Next came the servants and the guards, the interpreters and the officials. Finally, Lord Oscarde, Duke of Zeedeur, walked briskly into the chamber, accompanied by the Resident Ambassador to Mentendon. Zeedeur was heavyset, and his beard and hair were red, as was the tip of his nose. Unlike his daughter, he had the gray eyes of the Vatten.
“Majesty.” He bowed with a flourish. “What an honor it is to be received once more at your court.”
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Sabran said. Her voice was pitched low, rich with authority. She held out her hand to Zeedeur, who mounted the steps to kiss her coronation ring. “It lifts our heart to see you in Inys again. Was your journey an easy one?”
Ead still found the our jarring. In public, Sabran spoke for both herself and her ancestor, the Saint.
“Alas, madam,” Zeedeur said, his expression grim, “we were set upon by a full-grown wyvern in the Downs. My archers felled it, but had it been more alert, there could have been a bloodbath.”
Murmurs. Ead observed the looks of shock that swept across the hall.
“Again,” Margret muttered to her. “Two wyverns in as many days.”
“We are most concerned to hear this,” Sabran said to the ambassador. “Our finest knights-errant will escort you back to Perchling. You will have a safer journey home.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Now, you must desire to see your daughter.” Sabran cut her gaze to the maid in question. “Come forward, child.”
Truyde stepped on to the carpet and curtsied. When she rose, her father embraced her.
“Daughter.” He took her by the hands, smiling as if his face would break. “You look radiant. And how you’ve grown. Tell me, how is Inys treating you?”
“Far better than I deserve, Father,” Truyde said.
“And what makes you say that?”
“This court is so grand,” she said, indicating the domed ceiling. “Sometimes I feel very small, and very dull, as if even the ceilings are more magnificent than I will ever be.”
Riotous laughter filled the chamber. “So witty,” Linora whispered to Ead. “Is she not?”
Ead closed her eyes. These people.
“Nonsense,” Sabran said to Zeedeur. “Your daughter is well liked at court. She will be a worthy companion to whomsoever her heart chooses.”
Truyde dipped her gaze with a smile. At her side, Zeedeur chuckled. “Ah, Your Majesty, I fear Truyde is too free-spirited to be wed just yet, much as I desire a grandchild. I thank you for taking such good care of my daughter.”
“No thanks are necessary.” Sabran held the arms of her throne. “We are always pleased to receive our friends in Virtudom at court. However, we are curious as to what brings you from Mentendon now.”
“My lord of Zeedeur brings a proposition, Majesty.” It was the Resident Ambassador to Mentendon who spoke. “A proposition we trust will interest you.”
“Indeed.” Zeedeur cleared his throat. “His Royal Highness, Aubrecht the Second, High Prince of the Free State of Mentendon, has long admired Your Majesty. He has heard tell of your courage, your beauty, and your stalwart devotion to the Six Virtues. Now his late grand-uncle has been entombed, he craves a firmer alliance between our countries.”
“And how does His Royal Highness mean to forge such an alliance?” Sabran asked.
“Through marriage, Your Majesty.”
Every head turned toward the throne.
There was always a period of fragility before a Berethnet sovereign got with child. Theirs was a house of daughters, one daughter for each queen. Their subjects called it proof of their sainthood.
It was expected of each Queen of Inys to marry and get with child as soon as possible, lest she die with no true heir. This would be dangerous in any country, since it would pitch the realm into civil war, but according to Inysh belief, the collapse of the House of Berethnet would also cause the Nameless One to rise again and lay waste to the world.
Yet Sabran had so far declined every offer of marriage.
The queen reclined into her throne, studying Zeedeur. Her face, as ever, betrayed nothing.
“My dear Oscarde,” she said. “Flattered as we are, we seem to remember that you are already wed.”
The court fell about laughing. Zeedeur had looked nervous, but now he grinned.
“Sovereign lady!” he said, chuckling. “It is my master who seeks your hand.”
“Pray continue,” Sabran said, with the faintest shadow of a smile.
The wyvern was forgotten. Clearly emboldened, Zeedeur took another step forward.
“Madam,” he said, “as you know, your ancestor, Queen Sabran the Seventh, was wed to my own distant relation, Haynrick Vatten, who was Steward-in-Waiting to Mentendon while it was under foreign rule. Since the House of Lievelyn ousted the Vatten, however, there has been no formal knit between our countries, except our shared religion.”
Sabran listened with a look of indifference that never quite touched on boredom or contempt.
“Prince Aubrecht is aware that his late grand-uncle’s suit was declined by Your Majesty… and, ah, also by the Queen Mother”—Zeedeur cleared his throat again—“but my master believes he offers a different sort of companionship. He also believes there would be many advantages to a fresh alliance between Inys and Mentendon. We are the only country with a trading presence in the East, and with Yscalin fallen into sin, he believes an alliance that espouses our faith is vital.”
Some murmuring followed this statement. Not long ago, the Kingdom of Yscalin to the south had also been part of Virtudom. Before it had taken the Nameless One as its new god.
“The High Prince offers you a token of his affection, if Your Majesty would be gracious enough to receive it,” Zeedeur said. “He has heard of your love for pearls from the Sundance Sea.”
He snapped his fingers. A Mentish servant approached the throne, carrying a velvet cushion, and knelt. On the cushion was an oyster, cracked open to reveal an iridescent black pearl, big as a cherry, tinged with green. It shone like folded steel under the sun.
“This is the finest dancing pearl in his possession, caught off the coast of Seiiki,” Zeedeur said. “It is worth more than the ship that carried it over the Abyss.”
Sabran leaned forward. The servant held the cushion higher.
“It is true that we have a fondness for dancing pearls, and a dearth of them,” the queen said, “and we would accept this gladly. But to do so is not an acceptance of this suit.”
“Of course, Majesty. A gift from a friend in Virtudom, no more.”
“Very well.”
Sabran’s gaze flicked to Lady Roslain Crest, Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, who wore a gown of emerald silk and a partlet of white needle lace. Her brooch showed a pair of goblets, like anyone who took the Knight of Justice as their patron, but hers was gilded, showing that she was the blood of that knight. Roslain made a barely perceptible sign to one of the maids of honor, who hastened to take away the cushion.
“Although we are touched by his gift, your master should know of our disdain for the heretical practices of the Seiikinese,” Sabran said. “We desire no parlance with the East.”
“Of course,” Zeedeur said. “Even so, our master believes that the origin of the pearl does nothing to dull its beauty.”
“Perhaps your master is right.” Sabran settled back into her throne. “We hear His Royal Highness was training to be a sanctarian before he was High Prince of Mentendon. Tell us of his other … qualities.”
Titters.
“Prince Aubrecht is very clever and kind, madam, possessed of great political acumen,” Zeedeur said. “He is four and thirty, with hair of a softer red than mine. He plays the lute beautifully, and dances with great vigor.”
“With whom, we wonder?”
“Often with his noble sisters, Your Majesty. He has three: Princess Ermuna, Princess Bedona, and Princess Betriese. They are all eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Does he pray often?”
“Three times a day. He is devoted most of all to the Knight of Generosity, who is his patron.”
“Does your prince have any faults, Oscarde?”
“Ah, Majesty, we mortals all have faults—except for you, of course. My master’s only flaw is that he tires himself with worry for his people.”
Sabran grew serious again.
“In that,” she said, “he is already one with us.”
Whispers spread through the chamber like fire.
“Our soul is touched. We will consider this suit from your master.” A smattering of tentative applause broke out. “Our Virtues Council will make arrangements to further this matter. Before that, however, we would be honored if you and your party would join us for a feast.”
Zeedeur swept into another bow. “The honor would be ours, Majesty.”
The court undulated with bows and curtsies. Sabran made her way down the steps, followed by her Ladies of the Bedchamber. The maids of honor walked in their wake.
Ead knew Sabran would never marry the Red Prince. This was her way. She strung her suitors along like fish on a line, accepting gifts and flattery, but never surrendered her hand.