Siren's Fury (14 page)
I look back at Myles, who flicks a glance toward Rasha. She’s still busy with her Cashlin entourage. “Are you wanting Her Royal Princess to know your plansss?” he asks casually. “I’m merely wondering how long you think it’ll take her to home in on them with you acting like a skittish bolcrane cub.”
I purse my lips and inhale because he has a point.
Fine.
“But we go as soon as it’s done.”
Flanked by a squadron of Bron soldiers and most of our Faelen guards, we head down a series of metal corridors, each one lit by lanterns with a tiny flame contained in some type of thick glass that give off a surprising amount of light and no smoke. Like the lanterns on the airship.
I’m just contemplating how to pull Sir Gowon aside to give him Eogan’s message—
What was it? Elegy 96?
—and ask for his help, when Rasha says behind me, “Does this mean you weren’t in love with my dresses I picked out for you?” She sidles up with a pouty smile.
I try not to even think anything of Myles or Eogan in case that’s the way her Luminescent ability might work. Clearing my throat, I eye the traditional Cashlin silk skirt and midstomach blouse cutting nicely on her voluptuous frame. She’s even wearing the wraparound
shawl I’ve seen her in on official occasions. “They were missing some of their parts. But I think they’re lovely. Especially on you.”
“Funny. But flattery won’t get you off the hook next time. Fair warning.”
I grin despite my nervousness.
Distract her
.
Keep her talking.
“Did you see their water closets?”
Her eyes grow as large as wasp’s eggs and she nods. “The water’s even warm!”
“I know. So are the walls.”
“One of my men said they built the palace with pipes in the walls so they can pump heated water through them.”
I lift a brow.
That’s brilliant actually.
If Eogan were himself, I’d . . .
I swallow and shift my thoughts to the floor in front of us.
Myles brushes against me as he leans over. “Allow me to commend you ladies for the fact that, of all things right now, you’re talking about the water closetsss. Seems to me your time would be better spent discussing what this evening might hold for your necksss—”
His voice breaks off as Rasha and I both snicker, and Sir Gowon stops at a giant copper door. Rasha jabs Myles in the stomach. “Perhaps. But I would’ve thought you, of all people, would’ve been most impressed with those closets.”
“Ah, here we are, ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Gowon says.
In unison, the Bron soldiers retreat two paces, and the large one who searched me earlier steps forward. Slowly, he opens the door.
T
HE ROOM IS EMPTY.
Which makes the squeak of the metal that much louder as it’s pulled shut behind us. It echoes in the enormous space that’s lined with row upon row of tables leading up to a platform on which sits the king’s table at the far end. Hanging from the ceiling along the center aisle droop more of those enclosed lanterns, blanketing the entire place in light and exaggerating the walls we’re all staring at. They’re covered from top to bottom in maps showing all five kingdoms of the Hidden Lands. And they’re uncomfortably detailed.
If my nerves were on edge before, they’re close to unraveling now.
“Such curious decor,” Lady Gwen says in a small voice.
“A tad thick on the world domination side if you ask me,” I mutter.
Myles chuckles and Lord Wellimton utters something akin to a gasp. “Young lady, I’ll ask you to keep hold of your manners—what few you have—so as not to ruin the greatest negotiation opportunity between the two nations.”
I shut my mouth as Rasha asks Sir Gowon, “Where is everyone?”
He doesn’t answer. Just smiles tightly and walks us down the center aisle between the rows of stark, smooth-lined metal tables and handcrafted silver seats to those nearest the head table.
With his hand, he indicates chair assignments for each of us. “Please sit.”
Lord Wellimton slides into a seat closest to the king’s table while Rasha stares hard at our host. The other delegates stand awkwardly with expressions probably mimicking my own.
Be seated for what?
My nerves go from taut to churning knots. I should say something to Sir Gowon. I should tell him now what Eogan said. But my feet are rooted to the cool floor.
“Sir Gowon, will others be joining us soon?” Lady Gwen’s tone wavers.
“They’ll be along shortly.”
Rasha releases her stare on the old man and tips her head at us. “From what I can tell it’s fine.”
It doesn’t ease the tension, but I follow her example and take my assigned spot next to her, all the while studying Sir Gowon and attempting to find the right words to say. Because somehow “Oh, by the way, Eogan has become Draewulf” doesn’t have quite the air of authority it needs.
After a moment, Lady Gwen sits next to me, then Lord Percival, with Myles stealing the end closest the door. Our Faelen and Cashlin bodyguards take up watch against the wall with a heightened air among them.
“I’m sure this is normal,” Lady Gwen murmurs in my direction. “I mean, I’m sure seating their guests before anyone else is merely part of their culture.”
I force a smile. “I’m sure it is.”
Her responding grin is grateful. “That’s what I thought. I doubt they’d invite us here just to, well, I’m certain this is the decor they were stuck with on such short notice of us coming here.”
“I’m sure it was.”
She nods, but after a second she says, “Although, would you mind asking Princess Rasha if her Luminescent abilities are picking up on anything?”
Rasha bends in front of me to pat Gwen’s hand. “You have nothing to fear, Lady Gwen. It will all be fine.”
“Of course, I knew that. But still, it’s good to know. However . . .” She looks back to me. “If anything was to go wrong . . .” She smiles and peers up at my white hair and at my blue eyes, as if comforting herself with the fact that she and the other delegates have brought security with them.
“Lord Percival,” I say, to distract her. “What would your wife say to all this?”
He frowns. “My wife? She’d be thrilled with the warm water and demand we hire their decorator.” His forehead creases in a manner that makes me think he’s rather glad she’s
not
here. I smirk.
He turns to Lady Gwen. “Of course if anything went wrong, Nym would take care of things. But nothing’s going to happen. We’ll be fine.”
My shoulders harden. I glance away, fidgeting under the weight of their gazes that feels like an ill-fitting coat. I slide my hand beneath the table to feel out both knives on my ankles.
How long is this banquet going to last?
“Please just tell me this isn’t going to be a trial and execution.” Lady Gwen is praying.
Princess Rasha’s brown locks catch the light when she tips her
head as if to reply but stops as her gaze stalls on me. As if trying to assess something. I promptly dip my head away.
Kracken.
I’m saved by a set of double doors bursting open at the far end of the room, and men and women and children come filing in, their voices low. My fingers slip from my knives as a gasp escapes Rasha’s lips.
They’re dressed beautifully, if not austerely, in black, silver, or red suits that wrap around their bodies like second skin and appear to be made of stretching material. The clothing hugs the men’s broad shoulders and etched waistlines and the women’s curved hips and chests. Each outfit is decorated differently, with metal loops and symbols here, and silver fabric plumes woven there. Nothing extravagant like Adora’s wardrobe, but elegant in their total simplicity.
“How lovely,” Rasha breathes, pointing discreetly to the ladies’ hair, which is pulled back from their foreheads and twisted into various knots that curve and swirl in intricate patterns.
I nod. The designs are stunning and regal, especially set off by the men’s short-cropped hair. I wonder if Eogan’s longer hair and jagged bangs were a sign of independence during his four years away or simply his effort to keep from being recognized as Odion’s twin. Not that anyone in Faelen had ever seen Odion. I recall Eogan telling me once that his brother preferred hiding behind Bron’s generals and war rooms rather than showing up on the battlefield or negotiation chamber.
Until the battle at the Keep apparently.
Lord Percival makes a sound in his throat, drawing my gaze up to discover that the people are openly staring at us, taking their seats at the rows of tables. I look for intention in their expressions but am met by stony reserve.
“Anyone got a splash of hard ale?” Myles says.
“Will you please shut up?” Lord Wellimton snarls.
The doors near our end of the map-covered room open and my chest first leaps, then crashes as Draewulf-posing-as-Eogan steps in, flanked by guards on each side and an assortment of other eminent-looking people. Generals by the looks of their red surcoats. As they get closer, I recognize two of them as among the Bron generals who spoke to Eogan at the Keep. After he’d been taken over already by Draewulf . . . I narrow my eyes and switch my focus to searching him for any sign that he’s absorbed more of his host’s body.
Not that I can tell.
Draewulf’s gaze flicks around the room with something akin to boredom as he steps into position at his table and the crowd falls silent. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Assembly, thank you for joining us this evening.” His voice rings out clear and rich and so normal that, for a second, my hopes rise.
Sir Gowon hobbles over to whisper at him. Draewulf nods and replies before turning to bestow the biggest, falsest smile on us. My wish flails.
“May the festivities commence,” he declares.
A ripple of cheering goes through the room, but it’s dull, muted. I peek around to find most of the adult Assembly watching him as Draewulf takes a seat and his entourage follows suit.
The citizens pick up their talking and hardly glance back when the double doors open again and a host of young boys stride in carrying silver trays covered in various foods that make my mouth water and my anxious stomach twist at the savory smell.
The large platters are placed two to a table beginning with Eogan’s, followed by ours, and then on down the rows. I watch Sir Gowon for a minute before turning to eye the people across from us dipping the chewy bread substance into bowls of black porridge. I
force myself to follow suit if only not to draw the attention of Rasha, whose red-lit gaze hasn’t stopped darting around the room since the Assembly walked in. How hard must it be to single out individual intentions amid a sea of noise and moods and heartpulses.
Next come trays of drinks, most of which are foaming and smell fermented. I stick with a simple tin cup of water and try an assortment of thin food ribbons that taste like rabbit cheese.
“It’s good,” Lord Wellimton grunts, and suddenly the other delegates are agreeing and the tension among them easing. Soon they’re chatting with each other while furtively sizing up the Bron citizens.
“How young some of the boys are,” Lady Gwen says.
Lord Wellimton leans over and nods as if approving. “Sir Gowon said they train them starting at age five. Smart and economical.”
If any of the Bron people overhear us, they give no evidence of caring. Although I notice with the continued partaking of the food and drink, the Assembly’s reserved expressions begin to slip a bit, revealing what appears to be a genuine affection for each other and an enhanced coolness toward us. A few times I even catch some of them looking my direction with what I swear is outright resentment. And when a group of younger boys takes up pointing at me, it’s with traces of malice in their gazes.
I keep my expression clear and sift quickly through them for Kel, but he’s not there. Then go back to my food.
How can I blame them?
Another ten, fifteen, twenty minutes slide by before Rasha tips toward my ear. “I believe I’ve focused in on a few members who might hold information we can use, if I can get them in a quieter room. Those generals surrounding Eogan have been here for years, and if he dies they will send this land into a civil war in their fight to succeed him. One of them being Sir Gowon.”
My hand pauses holding a spoonful of food halfway between my plate and mouth. “Sir Gowon wants Eogan’s throne?”
“No, but from what I saw in him when we first arrived, his commitment is even stronger to Bron than who sits on its throne. If Eogan dies, he’s willing to do what needs to be done to keep order. However, seeing as he’s known Eogan and served this kingdom since Eogan’s childhood, I believe he can be valuable to us.”
I don’t look at her. Instead I flutter a glance at Eogan, who’s immersed in conversation with the generals at his table, and hesitate before asking, “Valuable regarding saving Eogan?”
She frowns in confusion. “No. Helpful regarding knowledge of Draewulf’s plans in the past as well as any old agreements Bron made with him,” she says slowly, staring at me. Abruptly her eyes flare faintly, but we’re interrupted by two Cashlin guards slipping up behind us. One bends down to whisper in Rasha’s ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but her countenance falls. She pushes back from the table with a hurried, “Excuse me, I have to go,” tossed in Wellimton’s direction. She turns me a worried glare, which she extends over to Myles, before being hustled from the room by her men.
I rise to go after her, but the expressions of both the Bron and Faelen guards make it clear I’m to stay. “It’s a private matter, miss,” one of them says.
Private. Yet he looks worried too.
I purse my lips and turn back, only to notice a number of the boys openly glaring at me. I smile at them, which seems to rattle their gazes until suddenly they’re looking to the king’s table where Eogan-who-is-Draewulf is standing and clanking his metal goblet against his plate.
“My Bron family and Faelen friends, I trust you have enjoyed your feast as richly as I have.”
There’s that muted cheer again.
“I’d like to believe that the flavors and generosity with which our feast was prepared tonight will be a foretaste of the conversations that lie ahead. During the past week I’ve spent in Faelen, King Sedric and I developed and signed a peace treaty. At tomorrow’s meetings we will talk in greater detail about the specific policies and requirements surrounding that treaty. However, for now, let us continue to celebrate by way of traditional Bron entertainment!”