He frowns. “My wife? She’d be thrilled with the warm water and demand we hire their decorator.” His forehead creases in a manner that makes me think he’s rather glad she’s not here. I smirk.
He turns to Lady Gwen. “Of course if anything went wrong, Nym would take care of things. But nothing’s going to happen. We’ll be fine.”
My shoulders harden. I glance away, fidgeting under the weight of their gazes that feels like an ill-fitting coat. I slide my hand beneath the table to feel out both knives on my ankles. How long is this banquet going to last?
“Please just tell me this isn’t going to be a trial and execution.” Lady Gwen is praying.
Princess Rasha’s brown locks catch the light when she tips her head as if to reply but stops as her gaze stalls on me. As if trying to assess something. I promptly dip my head away. Kracken.
I’m saved by a set of double doors bursting open at the far end of the room, and men and women and children come filing in, their voices low. My fingers slip from my knives as a gasp escapes Rasha’s lips.
They’re dressed beautifully, if not austerely, in black, silver, or red suits that wrap around their bodies like second skin and appear to be made of stretching material. The clothing hugs the men’s broad shoulders and etched waistlines and the women’s curved hips and chests. Each outfit is decorated differently, with metal loops and symbols here, and silver fabric plumes woven there. Nothing extravagant like Adora’s wardrobe, but elegant in their total simplicity.
“How lovely,” Rasha breathes, pointing discreetly to the ladies’ hair, which is pulled back from their foreheads and twisted into various knots that curve and swirl in intricate patterns.
I nod. The designs are stunning and regal, especially set off by the men’s short-cropped hair. I wonder if Eogan’s longer hair and jagged bangs were a sign of independence during his four years away or simply his effort to keep from being recognized as Odion’s twin. Not that anyone in Faelen had ever seen Odion. I recall Eogan telling me once that his brother preferred hiding behind Bron’s generals and war rooms rather than showing up on the battlefield or negotiation chamber.
Until the battle at the Keep apparently.
Lord Percival makes a sound in his throat, drawing my gaze up to discover that the people are openly staring at us, taking their seats at the rows of tables. I look for intention in their expressions but am met by stony reserve.
“Anyone got a splash of hard ale?” Myles says.
“Will you please shut up?” Lord Wellimton snarls.
The doors near our end of the map-covered room open and my chest first leaps, then crashes as Draewulf-posing-as-Eogan steps in, flanked by guards on each side and an assortment of other eminent-looking people. Generals by the looks of their red surcoats. As they get closer, I recognize two of them as among the Bron generals who spoke to Eogan at the Keep. After he’d been taken over already by Draewulf . . . I narrow my eyes and switch my focus to searching him for any sign that he’s absorbed more of his host’s body.
Not that I can tell.
Draewulf’s gaze flicks around the room with something akin to boredom as he steps into position at his table and the crowd falls silent. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Assembly, thank you for joining us this evening.” His voice rings out clear and rich and so normal that, for a second, my hopes rise.
Sir Gowon hobbles over to whisper at him. Draewulf nods and replies before turning to bestow the biggest, falsest smile on us. My wish flails.
“May the festivities commence,” he declares.
A ripple of cheering goes through the room, but it’s dull, muted. I peek around to find most of the adult Assembly watching him as Draewulf takes a seat and his entourage follows suit.
The citizens pick up their talking and hardly glance back when the double doors open again and a host of young boys stride in carrying silver trays covered in various foods that make my mouth water and my anxious stomach twist at the savory smell.
The large platters are placed two to a table beginning with Eogan’s, followed by ours, and then on down the rows. I watch Sir Gowon for a minute before turning to eye the people across from us dipping the chewy bread substance into bowls of black porridge. I force myself to follow suit if only not to draw the attention of Rasha, whose red-lit gaze hasn’t stopped darting around the room since the Assembly walked in. How hard must it be to single out individual intentions amid a sea of noise and moods and heartpulses.
Next come trays of drinks, most of which are foaming and smell fermented. I stick with a simple tin cup of water and try an assortment of thin food ribbons that taste like rabbit cheese.
“It’s good,” Lord Wellimton grunts, and suddenly the other delegates are agreeing and the tension among them easing. Soon they’re chatting with each other while furtively sizing up the Bron citizens.
“How young some of the boys are,” Lady Gwen says.