“You are our queen, our Feyreisa. You are the beacon that shines for us all. And if a single one among them offers insult, they will all feel the edge of my wrath.”
Her hands covered his. He would not hear the truth. Not on this. But he could not afford to let anger blind him. Not if he was right about the Mages. “Promise me, Rain. Promise that regardless of what insults the nobles may hurl—at you, at the sacrifices of the Fey, even at me—you will not abandon my people to the Mages.”
“You cannot ask a Fey to ignore insults to his mate.”
“But I’m asking all the same.”
“Shei’tani—”
“Promise me, Rain.” She held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Promise me,shei’tan.”
His eyes closed in defeat. It was the first time she’d called himshei’tan, and the sound of that single, much-longed-for word on her lips shattered his resistance. Husband, beloved, mate of her soul: when she called him that, he could deny her nothing. He bowed his head and brought her hands to his lips for a kiss, then pressed his forehead against them in a gesture of surrender. “I cannot promise to hold my temper, but I will try. And for your sake alone,shei’tani, I will not allow insult to prevent me from fighting for Celieria’s safety.”
A muffled sound came from the direction of the front door. Master Fellows stood on the threshold, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “Now, that,” he declared, “was the grace of a queen.”
Accompanied by Jiarine Montevero and two more of her ladies-in-waiting, Annoura walked through the palace kitchens, personally inspecting the preparations for tonight’s state dinner as she did for every such occasion. As much as it annoyed her to throw a lavish reception for the Tairen Soul and his peasant bride, she would never let it be said that Annoura of Celieria had not entertained her guests to the fullest extent of her considerable palace resources. Opulence and perfection were the hallmarks of her reign. To offer less than that tonight would reflect badly on her.
Duan Parlo Vincenze stood beside her, clad in a pristine white chef’s robe, detailing the final changes to the menu while she and her ladies sampled the tidbits he’d prepared for them.
“Thank you, Duan Vincenze,” Annoura said when he concluded his presentation and she had finished tasting his sample dishes. “You have outdone yourself once again.”
The chef bowed and thanked her effusively and returned to his kitchens as the queen and her entourage moved on to the palacewine cellars. Master Gillam, the man who personally inspected and approved every beverage that found its way to the royal table, was waiting for them by the large, heavy doors that led into the cool cellars. He greeted them with a bow and led Annoura and her three ladies-in-waiting to a small table where he’d set out the suggested wines for this evening’s dinner, six in all, each carefully selected to complement Duan Vincenze’s menu.
Annoura and her ladies tasted each of the wines, and as always happened at these tastings, by the end of the fourth small glass, the women had lost some of their carefully cultivated starch and begun to laugh and share pointed jokes about other members of the court. By the sixth glass, the jokes turned toward the Fey and the Tairen Soul’s peasant-born truemate.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but the Tairen Soul makes me nervous.” Lady Thea Trubol, senior lady-in-waiting to the queen gave a dramatic shiver. “I was there in the court the day the girl’s betrothal was broken, and honestly, ladies, there’s something positively... animal about him. Did you hear he nearly pinned back Bevel’s ears with one of those Fey’cha of his?”
Jiarine snorted. “With a head as big as Bevel’s, how could he have missed?”
The three ladies burst into tittering laughter, and even Annoura smiled. Bevel was an infamous lecher with a lustful appetite for very young, very innocent newcomers to the court. From serving girls to noble Seras not attached to an important family, the more helpless they were, the better he liked them.
“Well, let’s just hope Bevel isn’t idiot enough to chase after the Fey King’s girl tonight,” Lady Thea said. “You know how randy he gets after the first few glasses of pinalle.”
Jiarine burst into a fresh bout of giggles, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “No, no, here’s an even better idea. Wouldn’t it be amusing if thegirlgot drunk and made a fool of herself tonight? The Fey would never live it down!”
The women all laughed their agreement and finished the lastsample of Master Gillam’s selected wines. When they were done, he led them to a smaller table in front of the open keflee pantry door and invited the women to sample the keflee blend he’d chosen to clear heads after dinner. Annoura declined the proffered cup and moved a few steps away from the rich aroma steaming from the keflee pot.
The move brought her closer to the open pantry door, and she froze at the sight of a distinctive purple silk bag sitting on one of the keflee casks. “Master Gillam, where did that come from? That purple bag.”
Master Gillam looked at it blankly. “Why... I... I... Your Majesty, I’m appalled to admit I don’t know.”
Cup and saucer in hand, Jiarine tripped over and peered past Gillam’s shoulder into the keflee pantry. “Oh, that? One of the maids brought it to me yesterday, when you were with the king, Your Majesty. She said she’d found it in your office. It had the look of one of your expensive rare blends, so I had Bili, Master Gillam’s assistant, run it down here last night.” When Annoura didn’t respond, Jiarine frowned. “Your Majesty? Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” Annoura shook her head, shoving back memories of dangerous intoxication and near betrayal. “Oh, no. Thank you, Lady Jiarine. And thank you, Master Gillam. You have everything well in hand, as always.”
She turned and walked quickly away from the cellars and the keflee pantry and that damnable purple bag of powdered ruin.
In Norban, Sian vel Sendaris forced a genial smile as he waited for the stocky pubkeeper of the Hound and Boar to ruminate over twenty years of memories. A full day of searching and inquiries yesterday had turned up nothing, and today wasn’t shaping up any better.
“No,” the pubkeeper said. “No, I can’t say as I recall a man named Pars Grolin.”
“He was about this tall, with bright red hair and green eyes.” Beside Sian, Torel vel Carlian waved his hand at chin level. “And may have been traveling with his baby daughter.”
“Mmm, no, doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.” He finished drying the pint mug in his hand and set it on the shelf with several dozen others.
“Well, thank you for your time.” Sian reached a hand across the bartop.
The pubkeeper hesitated a moment, then said, “I served in the King’s Army as a lad. About forty-five years ago, when Fey swordmasters still taught the king’s men how to use a blade. Best damned swordsmen I ever saw.” He shook Sian’s hand. “One of them even took the time to teach me a thing or two when he caught me watching the practices.”
