by M. J. Scott
“My son. Crown Prince Alain Phillipe Delmar de Lucien of Illvya,” Aristides said with a short sweep of his hands that encompassed the prince. “And this is Lord and Lady Scardale. Sophia and Cameron, as I understand it. Henri, you have met before.”
The prince’s lips drew back, revealing very white teeth. The overall effect was somewhat wolfish, though Sophie wasn’t sure if the expression was aimed at her or Henri. He clicked his heels and bowed shallowly. “The Anglions! An unexpected pleasure.”
To hide her instinct to roll her eyes at the comment, Sophie curtsied again. Cameron followed her example.
“Or should I say some of the Anglions,” the prince continued.
Sophie straightened a little faster than strictly polite at that. The prince was still smiling at her. The more she saw that smile, the less she liked it. The emperor was clearly dealing in politics, and that was to be expected. The son, however, seemed as though he would be more interested in stirring up trouble. Not a welcome trait in a man who would someday rule an empire. His father should put him to work. He was already married, but that didn’t seem to have turned him into a sober, fatherly type. So. What to do with a bored princeling? Send him to govern a distant country or two? Give him a war to fight?
Anything to take him far away from her. Hopefully her antipathy toward him didn’t show. She rarely took an instant dislike to anyone, but apparently the crown prince was an exception. Well, his father was not yet old. Only in his forties. The prince had a long wait ahead of him for any true power. And if she was wary of the son, then best to make sure that she did nothing to offend the father.
“To think we go for so long with nary a visit from your little island and then such a crowd appears at once,” the prince said, expression serious but voice amused. “I’m sure it will be a joyous reunion for you all.”
That depended entirely on who the envoys were and who had sent them. She wasn’t going to ask. It was the emperor’s information to share or not.
“Alain,” the emperor said warningly.
The prince bowed. “Father. Shall I fetch the ambassadors?”
Aristides nodded. “Yes.”
Alain smiled and left the room. Sophie tried to look calm as she stood waiting for him to return. The emperor was silent, and she could hardly question him further. Cameron moved a little closer to her, offering silent comfort.
She turned her mind to considering who Eloisa may have sent. It was difficult to know. It was difficult to believe that the queen had sent anyone at all.
The amount of meticulously cautious negotiation and compromise that had taken place in the palace at Kingswell each year when the preparations for the annual trade delegations to Illvya were being planned had been staggering.
To have a delegation decided upon, assembled, and sent in a few days was unheard of.
That she was the reason for it to occur made her more ill at ease about being in the Imperial Palace than she had been before.
* * *
When the door opened again, the sound of it startled her, even though she’d been braced for it. She turned, abandoning protocol once more, to see who accompanied the prince. Four men came in behind Alain, filing in quickly to stand to the prince’s left as he took up position by his father’s side.
She recognized all of them.
Rigby Lancefeld—Barron Deepholt—who had been one of King Stefan’s advisors and still served in that capacity to his daughter, stood closest to the emperor, leaning on the cane he always used. Next to him, Sir Harold Lenten, who had once headed King Stefan’s personal guard. He had long since retired from service, though the long jacket he wore was the distinctive shade of red worn by the Red Guard.
Beside Sir Harold, standing slightly back from the line, was a tall, thin, intense-faced younger man Sophie thought was Sevan Allowood, a courtier and distant cousin to the young Barron Nester who stood above Sophie in the line of succession.
And lastly, and most surprisingly, was James Listfold, heir to the Erl of Airlight. Cameron’s sister-in-law’s brother.
Cameron took half a step forward, then checked himself as Sophie tightened her grip on his arm.
Sophie watched as the Anglions all bowed to Aristides. She’d forgotten in her few weeks away from court life how much time one wasted in all the endless acts of deference to rank and power.
When they were done, she turned slightly to face them. Technically, given her position in the line of succession, she outranked all the men. In a situation where she wasn’t in attendance on the queen, they owed her courtesy, not the other way around.
She stared at Barron Deepholt. Who slowly, reluctantly, bowed to her. The others followed suit.
Well. That was a small victory. They still acknowledged her rank. Perhaps that was a good sign.
“These gentlemen were desirous of assuring themselves of your well-being, Lady Scardale,” the emperor said. “Quite insistent, in fact.” He spoke Anglish, his voice barely accented.
Who had taught him to speak like that? Oh, for a longer acquaintance with the emperor so that she might know what the small changes in his tone signified.
Or, for that matter, know what any of this signified. None of the four men looked particularly relieved to see her. James had smiled quickly at Cameron when they had first entered, but he was now stolidly blank-faced.
The lack of warmth did not bode well for the outcome of the meeting. She made herself wait. Better not to speak when she did not know what the right thing to say would be.
“We are grateful for their concern,” Cameron said when it was clear she wasn’t going to respond.
“Did you expect anything less from Her Majesty?” Barron Deepholt asked. His voice was deep, like his name, the rumble of it familiar. The sound of Anglish spoken by a native—something she’d heard from no one but Cameron since they’d come to Lumia—made her suddenly long for home.
These men were her chance to return. If, indeed, that was what they were truly offering.
“Well, Lord Scardale?” the barron prompted. “Did you not think Her Majesty would be keen to assure herself of the welfare of one of her own ladies-in-waiting? Not to mention a member of the succession?”
Cameron glanced at Aristides. Was he deciding how much of their story he wished the emperor to know or waiting to see if the emperor would intervene in the conversation?
But the emperor didn’t speak. Merely watched with those gray eyes that gave no clue as to what the mind behind them might be thinking.
“As we were attacked the last time we were in Her Majesty’s palace, it is difficult to form any expectation at all,” Cameron said.
Aristides’ mouth twitched fractionally. She wondered what explanation he had been offered previously by Henri—and the Anglions—about what had brought Cameron and her to his country.
Perhaps not a full one. Not that Cameron had revealed all the details yet.
“Her Majesty had nothing to do with the attack,” Barron Deepholt protested.
Cameron shrugged. “That is a matter of her word.”
The barron’s face was reddening. “As your attacker did not survive the encounter, there seems little other evidence to offer. Is the queen’s word not good enough for you, a sworn member of her guard, Lord Scardale?”
Sophie stilled. What would Cameron say to that? Would he mention that they had questioned the man before he died? That he had told a tale of being hired by a woman wearing brown and smelling of temple incense? A plausible enough tale, given the Domina’s dislike of Sophie and her lack of binding. Plausible enough to make them flee.
“Let us say that hearing her word secondhand currently presents a dilemma,” Cameron said neutrally.
Which left Sophie none the wiser about what he might be thinking. Only that he was taking a more aggressive stance with the delegation than she might have expected. He had been the one counseling caution, that they should not do anything that would endanger their ability to one day return to Anglion whilst in Il
lvya.
The barron squared his shoulders, bushy eyebrows drawing down. “The queen wishes you and your lady wife to return with us to Anglion.”
Sophie’s breath rushed out of her. That blunt statement contained no assurance as to what might happen once they set foot on Anglion soil, no evidence that the queen was worried about them. Just a bald expression of Eloisa’s will for them to return. But then again, Barron Deepholt had never been one to mince words.
“And what evidence do you offer that you are actually here at the queen’s behest, Barron?” Cameron asked.
Deepholt tapped his cane on the floor, which sent the long black coat he wore rippling around him. “Who else has the power to send a delegation to Illvya?”
“Be that as it may,” Cameron said. “ I would prefer to see proof that you speak for her.”
“Her Majesty can hardly travel to Illvya,” Sir Harold blurted.
Aristides raised his hand before Cameron could respond to that. “Lord Scardale, I am satisfied with the credentials the ambassadors presented me. They would not be here were I not. You may trust they come in service to your queen.”
They could. If they trusted the emperor. But that wasn’t a point they could argue. Sophie focused on the barron. “In that case, I’m sure she sent you here with messages.”
All four of the Anglions turned their gazes on her. James looked faintly approving. The others, far less so. The barron didn’t answer. She straightened her shoulders. “Did the queen send a message for me, milord? Or my husband?”
By right, it would come to her. But Eloisa and Cameron had been . . . intimate once. Sophie would once have said that she and Eloisa had been friends, too, but that was before the attack on the palace in Kingswell that killed King Stefan. Before Eloisa had been near-fatally injured. Before Sophie and Cameron had been bonded out of wedlock, Sophie unwittingly stealing the queen’s lover in the process. Even if Cameron was a man Eloisa could never have married.
Before Domina Skey’s influence over the court had expanded so rapidly.
So she knew nothing, really.
Barron Deepholt snapped his fingers toward Sevan Allowood. Sophie hadn’t noticed the leather folio the younger man held earlier. But now he extracted an envelope from it, passing it to the barron. Sophie recognized the seal. Eloisa’s. The same wave and crown device her father had used.
Seals could, of course, be forged.
The barron held the envelope out. She didn’t reach for it. After a beat, Henri stepped forward and took it, passing it to Sophie.
“The queen would find your distrust distressing, milady,” Sir Harold murmured.
“Queen Eloisa has never valued fools, Sir Harold,” Sophie replied. “She does not teach her ladies to be reckless.” And Sophie’s time at court had, on occasion, demonstrated exactly why caution was to be favored over bold action.
“You think we would snatch you from the depths of the emperor’s palace?” Barron Deepholt sputtered.
A little too indignant, perhaps. Though she didn’t think they would attempt such a blatant violation of the emperor’s hospitality, there were other things that could be passed by contact. Poisons. Or charms to make her believe what they said. Illusioner’s work. Rare, but possible.
“Perhaps now would be an opportune time to remind you all that you stand under my hospitality. And my protection. All of you,” Aristides said dryly.
A reminder that any attempt to take the Scardales by force would be ill-received? Or simply a caution for them all to maintain some semblance of civility?
Either way, she bobbed a quick curtsy of recognition at the emperor and then focused back on the seal.
Normally she would have asked Cameron for the loan of his dagger to open it. But here, he stood unarmed. Aristides, as though anticipating her lack, clicked his finger and one of the guards stepped forward, offering her a small blade.
She slid it beneath the wax, then handed it back somewhat reluctantly. A weapon would have been a comfort.
The paper she pulled from the envelope was heavy and a familiar weight and color. Sophie had penned enough notes on Eloisa’s behalf to recognize the stationery the queen used. The sea blue ink was the color she favored as well.
Sophie studied the words on the page. The hand appeared to be the queen’s. But the written words were unyieldingly formal. Stiff. They conveyed little more than what the barron had said. The queen wished for Sophie and Cameron to return to court. To be “restored to their rightful place” with all due haste.
It was no more comforting than the barron’s message, for all that it appeared to be genuine. “Rightful place” could be interpreted in a number of different ways, entirely dependent on how the queen currently viewed them.
Wordlessly, she passed the letter to Cameron, who scanned it, then refolded it without comment.
The barron held out his hand, clearly expecting Cameron to pass the letter back to him.
Sophie lifted an eyebrow. “Are you requesting to read my personal correspondence from the queen, milord?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
She smiled tightly. “Request denied.” She had the feeling if she returned the letter she might not see it again. Besides, she wanted it to be checked for anything hidden in the paper or ink. She turned to Henri. “Perhaps you could keep this safe for me, Maistre?” Taking a chance that the Anglions were unlikely to tackle an Illvyan mage.
Henri nodded and then made a small gesture in the air. Martius suddenly appeared beside him. To a man, the Anglions stumbled back before they caught themselves, staring at the sudden manifestation of their worst nightmares standing by the maistre’s side. Henri handed Martius the letter, said something in the sanctii tongue, and then the demon disappeared again.
“Really, Maistre?” the emperor murmured. Sophie couldn’t agree more. That wasn’t exactly what she had been thinking of when she’d asked Henri to take the letter.
Involving a sanctii was hardly going to make the Anglions view her with any less suspicion. But it was too late to act as though she was as shocked as the others at the sight of Martius.
“My apologies. I beg Your Imperial Majesty’s indulgence,” Henri said, bowing low.
“Most people would request permission before an act, not after,” the emperor remarked.
Henri nodded in acknowledgement as he straightened but didn’t appear to be terribly contrite.
The four Anglions still stared at the place where Martius had stood, faces pale and panicked.
“Are there any other messages?” Sophie asked. The chill Martius had left in the air was fading but still enough to make her want to shiver. She was determined not to react. Perhaps she wasn’t doing her cause any good by demonstrating she was accustomed to sanctii, but so far the Anglions had not done anything to give her any real hope that it would be safe to return home.
Maybe she was being pessimistic. Cameron might have a different view. But so far, her instincts said she was in danger. Even the presence of James Listfold seemed more likely to be a means to try and compel Cameron’s compliance than anything else.
“Barron Deepholt,” she repeated as no one replied. “Do you carry any more messages for us?”
“Th-that was a demon,” the barron stuttered.
“It was a familiaris sanctii,” Henri corrected. “They are not uncommon here.”
“But—” The barron’s expression turned from upset to appalled. “Lady Scardale, have you . . . “ He trailed off, as though unwilling to even speak the accusation.
“Lady Scardale is an earth witch,” Henri said firmly. “She knows nothing of water magic.”
The barron almost shuddered at the words. He clutched at his wrist, where he usually wore a heavy metal band studded with black pearls. It had been the fashion amongst the older men of the court. But his wrist was bare.
None of the party wore any pearls, in fact. Had they attempted to be polite? Or had they been warned not to. What, then, had they made of the emperor�
�s choice of jewels?
“Even so—” the barron began.
“Even so, what?” Cameron interrupted. “My wife has done no more magic here than she would have back in Anglion.”
“But she has kept company with a man who consorts with demons.”
“In my time here, I have observed little consorting of any kind,” Sophie interjected. “And demons—sanctii—are not slaughtering people in the streets. Not everything we have been taught about them is true, it seems. As you will have seen for yourselves since you arrived.”
“This is true,” James said, speaking for the first time. Sevan Allowood shot him a look of disgust.
“That does not change the fact that demons are an—” the barron started to say, but the rest of his sentence was cut short by the simple mechanism of Aristides clearing his throat. All attention turned back to the emperor.
“Gentleman, you have delivered your queen’s request. I believe it is only fitting that Lord and Lady Scardale be given time to consider their response.”
The expression on Barron Deepholt’s face made it plain that he didn’t think there was anything to consider. But he didn’t argue.
“Now, I believe I must join my ball before the entire court explodes in a fervor of curiosity about my whereabouts. We shall announce the presence of your delegation as a renewed sign of hope for improvement of relations between our two countries, and then we shall have an evening of entertainment.”
Clearly anything else was not going to be a possibility. Beside the barron, Sir Harold looked like he was going to have an apoplexy, and Sevan Allowood was still looking most unhappy. James’ face had returned to standard courtier neutrality, though he alone seemed to be focused on Sophie and Cameron rather than the emperor.
But before anyone could speak, the doors opened once more and the emperor’s guards filed back into the room.
