“Also, the Red Queen has given an odd set of orders. No one, throughout the entire Palais, is allowed to light a fire in any fireplace.”
Kelsea’s mind went immediately to the handsome man who had appeared in her chamber. Given the loyalty of her Guard—and despite the mistakes of the past, Kelsea did consider that a given—there was certainly no way for a stranger to simply waltz into the Queen’s Wing. The man had departed via the fire; it seemed a reasonable assumption that he had come from the fire as well. The handsome man had mentioned the Red Queen, hadn’t he? Kelsea struggled to remember his exact words. If the Red Queen was afraid of this creature, he must be dangerous indeed.
You already knew he was dangerous, her mind mocked gently. Ten minutes of conversation and he nearly had your dress off.
“Does this mean anything to you, Lady?” Mace asked. Kelsea had not been as careful as she should have been; Mace had always had a gift for reading her face, even in the mirror.
“No. As you say, it’s odd.”
Mace watched her for another moment. When Kelsea said nothing, he moved on, but she knew that she hadn’t deceived him. “Be careful with the Holy Father, Lady. He’s nothing but trouble.”
“You can’t be concerned about violence.”
Mace opened his mouth and then closed it. “Not tonight.”
He was going to say something else. Kelsea thanked Andalie and headed for the door, Mace and Pen trailing behind her. For the past two days she had done her best to make no eye contact with Pen, and he seemed just as happy to have it so. But this state of affairs could not hold for long. Kelsea wished she could think of a way to punish Pen, to make him feel as much regret as she did. And then she realized that her appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. She was different now. The handsome man’s words about cruelty recurred: It takes only the right application of pressure to coax it out.
I’m not cruel, Kelsea insisted. But she didn’t know whom she was trying to convince.
“God’s Church holds a vast amount of sway in this kingdom, Lady, like it or not,” Mace continued as they headed down the hallway. “Watch your temper tonight.”
“Telling me to watch my temper is the first and best way to wake it up, Lazarus.”
“Well, I’ve put Father Tyler between you. At least have a care for him.”
They entered the audience chamber to find Father Tyler waiting with his usual timid smile. But tonight the smile betrayed anxiety as well, an anxiety that Kelsea read easily. Father Tyler’s two worlds were colliding, and Kelsea, who had long suspected that she saw a different man than the one who lived in the Arvath, wondered if he dreaded the evening as much as she did. She needed the resources of the Arvath now, but she didn’t like the idea of going to the Holy Father with hat in hand.
I’m not, she reminded herself. We’re here to trade.
“Hello, Father.”
“Good evening, Majesty. May I introduce His Holiness?”
Kelsea turned her attention to the new Holy Father. She had pictured an old man, shrunken and shriveled, but this man was no older than Mace. He didn’t radiate Mace’s vitality; rather, Kelsea got no impression from him at all. His features were thick and heavy, the eyes dark, opaque pits, and upon seeing her, his face remained immobile. Kelsea had never received such an impression of blank nothingness from anyone. After a few seconds, she realized that God’s mouthpiece was not going to bow; rather, he expected her to bow to him.
“Your Holiness.”
Seeing that Kelsea would not bow either, the Holy Father smiled, a functional lifting of the corners of his mouth that did nothing to change the lifelessness of his face. “Queen Kelsea.”
“Thank you for coming.” She gestured toward the enormous dining table, which had been laid out for ten people. “Have a seat.”
Two acolytes, one tall and one short, followed at the Holy Father’s elbow. The tall one had the pointed face of a weasel, and he seemed vaguely familiar to Kelsea. He was clearly the favored assistant; it was he who drew the chair out, then pushed it back in after the Holy Father had seated himself. Both acolytes stationed themselves behind the Holy Father’s chair; they would not be eating, were clearly meant to fade into the landscape, but Kelsea’s attention returned to the tall acolyte several times over the course of dinner. She had seen him before, but where?
“No guards?” she whispered to Pen as they sat down.
“The Holy Father always travels with a complement of four armed guards, Lady,” he whispered back. “But the Captain insisted they remain outside.”
Father Tyler was seated on Pen’s other side, only one seat from Kelsea. The Holy Father blinked in surprise when he took his place.
“Do you always eat with so many of your Guard, Majesty?”
“Usually.”
“Are security concerns so great?”
“Not at all. I prefer to eat with my Guard.”
“Perhaps when you begin a family, that will change.”
Kelsea narrowed her eyes as Milla began to ladle soup into her bowl. “My Guard are my family.”
“But surely, Majesty, one of your first duties is the production of an heir?”
“I have more pressing concerns right now, Your Holiness.”
“And I have many worried parishioners, Majesty. They would have both heir and spare as soon as possible. Uncertainty is bad for morale.”
“You would have me get pregnant as my mother did, then, under the table?”
“Certainly not, Majesty. We don’t preach wanton sexuality, though it’s undeniable that your mother was guilty of such. We would have you married and settled.”
Pen nudged her with his foot, and Kelsea realized that the entire table was waiting for her to begin eating. She shook her head. “Forgive me. Please start.”
Milla’s tomato soup was usually quite good, but tonight Kelsea could barely taste it. The remark about her mother had been too crude, too overt. The Holy Father was trying to goad her, but to what end? His two acolytes stood behind him, motionless, but their eyes were constantly moving, clocking the room. The entire evening already felt wrong. Father Tyler was taking careful spoonfuls of soup, but Kelsea saw that he was eating nothing, that each spoonful went right back into the bowl. Father Tyler never ate much; he was an ascetic. But now his eyes were sunken in dark pockets of flesh, as though bruised, and Kelsea wondered, again, what had happened to him.
The Holy Father hadn’t even picked up his spoon. He merely stared at his soup bowl, his eyes empty, as the others ate. This was so rude—particularly since Milla hovered anxiously ten feet from the table—that Kelsea was finally forced to ask, “Is there something else we can bring you, Your Holiness?”
“Not at all, Majesty. I simply don’t like tomato.”
Kelsea shrugged. A man who didn’t like tomato was to be more pitied than despised. She ate mechanically for a few minutes, breathing slowly in and out between spoonfuls, but she was unable to ignore the Holy Father, who seemed to be lurking in wait across the table. Since he clearly wished to make her angry, Kelsea tried to smooth her temper, a mental exercise akin to laying a velvet carpet across a field of spikes. She didn’t want to ask this old liar for help, at least not outright, not as a supplicant. But she couldn’t wait all night for an opening to come up in the conversation.
Movement over Elston’s shoulder distracted her. Her Guard had just admitted the magician, a sandy-haired man of medium build. The last time Kelsea had seen him, she had been a frightened girl riding through the city, but she had not forgotten, and at her request, Mace had tracked the magician down. His name was Bradshaw, and until now he had been strictly a street performer; an engagement at the Keep would be quite an opportunity for him. Kelsea’s attention was drawn to his fingers, which were long and clever, even in the quotidian acts of removing hat and cloak. Mace didn’t rate the magician as a particular threat to Kelsea’s person, but as always, he remained wary of all things magical, and had warned Kelsea that security might tighten in odd ways over the course of the evening.