Sir Caleb, Sir Gavin, and Inko had been given matching white tunics with leather vests and brown trousers. Inko and Sir Caleb hadn’t shaved. Getting started on their beards for Tsaftown, Achan supposed. He couldn’t wait to be there.
Lord Eli led his wife before Achan and bowed low. “Your Highness, may I present my wife, Lady Katiolakan?” He held out his wife’s hand as if passing her over for Achan to catch. She was pretty and plump with grey skin and sleek black hair. Achan lifted his hand instinctively, then lowered it. What did they expect him to do?
Take her hand and kiss it, Your Majesty, Sir Caleb said. Have you never seen such a greeting?
Kiss it?
You’re the future king of Er’Rets and must act with dignity and respect in formal gatherings.
Hoping his expression was dignified, Achan reached out. His arm seemed to belong to someone else. He took Lady Katiolakan’s dainty, gold-gloved hand and stared at it.
Try to look as if you know what you’re doing, Your Highness, Sir Caleb said. Say something witty and kind, then softly kiss her hand and let go. You’re not marrying her. It’s not meant to be heartfelt.
Achan forced yet another smile from his lips. The act caused his freshly wounded cheek to throb. “It’s an honor, my lady.” He pressed his lips to the gold silk glove then released it.
Pig snout, he wanted to leave.
Lady Katiolikan rewarded his actions with a screeching giggle that took Achan back to the miserable days spent walking in Esek’s procession. “The joy is being mine, Your Highness. I am being appalled to be discovering this treachery in Sitna. My heart is going out to all you have been suffering. The gods will be demanding retribution, I am being certain.”
How should a prince respond to such? “Aye, it was an outrage, my lady.”
Good. But next time say “yes” not “aye.” You sound like a soldier.
Achan clenched his teeth. Why is this evening necessary?
Because we need supplies if we’re to make it to Tsaftown.
Tsaftown. Yes. Achan would focus on Tsaftown. He’d play this role for a chance to see Lady Tara again. A lady with charm. And obvious virtue.
Lord Eli gestured toward the other women. “May I also present to Your Highness my special guests from Jaelport. Queen Torrezia Hamartano and her daughters, Princess Mandzee and Princess Jaira.”
Achan couldn’t help his bulging eyes. Princess of what?
Cela Duchy. Yes, I know the Hamartano women are vile creatures, but you must not sink to their standards. Dignity and respect, if you will.
The ladies each curtsied. Thankfully, none offered her hand. Achan bowed with rigid formality without making eye contact. “I’m honored.”
Jaira surged forward and fell to her knees, seizing the legs of Achan’s trousers. “My lord prince, I beg your forgiveness for my serpent tongue. The words I spoke when last we met were those of a spoiled child. I promise you, I have grown in wisdom and grace since then, and I pray you do not hold my behavior in Sitna against me.”
Achan blinked at the pile of black braids pinned to the top of Jaira’s head. It seemed an eternity before he could fathom how to respond, and when he did, he barely managed a whisper. “Not at all, my lady. Think on it no more and enjoy your evening. I’ve heard Lord Eli is a tremendous host. Please, rise and tell me if the rumor is true.”
Sir Caleb’s voice invaded his mind again. Well said, Your Highness. You’re your father’s son after all.
His insides coiled, but he offered his hand. He was slightly humbled at how she’d humiliated herself, but he still didn’t trust her a hair. Now, if she were to treat Sparrow kindly with no witnesses present, he might believe her claim of having grown.
Jaira slipped her black-gloved hand in his. It felt oily. She smelled strongly of a spice he couldn’t recognize, as if she’d bathed in the scent. He tried to pull her up, but her skirt had tangled under her knees. She gathered the layers of blue fabric in one hand and tugged. With a yelp she went down again. Achan caught her waist and lifted her to her feet. She stood in his arms, looking up into his eyes, cheeks flushed maroon.
She did that on purpose, you know.
Achan released Jaira and glanced over her head to meet Sparrow’s eyes. The boy stood at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, leaning against a fluted pillar. The smirk on his round face said it all.
You can hear me, Achan said. Why didn’t you answer before?
She is such the actress. What performance will she give next? Perhaps the tale of the princess who wins the heart of the young prince.
Funny. I’d like to see you play my role. Sir Caleb put oil in my hair. This isn’t exactly fun.
Oh, yes. It does look dreadful to have beautiful women literally throwing themselves at your feet. How ever do you manage?
Jaira pressed a hand over the black stone on her chest. “Thank you, Your Highness. The things a woman must wear to be beautiful. I’m afraid they can be a hindrance.”
And now she fishes for compliments. Well? Go on then. You must oblige. It is only polite.
You’re such a boil, Sparrow. Achan forced a smile. “They’re more than worth the trouble, my lady, I assure you.” He met Sparrow’s eyes one last time. Happy?
Quite.
“We shall feast in my personal dining room,” Lord Eli said. “It is more intimate than the great hall.” He offered one arm to his wife, his other to Queen Hamartano, and led them through a set of painted doors as high as the vaulted ceiling. “Bring your men, Sir Gavin, Dinner is served.”
Achan steeled himself and offered his arm to Mandzee, because she was older and Sir Gavin had taught him that was proper. Mandzee smiled and accepted his arm. Achan offered Jaira his other arm. She blinked her dark eyes slowly, then slid her fingers around his bicep.
He swallowed his angst and followed Lord Eli through a set of glass double doors into a narrow room, hoping he didn’t trip on the gowns trailing alongside his boots.
Talking with Sparrow had lightened his mood a great deal.
A long table draped with white linen was set for twelve—five on each side and one on each end—with gold goblets, matching trenchers, bouquets of silk irises, and purple linen napkins. Two large candelabras hung from the ceiling. A painting of Lord Eli and Lady Katiolakan covered the right wall. Another set of double doors divided the left wall. A life-sized statue of Lord Eli stood behind the head of the table.
Lord Eli helped his wife sit at the end of the table and settled Queen Hamartano to her right. He moved to the head of the table and stood behind the chair, his own statue looming behind him like a shadow.
“My servants have set nameplates at the table,” Lord Eli said. “Please take a moment to find your seat.”
Achan released the ladies’ arms. “Princess Mandzee Hamartano” was painted in purple ink on the small, white marble scroll to Lady Katiolakan’s left. Next came Sir Gavin’s name, Sir Caleb’s, then Jaira’s.
“Your Highness.” Jaira stood before her nameplate. “Look, you’re here beside me.”
Heat coursed through Achan at the sound of her voice addressing him in such a way. Sir Caleb’s hand on his back prodded him down the left side of the table. “Prince Gidon Hadar” painted in purple script marked his place to the right of Lord Eli and the left of Princess Jaira. Of course he’d be seated beside the host. Where else?
Sparrow stood dead center on the opposite side of the table. Good. At least Achan could make private jokes with his friend. He might not survive this evening without them.
Achan pulled out his chair and sat, ignoring Sir Caleb’s glare, not caring whether decorum dictated he should wait until the women sat or pull out their chairs and fawn over them with flowery compliments. They could seat themselves.
A thin woman with sallow skin took the seat across from him. She wore a blood-red velvet robe over a black gown that bunched around her neck and up to her chin. Her gaunt face paled next to such vivid colors. Her cheeks caved in like she was sucking a lem
on and her bloodshot eyes bulged in deep sockets ringed with dark circles.
A priest of Avenis with a stiff, ivory teardrop hat took the seat beside her. He wore an ivory robe with thick, rolled cuffs. At least ten gold chains in various girths and lengths hung around his fat neck. One long brown eyebrow stretched across his wide, flat forehead like a caterpillar. His eyes were small and fixed on Achan.
It had been days of dried meat and figs, and prison gruel for weeks before that, except for Sparrow’s apples. His stomach growled at the idea of fresh, hot food.
Sir Caleb helped seat Jaira to Achan’s left. Her spicy smell snaked up his nose, making his eyes water. She scooted closer to the table and her arm touched his. He froze a moment, then casually leaned away, reaching for his nameplate with his right hand. He pretended to examine it a moment, then put it back, careful to shift his weight so he no longer touched Jaira.
A tall and muscular, olive-skinned eunuch with a shaved head entered the room carrying a lidded basket. His eyes were outlined in black, similar to Jaira’s. A maroon skirt fell to his sandaled feet, held in place by leather straps that crisscrossed over his bare chest and supported a sword at his waist as well. Achan recalled Jaelport employed eunuchs like slaves. This man must work for the Hamartano family. A shield, perhaps?
The eunuch stopped between Sir Caleb and Jaira and held the basket aloft.
“Finally, Larkos,” Jaira said to the eunuch. She lifted the lid, and her tiny, hairless dog scuttled out of the basket and curled in a ball on her lap, tail wagging. Charcoal skin stretched over the dog’s bony frame. Its huge ears reminded Achan of a bat.
Larkos backed against the double doors behind Jaira. The priest still stared at Achan from across the table, unfazed by the eunuch and bat-dog. Achan met Sparrow’s curious gaze and said, Having fun?
Your discomfort is quite entertaining, yes.
Happy to help.
Do you like your seat?
Oh, I dream of torturous moments like these. Do you think it would be rude if I asked Lord Eli to open the doors to get a bit of a draft? If I don’t get some fresh air, I may black out from the smell of the princess.
I do not think they have fresh air in Darkness.
Can’t you smell her?
It is a bit strong.
What is it?
My guess would be a tropical lotion. Do you like the flakes of gold?
Gold? On her skin?
She sparkles for you.
Seems a waste of gold.
A piercing giggle rang out from Lady Katiolakan at the end of the table. Sparrow winced. Jaelportians have always been brazenly flamboyant.
Achan raised an eyebrow. Well, you’ve got the brazen part right. She may as well be naked. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in all my—
“Your Highness,” Lord Eli gestured toward the snowball of a priest, “may I present my chief priest, Pontiff Latmus. And this is my advisor, Seer Rheala.” Lord Eli laid a hand on the gaunt woman’s shoulder.
Achan nodded once for both.
Pontiff Latmus spoke in a low, hoarse voice. “I would be honored, my prince, to show you Avenis’s temple after dinner. I am sure the mighty Avenis understands your perilous journey, but to avoid him any longer is a risk you cannot afford, in my estimation.”
Jaira set her gloved hand on Achan’s arm. “Oh, yes, you must. It’s the most beautiful temple I’ve seen. And Pontiff Latmus has displayed the offerings so you can see everything.”
The doors to the dining room swung inward, and a long line of servants entered carrying heaping trays. A rich, meaty smell diluted Jaira’s aroma.
“We shall try to make time,” Sir Caleb said. Then silently to Achan, Do not eat until Lord Eli bids you start. Most hosts serve their guest of honor first. I know not what to expect from Lord Eli.
A servant leaned past Lord Eli and set a tray between Achan and Seer Rheala’s trenchers. It held a roasted bird sitting in a pile of garlic cloves and apricots. Another servant placed a tureen of dark gravy sprinkled with saffron beside it. There were also bowls of flaky whitefish with wedges of lime; pickled beets; tiny, red potatoes; a basket of dark, long loaves of bread; and a tureen of soupy corn.
Lord Eli reached forward and ripped a leg off the bird. He dunked it in the tureen of gravy and dropped it on Achan’s trencher. “Do you play dice, Your Highness?”
“Some.” But only with Gren or Noam. Most people had refused since it was considered bad luck to consort with strays.
“Do you eat fish, Your Highness?”
“I do.” Achan could finish the whole platter himself.
“All our food is imported from Allowntown and Mahanaim.” Lord Eli cut a large portion of the fish and slid it onto Achan’s trencher. “It is tradition, you know, for the host to serve his most honored guest. For you, Your Highness, I will do the slave’s job.” He piled two scoops of potatoes next to the fish, then ripped an end off a loaf of bread and set that on top of Achan’s pile of food. Lord Eli snapped his fingers, and a servant poured wine into Achan’s goblet.
“Your sacrifice is noted.” Achan glanced at Sir Caleb. That’s about what I might expect.
Seer Rheala and Pontiff Latmus began to fill their plates. Lord Eli filled his own. Achan took a deep breath and let the meaty smell soak into him. Should he eat? He doubted Lord Eli’s crowd prayed to Arman. Might they thank Avenis?
But Lord Eli simply started eating, so Achan followed suit.
He bit into the leg first, for he had never been given such a large serving—never tasted warm meat. It was juicy and rich, the gravy salty. An unintentional moan escaped. He lowered his eyes, hoping no one heard. He put down the leg and popped one of the little potatoes into his mouth next. His teeth pierced the skin and the warm center mashed in his mouth. The flavor was bland after the fowl. He pinched off a bite of fish. It tasted tart and peppery. He shoved another bite into his mouth and savored the flavor on his tongue.
His first meal as royalty. He circled his plate, alternating between all the different foods.
A small squeak, like a mouse, turned his head. Jaira stared at him, tiny jeweled knife in her dainty fingers. She smiled with all the warmth of a jackal.
A quick glance around the table and Achan saw everyone—except him—was eating with tiny knives and dainty utensils. Even Sparrow. Achan frowned.
“Seer Rheala, tell the prince what your stones said of his visit.”
The seer’s voice croaked lower than the pontiff’s. “I have seen an alliance in the south under a single leader. And I have seen riches, prosperity, and beauty for Mirrorstone.”
“Do you see Light?” Achan asked.
Silence fell over the table. Every face turned at him.
“We must not put our hope in the fables of a man who can push back Darkness,” Pontiff Latmus said. “We must be practical and heed the warnings of the gods. Seer Rheala has predicted much prosperity. You can choose to be a part of that, or you can choose to go your own way.”
“You speak wisely, Pontiff,” Lord Eli said. “Seer Rheala, tell our young prince what you see in the north.”
“Death.”
Achan cringed, not buying a word this woman was peddling.
“I am glad you’ve come to Mirrorstone, Your Highness,” Lord Eli said. “King Esek is overbearing and ignorant of the ways of the gods. Stay with us and we will raise an army to march against King Esek, take Armonguard, and unite Nahar, Cela, and Arman duchies.”
If Lord Eli wanted to convince Achan of his support, why continue to call Esek king?
“And what of Barth?” Inko asked. “Would they be supporting this campaign?”
Lord Eli waved his hand. “Barth supports itself.”
“Do you get on well with Lord Falkson?” Sir Caleb asked.
Lord Eli’s face tinged pink. “He and I have had our quarrels, as have many neighboring strongholds, but they no longer concern me. Seer Rheala predicted a mutual alliance with Barth long before Kati and I were wed. Ever sin
ce, Barth and Mirrorstone have gotten on fine.”
Achan bit into his apricot and found the fruit warm, sweet, and juicy.
“Your Highness, have you fought much with the short-sword and shield since you defeated my brother?” Jaira asked.
Achan nearly choked on his fruit. He stiffened, searching for the perfect response. “Only the sword, my lady. I had the pleasure of a second encounter with your brother and some of his companions.”
Jaira fed a chunk of meat to her dog. “And did you defeat him a second time?”
“Not as easily. He’s a…cunning opponent.” Who’d almost killed him.
“Was he responsible for the wounds on your face?”
Achan’s cheeks warmed. “No, my lady.”
Jaira smiled in such a way that Achan shivered. Her hatred poured into his senses like hot water in a bath. Still, she sat smiling, crafting friendly, almost flirtatious, comments. Why? Perhaps her mother had put her up to it. Regardless, he wouldn’t be able to stomach this game much longer.
He glanced at Sparrow. I think I’m going to be ill.
Sparrow gave him a dopey smile. But you look lovely together.
You do realize we’ll be practicing swords again soon, and when we do, you’ll pay for your delight at my expense.
Sparrow snickered out loud, garnering a raised eyebrow from the pontiff.
Achan supposed this was fun for the boy. The lad had seen him beaten to humiliation, imprisoned in a dungeon, had nursed his wounds, and now Achan was the Crown Prince. It was the most outlandish tale. Had the situation been reversed, Achan would’ve enjoyed poking fun at Sparrow.
The servants filed in again. One whisked away Achan’s trencher and replaced it with a silver bowl of berries floating in fluffy cream.
“Is that the Hadar signet ring you wear, Your Highness?”
Achan glanced at the gold ring on his left middle finger. The letters OAH were engraved in the imprint of a castle. “It is Prince Oren’s.”
To Darkness Fled (Blood of Kings, book 2) Page 10