Adria won’t. I’m certain of that.
“The door—” I begin.
“That’s it. You found a door outside, and it took yousix hours, and now we’re going to have to find a way to account for the fact that you turned up at the gate, having spent the day at the market, after me telling everyone you were sick in our room.”
“You could say I felt better, but that I couldn’t find my way to the dining hall,” I offer. I flinch, waiting for her response.
“You know what? Sure. I’m sure they’ll believe you’re thatstupid.”
Larus tries to talk to her, but she storms from the room, slamming the door behind her.
I look blankly at him. I feel something like tears at the corner of my eyes.
“You did good, kid,” he says softly. “She’ll see it one day.”
I won’t hold my breath.
In the morning, I put on the green dress Larus bought me. I’ve missed my chance to use it to make a good first impression, but maybe it will help smooth over any suspicions after my reaction yesterday or my absence last night.
The palace is buzzing with the arrivals of the rest of the court, the hallways filled with servants carrying enormous chests as the courtiers make their way to the throne room for Ronan’s opening address.
Our own lower houses, the ones that survived, were largely stripped of their lands and titles after the war, but the other Great Houses have arrived with all of their myriad lower houses in tow. Between the heads of house, the spouses, the Guardians, the siblings, children, cousins, alchemists, and servants, there must be at least three hundred people in the throne room by the time we arrive. The benches have been cleared away to make enough room for everyone.
As we take our place in the back, more than a few heads turn. We don’t have many friends in this room. The only reason we’re allowed to stand here at all is because of Adria’s surrender, the signing of the treaty, and our subsequent contrition.
I don’t blame the court for hating us. Our war cost all of them something, although it cost us the most. We have our work cut out for us. We won’t reveal our plans to anyone here, but the more of them we can make sympathetic to our cause, the better.
Ronan’s throne sits empty once more. I want to get a good look at him to see if I can find similarities between him and Soren while the memory is still fresh in my mind, but it’s hardto see from back here. I’ll slip forward once he enters, while everyone is paying attention to him alone.
A pair of trumpets plays a fanfare from behind the throne. Grand Vizier Cyrus stands in front of it. He speaks loudly and clearly, his voice echoing through the enormous chamber. “Presenting, by the Grace of the Gods, Ronan III; Most High, Most Mighty, and Most Exalted God-King of Selara; Lord of Nithyria and Protector of the Realm; Sovereign of the Serath Desert and Master of the Palador Mountains; Keeper of the Sacred Light of Vayla; Guardian of the Eternal Oath; Commander of the Royal Orders of the Sun and the Moon; Defender of the Faith; Patron of the Alchemists’ Guild and High Arbiter of the Courts of Faros and Minar; Grand Master of the Radiant Legion; Warden of the Eastern Shores; and Champion of the Sacred Covenant that Binds the Kingdom and its Peoples.”
Absolutely ridiculous.Thisis more like it. This is the pomp and circumstance I was expecting yesterday. The pageantry. The arrogance.
I guess we weren’t worthy of it.
The door to the antechamber opens, and in steps Ronan.
He’s dressed in full royal regalia now, black robes concealed by an overcoat in a deep, velvety black with a golden crown atop his perfectly coiffed hair. I slip through the crowd, sticking to the shadows at the edges of the room to get a better look.
My stomach flutters. I’m hoping, praying to Kerensa, that I’m wrong. That the man I spent yesterday with, the man I’d wanted to kiss and maybe a bit more than that, isn’t one and the same as the God-King himself.
He looks fucking radiant up there. Literally. The glow of his skin was subtle yesterday, but today, it’s as bright as one of the candlelit chandeliers over his head. As he takes the throne, I see the glint of steel at his side.
I wonder if he’s used it at all since the war.
He’s smiling magnanimously at his loyal subjects, waving to them as they applaud. He points to someone in the front row of the crowd and waves, and she blushes.
The woman must be nearly sixty, and sheblushes.She wants him. They all do, I realize, as I look around the room. Most of the women and some of the men. They’re practically salivating.
I hate how handsome he is. It makes me want to punch him in his pretty face and break his pretty nose.
At the thought, I try to line up his flawless features with Soren’s devastating injuries. It’s a risk to do so, but Ronan can read feelings, not thoughts, and how much is he going to get from whatever satisfaction or disappointment I’ll feel when I reach my conclusion?
It's difficult to say. The eyes and hair are a match, but brown eyes and brown hair aren’t exactly unusual; hell, I have them too. Ronan is taller than Soren, but Soren was hunched. It’s plausible, at least.
A different guard accompanies him today. Thin and blonde, he wears the typical chainmail and black cape of the Royal Guard. I think little of him until I notice the tattoo on his neck.
He’s Orsan. One of Ronan’s Royal Guards is Orsan, one of the ancient enemies of the Nithyrians. They’ve relentlessly raided our villages and slaughtered our people. It was enough of an insult that our lands were given to them after the war. But to make one of them a Royal Guard? Does Adria know? I hope she can’t see the characteristic tattoo from her vantage point.
