“Who?”
“Erisial,” the man snapped. “She is cold and calculating but beautiful and passionate. Any man would thank the Maker for the blessing of her slightest attention. I think you protest too much. You resist only for the sake of negotiations.”
Yserria stomped on Dorovick’s hand and kicked his sword away, to the delight of the cheering crowd. The man clutched his injured fingers as he sat up and wiped blood from his chin. His anger was overshadowed by his embarrassment as he rolled to his feet, grabbed his sword, and pushed through the crowd.
Rezkin nodded toward the beaming, victorious red-head and said, “Why would I want Erisial, when I could have her?”
Serunius clenched his teeth as he stared at Yserria for a bit too long. As the invigorated swordswoman joined them, Rezkin clasped arms with her in congratulations and then turned to Serunius with a grin. He said, “What did you think of Lady Yserria’s performance?”
Serunius crossed his arms in front of him and pressed his forehead to his wrists, a sign of the highest respect. Then, he said, “I think perhaps more of our women should take up the sword. We would be an unbeatable force.”
Rezkin knew Serunius’s compliment would have made the woman blush if her face had not already been flushed from the exertion of the duel. He said, “Yserria is an exceptional woman, even by Leréshi standards.”
“Indeed,” Serunius said, and then he glanced up to a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. She was no longer there, but Rezkin knew the queen had been watching the challenge. Serunius excused himself and reminded Rezkin that he was to report to the queen’s chambers.
“As if you needed the reminder,” Yserria muttered once the man had gone.
“It does not matter,” Rezkin said. “I have ensured that we will have Oledia when we leave.”
“Then, they have agreed?” Yserria said.
“They have, although they are not yet aware of it.”
Chapter 11
The guardsman rapped on the queen’s chamber door, and another guard opened it from the other side. When Rezkin had returned to his chambers, he had found a set of clothes awaiting him. A soft, knee-length black tunic and trousers of brushed cotton had been lying on his bed, each embroidered along the edges with jagged, silver and blue scroll that looked like thorned roses entwined with lightning bolts. Beside them was a matching cape lined with royal blue silk.
“You’re supposed to wear that to lunch?” Frisha said, obviously displeased with the queen’s gift.
Rezkin had inspected the material carefully to make sure there were no hidden pins or poisons.
“It is ceremonial garb,” said Yserria.
Frisha had crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the swordswoman. “For what kind of ceremony?”
With a roll of her eyes, Yserria replied, “You already know.”
Frisha had looked to Rezkin, then, her eyes pleading. She said, “You shouldn’t wear it. If you do, it’ll seem like you’re accepting her claim.”
Fingering the silver and gold scroll and eyeing the blue silk, Rezkin said, “I am to meet the Queen of Lon Lerésh in her private quarters for a meal. It would be rude to reject the gift. Wearing it is not an acceptance of her claim. I am a visiting monarch. I must observe the traditions of acceptable court behavior.”
“But she does not even recognize you as royalty.”
“Which is all the more reason not to press my luck. I am a man in her queendom. In many ways, I bear fewer rights here than you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to—” Her words had withered with his icy stare.
“No, Frisha. I would not accept your claim if you tried. You have made your feelings clear.”
Frisha had glanced away, fighting back tears. She said, “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you sounded hurt.” Then, she had escaped to her room, slamming the door behind her.
With echoes of the memory playing in his mind, Rezkin now stood to enter the queen’s chambers. He was uncomfortable with the knowledge that a cunning woman thought she had something strong enough to convince him to accept her claim—and he did not know what it was. The woman was too intelligent to believe she might seduce him into it. She would have something more substantial.
The meal was set at a table on the balcony. Rezkin thought it a poor choice for a monarch who stood to lose her position through the cultural tradition of assassination. He felt the ward that surrounded the structure in a half dome. It had the signature of Serunius, and Rezkin wondered if the man had designed it to allow projectiles through that were targeting him.
Erisial smiled as he joined her at the table. “Those clothes suit you,” she said.
“Yet, I sense that I am not the one you would prefer to see in them.”
Her gaze slid to the side where Serunius stood beside the serving table. Rezkin did not know if the man was standing as guard, providing chaperone, or simply being intrusive.
“Serunius did look delicious on his claiming day,” she mused.
“You have only one consort,” he observed.
“I have never had need of another. Serunius provides for my every need.”
“Until now,” he said with a glance for the consort. The man clenched his jaw but did not express the anger that was simmering in his dark gaze.
The queen said nothing as they ate. Rezkin still preferred not to eat meals prepared by others, but it was the nature of his role that compelled him. Outworlders often formed bonds over food, whether those bonds were of a personal or business nature. He wondered if exposing the vulnerability of hunger was essential to forming trust or showing fearlessness. It seemed an unnecessary risk to him, but it was an unfortunate cultural requirement.
The servants removed the dishes and left the suite. Celise came to stand beside the queen with a tablet and quill. Erisial said, “You are a stunning young man, far too attractive and talented to be unclaimed; but, I am not easily swayed by a handsome face—or body, so do not delude yourself into thinking that is the reason for my claim. What is your age?”
Rezkin had not been prepared for the question. It seemed inconsequential, but then again, outworlders often focused on age as a measure of a man. He wondered if the truth would benefit or damage his cause.
Rezkin said, “My age is irrelevant.”
“It is required for documentation of the claim,” the queen said. “And remember, I can tell if you are lying.”
“I have not agreed to the claim,” he replied, “but my age is not a secret. I am nineteen.”
Erisial looked stunned, and her disbelieving gaze immediately sought Serunius. The man stared at him as if just noticing a new species of mythical beast. Celise shifted uncomfortably and glanced several times at the queen for confirmation that he was lying.
Erisial said, “I would never have guessed. You are barely more than a child.”
Rezkin captured her with an icy stare and said, “I was never a child.”
Erisial shivered and abruptly rose. “The breeze is cool out here.”
Rezkin might have believed she could be cold in the filmy garment except that there was no breeze and only stagnant heat and humidity had followed the rain. She entered her sitting room, apparently expecting him to follow, which he did. Serunius closed the doors behind them. Celise took a seat on a bench beside a table, preparing to take notes, and Erisial turned to stare at Rezkin for a long moment.
Finally, she said, “You are young—too young for my tastes, although you demonstrate a maturity not common to men your age. You say you have a legitimate claim to the Ashaiian throne. You are the right age, and you have the looks. Could it be that Lecillia’s youngest secretly lived? Or are you bastard born? Why have you not claimed royal blood?”
“What I claim and do not claim is my business. We are here about your claim.”
“This changes nothing,” she said. “I will claim you, regardless.”