Brynn sensed the handmaiden before she looked up to see the girl waiting in the doorway. Her posture and the way she held her shoulders stiff told Brynn she had a message.
Eadburh looked up, back straightening. “Has the king called for us?”
The handmaiden nodded. “King Aelgar is ready to hear Lady Brynn’s petition.”
Esa stepped aside, signaling that she was finished.
Brynn stood. She thought she should feel something. Something besides that churning abyss of grief and the numbness that sometimes iced over it. She didn’t.
“You may go,” Eadburh said to the messenger.
“Pardon me, Lady Eadburh. But the king also says to inform Lady Brynn that Alderman Cenric is here.”
A jolt pierced through Brynn’s numbness at that. “Alderman Cenric of Ombra?”
“Yes, lady.”
Hernewhusband. The man Aelgar had found to replace Paega.
“Already?” Eadburh seemed surprised as well.
Aelgar had sent a missive to Cenric only a week ago. With sailing times from the king’s seat at Ungamot to Alderman Cenric’s shire of Ombra, Cenric must have set out immediately after receiving the news.
The handmaiden inclined her head. “Yes, lady.”
After months of waiting, suddenly everything was happening so fast. But Brynn had set this plan in motion. Now was the time to see it through.
Brynn exhaled, letting go of any apprehension or hesitation she might have felt. This was her choice.
Eadburh came up beside Brynn. “This way, my dear.” They were almost the same age, but Eadburh seemed to take the role of aunt seriously.
Brynn allowed the king’s wife to lead her through the stone corridors of Ungamot, toward the king’s hall. Ungamot was a collection of stone rooms chiseled from the guts of a cliffside.
No one remembered who had originally built this structure, but it had served as the seat for the kings of Hylden for generations. Brynn’s father had ruled from here, as had her grandfather. Now her uncle continued the tradition.
People rushed past them, servants with messages, baskets of eggs, and buckets of water, and the well-dressed ladies of the gentry. Most recognized Eadburh and Brynn, stopping to bow to the wife of the current king and the daughter of the last king.
Esa trailed after them, the quiet girl keeping her head down as befitted a servant. She might be a sorceress, too, but she was still a servant.
Brynn caught the drone of voices as they drew nearer the king’s hall. The hall served for feasts and a place for the servants to sleep at night, but during the day it was where King Aelgar settled disputes and granted petitions.
The vaulted chamber was filled with people as it always was. There was usually a festive air to the chamber. Mead flowed at most hours and a skald or two could usually be seen plucking a harp in the corner.
Today, the festive air seemed muted. Greyed. No music hummed and no strong drink poured. The laughter seemed forced and the faces solemn.
Or perhaps that was just how Brynn saw it. Perhaps that was just how the world looked through the fog of mourning.
Several aldermen—rulers of shires—gathered around the room with their sons, nephews, and retainers. Thanes—warriors who served the aldermen—stood by their sides. No weapons were permitted in the hall, and that was for the best. A few women accompanied their men, wives and daughters decked in furs and stones to flaunt the wealth of their husbands and fathers.
With so many bodies packed together, the room shimmered withka,the pure energy that suffused all living things. It would be invisible to anyone who wasn’t a sorceress, but to Brynn’s senses, the room was aglow with power.Kawas not life itself, nor waskamagic itself, butkawas necessary for both.
Brynn spotted Wassa, the sorceress who attended the king. Brynn had never known her well, but she had been notably silent on this plan of Brynn’s.
Near the center of the room, Brynn spotted Hrotheld, Paega’s nephew. He was a young man, handsome with an easy charm. He usually laughed and joked, but today he was solemn like the rest of them.
Brynn recognized a few other faces, but she looked straight to Aelgar. Her uncle was only a few years her senior, the product of her late grandfather’s appreciation for young women and aged wine. But like Eadburh, Aelgar seemed far older. His face was serious, he rarely laughed, and though she thought him a good man, he always seemed to be balanced on a knife’s edge—as if he feared going too far in one direction or the other would lead to disaster.
Her uncle spotted her. He stepped away from the circle of advisors and retainers, toward his mercy seat.
