“Speaking of Sabran, it has been such a long time since I last heard from her,” the Donmata remarked. “Tell me, is she yet with child?”
A muscle flinched beneath Loth’s eye. That she could sit beneath that blasphemous device and proclaim friendship to Sabran was repulsive.
“Her Majesty is not wed, madam,” Kit said.
“But soon.” She laid a hand on each arm of her throne. When neither of them answered her, she said, “I think you do not yet know the happy tidings, my lords. Sabran is lately promised to Aubrecht Lievelyn, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon. My one-time betrothed.”
Loth could only stare at her.
Of course, he had known Sabran would eventually choose a companion—a queen had no choice in that—but he had always assumed that it would be someone from Hróth, the more established of the two other countries in Virtudom. Instead she had chosen Aubrecht Lievelyn, grand-nephew to the late Prince Leovart, who had also courted Sabran despite the decades between them.
“Sadly,” the Donmata said, “I was not asked to attend the ceremony.” She leaned back. “You look troubled, Lord Arteloth. Come, speak your mind. Is the Red Prince not worthy of bedding your mistress?”
“Queen Sabran’s heart is a private matter,” Loth bit out. “It is not to be discussed in such a place as this.”
Laughter shattered the hush in the throne room, making his spine tingle. The Donmata joined in merrily from behind her terrible mask. “Her Majesty’s heart may be a private matter, but her bed is not. After all, they say the day the Berethnet bloodline ends, the Nameless One will return to us. If she means to keep him bound, had Sabran better not get on with the business of opening her … country to Prince Aubrecht?”
More laughter.
“I pray the Berethnet bloodline continues to the end of time,” Loth said, before he quite knew what he was doing, “for it stands between us and chaos.”
In one smooth movement, the guards unsheathed their rapiers. The laughter stopped.
“Careful, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said. “Do not say anything that could be construed as speaking ill of the Nameless One.” She held a hand toward the guards, who put away their blades. “Do you know, I heard tell that you were to become prince consort. Did you prove too low to love a queen?” Before he could protest, she clapped. “Never mind. We can remedy your lack of companion here in Yscalin. Musicians! Play the thirty turns! Lady Priessa will dance with Lord Arteloth.”
At once, Lady Priessa stepped down to the marble floor. Loth steeled himself and walked toward her.
The dance of thirty turns had once been taught in many courts. It had been outlawed in Inys by Jillian the Fifth, who had deemed it lewd, but later queens had been more lenient. Most courtiers learned it in one way or another.
Lady Priessa curtsied as the consort struck up a sprightly tune. Loth bowed to his partner before they both turned to face the Donmata and took hands.
At first his legs moved stiffly. Lady Priessa was light on her feet. He skipped in a circle about her, never letting his heels touch the floor.
She shadowed him. Hither and thither they pranced and sprang, side to side and face to face—then the music surged, and with one hand on the small of her back and the other on her waist, Loth raised his partner off the floor. Over and over he lifted her, until his arms ached and sweat welled on his face and nape.
He could hear Lady Priessa catching her breath. A coil of dark hair came loose as they spun around each other, slowing with each step, until at last they joined hands to face the Donmata Marosa again.
Something crunched between their palms. Loth dared not look at her as he took whatever she had slipped into his hand. The Donmata and her court applauded.
“You are tired, Lord Arteloth,” came the voice from the mask. “Was Lady Priessa too heavy for you?”
“I think the gowns in Yscalin weigh more than the ladies, Radiance,” Loth said, breathing hard.
“Oh, no, my lord. It is the ladies, the gentlemen, all. Our hearts are heavy with grief that the Nameless One has not yet returned to guide us.” The Donmata rose. “A long and peaceful night to you.” The helm tilted. “Unless there is anything you wish to ask me.”
Loth was painfully aware of the paper in his hand, but this was an opportunity.
“One thing, Radiance.” He cleared his throat. “There is another ambassador-in-residence at your court, who has served Queen Sabran here for many years. Wilstan Fynch, the Duke of Temperance. I was wondering where in the palace he lodges, so we might speak to him.”
No one moved or spoke.
“Ambassador Fynch,” the Donmata finally said. “Well, Lord Arteloth, you and I are both in the dark on that front. His Grace left several weeks ago, heading for Córvugar.”
“Córvugar,” Loth echoed. It was a port in the far south of Yscalin. “Why would he go there?”
“He said he had business elsewhere, the nature of which he did not disclose. I am surprised he did not write to Sabran to tell her.”
“I am also surprised, Your Radiance. In fact,” Loth said, “I find it difficult to believe.”
There was a brief silence as his implication settled over the throne room.
“I hope, Lord Arteloth,” the Donmata said, “that you are not accusing me of lying.”
The courtiers had pressed closer. Like hounds with the scent of blood. Kit gripped Loth by the shoulder, and he closed his eyes.
If they were ever to find out the truth, they had to survive this court, and to survive, they would have to play along with its rules.
“No, Your Radiance,” he said. “Of course not. Forgive me.”
Without speaking again, the Donmata Marosa glided out of the throne room with her ladies.
The courtiers began to murmur. Jaw clenched, Loth turned his back on the line of guards and strode through the doors, Kit hurrying at his heels.
“She could have had your tongue ripped out for that,” his friend muttered. “Saint, man, what possessed you to all but accuse a princess of lying in her own throne room?”
“I cannot stomach it, Kit. The blasphemy. The deceit. The barefaced contempt for Inys.”
“You can’t let them see that their taunting has worked. Your patron is the Knight of Fellowship. At least give these people the impression of that virtue.” Kit caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Arteloth, listen to me. We are no use to Inys dead.”
Sweat was beading on his face, and his pulse was distinct in his neck. Loth had never seen him look this worried.
“The Knight of Courtesy is your patron, Kit.” Loth sighed. “Let us hope she will help me to mask my intentions.”
“Even with her help, it will not be easy.”
Kit walked to the windows of the gallery.
“I masked my anger with my father all my life,” he said softly. “I learned to smile as he sneered at my poetry. As he called me a hedonist and a milksop. As he cursed his lack of other heirs, and cursed my poor mother for not giving them to him.” He breathed in. “You helped me to do that, Loth. For as long as I had someone I could be myself with, I could bear to be someone else with him.”
“I know,” Loth murmured. “And I promise you that from now on, I will show my true face only to you.”
“Good.” Kit turned back to him with a smile. “Have faith, as you always do, that we will survive this. Queen Sabran is to be wed. Our exile will not be long.” He clapped Loth on the shoulder. “In the meantime, let me find us some supper.”
They parted ways. Only when Loth had secured the door to his chamber did he look at the scrap of parchment Priessa Yelarigas had pressed into his hand.
The Privy Sanctuary at three of the clock.
The door is beside the library. Come alone.
The Privy Sanctuary. Now the House of Vetalda had abandoned the Six Virtues, it would have been left to gather dust.
This could be a trap. Perhaps Prince Wilstan had received a note like this before he disappeared.
Loth ran his palms over his head. The Knight of Courage was with him. He would see what Lady Priessa had to say.
Kit returned at eleven that night with lamb drenched in wine, a block of spiced cheese, and plaits of olive bread with garlic. They sat on the balcony to eat while the torches of Cárscaro flickered below.
“What I would not pay for a food-taster,” Loth said, picking through the meal.
“Tastes superb to me,” Kit said, his mouth full of oil-dipped bread. He wiped his mouth. “Now, we must assume that Prince Wilstan is not sunning himself in Córvugar. Nobody with a wit goes to Córvugar. Nothing there but graves and crows.”
“You think His Grace is dead?”
“I fear it.”
“We must know for certain.” Loth glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “Lady Priessa passed me a note during the dance, asking me to meet her tonight. Perhaps she has something to tell me.”
“Or perhaps she has a dagger, and means to introduce it to your back.” Kit raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You’re not going, are you?”
“Unless you have any other leads, I must. And before you ask, she stipulated that I must go alone.”