It took close to an hour to make the trip to the palace, which the Borelgai referred to simply as the Keep. Unlike in Ohnlei, the estate of the Borelgai kings was in the very center of their capital, not far from the site of the Great Market. Where Ohnlei was a creation of the modern age, laid out by Farus V in an effort to compete with his father’s glory, the Keep was an actual fortress, built for defense in a time before cannonballs. The curtain wall stood thirty feet high, studded with square towers and lined with a crenellated battlement. Raesinia saw dark figures walking back and forth atop it, keeping watch as the king’s men might have done five hundred years before. The carriage passed underneath a mammoth gatehouse, through a tunnel that felt more like something bored out of native rock.
Ohnlei had always seemed to Raesinia to be a place of air and light, with enormous, expensive windows and mirrored halls, vast grounds set with perfectly manicured plants and elaborate fountains. The Keep felt claustrophobic by comparison, crammed in behind its ancient stone walls like a dense city block instead of a country estate. Beyond the gatehouse was a large square, lined with tall brick buildings. Streets led off to the left and right, and Raesinia could see more structures packed cheek-by-jowl, right up against the walls. Ahead, a wider road led to the Keep proper, what had been the inner sanctum of the old fortress.
This, at least, had been modernized, though the facade still looked appropriately medieval. Broad windows and dozens of chimneys hinted at more up-to-date comforts, and the steady glow of gaslights illuminated the entryway, protected by stained-?glass covers from the endless rain. Borelgai Life Guards, distinguished by the white furs on their shakos, stood to attention as the carriages passed by, ignoring the splashes from the iron-?rimmed wheels. Another gate loomed.
They finally halted in a covered yard, the rain drumming on the roof overhead. A black-?liveried servant, flanked by a pair of Life Guards, bowed deeply as the carriage door opened and Raesinia descended.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “Welcome to the Keep. I regret that we have only lately been informed of your visit and so cannot receive you in the fashion you deserve.”
“I understand,” Raesinia said. “News can scarcely outrun one of your courier ships, after all.”
“His Majesty has been informed of your arrival and has indicated he would be pleased to receive you in private. However, he asked me to convey that if you wish to retire for a time beforehand, he will not take offense. He understands the rigors of travel are taxing.”
Raesinia looked down at herself. Her dress wasn’t exactly informal, but it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing in which one would ordinarily choose to meet foreign royalty. Moreover, it was still slightly damp from the rain and a bit rumpled from the ride. Mistress Lagovil would have insisted that she change into something more suitable, and probably bathe.
The hell with it. The whole point of this visit was that she wasn’t here to observe diplomatic niceties. Maybe being a little unkempt will impress the king with the urgency of the situation.
“I would be happy to attend on His Majesty at once. Can someone show my servants to our chambers?”
“Of course.”
“Eric,” Raesinia said over her shoulder. “Get everything set up, would you? And see that Cora has an escort to the market.”
“But—” Eric decided that this wasn’t the place to argue. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Do you two need a rest?” Raesinia said to Barely.
She shook her head. “Not unless you need us to put on dress blues.”
“Later.” She turned back to the servant. “Lead the way, then.”
“I am Sebastian Carter, majordomo.” He bowed again. “It’s my pleasure to be of service.”
*
Sebastian led them rapidly down a series of corridors. It seemed to Raesinia that this was not the part of the Keep normally shown to foreign dignitaries, since some of the halls they traversed were quite plain, with no carpets and only whitewash on the walls. Eventually they emerged through a discreet servants’ door into something more recognizable as royal splendor, with the arms of Borel alternating with the Pulwer crest every few yards along the walls. A double door at the end of the hall, attended by another pair of Life Guards, was carved with an elaborate bas-?relief of a ship in heavy seas.
The guards opened the doors at a gesture from Sebastian, and the majordomo stepped aside, letting Raesinia precede him into the room beyond. It was large and somewhat gloomy, with thick red carpets and dark wooden paneling, and the air was a haze of sweet-?smelling smoke. A crowd of men, perhaps two dozen, stood in knots against the walls. They were dressed in suits and waistcoats, all dark, sober browns and grays, with only the flash of jeweled collar studs to provide a touch of color. Long-?stemmed pipes were ubiquitous, each drooling a thin thread of smoke to add to the general fog.
“Her Royal Highness, Queen Raesinia Orboan of Vordan,” Sebastian boomed, from behind her.
A bow, barely more than a nod, rippled through those assembled. Raesinia looked around, feeling a bit lost in a sea of gray beards and drooping sideburns.
At the other end of the room, a man stood up. His suit was black and his waistcoat threaded with silver. He looked like all the rest, with one exception—?an elaborate gold double circle pinned to his chest, set with a spray of pearls and bearing a dark red gemstone the size of an eye. He had a pipe in one hand and something like a walking stick in the other.
This, Raesinia realized, was the King of Borel. She had pictured him as some version of her father, swathed in colorful silk and velvet; certainly there had never been any question, in the court of Farus VIII, of a visitor mistaking who was supposed to be the center of attention. Georg Pulwer clearly had different standards for the majesty of a monarch than Mistress Lagovil. He looks more like a banker than a king.
“Queen Raesinia,” Georg said. “Please forgive this poor greeting. We only received word of your coming quite recently.”
“My apologies for not sending word ahead,” Raesinia said. “Events have caught us off guard.”
“Don’t they always?” Georg said. This was apparently supposed to be a joke, because it produced a round of dutiful laughter among the others. “In any event, welcome to Borel, and my sympathies on what must be a trying time.” He raised a hand and beckoned, without looking. “Let me introduce my sons. This is Crown Prince Rupert.”
“Honored, Your Highness.” The crown prince shuffled forward. He was a large man, well into middle age and not carrying it well; Raesinia might have guessed him to be of the same generation as his father. He carried a similar black-?and-?silver walking stick, but where Georg’s seemed decorative, Rupert leaned heavily on his.
“And this is Second Prince Matthew,” Georg went on.
“Your Highness.” Matthew sketched a deep bow. He was much younger than his brother—probably not yet thirty—slim as a sword, and had a well-?trimmed beard and no sideburns. Instead of his father’s and brother’s somewhat fleshy features, he had a thin face with sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Rather handsome, Raesinia thought, but something in his expression seemed hostile.
“I look forward to getting to know both of you,” she said. That seemed safe. “I regret to say, however, that this is not merely a social visit. You’re aware of the most recent developments?”
Georg nodded. “The return of Vhalnich, you mean?”