“Indeed,” she said curtly, hoping to signal she didn’t wish to speak.
He rested a hand on her chair back as though he had no intention of leaving. Dropping his voice, he said lightly, “I assume we are still in agreement about what we previously discussed?”
Alarm prickled at Bryn’s skin. She bought time by chewing a lemon tart, then dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She gave him a thin smile. “Of course, baron.”
He returned her smile smugly, then gave a bow. “My queen.”
He sauntered off to sit with the king and queen of Ruma, feeding his dogs a scrap of fish skin, and Bryn suppressed the urge to balk at his hubris.
He thinks he’s already won.
But the day was only getting started, and Bryn was looking forward to seeing that smug smile wiped off his face.
Chapter 37
TWO CHALICES . . . seashell tokens . . . a confident baron . . . suspicious nieces and nephews
“These wolf attacks are simply unacceptable.” It was King Cedric of Ruma’s turn to speak, and he had begun with a vociferous condemnation of the attacks. “Any royal who allows their people to suffer, even to die, from dark magic should be hung as treasonous!”
There were a few grumbles among the delegates in the library, but no one outwardly voiced a word, not wanting to get another scolding from King Marthin.
King Cedric pounded his fist on the table. “There’s a reason the berserkir beasts are attacking in the north where magic runs rampant, yet we in the south haven’t had a single attack. Our lands are pious, not tainted with the sin of magic! We must rid all the Eyrie of this magical scourge that spreads like a disease. We in the south will defend our pious citizens from such violence that the northern realms allow!”
Bryn held in her groan. King Cedric’s inflammatory words didn’t seem to be going over well if Rangar, the Jarkkinens, and the Viklunds were any indication. All of them threw daggers with their glares in Cedric’s direction.
Undeterred, Cedric jabbed his finger at each one of the delegates. “If you allow magic, you have blood on your hands, and you deserve the gallows!”
He sat down heavily before his time had even run out. Rangar bowed over the table, his hair falling over his face to hide his expression, but Bryn could tell from the tight set of his shoulders that he was furious. Even young Queen Hanna of Dresel, whose husband had spoken against magic, looked a little ill at the Rumese king’s fervor.
King Marthin waited for the hourglass to run out, then stood and cleared his throat. “Right. The final royal family to speak is my own. You have each made it clear where you stand, and we can all do the math.” His brow suddenly wrinkled as though, for a moment, he worried he wasn’t actually capable of the simple addition. Then he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. There is an equal number in support of magic and against it, leaving the Wollin as the deciding vote.” He touched his hand on Bryn’s back. “I’d like to cede my time to my wife, Queen Amelia Hytooth of the Wollin.”
Bryn stiffened, feeling the stirrings of the real Amelia Hytooth’s spirit somewhere in the same body. It was hard to gauge what the old queen thought of the proceedings, or if she was even fully cognizant in her current disembodied state. Bryn whispered a silent plea in her head for the queen to be patient; she would get her body back soon.
“Yes, thank you, husband.” Bryn folded her frail hands together on the table as she had seen Queen Amelia do. “I appreciate the points that each of you made both for and against magic. As you know, here in the Wollin, magic is not officially sanctioned but nor do we seek out and punish those who choose to practice it. We have always been a kingdom tolerant of others. We take our lessons from the sea, which shows us how fish, whales, sharks, and all sea life coexist peacefully with one another. Until now, it has been our philosophy to let our citizens live as they wish: to practice whatever magic or religion they see fit.” She shifted her eyes to Baron Marmose. “Of course, these wolf attacks change things considerably. I will reserve my final decision until after the debates, but I can assure you that by sunset, the decreewillbe signed.”
A confident smile curled the baron’s lips.
The afternoon erupted into seething arguments between the most vociferous of the delegates. Now that the more formal elements of the grand parlay were gone—the die with eight emblems, the hourglass, Marthin with his rules—accusations were hurled across the room. Bryn watched warily without adding anything, afraid of speaking too much and revealing that she wasn’t who she appeared to be.
It was clear that Rangar was attempting to contain his temper so as not to be thrown out by the guards, but he came dangerously close to punching High Priest Felisian Red a time or two. Even Mars once threatened to throw his wine glass in King Cedric’s direction until Illiana swiped it out of his hand.
The afternoon recess came a half hour before sunset. Though servants brought in trays of glazed biscuits and fresh wine, hardly anyone touched the refreshments. Everyone’s tempers were sharp. Bryn was glad that the rules stipulated that no weapons were allowed at the parlay, because the undercurrent of violence in the room was palpable.
She glanced out the window at the sun falling toward the horizon.Soon, it will all be over.
The waves crashing in the distance normally would have soothed her, but today her emotions were too tumultuous. She itched to be out of the old queen’s body, hand it back to its rightful owner, and then wake up in her own skin. The longer she inhabited Amelia’s body, the more she felt it was binding to her spirit in a way that would be impossible to break.
Declan and Phillipa Hytooth joined them for the recess, bringing everyone a quill and bottle of ink to sign the parchments for the official vote, as well as a handful of tokens carved from seashells, and two silver chalices. Once the supplies had been distributed, the red-haired Hytooths sat next to Bryn.
“Aunt,” Phillipa said, taking Bryn’s hand tenderly. “I’m worried about you. You don’t look like yourself.”
Bryn’s stomach clenched. It hadn’t been too difficult to act as Queen Amelia around the other delegates, who hardly knew her, or even around King Marthin, with his simplistic mind. But Declan and Phillipa Hytooth were sharp and well acquainted with their aunt’s mannerisms.
She warred with herself for a moment—Declan and Phillipa were friends of Rangar’s and appeared to be allies, yet how would they take the fact that she’d forcefully possessed their aunt’s body? It could turn the younger Hytooths against them.
“It’s been a long day, dear,” Bryn said, patting Phillipa’s hand.
“You must push off the remainder of the parlay until tomorrow,” Phillipa urged. “So that you can rest and keep up your strength.”
