Theia gave her an apologetic look, and Alora smiled it away. She knew Lord Alder’s anger wasn’t for her.
“Sire,” Caelum greeted the king. “Thank you for inviting us to your table this evening.”
Laurent clasped his shoulder firmly. “Of course. I am honored a knight of such renown has joined us. He may not say it enough, but I know you make your father proud.”
The statement brought warmth to Caelum’s eyes, then he and Theia moved on with their parents.
Alora flinched when the herald’s voice boomed, announcing the Thornbearer of the Midlands next.
Blessed Seven, she had not expected her godmother to arrive as well.
Lady Zinnia’s pale skin glowed in the torchlight, pink hair braided with silver threads. A silvery gown clung to her frame, butterflies of faint light drifting lazily about her shoulders. Queen Delphi stiffened across the room. Their gazes locked, tension veiled behind polite smiles.
“Thornbearer,” Laurent greeted stiffly when she reached the bottom of the steps. “I had not expected you to accept my invitation, yet I am pleased you are here.”
Zinnia’s lips curved in faint amusement. “Are you? What more could I do but attend to witness what may befall tonight? I am most curious to see how it all plays out.” Her gaze flicked to Alora, eyes bright with meaning. “I pray you know what you are doing, Laurent.” She inclined her head. “Princess, your grace shines tonight.”
Then she glided toward the table, pausing when King Thalion approached her, and they fell into informal conversation.
Alora raised her eyebrows. “They know one another?” she murmured to her father.
His expression darkened. “As do all the high nobles of Arthal, daughter. Your godmother hails from the Spring Court, if you recall.”
Alora stilled. Of course, she should have realized that when the Calveron envoy visited the Midlands.
The steward’s voice rang out, calling all to dinner.
Alora froze when King Thalion lowered himself into the throne-chair at the head of the table. Her father’s chair. Beside him, Eldrik sprawled into the heir’s seat, his smile sly as he lifted a goblet in a mocking toast to her.
She turned to her father in disbelief. It was his hall, his banners on the walls, yet Thalion drank from his cup as though Argyle already belonged to him. Laurent’s jaw set.
Without a word, he crossed to the far end of the long table and sat. Alora’s nails bit into her palms beneath the table, her face calm though fury burned in her chest. She took her place at his right hand, while Queen Delphi stiffly arranged herself at his left.
Servants glided in with silver platters, laying out whole roasted pheasants glazed in honey, platters of creamed potatoes, greens dressed in fragrant oils, and sugared almonds heaped like treasure. The abundance glittered beneath the candlelight like a cruel feast in a starving kingdom.
Who were they trying to impress?
The High Priestess Isolde stood with showy grace, her silk white robes covered her from neck to feet, her gray hair covered in a hood. A wide sash draped across her shoulders was embroidered with seven suns.
“Let us now give praise,” she announced. The nobles quieted and Isolde lifted her hands, her gold rings glinting in the candlelight. “By the Seven who guard the Seven Gates, may this union bring peace. May Argyle be blessed by the Gate of Life, sustained by Time, sheltered by Space, kept steadfast in Mortality, and lifted through Death into the Heavens, to rise anew.”
She lowered her hands as attendants lit thin white candles, each flame flickering in turn with the spoken names.
Alora bit back a scoff. How clever of the priestess to omit the Netherworld Gate, as though pretending the Gate of sin did not exist would make its shadows vanish. Perhaps to will away the curse the people accused the Shadow God of casting.
But the gods didn’t care about them.
She had prayed to the Seven for her mother’s life when she fell ill, night after night until her voice broke, and still they did nothing. What use were gods who answered with silence?
But her thoughts drifted to the voice on the mirror.
Heavy steps echoed down the hall outside the dining room. Everyone looked to the doors and Alora’s breath caught as a massive Minotaur filled the threshold. Black fur gleamed beneath a dark dress coat, clearly tailored for the occasion yet strained against his broad shoulders. Pale horns rising proud on his head. Two more of his kind loomed at his back with pelts of auburn and peppered gray.
The dining room went still. Nobles stared, stiff and pale.
The Minotaur rumbled a low growl as his defiant gaze swept the chamber.
Theia’s eyes widened with awe as she gaped up at him.
