotional creature: eager to be liked, easily riled, and throwing his whole self into whatever held his interest at the time. That had led to regrettable results, but as both a reluctant ally and an enemy, the late prince had at least beenattentive.
The woman seated on the austere Mazekhstani throne could not have shown less interest in our entrance. She gave us one passing, aloof glance before turning back to the grey-haired man hovering at her side, his arms wrapped around a pile of thick ledgers. He murmured something too low for us to hear and she nodded thoughtfully, not even resting her gaze on us but on the grey flagstoned floor as if she found it the more fascinating of the two.
Our guard escort held out an arm to bar us from moving closer. Resisting the urge to push past her and claim the regent’s undivided attention, as I might have done if Mat was not at my side and capable of being punished for my disrespect, I reluctantly drew to a halt.
Panarina’s blonde hair was tucked neatly under the silver crown that rested on her head, several locks cascading down to her shoulders in such precise, orderly design that it gave the appearance of a portrait rather than a real person. Her hands were folded elegantly across her lap, her legs crossed, and the train of her white dress flowed silkily down the base of the throne and across the dais. Not a strand of hair or fold of cloth had dared to sag or fall out of place, and combined with her disinterested, regal expression, it was though the ethereal royal had been cast from stone.
Offering a faint but lengthy sigh as if this were all a major inconvenience, the regent waved her assistant and his books away and dragged her eyes back to us. When she gestured us forward, Mathias dipped into a formal bow at the foot of the dais and I mirrored his enthusiasm with the slightest forward motion of my head.
“Prince Nathanael,” Panarina said, and I thought I saw a crack in her armour for the briefest of moments, a smile that dared to shine through all that steely impassiveness. Yet it was gone before I could even blink. “Prince Renato. My apologies for how long you were kept waiting,” she added, her tone insincere.
Knowing how the game was played, I smiled and shook my head. “It was no trouble at all,” I responded, making sure I sounded suitably gracious and unconcerned. “We appreciated the chance to catch our breath after our travels.”
Mat, somehow having no Blessed clue how to play the game even after all this time, let out a low huff of objection. Thankfully it wasn’t loud enough to reach Panarina, and he kept his face carefully neutral so she couldn’t read our shared irritation from his face. All three of us were acutely aware that she would have been informed of our presence in the castle within minutes, despite the late hour. Making us wait had been a flex of power and a reminder of how little we held in turn.
The regent said nothing more, watching me from her throne with steady blue eyes that held no emotion. She didn’t even look human; a queen of ice both figuratively and literally.
Flour snow, I reminded myself, barely able to believe that this was the same person who featured so regularly in Mathias’ tales. Panarina had given a piece of herself to Mat through their friendship, and when he’d entwined his heart with mine, I’d been granted a glimpse of that fragment. Beneath her cold, impassive exterior was a woman who loved confectionery and cakes, who absently chewed on the ends of her hair when she was worried or deep in thought, who had once decorated her rooms in sticky, wet flour. Her haughty, regal exterior was as much an act as my own courtly pretence of don’t-give-a-fuck flirtation.
“Regent Panarina,” I began cautiously, “we-”
