She stared at the throng around her, at all of the courtiers imbibing and eating, feeling anxious for the demonstrations of wealth, wine, and feasting to end. The people, she had heard, were carousing in the streets. They had ripped down every decoration to keep as souvenirs and had already filled the gutters with debris and muck. Maia had told Richard that she wanted the streets swept again that night so they would be clean in the morning.
“My lady, a word?” came a voice at her ear, and she turned to find the mayor, Justin, standing nearby with a wine goblet.
“Was is it?” she asked him, her brow crinkling under her brooding thoughts.
“You do not look as if you are enjoying this celebration.”
She shook her head. “I am not. The people appear to have forgotten the danger we face.”
He frowned. “No . . . they celebrate, which does not happen often enough. I wondered if you had considered what to do with the Rundalen estate?”
“Please, Justin,” she said, waving him off. “I said I would make all such decisions in the presence of the Privy Council after taking some time for deliberation. This is not the place.”
“Very well. I beg your pardon.” He sauntered off, stopping to bid a servant to fill his cup. She frowned after him, missing Collier so much it hurt.
“What did the lord mayor want?” Suzenne asked, approaching Maia from behind. It was an immediate comfort to have her close.
“What they all seem to want right now,” Maia replied with disappointment. “Money and power. It will not be easy to change the temperament my father instilled at court. All this celebration is making me ill. Can they not appreciate that danger and doom are almost upon us?”
Suzenne rested her hand on Maia’s arm. “You have seen the armada, Maia. They have not.”
Maia watched a married man flirting with a younger woman. The sight sickened her. “Where is Jayn?” she asked.
“Over there,” Suzenne responded. “Talking to Joanna. Jayn is grateful for you, you know. If things had gone differently, she would be sitting in your chair right now. She dreaded it.”
Maia suppressed a smirk. “I would almost welcome a reprieve. I am glad she is staying on as a lady-in-waiting. She must be very overwhelmed by all the sudden changes. I am sure we all are.”
There was a commotion at the entrance to the great hall, and a rider appeared, bringing his stallion into the assemblage. He wore the royal colors, and Maia recognized him as Captain Carew, her champion. This was part of the ritual as well. The crowd of feasters stopped talking as the horse clomped in, snorting roughly at the mess and crowd. The tables were lined around in a giant square, leaving an opening in the middle. Carew’s steed trotted to the center. He wore ceremonial armor, gauntlets, and had a sword belted to his waist.
“Who dares to affirm that this lady is not the rightful queen of this kingdom? Who dares it?” His voice bellowed out to those assembled in mock sincerity. Maia saw he was a good actor. He looked both menacing and handsome as he stared into the crowd. “Who challenges her right to rule Comoros? Come forward and I will show you the truth! Come forward and meet your doom! Who here challenges her right to rule?” He flung down one of his gauntlets, which clattered in the middle of the hall.
Maia cocked her head toward her friend, dropping her voice to a whisper as she felt the sudden stillness of the room. “Suzenne, would you remind me tomorrow that—”
“I do!”
Maia stopped, blinking with surprise. A voice rippling with challenge and menace sounded in the crowd. The ceremonial utterance of the threat had never before been accepted in all the history of the realm.
A man wearing a chain hauberk beneath his tunic strode forward. He was young, with long dark hair and a white-and-black cape. He was barely half of Carew’s age, but he looked both fit and strong.
“My name is Hove,” the young man said with a sneer. “Sworn man of the true Earl of Forshee and the true Aldermaston of Muirwood, who even now ride from the north with an army to topple this pretend queen.” He walked up to where Carew had thrown down his glove and picked it up. “This woman is no queen. She is but a vessel of evil sent to deceive us. May the Medium prove my words to be true.”
And then he drew his sword.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Walraven’s Dagger
Corriveaux heard the steps coming down the darkened hallway, but the Leerings had already warned him of the visitor’s approach. He waited in the darkness, past the curtain of light that spilled down on the stone plinth in the center of the room. He was nervous. Even though Walraven was an old man, he was cunning and would not be taken off guard easily. Corriveaux knew he could best him in a battle of strength, but this would be a battle of minds.
At last, he could see Walraven in the shadowy corridor. The older man’s mass of gray hair was wild and unkempt, his figure more gaunt than before. There was a haggard, weary look on his face. The walk down the steps into the dungeon had fatigued him, which showed in his labored breathing.
Walraven paused in the threshold of the room, his eyes scanning the darkness.
“You sent for me, Corriveaux?” Walraven asked mildly, still not entering.