Once more, Hadrian felt adrift amidst a sea of eggshells. He looked back and saw the princess and Murthas pointing in his direction and laughing. Not far away he noted two men watching him. Arms folded, they leaned against a pillar wrapped in red ribbons. The men were conspicuous in that they were the only guests wearing swords. Hadrian recognized the pair, as he had seen them often. They were always standing in the dark, across a room, or just outside a doorway—his own personal shadows.
Hadrian turned away and carefully took his seat. Tugging at his clothes, he tried to remember everything Nimbus had taught him: sit up straight, do not fidget, always smile, never start a conversation, do not try anything you’re unfamiliar with, and avoid eye contact unless cornered into a conversation. If forced into an introduction, he was supposed to bow rather than shake hands with men. If a lady held out her hand, he should take it and gently kiss its back. Nimbus had advised him to keep several excuses at the ready to escape conversations, and to avoid groups of three or more. The most important thing was to appear relaxed and never draw attention to himself.
Minstrels played lutes somewhere near the front of the room, but he could not see them through the sea of people, who moved in shifting currents. Every so often, insincere laughter burst out. Snide conversations drifted to and fro. The ladies were much better at it than the men. “Oh, my dear, I simply love that dress!” A woman’s high lilting voice floated from somewhere in the crowd. “I imagine it is insanely comfortable, given that it is so simple. Mine, on the other hand, with all this elaborate embroidery, is nearly impossible to sit in.”
“I’m sure you are correct,” another lady replied. “But discomfort is such a small sacrifice for a dress that so masterfully masks a lady’s physical flaws and imperfections by the sheer complexity of its spacious design.”
Trying to follow the feints and parries in the conversations around him gave Hadrian a headache. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clash of steel. He was pleased to see that Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas took seats at another table. Across from Hadrian, a man wearing a simple monk’s robe took a seat. He looked even more out of place than Hadrian. They nodded silently to each other. Still, the chairs flanking him remained vacant.
At the head table, Ethelred sat beside a massive empty throne. Kings and their queens filled out the rest of the table, and at one end Nimbus was seated next to Lady Amilia. She sat quietly in a stunning blue dress, her head slightly bowed.
The music stopped.
“Your attention, please!” shouted a fat man in a bright yellow robe. He held a brass-tipped staff, which he hammered on the stone floor. The sound penetrated the crowd like cracks of thunder and stifled the drone of conversations. “Please take your seats. The feast is about to begin.”
The room filled with the sounds of dragging chairs as the nobility of Avryn settled at their tables. A large man with a gray beard was to the monk’s left. To his right sat none other than Sir Breckton, dressed in a pale blue doublet. The resemblance to Wesley was unmistakable. The knight stood and bowed as a large woman with a massive smile sat down on Hadrian’s left. The sight of Genevieve Hargrave of Rochelle was a welcome one.
“Forgive me, good sir,” she implored as she struggled into her chair. “Clearly they were expecting a dainty princess to sit here rather than a full-grown duchess! No doubt you were hoping for the same.” She winked at him.
Hadrian knew a response was expected, and decided to take a safe approach.
“I was hoping not to spill anything on myself. I didn’t think beyond that.”
“Oh dear, now that is a first.” She looked across the table at the knight. “I daresay, Sir Breckton, you may have competition this evening.”
“How is that, my lady?” he asked.
“This fellow beside me shows all the signs of matching your humble virtue.”
“Then I am honored to sit at the same table as he and even more pleased to have you as my view.”
“I pity all princesses this evening, for surely I am the luckiest of ladies to be seated with the two of you. What is your name, goodly sir?” she asked Hadrian.
Still seated, Hadrian realized his error. Like Breckton, he should have stood at Genny’s approach. Rising awkwardly, he fumbled a bow. “I am… Sir Hadrian,” he said, watching for a raised hand. When she lifted it, he felt foolish but placed a light kiss on its back before sitting down. He expected laughter from the others but no one seemed to notice.
“I am Genevieve, the Duchess of Rochelle.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian replied.
“Surely you know Sir Breckton?” the duchess asked.
“Not personally.”
“He is the general of the Northern Imperial Army and favored champion of this week’s tournament.”
“Favored by whom, my lady?” Sir Elgar asked, dragging out the seat next to Breckton and sitting with all the elegance of an elephant. “I believe Maribor favors my talents in this year’s competition.”