“And if I act as an obedient adversary, my lord? What then?”
His thin smile is all the answer he gives me. I’ve learned just how far I can push him so I ask no more questions.
An honor guard awaits us at the wharf. Soldiers wearing the horned and winged fire dog of Garon Palace stand at attention. Officials garbed in gold-striped palace robes embroidered with the queen’s cornucopia jostle for the right to greet Lord Gargaron.
A Garon steward approaches. “My lord! May the Sun of Justice shine upon you and your safe arrival in this haven. I’m here to escort you to the queen.”
Princess Berenise and Queen Meno? hold court in the dusty garden of a palace compound that looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for years. Kal’s mother sits amid their ladies; when her gaze pauses on me and her eyes wrinkle up, I cannot tell if she is nearsighted or puzzled.
The garden is large and must once have been a splendid haven in which to relax. Awnings have been strung up to provide shade. Pots with blooming flowers are set around the chairs, which are raised off the ground on a makeshift platform constructed of brick and covered with a carpet. Pellets of incense burn to purify the area. These small flourishes can’t disguise that when the foreigners invaded, they trashed the palace as sacrilegiously as possible.
The lotus pond has become a scum of muddy water and dead plants. Four ancient sycamores, one at each corner of the garden, have been recently chopped down, their bare trunks a terrible scar. The back of the audience hall is two stories high and built masterfully of brick. The wall bears a magnificent relief depicting the famous arrival of Prince Kliatemnos and his sister and ships in the land of Efea at this very harbor one hundred years ago. It looks almost exactly like the mural painted in the king’s audience hall in Saryenia. The relief has been defaced as high as people can reach with obscene graffiti that scrubbing hasn’t quite eliminated. The highborn sit with their backs to that side of the garden wall.
“Here you are, Nephew,” says Princess Berenise. “We heard from a crow priest that you were on your way. I see you brought Menos. Come up here and greet us, little one.”
The boy hurries forward to get a kiss on either cheek from the old woman. Meno? also gives him a kiss, then he walks along the lower rank of chairs so the rest of the women can kiss him. If one is his mother I cannot tell, for they all smile fondly at him and give him affectionate pinches.
“You may join us, Uncle Gar,” says Meno?. “We are expecting the commanders of the West Saroese fleet to arrive at any moment.”
It’s hard not to laugh at the way she indicates a chair set off the platform and, as such, situated below the women. But he shows no irritation as he takes a seat. His new concubine that I met on the ship bathes his hands and applies a wet towel to his face.
I’ve been left standing in the hot sun even though there is space under the awning. Now that we are on land again I feel how much hotter it is here than in Saryenia. The furnace blast of heat sucks the moisture right out of my eyes. Meno?’s gaze touches mine, and her lips press primly together as if she is recalling an unpleasant memory. She looks deliberately away, pretending not to notice my plight. There’s my thanks for rescuing her from Nikonos!
It is Kalliarkos’s mother who whispers to an attendant, who whispers to a steward, who shepherds me into a patch of blessed shade. The highborn nibble from platters of dates and halved apricots as Berenise describes the long journey they took upriver, hidden belowdecks, and the grueling overland trek across the Stone Desert to reach Maldine.
A horn blows three times. A Garon steward enters. “Your Gracious Majesty. Princess Berenise. If it is your will, the honorable visitors from West Saro beg leave to enter your august presence.”
“Send them in.”
Meno? sits with hands folded in front of her noticeably rounded belly. She looks robust and lovely. Being queen, and pregnant, agrees with her.
A file of resplendently robed stewards enters, each bearing a tray laden with an astonishing gift: a bowl of polished jewels, a gold cup, a pair of ivory-hilted knives, a hinged silver box, and a cedarwood chest with lid open to display nuggets of aromatic resin. It’s a staggering display of wealth.
“Prince General Cissorios and Lord Admiral Dorokos.”
The men and their accompanying officers look stern and competent. They wear wool trousers and calf-length wool jackets completely unsuited to the climate of Efea. All have faces flushed from the heat.
The prince general gives a flattering speech filled with meaningless phrases. When he finishes, Meno? leans sideways, looking toward the entry.
“Is my uncle Thynos not with you? I expected him and his new bride.”
“We had thought the princess might prefer to go immediately to the privacy of your women’s quarters rather than be assaulted by a public greeting unsuited to the delicate constitution of a lady.”
“Yet here I am,” remarks Meno? with a not-so-subtle edge.
“But you, Your Gracious Majesty, have been required to endure this hardship due to the absence of your esteemed and gracious brother, His Gracious Majesty King Kalliarkos. I will send for the princess at once, if I may gain your favor by doing so.”
He snaps a finger to an aide, who hustles out.
The man’s tiresome condescension annoys me so much that when Gargaron glances back at my shifting about and scuffing my feet, I actually roll my eyes at him as if he were one of my sisters sharing an unspoken thought. He smiles just enough to make me realize I’ve confided in him, who I hate. No wonder he separated me from Maraya. There isn’t a single person here who will treat me as an equal, as Kal did. But I won’t be humbled by Gargaron. I just remember that every time he looks at me, he has to be reminded that I defeated him by saving my family.
A phalanx of women appears at the entrance. A male steward speaks.
“Your Gracious Majesty, Princess Shenia offers greetings and begs the courtesy of being allowed to address you as elder sister.”
The women all look alike, straight black hair pulled severely back without a ribbon or flourish in sight and covered by scarves whose colors range from tedious brown to exhausted gray. They look like peahens, made as drab as possible. The contrast with the bright colors, gaudy ribbons, and bold hair designs of Meno? and her court is stunning.