Amira’s stomach fluttered as she stood rigidly in her gown, just out of sight at the top of the stairs. Everything was arranged perfectly: her hair, the dress, her powdered face, and most importantly, her sense that this night would be extraordinary.
Katin paced on the landing, stopping every so often to glare down past the iron banister. Her own dress was fine enough, though of course simple when compared to her lady’s. Katin claimed the absurdly large bustle on her dress would keep menfolk from venturing too close to her rear. The thought made Amira giggle.
Katin jerked to a halt and stared at her. “Don’t ruin your appearance,” she snapped. “Lord Tarian will be here any moment.”
“Oh, hush,” Amira said, still amused. “Not a hair will be out of place, I assure you.”
“I still can’t believe you actually accepted.”
Amira shrugged as much as she was able, confined as she was in the gown. “It put an end to Count Vondulian and the like pestering me. And besides, it was so pitiful watching Lord Tarian all flustered and falling over himself. I couldn’t help it. He’s hardly an ogre, anyway.”
Katin sighed and muttered something about complications.
Amira ignored it and thought over her own appearance again. True to the little dressmaker’s word, Amira’s gown had been ready three days prior to the ball. She’d created a silk in shimmering dark green that glinted wherever the light hit it. A long vee of powdery gray silk rose from the hem in front, culminating in a low curve under the swell of her breasts. They only felt slightly squished by the built-in corset. Her décolletage was bare except for a gold cat’s-cradle necklace Katin had found somewhere, but lace climbed the sides of the neckline, surging into a froth at each shoulder.
A golden net dotted with emeralds lay woven into her honey-blonde hair, which had taken forever to shape and tease properly. Tendrils of hair snaked down past the emerald pendants hanging from her ears. White silk gloves completed the ensemble. Her hands already sweated within them, but it would be crude to remove them before arriving at the ball.
Now she waited, excitement pounding at her heart. She looked forward to Lord Tarian’s reaction when he saw her. With luck, he’d be even more astonished than the first time they met.
They’d gotten to meet a second time, two days ago, for another walk in the garden behind the Tarians’ manse. Besiana had tried to keep her distance, but while Amira and Dardan chatted, the countess had crept closer and closer, trying to overhear without being imposing. Eventually Dardan had snapped “Mother!” and after that she had finally left them alone. At least that time, Dardan had managed to string a few coherent sentences together.
Katin continued pacing. Amira sighed at her. “You’ll wear a hole in the floor and fall atop Fortino in the kitchen if you keep on like that. What are you so worried about? You’ll be with me the whole time.”
Katin shook her head, causing her twin looping braids to swing back and forth. “This is not some simple dinner party, Ami—m’lady. The whole of Callaston’s nobility will be there. The king will be there. You must be careful.”
“I promise not to disrobe in front of everyone,” Amira said.
Katin made a moue at her. “I’m more concerned you’ll burn down the palace.”
Amira pursed her lips. Did Katin have to try to ruin everything? Of course Amira wouldn’t use her ember at the ball. Her headaches had completely vanished, and the warm little glow in her mind’s eye seemed content to sit and pulse for hours, even if she didn’t use it. She’d practiced as much as she could since her return to the city, but with all the preparations for the ball, she just hadn’t had much time.
Or much privacy. Not that her servants intruded unduly, but Amira had never realized just how much they were underfoot until she wanted time to herself. It would seem suspicious if she banished them from her presence, so she’d had to make do with late-night experimentation in her bedchamber, the curtains drawn, using a little candle on her night table. Blow it out, push the ember into it until it flared alight, blow it out again. When she pushed the ember out, she could see it as a tiny silver bead, floating in the air, that she could command to move this way or that. Katin couldn’t see the bead.
Amira heard quick footsteps down below. “He’s here, m’lady!” one of her maids called out—Sara, it sounded like. Amira couldn’t see anything from where she stood. Her stomach fluttered again.
Katin gestured impatiently. “Get on with it.”
Amira heard the door swing open. “Good evening, m’lord,” Sara squeaked. “Don’t you look dashing!”
“Thank you,” came Dardan’s voice. “Is Lady Amira…?”
“She’ll be down in a few moments, m’lord,” Sara said.
Katin caught Amira’s eye. Amira held her hand up, and Katin waited, frowning. Mustn’t seem too eager. After several heartbeats, she nodded at Katin, who then looked down over the banister. “Lord Tarian,” the vala called down. “May I present Lady Amira Estaile.”
Amira took a deep breath and stepped forward. She’d been holding still so long, her feet had half fallen asleep, but she managed to avoid stumbling. She came out onto the landing and halted at the top of the stairs.
Lord Dardan Tarian stood below, with his valo Liam lurking behind him. Dardan’s expression told all. His jaw dropped even further this time, though he managed to catch himself sooner, and swept off his hat as he bowed deeply. “My lady. You look extraordinary.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Amira said. “You, as well. ‘Dashing’ is the word, I believe.” Sara blushed to hear her own words out of Amira’s mouth.
Well, the girl was right. Black silk trousers, black longtail jacket, over a starched white shirt that buttoned halfway up and split into a vee of gray silk that matched hers in color and shape, if not in size. We match? How did—ah, Besiana, so clever. Dardan’s mother had no doubt conspired with the dressmaker and Dardan’s tailor. A silk cravat that matched the emerald of Amira’s dress was stuffed into the top of Dardan’s shirt. A northern mastiff, the sigil of House Tarian, was picked out in silver thread on the cravat. Dardan looked every inch a proper lord, and yet at the same time so young, clutching his hat. I wonder if I seem so young.
She made a quick prayer to the Aspect of Courage and started down the stairs. Katin appeared at her elbow, ready to make a grab if Amira tripped, but she made the descent without incident.
Dardan reached up and took her hand, bowing over it and boldly planting a quick kiss on her glove. “The coach is waiting without, my lady. If you are ready?” Dardan’s smile held, but it could not hide his nervousness.
Sara brought forth a fringed green evening shawl, but Dardan said, “If I may,” and took it from her, gently draping it around Amira’s shoulders. The party trooped outside into the twilight.
Compared to Huffman’s simple coach, the one that sat outside was a gaudy colossus. It was easily twice as long; painted in crimson and gold, the seats padded with crimson silk pillows, and drawn by a team of four white horses with silver plumes fastened to their foreheads. Even the wheels were gilded. The driver, an old white-haired man with gnarled fingers, wore a crisp red coat and white breeches. Clearly the Tarians had spared no expense for the trip to the ball.
In moments they were en route. The coach even rode over the cobblestones more gently than Huffman’s had. Amira realized belatedly that Countess Besiana must have taken a separate coach. Thank Sacrifice.
Dardan made an effort at small talk as they rode. So far he had been pleasant enough company; that is, when he managed to actually get some words out. He apologized in advance for his poor skill at dancing. Even beneath his nervousness, Amira could see that he was full of himself, as all young men were, and possessed of some wit and charm. He was not particularly handsome, but not repulsive either. She’d rejected prettier men. So why hadn’t she rejected him?
Her stomach simply would not sit still. It was the ball that had her so excited, not Dardan. The royal ball marking the first day of summer was the
social highlight of the whole year, and every noble in Garova was invited. Along with, so the stories went, entertainments of all kinds: jugglers, singers, dancers, magicians, tricksters, menageries from far-off lands, and more. Not to mention the food, a panoply of dishes from a dozen nations, lined up on silk-draped serving tables a hundred feet long.
Dardan was recounting a fire-breather he’d seen at a previous ball, when Liam interrupted. “We’ve arrived, m’lord.”
Huge mirrored stand-lamps stood in the Great Square before the palace, casting an amber glow up the wall. Long scarlet banners patterned with golden flames had been hung down from the battlements. The tremendous iron gate of the palace Elibarran stood wide open, a line of coaches creeping through it.
“A line,” Dardan grumbled. “I hate waiting.”
“M’lord hates waiting,” Liam agreed. Dardan shifted in his seat, accidentally elbowing Liam in the ribs. Liam chuckled quietly. Amira watched, amused. They get along well. That is a good sign.
The coach trundled forward, stopped, moved again. After a few minutes they finally got through the gate and into the coachyard. Amira could see a long red carpet that led away through a colonnade. Countess Besiana had tried to explain the layout of the palace to her, but it had been a futile effort. Maybe if she had a map…
She could see nobles proceeding up the carpet, some arm in arm, others holding hands in the formal manner, their valai trailing along. Amira’s pulse quickened as their turn to disembark approached.
Finally the coach rolled to a stop, and a liveried footman opened the door, revealing a set of permanent stone steps, the red carpet snaking right up them to the top. Wonderful. More stairs. Dardan gave her a hand down, at least.
Faint music drifted to her ears, and she smelled something warm and rich and sweet and tangy all confused together. Her stomach growled, but thankfully no one seemed to hear it. She’d been too busy all afternoon to eat.
The footman, dressed in the royal purple and blue of House Relindos, bowed crisply before Dardan, who gave him their names. The footman gestured up the carpet. “M’lord, m’lady, please follow me.”
They passed through through the colonnade and under another iron portcullis. Beyond it lay the foreyard, a broad, simple garden decorated along its edges with yet more slender oil lamps burning bright. The red carpet continued through the center of the garden, through another archway and out of sight. But the foreyard was already packed with people, all of them servants by their look. Several musicians plucked at strings in one corner of the yard.
The footman paused. “M’lord, m’lady, your valai may take their pleasure here.”
Amira started. Had Besiana mentioned this? Katin looked alarmed. “But what if m’lady needs me?” she said.
The footman raised an eyebrow. “There will be servants at the ball to meet your lady’s every need.”
Amira felt awful that Katin wouldn’t get to see the ball, but there was nothing for it. “I’ll be fine, dear,” she said, pasting on a smile. Katin’s glanced at Amira’s forehead for a moment. “I’ll be fine,” Amira repeated firmly.
The footman cleared his throat a little and took a tentative step into the foreyard. “M’lady, if you would…” His eyes flicked toward another couple rapidly approaching behind them.
Katin hesitated another moment, then pursed her lips and turned to go. She stopped short to find Liam holding his arm out for her. Katin stared at it like it was a viper, but then placed her hand on it, and rigidly followed him into the crowd of valai.
The footman led Amira and Dardan onward. They passed through a hall strung with tapestries, and another with windows overlooking the foreyard, and on and on, until finally they came to a doorway framed by thick velvet curtains. As they approached it, the sounds of revelry grew, along with Amira’s excitement.
The royal herald waited there, an old man with thinning gray hair and a deeply lined face. Beyond him, Amira glimpsed what must be the grand ballroom. Her pulse pounded.
The footman whispered to the herald, then took Dardan’s hat and Amira’s shawl and strode quickly back the way they’d come.
The herald turned to face the room beyond. “Lord Dardan Tarian of Hedenham, and Lady Amira Estaile.” His voice cut through the noise, and Amira stepped into a dream.
Her entire manse and gardens could easily have fit inside the ballroom. The whole room shone gold, with gilded marble columns every ten feet along the edge. A forest of crystal chandeliers hung above, hundreds of candles banishing all shadows. A balcony encircled the upper part of the room, with string quartets perched at either end. The hubbub was so loud that Amira could hardly hear what they were playing.
Nobles stood clustered in small groups around the perimeter. The middle was given over to dancing, and a few couples were so engaged at the moment. The ball had only just begun; the formal dances would come later, and Amira would not miss that for the world, not even if Dardan had nine left feet.
Those closest to the entryway turned to watch Amira and Dardan descend the short steps into the ballroom. Amira recognized a few of the nobles, but most were strangers. The men, and not a few of the women, stared at her with envy. There were also a few resentful looks, all from ladies. No countess or duchess would appreciate a lesser lady drawing her husband’s attention. But Amira was thrilled to see the men’s jaws go slack. She glanced up at Dardan, and was even further pleased to find him gazing around defiantly, puffing out his chest as if to ward off challengers.
Her reverie was shattered by a resounding squeak. Countess Besiana approached at speed, knifing through the sea of nobles before her. The rotund old woman beamed with pride at her son. “My boy! You’ve arrived at last. Oh, my dear, don’t you look spectacular,” she added to Amira, taking her hands for a moment. “Let me show you around.”
Amira hoped that “show you around” meant “show you to the food,” but alas she spent a good half hour being paraded before barons, counts, dukes, their wives, their sons, their elderly dowager mothers. She met Duke Albrecht Visail, Countess Kiria Harnum, Count Ivian Rambul and the great old Duke Fortarin Eltasi of Seawatch. The middle-aged Duke Terilin Faroa was so enchanted with her beauty and spoke with her for so long that his much younger wife eventually dragged him away by force, her cheeks red with fury.
Amira was introduced to Duke Loram Arkhail, Dardan’s liege lord, who bowed graciously and stroked his beard while eyeing Amira from head to toe. She met Grand High Steward Aerandin—head of the Niderium, the Epirro Ulishim himself—whom Besiana traded jests with; Lord Yarvin; Lord Lairnos; Duchess Anteria; and Countess Isilian, the last of whom Amira had met before. She was even introduced to a Warden of Aendavar, a young man named Mason Iris whose hair had already gone white, and who wore gleaming silvered armor beneath a black cloak. For a wonder, he seemed more interested in observing the crowd than in gawking at Amira. Just as well; Wardens were reputedly fierce swordsmen, and it unnerved Amira a little to think of his attention turned on her.
She lost track of the names within minutes and even the faces and gowns and suits all began to blur together. After scores of introductions, Amira had to interrupt Besiana. “My lady countess, I am most grateful that you have introduced me to so many remarkable people, but I confess that I have not eaten since luncheon and am growing a little light-headed.”
“Oh, my dear! Let us away outside, and I will show you. All the best entertainments and delicacies are out in the gardens, of course.” She drew them through the crowd to a smaller antechamber that was still thrice the size of the Tarians’ sitting room. Along its walls stood tables absolutely stuffed with food: fowl and pork, beef and rabbit, and other meats she could not identify, drowning in brown sauces and red sauces and white sauces, covered in honey and jelly, and an entire suckling pig that had been prepared solely for use as a decoration. There were breads and cheeses, melons and berries, and curious little pink-and-white crescents she had never seen before arranged around glass bowls of lumpy red sauce.
/> And she didn’t get to eat any of it, because as soon as she started to veer toward the servants who waited by the stacks of empty plates, Besiana tugged on her sleeve. “No, no, my dear, this is all local fare. Garovan cuisine. The interesting dishes are outside.” Amira gazed wistfully at the food as they passed, but let Besiana guide her onward.
Dardan, at least, did not seem astonished or even impressed by any of it. He noticed Amira was looking at him, and smiled a little. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
Amira realized she must look a gawking fool, and tried to moderate her expression. “This does not stir you, my lord?”
Dardan looked alarmed, as if he might have said the wrong thing. “Ah, no, I don’t mean—that is, it’s certainly impressive. I just, ah…”
“You didn’t even want to be here,” she teased.
His mouth worked for a moment, and then he glanced at his mother, who bulled on ahead. “We had better catch up.”
They came out into the evening, at the top of an immense stone staircase. At its foot sat the Queen’s Courtyard, though in truth it was more like a plaza, a smaller replica of the Great Square outside Elibarran’s gate. Gardens and hedges receded into the dimness beyond, but there were oil lamps aplenty casting light over the central area.
Dozens more nobles milled about here, with an air of excitement the ballroom had lacked. Amira was startled to see a man with a huge, drooping moustache throwing flaming torches into the air, and snatching them before they hit the ground, laughing gaily all the while. A group of shirtless, muscular tumblers wearing bright green and red trousers leapt and rolled and flung one another overhead, to the amusement of a flock of tittering ladies. Amira saw a semicircle of golden cages arranged at the bottom of the stair, each bearing some exotic animal. One of them was an enormous tan-haired cat, with black stripes and fierce fangs, pacing back and forth. Its gold eyes glinted at her. Beside it, a large, clumsy green bird stretched out fantastically wide wings, and squawked and bit at its cage with its wickedly hooked beak.
Along one edge of the courtyard were yet more tables with food piled on them. The nobles here seemed to be carrying their own plates, handing them to be filled by the servants standing beside each table. Besiana showed Amira and Dardan to a table stacked high with clean, empty plates. “It’s so delightfully common fetching your own food!” Besiana squeaked. Amira forced herself to laugh.
Dardan interposed himself between his mother and Amira, and began explaining how the crown sent across borders and seas for fantastic dishes from foreign lands. He seemed relieved to have something to do. Amira held her tongue and nodded politely. “Each table represents the cuisine of one nation,” Dardan said. “It’s considered vulgar, but I’m actually quite partial to Vaslander food.”
Amira chuckled. Liking anything having to do with Vasland would be frowned upon by virtually everyone. Perhaps the Vaslander table was a test, to see who would dare eat from it.
The first table held the cuisine of Liahn, a nation across the ocean to the east. There was a huge steaming pot of tiny white grains, and several large bowls of various meats and vegetables arranged around it. The practice seemed to be to heap the grains, which stuck together in a mass, onto one’s plate, and then pile meat and vegetables on top. Amira gamely took a small portion. It was heavily spiced, and the smell alone made her eyes water. For some reason this reminded her of Katin, and she wondered for a moment how her vala was getting along.
The next table was from Vasland. There were skewers of plump brown sausages and pink pickled turnips. The sausages smelled delicious and the turnips vile. Dardan boldly took several of each, and Amira agreed to try some. The next table, and the next, and the next all contained strange delicacies, and Amira’s plate was soon overloaded.
They retired to tall tables draped in silk, arranged in the center of the courtyard. Dardan had brought two entire plates heaped high. Is he really going to eat all that? And he did, rapidly churning through both plates and going back for seconds. Some women might be put off by such gluttony, but Amira found it amusing. Why not gorge oneself at the crown’s expense?
Amira restrained herself from wolfing down her own meal, but it was delicious. Most of it. The tiny grilled bird’s eggs—she’d already forgotten which table they were from—tasted foul, and she hid the remainder under some of the sticky white grains. There was wine aplenty; she found herself a little tipsy after a few glasses. She knew she could tolerate a lot more, but she didn’t want to embarrass poor Dardan by out-drinking him.
She watched the fire juggler again, and there was a bard, a real live bard brought over from Eliband. This was a rare treat; they were master singers and storytellers, who trained for years at some great academy across the sea, and put Garovan minstrels to shame. This one sang lengthy, ribald songs, nearly without pausing for breath, and changing the words to mock any noble who ventured too close, much to their delight.
A balding, dark-skinned man wearing a glittering red robe appeared at one point, casting sparkling flames into the air seemingly from his fingertips. Amira wondered for a moment if he had the ember like she did, but his fires were just a conjurer’s trick. A green-eyed woman with hair down to her knees and skin painted gold, wearing little but sheer silk, whipped and spun a long tendril of multicolored fabric in dizzying patterns. All the menfolk watched her with interest. Even Dardan, until he saw Amira looking at him. His cheeks flushed and he turned his back on the dancer.
When they finished eating and watching the singers and dancers and magicians, Dardan worked up his courage and haltingly invited her back to the ballroom for dancing. She accepted gladly and let him lead on, her toes and fingertips tingling with excitement.
The formal dances had already begun when they arrived, and they squeezed in. Amira had only learned a little of the formal court dances, but the rest wasn’t too hard to pick up. She spun and twirled between numerous partners, losing sight of Dardan before suddenly colliding with him again. He gritted his teeth in concentration and moved stiffly—so much for the hope that he might be a brilliant dance partner—but Amira found the whole thing delightful anyway, as she twirled beneath the glittering chandeliers.
Later dances proved more complicated; Amira had to apologize several times for stepping on feet. She didn’t want to stop, but soon she took pity on her victims and guided Dardan to the edge of the room.
“That was exhilarating,” Amira remarked, catching her breath.
“Dancing is not normally my favored pastime, as I’m sure was obvious. But I must admit, I did enjoy it.” Dardan paused; he’d had a moment of confidence there, Amira saw, but it faded as he looked at her again. “Um… would you—perhaps a separate dance?”
They found a section of the ballroom away from the long paired lines of the formal dances, where couples moved about with no order at all. This time Amira led the way, and soon she and Dardan held one another, moving slowly with the music that drifted down from above.
This was what she’d dreamed of. The golden room, the rich attire, and the sweet melodies all conspired to intoxicate her. The wine had helped, too, but this was a feeling far beyond simple inebriation. She sent countless tiny prayers to the Aspect of Joy as she and Dardan danced.
The magic of it was interrupted only when someone bumped roughly into them. Another young man, his hair a bit mussed, eyes glazed and face flush from too much wine, barely kept his balance as he ricocheted off Dardan. He turned to glare at Amira’s partner. “Watch yourself, man!” he called out, in much too harsh a tone. His own partner, a pale young lady in blue, looked mortified.
“My apologies,” Dardan said curtly. He bowed slightly, first to the other lady and then to the man who’d jostled him.
The drunken young lord glowered, his stillness standing out amidst the scores of whirling couples around him. The pale lady tugged at his hand, and he resentfully turned away. “Cowardly lout,” he said, much too loudly to be anything but a deliberate insult.
Dardan d
id not go red, as Amira might have expected a young man to do. He merely rolled his eyes, took Amira’s hand, and led her to another part of the floor, where they resumed dancing. “My apologies, my lady, for interrupting the dance.”
“Not at all,” she said. Dardan suddenly looked different; less like a chore to be tolerated, and more like—
A voice rang out. She lifted her eyes to see the royal herald standing on the balcony, the better to be seen by everyone in the ballroom. “His majesty the king awaits in the throne room.”
“The receiving line,” Dardan muttered, his face falling as they came to a stop. He had been enjoying himself, perhaps unconsciously mirroring Amira’s rapture. But now duty intruded, and that suddenly dampened his mood. It made Amira hate the herald.
Everyone began to scurry for the exit. “Why such a rush?” Amira asked.
“The line lengthens quickly,” Dardan said, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow and offering his arm. “Waiting an hour just to bow before the king for five seconds is not my idea of time well spent.”
“Why not wait until later, when the line has dwindled a bit?” she asked, but when Dardan frowned at her, she suffered a moment’s chagrin. What had she said wrong?
Dardan’s mouth worked for a moment, and he flushed. “I apologize. I forget that you have not—that I take these customs for granted.” He moved briskly, joining them to the stream of nobles. Amira had to skitter along to keep up; she could not take long strides in this gown. “I would gladly wait as you suggest, but those who appear near the end of the line are looked upon unfavorably.”
The throne room was up another long staircase and past several more halls. Amira was quite turned around by the time they arrived. Luck was not wholly against them; there were only a few dozen nobles ahead of them in the line by the time they joined it.
Elibarran’s royal throne room was far less ornate than Amira had imagined it might be. The throne itself was a massive chair said to have been carved as a single piece from the bole of a great oak, polished to a high sheen. Its back was carved to appear as woven branches, intertwining high. The rest of the room was panelled in a similarly dark wood, with high windows all along one wall, and painted portraits of former kings hanging along the other. Aside from that, and a row of low-backed chairs beneath the portraits, there was little decoration.
Yet the room spoke of power, and iron will. In contrast to the frivolous opulence of the ballroom, this was a place where ruling was done. Amira could imagine the intimidation one would feel when brought before the dais. She already felt nervous, and she was still fifty feet back in the line.
And there sat the king, dressed splendidly in royal purple and blue, his surcoat showing the royal arms upon his chest, his heavy golden crown resting atop light brown hair flecked with gray. His Majesty, Viktor II of the Royal House of Relindos, King of Garova, Defender of its People, Protector of the Realm, and numerous other titles besides. His beard was still mostly brown, his eyes lidded as he watched the nobles pass. He did not look old, just… worn.
The woman in a dark blue gown who sat by his side, on a smaller throne, must be Queen Alise. She smiled gently, kindness in her large brown eyes, nodding graciously at each lord or lady as they bowed before the dais. A silver circlet sat atop her golden curls. To the king’s other side stood a large young man, of an age with Amira, with blue eyes and a thin golden circlet resting upon his chestnut hair. His hands were clasped behind his back and his mouth was set in a severe line. He nodded curtly at each noble. Prince Edon, the king’s eldest son and heir apparent to the throne of Garova.
A willowy, very pretty young girl, wearing a demurely cut but bright red gown, stood next to the queen. She smiled brightly at everyone who passed, making some jest here or there, giving some life to the whole tedious undertaking. That must be the king’s elder daughter, Taya. Amira could see why she was so popular.
The other royal children, Karina and Luka, were not of age, and so were not present. Little Prince Luka would certainly never tolerate hours of standing and greeting hundreds of boring grown-ups. Lucky him, he had years yet before he had to endure such pleasures.
The royal servants kept the line moving in efficient routine. The herald, who seemed to have an endless memory for names, introduced each noble as they bowed or curtseyed or knelt as they were able. “My liege” or “Sire” or “Your majesty” drifted back to Amira’s ears time and again.
Soon enough it was Dardan’s turn. He gave her hand a comforting squeeze before stepping forward to kneel alone.
“Lord Dardan Tarian of Hedenham,” the herald intoned.
Dardan bowed his head deeply. “Your majesty. I regret that my father the count is not present, but matters detain him in Hedenham.”
“Yes, of course,” the king muttered. Dardan took the hint and moved on, stopping a few yards away to wait for Amira.
She stepped forward, heart fluttering. “Lady Amira Estaile,” the herald said. Amira bowed her head and curtseyed, though with her starched petticoats and tight corset, she simply lowered three inches for a moment. As she rose, she looked up at Prince Edon and was startled to see a line of blazing silver light erupt from the side of his head.
He stood in profile, speaking quietly to some old knight standing beside him. The silver line seemed to run from above Edon’s ear up to the top of his scalp, even visible through his circlet. It pulsed brightly, as if someone had dripped molten silver on him. But he did not seem to be in any distress, and nobody around him was panicking.
Yet Amira could not move. She stared, until the prince faced her and caught her gawking. He frowned at her. The silver light had disappeared the instant he turned his head.
“M’lady,” Dardan hissed at her. Amira realized she’d been standing there far too long, and the nobles next in line were glaring. The herald made little shooing motions with his hand, and now the royals were all watching her curiously. Amira stepped away quickly, saying, “Your majesty, your highnesses.”
As Dardan took her arm to lead her from the room, she glanced back at Prince Edon. He stared at her with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open, one hand half-raised, as if he’d seen something astounding in her as well. Something like silver light.
CHAPTER 6
KATIN
The Queen of Mages Page 6