The smile on Gillian’s face grows. “Good. She’s going stir-crazy and could use a little out-of-the-cottage adventure.”
This time I smile. I think it’s Gillian who is going a little crazy with Lirra around.
After she leaves, I partially do as promised and move to the other side of the column so I’m closer to the gathered crowd.
Servants bustle past the lords and ladies with trays of breads and meats. The long tables look a tray away from collapsing because there is so much food. It is a bigger feast than I’ve ever seen. My stomach grumbles in appreciation. Four castle workers balance a roasted pig on a platter, carrying it to the head table. Saliva pools in my mouth. Eventually, the herald calls for everyone in attendance to find their assigned seat.
The crowd breaks apart, sliding around the tables, reading name cards, and chatting merrily when they discover their seat is surrounded by friends. They move as naturally and quickly as a herd of elk in the Evers.
I force my feet toward the tables.
Questioning eyes land on me as I pass chair after chair. It would be easier to march to the guillotine than walk the length of the tables in search of my name.
I pray silently that my chair will be farthest from the king.
The prayer goes unheard. My name card rests on the table closest to the king. It’s at the head of the room for all to see.
The heat from the cavernous fireplace stifles. My throat is the Akaria Desert.
I lower myself into the chair, conscious of the hundred sets of eyes tracking my movement. Their whispers roll through the room. Their chins turn my way. I fidget with the name card, suddenly grateful that Papa taught me to read. This night would be one thousand times worse if I were illiterate like many of Brentyn’s impoverished.
Aodren stands and the room goes silent.
“Lords and ladies of Malam, welcome to the Royal Winter Feast Ball.” King Aodren shows none of the uncertainty he displayed in my cottage or in the woods. His commanding presence steals my attention.
I drop the card to the table and forget about the nobility sitting around me. Even the aroma lifting off the savory meats and cheeses littered across the table is no comparison to the golden-haired ruler of Malam. A crown of gold and emeralds sits on his head, matching a fine green coat with gold lining. It isn’t like the gaudy outfit I once saw him wearing the day I was arrested and brought to the castle. His sleek, formal attire fit better with his personality.
He is the picture of poise and power. Perhaps he seems that way because I’ve seen him at his weakest. But I think the confidence he exudes has more to do with his upbringing. Here he is a lion leading his pride.
Since no one knows he was under the Spiriter’s bind for much of his rule, Aodren has to change the country’s perception of him. Considering I’ve struggled to change people’s minds about me, I should’ve realized the difficult challenge the king faces.
Surely, many of these people ridiculed him once.
I certainly did.
“I commend you on the united front,” he says, going on to address the recent war with Shaerdan. He names specific lords and praises them. I haven’t spent any time trying to understand Aodren or the world he lives in. “Tonight, let us celebrate your brave support and unyielding loyalty to Malam. May our land always be prosperous and at peace.” Kind words for this group of people.
My first impression is to wonder if anyone here is truly worthy of the king’s praise. Then I realize that in just the last half-hour, the king has managed to shift my perception of him. Perhaps my judgments are not always right.
“Our hearts, our blood, our lives for Malam!” Aodren shouts.
The hall roars as all echo the same credo.
When everyone quiets down, King Aodren’s gaze cuts to me. “On this special evening, I would also like to honor a man who once was a confidant of mine, a steadfast supporter, a man of strength and valor. Saul Flannery.”
A beat, and then thundering applause bounces off the ceiling. Pride fills me, clogs my chest, and burns at my eyes.
“To honor Saul, I’ve invited his daughter here tonight, to extend my gratitude.”
Every speck of me wants to flee from the humiliation of being singled out this way.
He gestures for me to stand. The lantern light gleams off his gold crown. “May I present Lady Flannery.”
A guard appears behind me and pulls out my chair. It snaps my focus away from the discomfort of the situation. On wobbly legs I manage a quick rise, a small wave, and a grimace before sinking back into the chair like it’s a lifeboat. The rushing sound in my ears drowns out some of Aodren’s speech. But I catch him declaring my nobility status based on my father’s service to the crown.
A tornado should appear for how loud a collective gasp sucks through the crowd.
Aodren goes on, like he hasn’t heard a thing, but his eyes darken, a thundercloud moving over grassy plains. I want to strangle him for insisting I be here. At the same time, I want to thank him for quickly diverting the crowd’s attention back to himself.
King Aodren holds up his cup, signaling the conclusion of his speech.
Everyone in the room follows. Goblets are raised toward the ceiling.
“To peace in Malam.” Aodren’s voice booms through the Great Hall, loud with conviction. “To Winter Feast, may next year be as bounteous as years before; and to Saul Flannery, for his unyielding service to the crown.” Once more the room joins in as he repeats, “Our hearts, our blood, our lives for Malam.”
He swings his drink in an arc, motioning to the entire room and then brings the goblet to his lips. Before he tips it back, his eyes catch mine, and an entreating smile peeks out from the side of his cup.
A spark of something different and shy cuts through my embarrassment. It’s the type of curiosity I’ve only ever felt for Cohen. The awareness of his gaze on me slows my movements. While others are already taking a sip, I’m only just grasping my goblet. I lift it to toast.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the shimmer of a sword.
A guard stands in the east hall, focus pinned on Aodren. He wears a hungry look that’s predatory and cold.
My flesh rises in bumps regardless of the heat. My eyes snap back to the king, warning pulsing through every speck of me. He is still watching me, a line forming between his brows.
The man beside me sputters, spitting his drink on my dress.
I lurch back. I reach for a napkin to dab at the mess, and then realize another lord seated across the table is coughing violently. Half the room has suddenly developed a hacking cough.
I shove back from my seat, taking in the Great Hall at once, panicked.
The guard in the east hall who had drawn his sword has disappeared. The lady across the table slumps into her plate. Her husband coughs. His face whitens. Foam drips from his lips.
People begin to cry out. In fear. In pain.