“The library.” The woman’s eyes lit up at the word, and Sorrow gave in fully to liking her. As soon as they got back to Rhannon, she’d ask her to leave the Ward, and become her personal guard permanently.
Luvian joined them, with a small glass of wine for her, and she was grateful. She’d thought she’d mastered her fears, locked them behind layers of eyeliner and chiffon, but now, with only a short walk between her and seeing Rasmus, she found she wasn’t steady at all.
When Luvian handed her the glass, he noticed her shaking hands.
“Nervous?” he asked.
There was little point in denying it, so she nodded.
“Just remember…” he began, but then fell silent as Fain Darcia – for the tall, slender woman with bone-white skin and silver fur at her throat could be no one else – glided into the room, coal-black eyes settling immediately on Sorrow. She smiled and crossed at once to her, and Sorrow and Luvian bent deeply at the waist in greeting.
“Miss Ventaxis,” the northern woman said in Rhannish, once again shaming Sorrow for her own lack of language skills. “I am happy to meet with you.”
“And I you.” Sorrow took the hand she offered in hers. “I heard so many good things about you and your country from Ambassador Stile.”
“She spoke of you too. With much fondness. She was sad to leave you, but … you know, these things.” She turned then to Luvian. “And this must be…” She paused. “No, I don’t know. Who are you?”
“Luvian Fen, my lady.” He bowed again, rising when she offered her hand.
“You may call me Darcia,” the Svartan said. “Both of you may; we are friends.” Darcia gave her drink order to the manservant and waited while he prepared it. When he handed it over, it was a thick, black liquid that smelled like aniseed. Darcia took a hearty swig and wrinkled her nose.
“Bah, not like at home,” she said, offering the glass to Sorrow.
Sorrow took a tentative sip and coughed, her cheeks turning scarlet, eyes watering, as the liquid blazed a fiery trail of lava down her into her stomach.
“Too mild,” Darcia said. “Weak, southern stuff. When you come to my home as the chancellor I’ll give you the real thing. It’ll keep you warm through our cold nights.”
Sorrow, her voice burned clean away, could only nod. She was saved from replying at all when a liveried woman appeared in the doorway.
“If you’d like to follow me, your carriage is here.”
A Taste of Mania
The assembly hall in the central keep was intimidatingly grand, built to impress or inspire, exactly how Sorrow imagined a temple or sacred space would be. The ceiling was high and vaulted, ornate buttresses arching out from between the stained-glass windows. Rasmus had said the windows told the story of Adavere and the Humpback Bridge, and Sorrow saw it there, fourteen tall, colourful panels recounting the tale of how he tricked the stars detailed in the candlelit glass. Ten large columns supported the ceilings, each one wrapped with white silk that glowed like moonlight, creating a central space, filled with round tables, where the welcome feast was to take place.
Sorrow couldn’t see a high table, nor any of the Rhyllian royals – including Rasmus – amid the chattering people, and it puzzled her, until she noticed an empty table at the centre of the room and wondered if the Rhyllian royals sat amongst their guests, as though they were all equals.
A servant showed them to their table, and Luvian pulled out her chair, but before Sorrow could sit, a hand gently touched her shoulder, and she turned to find Mael standing there, smiling at her. She allowed herself to give him a small smile back – it wouldn’t hurt to be nice – and was rewarded by his own widening grin.
“You came,” he said. “I didn’t know if you would, after what happened. How are you? You got back to the North Marches all right? There was no more trouble?”
By the time he’d crossed the bridge, the graffiti was gone, Sorrow realized. Should she tell him that the attack hadn’t been a one-off?
He continued before she had chance. “I asked Arta if we should offer to travel with you, safety in numbers and all, but he said it wouldn’t be right. I think he sometimes forgets we’re brother and sister, and not simply rivals.”
The annoyance that usually burned through her veins whenever he called himself her brother was absent, but before she could dwell on it, a fanfare echoed through the room, and everyone rose to greet Queen Melisia and her family.
She entered first, in a flowing gown of silver that clung to the remains of her pregnancy curves, a coronet glittering on her brow. Her consort, Prince Caspar, came next, also in silver, holding an infant swaddled in green in his arms. Then a pretty blonde girl – Sorrow’s heart stuttered – on the arm of Rasmus, and it dawned on Sorrow she must be his cousin, Princess Eirlys, and that’s who had been walking with him earlier.
Vespus brought up the rear, and beside him was Aphora, the woman who’d been at the bridge and the inn, the day they revealed Mael. Sorrow wondered if Vespus was in a relationship with Aphora. From the way the dark-skinned Rhyllian woman gazed at him – part pride, part possession – and how his hand skirted low on her back, caressing the exposed skin, she surmised yes.
Melisia paused to greet her guests as the royal party made its way through the room, her face lit with pleasure as she shook hands and, more often than not, embraced her visitors. Sorrow watched her carefully, noting how she made sure to speak to every single person, and how they glowed a little after she had.
“Mael and Sorrow Ventaxis,” she said in a smooth, melodious voice when she reached them. “Thank you both for coming.”
She held out her hand to Sorrow, who shook it with as much warmth as she could muster, only to feel slighted when Mael stepped forward and hugged her.
“You look radiant, Your Majesty,” he said as he released her, before nodding a greeting at the prince consort.
Melisia laughed, and turned to Sorrow. “Last time your brother saw me I was the size of a house, and itching to have my body back.”
“Not at all. You looked as fierce and lovely as ever,” Mael replied. If anyone else had said it, Sorrow would have sneered at their insincerity, but she suspected Mael’s words were genuine, and from the way Melisia rested a hand on his cheek, before passing along, it seemed she thought so too.
As the queen and prince consort passed, Sorrow braced herself to speak to Rasmus. But at the last moment he turned away, saying something over his shoulder in Rhyllian to Aphora. Sorrow’s skin burned with embarrassment.
He’d ignored her.
“Miss Ventaxis.” Vespus’s voice was silky as he drew level with her. “How good to see you. Colour suits you. And, Mael, how wonderful to have you back within these walls.”
He embraced the boy and lingered with him, speaking in rapid Rhyllian, with Mael replying just as fluently. Back and forth, with Sorrow watching them, the gestures of their hands as they spoke as synchronized as a dance.