“This coast is so different from the Baersladen’s,” she observed, listening to seagulls squawking in the distance.
“There is a benefit to a wide-open beach,” Rangar agreed. “Much easier to see enemy ships approaching. And fishing is as simple as wading in and casting a net. Still, I would not trade our rocky coastline for anything. These waves are too quiet.”
The gentle shush-shush of the distant waves was a far cry from the crashing tides outside of Baersladen Hold, it was true, but Bryn found them soothing.
“There.” Rangar pointed to a collection of towers rising over the terra cotta rooftops of a nearby town. “That is Hytooth Palace.”
They spurred on the horses as they raced toward the town. The palace was a beautiful, sprawling sandstone structure with a large, domed tower painted yellow, and another portion painted a dusky red, so that the place had a relaxing yet whimsical spirit, almost like a fairy tale come to life. It sat on a seawall above the lapping waves.
The road took them into the sprawling town of Serra, the capital of the Wollin, a bustling coastal port full of fish markets and salt traders. Tall palm trees swayed overhead, providing shade to the streets below. Rangar shed his bearskin cloak, tying it in a roll across Legend’s back. There was a slight chill in the air, but it was far warmer here than the frigid Baersladen this time of the year.
When they approached the walled gate to Hytooth Palace, Rangar dismounted to speak to the guards. “I am King Rangar Barendur of the Baersladen, and this is my wife, Queen Bryn Barendur. We’ve come for the grand parlay.”
The guards bowed deeply, though they glanced between one another as though uncertain. An uneasy premonition stirred in Bryn’s stomach. Did the guards doubt them? Or was there something else going on?
“Show them our emblem as proof,” she said, then faced the guards herself. “We wished to remain undisturbed during our travels, so we came in plain clothes without a carriage.”
Rangar removed a chain around his neck to show them the bronze emblem of a bear—the sigil of the Barendur royal family. The guards nodded, apparently accepting their claim but still seemed uneasy.
“King Rangar,” the first one said deferentially. “We are honored by your presence but did not expect you nor Queen Bryn so soon. The grand parlay does not start for two more days.”
“We fearedthe wolf attacks might slow our journey,” Rangar explained. “And I wished for some extra time to visit with Declan and Phillipa Hytooth—I have not seen them since I stayed here as a ward many years ago.”
“Of course.” The first guard whispered something to a younger soldier, who hurried into the castle. He then signaled for the door to be raised. “Welcome to Hytooth Palace, your Majesties.”
As Rangar helped Bryn down from Fable, and they surrendered the horses to stableboys, Bryn muttered quietly, “They seem nervous, don’t they?”
Rangar nodded, having sensed it, too. “A grand parlay does not often occur. They’ll be responsible for the safety of every royal family member in the Eyrie—many of whom despise one another. I suppose I cannot blame them for some nerves.”
The gate led them into a breezy courtyard dotted with palm trees. The sandstone-colored turrets rose high above into the pale blue sky. Bryn touched the small knife sheathed at her waist as a reassurance.
“King Rangar! Queen Bryn!” A man and woman in beautiful pale blue clothes strode into the courtyard to greet them. Bryn placed them as siblings or cousins by their unruly red curls and matching ruddy cheeks. They looked too similar to be husband and wife.
The man strode up and gripped Rangar’s arm in a firm welcome. “How good to see you again, Rangar. And now a king!”
Rangar slapped the man’s shoulder fondly. “Declan.” He nodded to the woman. “Phillipa. You’ve both grown a foot since I last saw you.”
“And you’ve gained a wife,” the man said, grinning charmingly at Bryn.
Rangar didn’t seem to like the man’s affable smile aimed at Bryn, so he slid a possessive hand around Bryn’s back. “Yes, my wife, Queen Bryn. Bryn, this is Declan and Phillipa Hytooth, niece and nephew of Queen Amelia and King Marthin. When I spent a summer here, they were our partners in crime.”
“Guilty,” Declan said with a laugh, taking Bryn’s hand and delicately kissing it. “Congratulations on your nuptials.”
“Yes, congratulations,” Phillipa said, “though we were deeply sorry to hear of your brother and father’s passing, Rangar.”
Rangar bowed his head briefly. “May their souls be guarded.”
The two Hytooths bowed their head. “May their souls be guarded.”
After the moment of solemnity, Declan slapped Rangar on the shoulder again, his smile reappearing. “Come. We weren’t expecting you so soon, but we’ll show you to your room. I told the palace staff to reserve the tower bedroom for my brooding old friend—it has the best view over the ocean. We’re going to house those miserable Greys from Dresel in a windowless first-story room.”
Rangar and Declan fell into conversation about their journey while Phillipa hung back, slipping her arm between Bryn’s.
“I’ve been anxious to meet you, Queen Bryn,” Phillipa confessed. “My mother never let me attend your family’s gatherings at Castle Mir when I was a girl—they only sent my brothers. But we’re heard incredible tales of your adventures these last few months, and I’m dying to know what is true and what is gossip.” She dropped her voice as she tipped her chin toward Rangar. “Did hereallysteal you away, only for you to fall in love with him? And was heactuallyaccused of poor Trei’s murder? Surely no one believed him capable of such a thing. Oh! And you must tell me about the Battle of Saint Serrel’s Shrine and that miserable Captain Carr . . .”
Overwhelmed, Bryn pressed a hand to her forehead. “Yes, of course. Um, perhaps after we rest.”
Phillipa squeezed her arm. “Oh, silly me! You must be exhausted from the journey. How curious you came on horses instead of a royal carriage . . . There I go again, rooting out gossip. Don’t mind me.”
