Or perhaps, she mused, she was hopelessly lost in part of the Cathedral where she wasn’t really supposed to be.
And then she rounded a corner and came face to face with a six-legged beast the size of a small pony, and all such thoughts fled.
The creature reared up on its massive hind legs, balancing on a thick tail as it prepared to gore her with its four cruelly curving horns. Knowing she had no time to calm the creature, and that trying to outrun it would be futile, Irulan dropped into a defensive crouch and shifted, feeling the blood of her ancient wolf forebears course through her veins. Her claws thickened, lengthened, becoming like twenty razor-sharp knives that responded to her every thought. Her awareness expanded and her nostrils filled with the musky scent of her prey. She smiled and beckoned to the creature, glad to finally have a release for her building rage.
“Come on, then, you crooked ratspawn. Let’s play.”
Chapter TWO
Mol, Therendor 16, 998 YK
Be brief, as the Queen has just returned from Silvercliff Castle and her schedule is very …”
Zoden ir’Marktaros nodded at the aide’s incessant chatter as they hurried d own a long carpeted hallway, smiling and raising his eyebrows at intervals to give the appearance of attention while he rubbed at the stubble on his chin and wished again that he’d remembered to shave. He’d actually stopped listening to her some time ago when she began instructing him on the precise angle his body should make when he bowed in order not to offend her Majesty’s delicate sensibilities, exactly how far from the ground the feather on his hat should be when he doffed it, and how many seconds he should hold the pose after she invited him to rise, all based on his assessment of her mood from the fleeting glimpse he would have of her before he performed the complicated obeisance.
Moons above! She was just a woman, after all, and Zoden was quite well-versed in the arts of massaging feminine egos-and other things, as well. He certainly didn’t need some babbling halfling girl-cute as she was-tutoring him on the subject.
They reached a set of double doors flanked by guards in the old livery of Thrane, a black wyvern on a purple background, which had now become Queen Diani’s personal crest. The halfling, Chodea, stopped and turned to him. She eyed him critically for a moment, then beckoned for him to bend down. When he did, she reached out to straighten the collar of his scarlet cloak, brushed loose strands of blonde hair off his shoulder and fluffed the peacock feather sprouting from his hatband, which had, he must admit, seen better days. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close, so he could smell the thrakel spices on her breath. Her chatty voice and breezy smile had been replaced by ice.
“If you’ve listened to nothing else I’ve said, you pompous ass, then listen to this. You are about to enter the presence of royalty, the rightful ruler of this country and the woman on whose blood your family has traded for every comfort they have. You will show her the respect she is due, or you will find that the noble house of ir’Marktaros has even farther to fall.”
Without waiting for a reply, she released him, then turned and rapped hard on the door three times. It opened silently and she stood aside, allowing the chastened noble entrance to his cousin’s private audience chamber.
He noticed the dwarf first. Dzarro Silvervein, the Queen’s bodyguard. Standing just behind and to the right of a modest but ornate throne on a single-stepped dais, the silver-bearded warrior leaned on a massive dwarven waraxe while he observed Zoden with one startling blue eye. The other eye was covered by a bejeweled patch that twinkled in the light of half a dozen golden everbright lanterns. Striking though the patch was, Zoden’s practiced eye calculated its value at less than half that of the simple platinum pin that clasped the dwarf’s flowing purple cloak at his left shoulder. He wondered if the dwarf’s attire was a subtle message to those seeking audiences with-and favors from-the Queen. A gentle but pointed reminder that what such a boon appeared to be worth and its actual value might be two very different things.
To the left of the throne stood a knight with the Silver Flame blazoned across his breastplate, its argent fire incongruous in this castle that remained locked in the days of Thalin’s reign. A silver pendant hung on a thick chain about his neck, its stylized flame proclaiming the man’s faith for all to see, and the hilt of a great-sword was visible over his left shoulder. Malik Otherro, captain of the guard, paladin of the Silver Flame, and, according to rumor, the Queen’s own lover.
Then Zoden’s gaze turned to the throne, and both dwarf and paladin were forgotten.
Diani ir’Wynarn was often said to be a pale copy of her cousin, Queen Aurala of Aundair, whose long blonde tresses and steely gray eyes were the stuff of legend. If such aphorisms were true, then Aurala must be a veritable angel, for the woman who sat before him was breathtaking. Blond curls spilled over shapely shoulders and fell nearly to her waist, while eyes like Siberys shards set in alabaster studied him intently from within a perfectly-sculpted face. The soft glamerweave of her gown danced with shifting shades of purple and clung in all the right places, while a pendant of lavender mournlode sparkled provocatively from within the confines of her cleavage. Even her amused smile was lovely, formed as it was by lips the color of sun-kissed roses. Zoden was, he decided, in love.
As if sensing the bard’s thoughts, Diani let out a musical laugh. “Welcome, cousin. Though I do believe the usual greeting for one’s queen involves more bowing and less drooling.”
Mortified, Zoden dropped into a low bow, so off-kilter that he forgot to remove his feathered hat, which tumbled from his head and across the floor to land nearly at Diani’s slippered feet.
Without thinking, Zoden darted forward to grab the offending headpiece. Before his fingers could do more than brush the brim, he found himself flat on his back with a mailed foot on his chest and the blade of a waraxe resting heavily on his throat. Silvervein’s single sapphire eye blazed down at him.
Diani laughed again.
“Oh, let the poor boy up, Dzarr. He’s not even armed.”
Dzarro’s gaze didn’t flicker. “He’s a bard, my lady. This”-he pressed his axe blade harder against Zoden’s throat, and the young noble was sure he could feel blood beginning to trickle down his neck-“is his weapon.”
“Well, I hardly think he’s come all this way to sing us to death, Dzarr. Now, let him up.”
The dwarf scowled but lifted his axe and stepped back. He did not, however, offer the bard a hand up. After a quick check to make sure that he was not, in fact, bleeding, Zoden rolled over and got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. He left the Host-damned hat where it was on the floor.
Diani’s smile went a long way toward assuaging his wounded pride. “You’ll have to forgive Dzarro, cousin. He takes his job very seriously.”
Zoden nodded, trying to surreptitiously massage his neck where the dwarf’s blade had rested, sure that it must be horribly bruised from the bodyguard’s manhandling. “Of course, Your Majesty. Just as any man with such a precious charge would do.”
One blonde brow shot up at that. “Very pretty. Perhaps Dzarr was right to be concerned.” At Zoden’s flummoxed look, she laughed again. “I jest, cousin. Here, sit.”