by M. J. Scott
And the room was hot. Lamps and candles burned everywhere. And worse, the candles were held by cunningly wrought stands that seemed to operate on the same mechanisms as the brackets holding the lamps they had seen on their first visit to the palace. They moved as food was served or people moved, adjusting their height or the stretch of their arms to keep the light close to each person. The chamber had no windows in its beautifully tiled walls, so there was no way for the heat to escape. The door only opened when the servants came with yet more food, and even then it didn’t seem to offer any relief. Sophie was half tempted to ask Henri, who had accompanied them again and was sitting on her right between her and Cameron, to call Martius. The sanctii chill would be welcome.
But if the sanctii would increase Sophie’s comfort, he would likely have precisely the opposite effect on the tempers of the Anglions seated opposite. So she would sit and sweat and hope there were not many courses left in the meal. There had already been four. The servings of each were small, but the tension of their situation left her without appetite and it was an effort to take a bite or two of each to be polite.
A servant appeared on her left and placed a tiny plate with a few perfectly sliced pieces of beef on it, drizzled with a dark sauce.
Her stomach rebelled at the thought and she sipped more water as everyone else set to eating.
When she put the glass down, Aristides said, “Do you not favor beef, Lady Scardale?”
She shook her head. “It looks delicious, Your Imperial Majesty. But I cannot eat too much or I will strain the seams of my dress. Not to mention its corsets. It would not do to have the Designys baying for my blood for ruining one of their creations. Who would make the rest of my wardrobe?” There. Just the kind of inane, slightly amusing chatter that she had been able to babble in endless torrents back in Kingswell.
Aristides smiled slightly. “Indeed. My daughters and daughter-in-law tread very carefully with their favored clothiers. Whereas I just pay the bills. It seems to keep the peace well enough.”
“Exactly,” Sophie said. Aristides wore a coat of silver-embroidered satin that was more elaborate by far than anything anyone else in the room was wearing. How did he keep his tailor in good humor? Or perhaps it was the task of the tailor to please the emperor rather than the other way around. Aristides definitely used his clothes as a reminder of who he was, and Sophie didn’t want to imagine how much work went into each item. His tailor—whoever he was—must get heartily tired of white, silver, gold or black. She half smiled at the thought.
“And call me Eleivé,” Aristides added. “‘Your Imperial Majesty’ is cumbersome at times, and it seems you will not be a stranger at my court.”
She almost dropped her knife.
Across the table there was a clatter of china and she looked across to see Sevan Allowood scowling at her, the plate before him shoved out of place. Beside him, James leaned to whisper something in the younger man’s ear. Which only earned him the honor of having Sevan’s ill-tempered expression turn on him.
The exchange between the two men distracted her enough from her surprise. Henri had said only those close to the emperor used Eleivé. So why was Aristides inviting her to do so on only their second meeting? Was it a genuine courtesy or a way to drive a wedge between her and the Anglions?
On the face of it, Aristides was facilitating the relationship between them. But the seating arrangements were hardly conducive to easy conversation. Not with the four Anglion envoys on one side of the table and she, Henri, Cameron, and Imogene on the other. The emperor should have mixed his table more thoroughly if he wanted them to mingle. But she found herself grateful he had not. She would have spent the meal wondering if Sevan was about to knife her in the ribs if she had had to sit next to him. But still, arrayed as they were, the two sides facing off against each other, she didn’t see how they were to come to any sort of agreement.
Down on Cameron’s right, Imogene murmured something softly and Sir Harold smiled briefly in response. The imperial mage wore black silk embroidered with coils of silver that seemed somewhat serpentine to Sophie. Three strands of dark red rubies circled her throat and matching stones hung from her ears. Her hands sparkled with rings that were almost as magnificent as those Aristides wore. She looked beautiful and very Illvyan, somehow. She also looked cool. Sophie wished she knew her secret. She was certain her own face was turning pink in the heat, a color that would clash with her gown, but Imogene gave no sign that the room was anything more than comfortable.
Perhaps water mages could siphon off some of their sanctii’s chill if they needed. That would be a handy trick. She watched Imogene smiling at Sir Harold and at Cameron, trying not to turn her head too much to show her attention had wandered from the emperor. She wasn’t entirely sure why Aristides had included Imogene in the party. Had he thought another woman in the room might make Sophie more comfortable? Or that the presence of an Imperial mage might remind the Anglions to behave? Or did protocol simply demand a balanced number at the table?
Though the table was not balanced anyway to an Anglion eye, even leaving aside the uneven numbers of men and women and the strict delineation of envoys and the rest of them. The order of precedence was wrong. James should be seated next to the barron, who sat to Aristides’ left as Sophie did to his right. Instead, Sevan sat there, despite the fact that he was the lowest-ranked member of the delegation. The lowest ranked in the room, in fact.
Perhaps Aristides found it amusing to seat him opposite Henri. Sevan had had the strongest reaction to the sanctii’s presence at the ball. In Aristides’ place, Sophie thought she would be trying to broker peace at the table rather than provoking friction. Unless, of course, he did not wish for her and Cameron to choose Anglion. Which was a thought that only added another stray piece to the seemingly never-ending puzzle she was trying to solve.
At least she could now see that none of the Anglions had any connection to the ley line. She’d been startled earlier to see a very faint thread of ley light coming from Aristides. She would have to ask Henri what power the emperor had, though judging by how thin the line was, it seemed unlikely it was a strong one.
But in this room, the Anglions were of more interest. Sir Harold, who was a blood mage, showed no signs of currently touching the line. She wondered if he hadn’t thought to try it here, or whether he hadn’t been able to connect with it. She had known that the barron had no magic, nor did James, but Sevan Allowood was more of an unknown. But he had no sign of the ley light’s glow around him. Hopefully Cameron could see that now, too. She’d taught him what Madame Simsa had taught her. He didn’t see the line the same way she did and had told her what light he saw was faint, but he had been able to see the connections.
He’d shared her confusion as to why they had never been taught to see this way in Anglion. Even if there was no perceived use for it for an earth witch, it was difficult to argue that a blood mage would not benefit from being able to judge his opponent’s abilities and intentions by examining their connection to the ley line.
She had also recounted the tale that Domina Gerrard had told her about the schism between the Anglion temple and the water mages before they’d slept. He had been skeptical as to whether or not the domina had been telling the whole truth but also troubled, as Sophie was, by the story.
He had even asked her again if she wanted to dissolve their bond. A discussion she had ended by deciding that they both needed to stop thinking quite so hard for the night and distracting him into making love to her again. The memory didn’t make her feel any cooler.
“Try the beef,” Aristides said. “The sauce is an Illvyan delicacy.”
“Herbs aged with wine and spices,” Henri said in a reassuring tone. He’d been identifying foods for her in soft-voiced comments throughout the meal. She no longer needed someone to translate difficult Illvyan for her, and they were speaking Anglish anyway. But she appreciated having him there. And wasn’t that a turnabout? That she was comforted by the prese
nce of an Illvyan mage when faced with her own countrymen.
Out of deference to the emperor, she cut a small piece of beef and swiped it through the sauce. The tangy sweetness of it was pleasing, but she still found it hard to chew and swallow with Sevan glaring at her. Something about his gaze was chilling. Perhaps she should ask to sit next to him after all. He might counteract the stifling warmth of her velvet dress.
She sat through the next three courses, eating as little as possible, making small talk with the emperor and Henri, and responding to the two or three questions the barron directed at her. When Aristides pushed his chair back from the table after the servants cleared the bowls of the last of the courses, a salad of some kind, she almost let out a sigh of relief.
The emperor waited until the servants had offered finger bowls and heated cloths and then been shooed silently from the room by Louis, hovering near the door. At Aristides’ silent nod, Louis also left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
In his wake he left near silence, only the faintest of hisses from the oil burning in the lamps above breaking the quiet. All eyes were fastened on the emperor.
Who smiled. Not a particularly comforting expression.
“Now that we are all refreshed, we shall talk a little before the dessert courses,” Aristides said.
No one offered any disagreement on this point. It was, after all, what they were all there for.
“I believe you have all been informed of the status of the investigation into the events at the ball. As yet we have no suspects, though my guards”—he fixed his gaze on Imogene a moment—”continue to work to uncover those who committed this act. But for now there is nothing more to say on the matter.” This time his gaze moved to the barron. Who looked down and drank a hasty gulp of wine.
“Which I believe leaves us with the topic we were discussing at the ball.” He turned to Sophie. “It is only fair that you know that a second Anglion ship has moored itself off our coast.”
“Another delegation?” Cameron said, sounding disbelieving.
“No. A courier, it seems. Bearing only messages. Which were delivered to the barron and his party.”
Sophie had no doubt that the messages had also been examined by the Imperial Guard or whichever branch of Aristides’ forces had responsibility for guarding the harbor and the sea beyond.
Aristides lifted his wineglass. Drank. “Your queen also sent a message to me. In which she reiterated her desire for Lord and Lady Scardale to be returned to her.”
“Was there a message for us?” Sophie asked. If Eloisa had sent something—anything—more informative than her previous letter, then perhaps she would know the way forward.
Barron Deepholt shook his head. “Not amongst the papers given to me. It is as His Imperial Majesty has said. Simply another request for you to return to Kingswell, where you belong. There was nothing addressed directly to either of you.”
Sophie wished she believed him. But it seemed unlikely that Eloisa would send a second ship with exactly the same message. Delegations between the two countries were usually painstakingly negotiated. If the ship’s arrival hadn’t been expected, then something had happened to precipitate it. But apparently the barron wasn’t going to be telling her what that something might be. She wondered if Aristides knew.
If he did he was keeping his cards close to his chest. Politics. She was starting to loathe the very concept. She turned back to the emperor, hoping her expression was politely enquiring.
“There was nothing in the queen’s letter to me either,” Aristides said. “Though you are welcome to read it if you wish.”
A generous offer. Which meant that he most likely spoke the truth and there was indeed nothing in the message other than a renewed request for their return. That didn’t mean there hadn’t been other letters, of course. But if there had been and he wasn’t telling her about them, he was hardly going to show them to her.
“Thank you, Eleivé, but that is not necessary.” She straightened her shoulders, looked at the barron. “Forgive me, Lord Deepholt, but without further reassurances from the queen, I find myself unable to accede to Her Majesty’s request.”
“You refuse?” The barron sounded shocked.
“Not a refusal. I am merely stating a condition. The emperor says there is a second ship. Send it back. Ask Queen Eloisa to write with her word that my husband and I are safe if we return to Anglion. Then this conversation can continue.”
“You little—” Sevan started to spit, rising from his chair, but James gripped his shoulder and shoved him back down.
“You will show respect, Allowood,” James growled. “Lady Scardale is one of the heirs. You will show her respect or I will teach you how.”
Sevan subsided, but the chill that speared through Sophie as their eyes met was colder than ever.
“Lord Scardale,” Barron Deepholt sputtered. “Control your wife.”
Cameron, who had been gazing at Sevan, every line of his body a promise of hurt if Sevan made another move toward her, turned his head slowly to the barron, blue eyes blazing. “I believe, milord, that you have forgotten that my wife technically outranks me. As she does you.”
“Goddess be damned as to rank,” the barron said. “You have the means—” He snapped his mouth shut suddenly. Coughed. “She is your wife,” he continued. “She made vows, did she not?”
“I don’t recall anything about her having to obey me in those vows. However, I distinctly remember the part where I vowed to be her shield,” Cameron said. “Which means I would not allow her to return to a place which will not guarantee her safety after an attempt on her life, even if she wished to go.”
The barron was turning an unbecoming shade of red-purple. “You cannot disobey the orders of your queen!” He fairly bellowed the words.
Aristides cleared his throat and the barron froze. Silence fell once more.
“I believe Lady Scardale’s request is a reasonable one, Barron. After all, it is only a matter of a few more days for the ship to return to Anglion and then bring us back your queen’s response. Hardly any time at all. Perhaps you should return to your chambers and write the request. I’m sure the rest of your companions would be glad to assist you. I will lend you one of my fastest couriers to take the message to the ship.”
The barron looked like he wanted to argue but apparently thought better of it. He nodded once but did not speak.
“Excellent,” Aristides continued. “Venable du Laq, perhaps you would care to give Lord and Lady Scardale a tour of the palace, seeing as though our other guests have to retire to take care of this business. They did not get a chance to see much more than the ballroom the other night, and it would be a pity for them to miss it if they are leaving us soon. Maistre Matin, stay with me, if you’d be so kind?”
Imogene rose with such speed and a murmured “As you wish, Eleivé” that Sophie rather thought she had been waiting for just such a suggestion. But if the alternative was to stay and be berated by the barron, then she had no trouble at all choosing to follow in Imogene’s black and silver wake and leave them all behind.
* * *
“Venable du Laq,” Cameron said somewhat stiffly once they were all safely out in the hallway and the pair of guards standing outside the dining room had resumed their posts at the door. “Do you think, before you start this tour, that you might show us somewhere I could have a brief word with my wife?”
Sophie looked up at him, startled. He sounded . . . angry beneath the formality. Angry at what? At her?
“Of course,” Imogene said. She glanced quickly at Sophie, then back to him. “There is a receiving room this way.” With another glance at Sophie, she led them to a door a few hundred feet or so down the corridor. “In here. I will wait for you. There is also a bathroom, if you wish to refresh yourselves.”
“Thank you,” Cameron said. Then to Sophie, “After you.”
She was tempted to stay out here with Imogene. But if Cameron was in a temper about somet
hing she may as well find out now.
Cameron closed the door behind them. The soft click of it sounded loud in the otherwise silent room. It was as described. A small room furnished with several groups of chairs and small sofas, arranged around an unused fireplace. Only one of the lamps was burning, the light a little dim. But it was also blessedly cool after the dining room.
Decorated in pale greens and yellows, it was the sort of place a princess might sit with her ladies to while away the hours or to receive callers. Not unlike the rooms she’d spent so many hours attending Eloisa in while the queen did exactly that. It just needed the familiar sound of women’s voices and the scent of fresh tea and cakes and flowers to complete the picture. Instead, it held just her and, looming behind her though she had not yet turned to face him, one large and seemingly irritated northerner. True, he smelled better than tea and cakes, the scent of him as alluring ever, the effect heightened by the fresh spice of the cologne he’d splashed on when he’d donned his evening clothes. But on the whole, right now, she’d prefer to be back with a group of friends and with nothing more taxing on her mind than pouring tea correctly and untangling skeins of gossip along with the embroidery threads for a few hours.
But wishing for such things wasn’t going to make them so.
Lifting the side of her skirt to make the movement easier, she turned back to face Cameron. “You have something to say, milord?”
His eyes were very blue. She knew that look. Hadn’t seen it directed at her before. “Goddess, Sophie. What were you trying to achieve, telling them like that?”
What? That was what he was angry about? “I said what we agreed. That we need more information. Assurances.”
Cameron shook his head, the movement a quick snap from side to side. “Not in that manner. We need diplomacy, not burning bridges. This was supposed to be a decision we made together.”
