by C. K. Brooke
Lady Selu sighed as he stooped down to peck her on the cheek. “At any rate, I’m glad you’re safe.” She returned his kiss.
“Miraculously,” muttered Bram. He went to the door. “Johanna, I’ll escort you to the palace whenever you’re ready. Have someone summon me and I’ll be here, regardless of the hour.”
Johanna thanked him, though her words were insufficient. Once he left, she felt aimless. His presence was like an anchor, steadying her no matter how volatile the storm. Without him, she was drifting from the safe place she longed to be.
Lady Selu held out her arms. “Here. Let me have her.”
Johanna held Ayla closer.
“Darling.” The woman touched her arm. “I promise she’ll be in good hands. Meanwhile, Mari will draw your bath and show you to a bedchamber. You need rest.”
Johanna reluctantly handed over her daughter. Already, she ached for Ayla’s soft skin and warm smell. “Do I really look that bad?”
Lady Selu cradled Ayla eagerly. “Worse,” she smiled.
Catja Lovell had seen the four seasons in the North Islands, had witnessed tribal weddings, battles, burials, and births. But never had she seen anything like Jordinian imperial court. The Royal Palace stretched across a hill at the heart of the capital, four stories high and at least three hundred meters long, built entirely of opulent white stucco, with ornamental granite peaks over the hundreds—if not thousands—of windows.
She felt unfit to so much as descend the carriage onto the stone drive. Drew spoke to the sentinels at the door, and a set of guards escorted them inside. With great reservation, Catja passed through the magnificent doors into the famous mirrored entry hall. She glanced down at her clothes, her sense of inadequacy mounting amidst the palace’s splendor. She wore only a pair of her father’s old trousers and mended blouse, while her patchy messenger bag, containing her scarce belongings, suddenly appeared filthy to her.
Before Catja could submit her earnest request to be put up in a modest inn nearby, she was swept up by a team of maids. They guided her up never-ending tapestried corridors, beneath sparkling chandeliers and breathtaking frescoes. She could hardly take it in.
When the servants presented her a guestroom twice the size of her childhood home in Sialla, Catja’s first inclination was to refuse it. “Do you have anything…simpler?” She stole an overwhelmed glance at the wainscoted sitting room, the four-poster canopy bed in the adjoining chamber, and private washroom carved entirely of marble.
The steward frowned. “Our lord insisted you be shown to the Ambassador Suite. Is it not to your liking, Your Excellency?”
Catja stammered at the title, straightening the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Oh. I…I’m not really an—”
“We can change the drapery,” suggested a maid.
“Shall we bring in more furniture?”
“May we adjust the temperature for you?”
“Oh—none of that will be necessary.” Catja swallowed. “Forgive me. It’s astonishing. Far grander than anything I’ve ever….”
“Allow me to relieve you of your luggage, Your Excellency,” offered the steward, reaching for her bag.
“No, that’s all right,” declined Catja, keeping the bag pinned to her side. She didn’t want him to feel how worn the material was.
The old man inclined his head. “Dinner shall be served in two hours,” he informed her. “Would you like an escort to summon you to the banquet hall?”
There was no way Catja could attend dinner at the Royal Palace. She was nobody. She wasn’t even owed an invitation. “No, thank you, sir. I, um…I don’t plan on going. It’s been a long journey.”
“Very well. We shall bring a meal to your room.”
She was almost sorry to put them through the trouble when someone knocked on the open door. It was Officer Findlay, already changed into a crisp new uniform. “Pardon the interruption,” he nodded, “but I’ve been sent to inform Professor Lovell that His Majesty and the council shall receive her and Lord Cosmith in the boardroom this evening.”
“This evening?” Catja was at a loss. “I’m afraid I have no proper attire for a meeting with His Majesty.”
“Not to worry, Your Excellency,” grinned the young maid. “We’ll send the seamstress right in.”
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Catja paced the Ambassador Suite, wringing her wrists with nervous hands. Nowhere had she felt more out-of-place. Not even in the wild, when she and her father had first made port, or during their earliest days among the Oca.
A red satin gown flowed to her feet, specially fitted for her by the empress’s own head seamstress. Catja didn’t recognize her reflection in the bedchamber mirrors. The palace maids had combed out her hair, which fell like a sheet of rippling raven silk to her elbows. They’d tried to take away her spectacles, insisting they looked frail and rusted, but Catja needed them. So they ordered new ones to be forged.
She tried not to bite her lips, for they’d been rouged, along with the angles of her cheeks. Aside from when the Oca had painted her with clay, she’d never done up her face before. All over, she looked like a firework of ruby red…with jutting hips she’d never realized she carried.
She sighed. It was too much, all of it. And it wasn’t her.
At a quarter till, she headed for the door. She hadn’t a clue where she was going or what she’d say. She had recited her case before the mirror numerous times in the last twenty-four hours, but nothing she conjured felt adequate. How could she, a professor’s underqualified daughter, convince the Emperor of Jordinia to dissolve his treaty with the Halvean nations? If only her father were there, with his patient blue eyes and the thoughtful way he used to clear his throat. He’d know just what to say.
She departed the suite, closing the heavy door behind her. Her eyes swept up and down the vacant corridor. If memory served, she was to turn left. Or was it right?
She chose her first instinct and turned left down the corridor, her fine borrowed shoes tapping the hard floors with every uncertain step. Centuries-old portraits of long-dead royals loomed over her. Catja imagined their painted eyes trailing her, wondering what the likes of her was doing in their home.
A silver-railed staircase materialized ahead, the breadth of each stair wide enough to hold five men, shoulder-to-shoulder. But she wasn’t sure if it was the right one. Should she take it, or would it lead to the wrong wing, curving as it did? Perhaps she ought to have summoned a member of the staff to guide her to the boardroom, after all.
She was still contemplating the staircase when someone spoke behind her. “Whoa. Hello. Catja?”
She turned. Her legs felt unstable as a man strode her way, dressed in a sharp, close-fitting suit of black, his unruly waves combed back and for once looking presentable. If it hadn’t been for his unmistakable voice, Catja might’ve walked right on without recognizing Andrew Cosmith.
His unchecked gaze swallowed her from head to foot, and Catja drowned in self-consciousness. He was so effortlessly debonair, it was intimidating. And in his presence, she felt silly. She belonged in his courts even less than she belonged in an expensive velvet gown that was worth more than a year of her father’s wages.
“Er….” His eyes were stuck on her. By that point, she was sure the rouge the servants had applied was overkill, so hot could she feel her cheeks baking. “Care for an escort?” he asked.
“I have absolutely no idea where I’m going,” she hesitated, “so…yes. Please.”
He held out the crook of his arm. Catja took it, her heart flapping like a caged canary in her breast. She couldn’t tell whether it wanted to sing, or fly off and hide. There, in the palace, dressed smartly, shoes shining, the man at her side was wholly in his element. And she was beginning to comprehend, for the first time, the true him—the royalty he really was.
Could this be the same ins
ufferable man she’d watched the Oca carry like a prisoner into the village, all those moons ago—the very one at whom she’d shouted, snapped and scolded, the rakish scoundrel with whom she’d swum in the hot spring? Why, this Jordinian lord had been willing to subject himself to twenty seasons of slavery in her place?
She dropped her eyes in shame as he led her down the staircase. She had been a shrew to him—him! A royal whose arm she wasn’t worthy to hold. She blushed more deeply still at the recollection of that one particular evening, lying beneath him in the grass by the Hamaree River, while the terrapins glowed….
This was exactly why she should never have come. With the Oca, Catja knew who she was. But there, in that foreign palace, all she could perceive was everything she was not.
She tried her best to avoid drawing attention as he guided her across the ground floor, yet this proved impossible as guards, servants and passing nobles acknowledged them as they went. Drew wore a serious expression, looking distracted, although occasionally she caught him stealing another sidelong glimpse of her. She pretended not to notice.
The imperial boardroom was an unexpectedly intimate chamber, lit with sconces and occupied wall-to-wall by a yawning wood table. Dozens of chairs surrounded it, each resembling small thrones. Catja took in the mural of maps on the wall and rows of what she surmised were the likenesses of famous war heroes. A queue of stately-looking officials followed her and Drew inside, proceeded by stiff-shouldered guards in royal purple lining the room’s perimeter.
So, she would be the only woman. Spectacular.
They remained standing. Catja tried to evade the council’s inquisitive stares. She leaned in, murmuring to her escort, “Ah, what do we do now?”
“Wait for the emperor to arrive.” Discreetly, Drew checked the clock on the wall. “Late, as usual….”
Muffled announcements resounded outside the room, and the door swung open. In stepped a middle-aged man of average height, wearing a dignified suit of midnight blue, with a modest coronet gleaming in his hair. If it wasn’t for the entourage of armed guardsmen tailing him, followed by the entire room’s descent into genuflection, Catja might not have supposed he was the Emperor of Jordinia.
She dared another glance up at him from her kneeling stance. The emperor carried himself easily, and hidden in his silver beard was an unassuming grin.
“You may rise,” he said simply, and his subjects returned to their feet.
His first task, apparently, was to embrace his nephew. Catja took a wide stride back, moving out of their way.
“I’ll admit, it gave us quite a scare when we received the crew’s missive stating that the Kelti had gone down.” He swatted Drew’s back. “But they assured us everyone had survived.” He searched the faces around him, his eyebrows peaking together. “Where are Ludwig and Johanna?”
Drew stalled. “Er, they’re safe, sir. I’ll explain later. But first,” he held out a hand, “Uncle, please meet Her Excellency, Professor Catja Lovell.”
Catja wished she could disappear through the carpet as the emperor surveyed her behind curious hazel eyes. Would they stop with the titles? It wasn’t as though she was a real ambassador—or a professor.
Drew addressed her. “Professor Lovell, I present my uncle, His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Jordinia.”
Catja genuflected again. When she rose, the emperor awaited her with an outstretched hand. “Delighted,” he said. “I hope your stay has been comfortable?”
“I’m honored, Your Majesty. Sincerely.” Stunned, Catja shook his hand. “And yes, thank you. It’s been a luxury, far beyond anything I warrant.”
He grinned. “Please,” he indicated the table graciously, “ladies first.”
He was inviting her to sit, even before himself? Catja longed to insist otherwise, but it would be in poor taste challenge the emperor right out of the gate. Especially considering the requests she was about to make.
Drew pulled out a chair that was awfully proximate to the head. The room watched as she went where she was designated. Once Drew had pushed in her chair, the emperor assumed the head seat.
The others selected their places. Catja was surprised by the magnitude of her relief when Drew lowered himself into the chair beside hers, between her and his uncle. He gave Catja a subtle glance and, ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth hitched. Yet, none of the usual mischief shone in his eyes. It was a tiny offer of reassurance, just for her. And she was grateful for it.
Because she was in way over her head.
Only when the emperor began to dictate did Catja notice the robed scribes in the corner, recording every word. “On this eve,” said the ruler in a rote manner, “the tenth day of the ninth moon in the eight-hundred-and-first year of the Ducelle Empire….”
Manservants entered the chamber with baskets of bread and oil and substantial goblets of wine on sterling trays. The drink was so rich, Catja could smell it from the doorway. The council took role, reciting names and stations as the servants rested goblets before them. Catja tried to memorize who was who, but couldn’t keep up after the fourth councilman.
“And now, for your report, my lord,” wheezed the emperor’s senior advisor, a withered old fellow called Mr. Maxeos.
All eyes settled on Drew, who was helping himself to a sip of wine. He set down the goblet carefully. “Well, we made it to the first island. No thanks to me. And that was about as far as we got.”
“Because your ship sank?” inquired the junior advisor, a man by the name of Treanor.
“Nay; because the isles are inhabited,” pronounced Drew plainly.
The scribes looked up from their parchment as murmurs broke out across the table. Old Maxeos cupped a hand over his ear. “Eh? Inhabited, you say?”
“By indigenous peoples. That’s why Professor Lovell is here.” Catja’s heart pounded as Drew steered their attention to her. “She’s come to advocate for them, and explain why our treaty ought to be dissolved.”
Catja winced at the vocal admonition of the councilors, the Jordinian General’s suspicious glare, and all the whispering behind hands. Even the Emperor’s personal guards regarded her warningly, as though she’d made a threat.
The emperor held up a hand, and the room hushed. “Professor?” he entreated her.
Catja gathered her quickening breaths. She could only think to defer to Drew. He could speak in her stead. Wordlessly, she begged him, peering into his steady brown eyes. She couldn’t do this. He had to do it for her.
But the young lord only watched her patiently. And she realized, apprehending the unspoken confidence in his gaze, he would not speak for her.
He gave a slight nod. It was like she could hear his voice in her head, urging her, You can do this.
She cleared her throat. “Your Majesty, if I may…?” The ruler inclined his head, and Catja got to her feet.
There. Now she was peering down her spectacles at all of them, and every man in the room had to look up to her.
A smirk of admiration crept its way across Drew’s features, further emboldening her. Put them in their place, Cat, she imagined he was telling her.
“Lord Cosmith tells the truth,” she announced. “The North Islands, each of them, have been occupied by natives for centuries, long before the first Ducelle reigned. As scientists, my father and I dwelled among one tribe in particular, called the Oca.”
The council listened as she pieced together her story, breaking the silence her father had taken to his grave, delivering the secret discoveries he’d refused to divulge over a decade prior, in the interest of maintaining the Oca’s purity. The scribes recorded every word, her testimony copied into the chronicles of time.
She revealed everything from the university’s commission to her dozen-year, first-hand education in Oca culture and customs. Finding her voice, Catja grew increasingly aware of why she had come, and why Drew had insis
ted it had to be her. It was her job to bring the tribes to life for those Jordinian courtiers who’d never seen anything akin to them, and likely never would. And only she could do that job.
The room was rendered soundless by the time she finished. She resumed the chair, her plaintive heartbeat the only noise in her ears.
Slowly, the emperor swirled the contents of his goblet in hand. He never drank, only rested the chalice upon the table when she had finished. At last, he broke the pregnant silence. “And would civilization not enrich the natives’ way of life?” he asked her.
Catja met his gaze. “Not in their eyes, sir.”
“But if we release the territory, Your Excellency,” young Treanor countered, “then any other kingdom could seize it instead, and they may show the natives no mercy.”
“I concur with Treanor.” Looking pensive, the emperor ripped a slice of bread from his loaf and rolled it in the dish of blended oils. “With your assistance, Professor, we may call upon the chiefs of the tribes and consult with them before constructing our communities.” He took a bite.
To Catja’s surprise, Drew spoke up. “But Uncle, there is no reason to build at all. The regions not already occupied by tribespeople are virtually uninhabitable. And nothing we explored showed any sign of promise.”
Catja chanced a questioning glance at him. He was lying to the emperor?
“Hmm.” His uncle was still chewing. He sopped his bread in the oil again. “You didn’t find anything up there? No resources we could make use of? Lumber, minerals?”
Drew shook his head. “Nothing, sir,” he replied, and it was all Catja could do to keep her jaw from dropping. “The only thing of value up there are the people. And we shouldn’t disrupt their way of life.”
Catja stared at Drew while the councilors began to bicker over one another.
“But the land is clearly habitable,” contested Treanor, loudest of all. “There must be resources available to the natives, or else even they could not survive!”