“My queen!” she said, “If we could meet tomorrow, you and I . . . One queen to another . . .”
“I’m afraid she needs her rest before the grand parlay,” King Marthin insisted. “But you are welcome to explore the palace. Oh! You must go into Senna and try the roasted octopus from the fish market—such delicate flavor and such a whimsical shape!”
Bryn’s hopes sank for the second time in an hour. King Marthin seemed to possess every bit of the childlike mind she had been warned about.
The queen better name a successor soon, Bryn thought,because Amelia and Marthin are already unsuited to rule.
Baron Marmose stood, setting his lap dog on the rug, where it sniffed around while yapping with his other two dogs. He smiled smugly as he started out of the library.
“You know, I think I will try that octopus,” he said languidly to Bryn and Rangar. “I have the time, you see. My work here isalready done. I’ll see you two at the grand parlay day after tomorrow, if our paths do not cross before.”
Squeezing her hands into fists, Bryn had a hard time managing her temper as the baron strode out with his gaggle of dogs.
Rangar rested a hand on her shoulder. “We arrived too late,” he whispered darkly.
“No,” Bryn said through a clenched jaw. “I have an idea.”
Chapter 31
BACON AND FIST FIGHTS . . . eavesdropping . . . Petal, Daffodil, Rosebud . . . wind hex . . . the hypocrite
For the remainder of the day, Bryn and Rangar toured the palace and the seaside town of Senna with Declan and Phillipa while discussing strategy for the upcoming parlay. Since Baron Marmose had already seemed to draw Queen Amelia to his side, the fate of magic in the Eyrie was in dire jeopardy.
In the morning, Bryn went down to breakfast determined to speak with the queen, though King Marthin informed them that Amelia was spending the day alone in the library to rest.
“Yes, of course, she must save her energy,” Bryn said sympathetically. “Tomorrow, when the other royal families arrive, there will be much talk and excitement. It could easily drain her.”
Next to her, Rangar was silent as he tore into his eggs and toast, but across the table, Baron Marmosetsked and said with a sarcastic edge, “How good of you to think of her health, Queen Bryn.”
A dog, curled in his lap, tried to swipe a bite of sausage from the baron’s plate. “Petal, no!” Marmose scolded as he set the dog on the floor with the others, muttering, “They’re elite animals. I only feed them ground venison or turkey. It keeps their coats shiny and their spirits robust.”
The little dogs yapped and begged for table scraps, but the baron shushed them.
Bryn eyed the dogs sniffing each other’s backsides and hardly thought “elite” was the right word, whether they were purebloods or not. Quietly, she slipped a piece of her bacon into the napkin in her lap.
“And what will you two do today?” Baron Marmose asked Bryn and Rangar with a barbed tone. “Stroll the beaches again? An odd choice of pastimes when wolves are slaughtering your people. I myself plan to stay here at the palace, close to Queen Amelia, should she need anything.”
The threat was clear—he didn’t intend to give them a chance to speak to the queen alone.
Bryn clenched her jaw against the anger that rose in her throat. She nudged Rangar under the table when he looked ready to rip the baron’s head off.
Forcing a smile, she said, “How good of you, baron. I thought I’d rest as well, as a matter of fact. The journey was tiring, and I, too, want to be prepared for the grand parlay. As you said yourself, people are dying. We owe the parlay our full attention.” She slipped her napkin into the folds of her skirt. “If you’ll excuse me, King Marthin?”
The king, whose attention was fixed on an ant crawling over the strawberries, barely glanced up. “Yes, yes, Queen Bryn.”
Bryn stood and bent down to place a kiss on Rangar’s cheek. She whispered, “Give me ten minutes. Then go.”
He gave a slight nod.
She made a show of strolling in the tower’s direction but then, once out of sight, doubled back to the grassy courtyard where the baron had been letting his lapdogs run freely. A fountain stocked with giant golden fish babbled beneath the palm trees. A small side door for servants’ use led back to the breakfast room.
She pushed the door open a sliver and peeked inside to spy on what was happening. The door was tucked away behind a hanging tapestry that obscured the breakfast table, though she was able to overhear Rangar asking King Marthin about succession plans.
“Oh, Amelia won’t speak of it,” Marthin said. “She thinks the subject morbid.”
Rangar pressed, “And yet chaos will reign if no successor is named. Nearly a dozen nieces and nephews have a possible claim to the Woll throne. If you do not want your family torn apart, you must make the decision soon. Declan is—”
She let Rangar’s words fade away as she unwrapped the stolen bacon, then stooped to hands and knees. Marmose’s lap dogs immediately took note of the smell and padded over to her, out of sight behind the tapestry.
