Satia rose and peered out. Xyrath was indeed out on the cobbles, strutting like a cock, gesturing as he spoke. She’d have to remember to have any large mirrors moved to his chambers. He did so like to look at himself.
Tarwain stood near to the King, with a slight frown on his face. She cracked open the window.
“…peace and mercy to all who pledge their loyalty,” Xyrath announced. “If not, you are free to return to your homes with your weapons and armor.”
“Oh, that was not well thought out,” Avice muttered.
Satia stifled a grimace. She was about to pull back when Tarwain spotted her and gestured toward the window.
“All hail Her Majesty, Queen Satia,” he called.
The Queen smiled, leaned out and waved to the cheering men, then threw a kiss to the King. Withdrawing, she closed the window and considered. Her lover might become a nuisance. “Doesn’t Lord Tarwain have a daughter?”
“Aye,” Avice made sure the window was bolted. “A dowdy thing.”
“I should make her one of my attendants,” Satia mused. “Perhaps his lady should come to Court as well and bring their younger children.” Satia settled back in the chair. They could be given apartments here in the Palace. Useful, to keep him and his family under her eye.
A knock at the door, which Avice answered. A hearth boy stumbled in, arms piled high with wood, kindling clutched in his fists. Rosalind followed him, her hand on his shoulder. “Make your bow, Jarris,” she reminded him. “Then see to the fire. Be quick, now.”
The boy bobbed a hasty bow, nearly dropping the wood, then rushed to the hearth and dropped the logs with a clatter.
Rosalind bowed. “Your Majesty, the Royal Steward awaits your pleasure.”
“Show him in,” Satia commanded, then rose to stand facing the door. Better to be on her feet for this interview.
“Queen Satia, gracious majesty, I am Paulin, Royal Steward.” An older man, bald of pate and with tired eyes, went to one knee before her. Not without an uneasy glance at her Bondmaidens.
“Rise, Paulin,” Satia commanded. “There is much to be done and little time. It is the pleasure of the King that there be a small dinner this night in the Great Hall. There will be no more than a hundred people or so, only the most loyal of our supporters.”
The man nodded. “Yes, your Majesty.”
She continued, “Please see that the Great Hall is prepared. Remove the airion banners and replace them with ours.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Do not clean our banners. They will be stained from the battlefield, but those are honors hard won.”
“Of course, gracious lady,” Paulin’s head bobbed.
Saita paused as if thinking. “Are all the solid gold place settings still here?”
“Aye, Majesty, locked up tight.” Paulin looked nervous. “Would you have them used this night?”
“No, no, the everyday ware is fine for men fresh from the field.” Satia’s stomach chose that moment to flip. She drew a breath and gave Paulin a smile, hoping she looked more tired than sick. “Royal Steward,” she said more seriously, letting her smile fade, “before I let you go, we must speak of other matters. I would ask the status of our coffers.”
The Royal Steward bowed his head. “I fear I anticipated your question, Majesty. Your coffers are almost bare.”
Satia was practiced enough that she didn’t even flinch, though this was not what she wanted to hear.
“We are in arrears with all the tradesmen and the Guild of Mages,” Paulin continued. “I fear that soon—”
“The Guild of Mages?” Satia’s voice was sharper than she intended. “Why so?”
“For the Chained Mage,” Paulin lifted an eyebrow. “Ruinously expensive, but Queen Kara insisted.”
“A Chained Mage? Here?” Satia demanded, feeling the stirring of her Bondmaidens. “I didn’t…” All the possibilities of what she could accomplish with a Chained Mage under her control flooded into her mind.
“He is outside, awaiting your Majesty’s pleasure.” Paulin’s expression was an odd combination of anticipation and dread. “Majesty, if I might offer a word,” Paulin paused. “He is rather…difficult at times.”
“Bring him in.” Satia ignored the probably well-meant advice.
The door opened and darkness walked in. A man, tall, long black hair streaked with gray cascading down his back. His robes were black as night; the only brightness to his appearance was the glint of the silver chains that ran from neck to wrists to ankles, lose enough to allow movement, but obvious marks of what he was.
