her. This was to be an evening of formal ceremony, not of amusement. Perhaps the heat served as a reminder of that.
The private door opened, and the Second Councillor stepped out onto the dais, flushed and uncomfortable in a coat that was clearly several seasons too tight. He was followed by Yvelliane and then the young crown prince. While the Second Councillor placed himself at the foot of the dais, Yvelliane took a position behind and to the right of the queen’s chair. She nodded and the assembled company rose. Prince Laurens entered and stood by the door to offer his arm to his wife. The queen was laden down with brocade and lace and jewelry. The state crown sat heavily on her hair: beneath it, she looked pinched and gray. As Laurens led her to her chair, the court bowed. Watching under her lashes, Miraude noted that Firomelle held tightly onto Laurens, the veins in her hand too pronounced. As the company rose and resumed their places, she risked a quick glance toward the Ninth Councillor, several yards away. There was one, at least, who was already jockeying for position in anticipation of the queen’s death. Beyond him, the ambassador from Tarnaroq was smooth-faced and serene. As Miraude began to look away, one of his aides caught her eye and gave a creamy smile. Quenfrida d’Ivrinez was another one upon whom she knew Yvelliane kept a close watch. Miraude patted at the lace on her sleeve and pretended to be scanning the room for fauxpas in matters of dress. The countess of LaMarche-Retaux was wearing puce with mustard ribbons. Miraude allowed an eyebrow to rise, then turned her attention back to the dais. Yvelliane gazed out over the crowd, frowning. As Miraude watched, she looked briefly at Thiercelin and the frown lifted just slightly. Then the queen coughed, and it returned.
There was a loud knock on the central main door, and all heads turned that way. The chief steward, dressed in full livery and carrying a gilded rod, stood in the doorway and bowed. “Your Majesty, the heir to Lunedith craves admission to your presence.”
“Let him enter.” Despite her frailty, Firomelle’s voice was clear.
The steward bowed again and stood aside. “Your Majesty, Prince Kenan Orcandros of Lunedith. Ambassador Ceretic of Lunedith. Tafarin Morwenedd, deputy commander of the royal kai-rethin of Lunedith.” There was a fanfare from the corridor outside, and the Lunedithin party came into the room, Kenan at their head.
He was a slight man, with reddish-brown hair brushed smoothly back from his face and worn in an unfashionable long braid. He wore a simple gray tunic over a pale shirt, and dark trousers; his cloak was likewise gray, but trimmed in scarlet. His sole ornament was the bronze brooch holding the cloak in place. He looked younger than his twenty years: his eyes flickered across the room as though he hunted for someone or something. That was interesting. Miraude followed his glance, again under her lashes. The Tarnaroqui. Very interesting. At his right, Ambassador Ceretic beamed at the company with his usual good humor. The third man, Tafarin, looked awed. Behind her, Thiercelin shuffled his feet, and she gave him a surreptitious poke with her fan.
A handful of soldiers followed Kenan into the room, all from the queen’s household troop, their dress uniforms far more eye-catching than the somber clothes of the Lunedithin. Kenan’s own guards would be waiting downstairs: they had no place in this ceremony. While Kenan and his flankers advanced through the line of watching aristocracy, the soldiers took up positions by the doors. The room was silent, save for footfalls and the hiss of candles. If Yvelliane had not asked her to be vigilant, Miraude might almost have felt sorry for Kenan, running this gamut of intense scrutiny. He arrived at the foot of the dais and halted. At his side, the ambassador held out a letter to the Second Councillor. It was adorned with a huge seal and tied with cords of scarlet and
The private door opened, and the Second Councillor stepped out onto the dais, flushed and uncomfortable in a coat that was clearly several seasons too tight. He was followed by Yvelliane and then the young crown prince. While the Second Councillor placed himself at the foot of the dais, Yvelliane took a position behind and to the right of the queen’s chair. She nodded and the assembled company rose. Prince Laurens entered and stood by the door to offer his arm to his wife. The queen was laden down with brocade and lace and jewelry. The state crown sat heavily on her hair: beneath it, she looked pinched and gray. As Laurens led her to her chair, the court bowed. Watching under her lashes, Miraude noted that Firomelle held tightly onto Laurens, the veins in her hand too pronounced. As the company rose and resumed their places, she risked a quick glance toward the Ninth Councillor, several yards away. There was one, at least, who was already jockeying for position in anticipation of the queen’s death. Beyond him, the ambassador from Tarnaroq was smooth-faced and serene. As Miraude began to look away, one of his aides caught her eye and gave a creamy smile. Quenfrida d’Ivrinez was another one upon whom she knew Yvelliane kept a close watch. Miraude patted at the lace on her sleeve and pretended to be scanning the room for fauxpas in matters of dress. The countess of LaMarche-Retaux was wearing puce with mustard ribbons. Miraude allowed an eyebrow to rise, then turned her attention back to the dais. Yvelliane gazed out over the crowd, frowning. As Miraude watched, she looked briefly at Thiercelin and the frown lifted just slightly. Then the queen coughed, and it returned.
There was a loud knock on the central main door, and all heads turned that way. The chief steward, dressed in full livery and carrying a gilded rod, stood in the doorway and bowed. “Your Majesty, the heir to Lunedith craves admission to your presence.”
“Let him enter.” Despite her frailty, Firomelle’s voice was clear.
The steward bowed again and stood aside. “Your Majesty, Prince Kenan Orcandros of Lunedith. Ambassador Ceretic of Lunedith. Tafarin Morwenedd, deputy commander of the royal kai-rethin of Lunedith.” There was a fanfare from the corridor outside, and the Lunedithin party came into the room, Kenan at their head.
He was a slight man, with reddish-brown hair brushed smoothly back from his face and worn in an unfashionable long braid. He wore a simple gray tunic over a pale shirt, and dark trousers; his cloak was likewise gray, but trimmed in scarlet. His sole ornament was the bronze brooch holding the cloak in place. He looked younger than his twenty years: his eyes flickered across the room as though he hunted for someone or something. That was interesting. Miraude followed his glance, again under her lashes. The Tarnaroqui. Very interesting. At his right, Ambassador Ceretic beamed at the company with his usual good humor. The third man, Tafarin, looked awed. Behind her, Thiercelin shuffled his feet, and she gave him a surreptitious poke with her fan.
A handful of soldiers followed Kenan into the room, all from the queen’s household troop, their dress uniforms far more eye-catching than the somber clothes of the Lunedithin. Kenan’s own guards would be waiting downstairs: they had no place in this ceremony. While Kenan and his flankers advanced through the line of watching aristocracy, the soldiers took up positions by the doors. The room was silent, save for footfalls and the hiss of candles. If Yvelliane had not asked her to be vigilant, Miraude might almost have felt sorry for Kenan, running this gamut of intense scrutiny. He arrived at the foot of the dais and halted. At his side, the ambassador held out a letter to the Second Councillor. It was adorned with a huge seal and tied with cords of scarlet and
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