Joelle nodded. “See that it is done.”
Artyom left her office, closing the door behind him. Joelle didn’t much care for long trips these days, not with the way her bones ached. Still, her body would not keep her from chasing after what she desired for her House.
Six
HONOVI
The invitation to a dinner honoring Maricol’s ambassadors wasn’t one Honovi could decline. He wished he could have.
The palace was decorated differently from the ball he’d attended nearly a week ago. The crowd was smaller this time, chatter a changing tune of accents and languages that buzzed in his ears. The E’ridian delegation was decked out in kilts and plaid, braids twisted through with clan beads and ranking hair adornments. He’d brought along several consular officers as well as a few aides to help facilitate communications between other countries.
He was surprised to see a delegation from the Tovan Isles present, believing Amari too far inland for that country to send its people for a long period of time. Honovi gripped his glass of whiskey and made his way to the Tovan Isles ambassador, pausing here and there to have a quick conversation with a few other people.
“Well met, Ambassador,” the older Tovanian said in the trade tongue with a smile and a salute of his drinking glass in Honovi’s direction.
The man’s face was tanned and weathered, the facial tattoos blurred a little from years beneath the sun. The lines on his chin, around his eyes, dotting his forehead, and pricking his cheeks spoke of a long life of command. His light brown hair was tied back in a queue, hazel eyes ringed in dark lashes.
“Honovi, of Clan Storm,” Honovi said, inclining his head. “It’s nice to see another who appreciates the sway of a ship.”
The Tovanian ambassador laughed. “I miss it, but my government asked me to leave our beloved waves behind. Who am I to tell them no?”
“How fares your health?”
Honovi well knew the land sickness Tovanians suffered from if they spent too long off their ship-cities. Port Avi was their country’s capital for trade and political reasons, but the majority of its people called the open waters of Maricol’s seas and oceans home. Some bloodlines called the island home on a more permanent basis, but they rarely left it.
“Our magicians have created better potions over the years to counteract the land sickness. Tastes awful, but it does its job for a while.” The man offered his hand in greeting. “Tipene Kahale.”
Honovi grasped his hand and shook it. “Well met.”
They chatted for a bit about their experiences in Amari, keeping their answers polite and positive because of the company they kept. They only stopped when the Crown Princess Eimarille Rourke was announced to the guests at large.
Honovi watched her sweep into the room in a deep blue gown, escorted once again by the prime minister. His attention strayed to the Blade who shadowed her every step, fingers tightening on his glass as he worked to keep his expression calm while Blaine’s attacker smiled at the room at large.
“I’m so pleased to honor all of you this evening,” Eimarille announced before launching into a speech.
She was a great speaker, engaging and personable, and Honovi could see how she’d swayed public opinion in her favor over the years. Her heritage played a big part in it, he was certain, but fondness for the past couldn’t make a future. He simply didn’t trust the future she was looking to build for two countries.
When it was his delegation’s turn to greet the princess, Honovi bowed to the precise degree, no more and no less, before straightening up. “Your Royal Highness.”
“Ambassador Honovi, I’m happy you could join us tonight,” Eimarille said, smiling.
He kept his attention on Eimarille and not Terilyn. “Your invitation was gladly accepted.”
Eimarille’s gaze went to his throat. “I have not seen your wife in attendance lately. I hope she is well.”
“Husband,” Honovi corrected her. “And he resides in Glencoe at the moment handling clan affairs in my absence.”
“You must miss him.”
Like an ache in his bones that never went away, but he didn’t say that. “Always.”
Honovi spared a few moments to introduce those with him by rank and clan, their riot of plaid a visual representation of their unity. Eimarille focused on each person, her warm attention making everyone feel as if they were the only person in the room.
Politics is personality, Honovi thought, sipping at his whiskey.
And Eimarille was exceedingly personable.
She proved that throughout the dinner, where she presided over the long table in the grand dining hall of the palace. Dinner was an exquisite, multi-course meal that Honovi didn’t walk away from hungry even if he was wary of every bite he took. It was one thing to sit at a table with royalty, quite another to sit with an assassin.
