Everywhere she looked there were women. Women selling other women fruit from a ramshackle stand, women juggling for coin, women shuffling snot-laden children out of Tower Servitude, women guiding horses to the stables, women begging for an audience with the king. It was an echo of what she saw each day as she made her way through the cold gray streets of the city. The only men to be seen were members of the City Watch or Palace Guard, the lowborn criminals whose torment of the city heightened with each passing day, those too old to be conscripted into Karak’s Army or rich enough to buy themselves out of service.
The great door to Tower Honor was held open, and Pulo led her down the long corridor. The air was warm, and Laurel’s boots sunk into the plush carpet as she walked. She wished she could strip off her hardened leather waders and curl her toes in the carpet’s fibers. Comfort and warmth had become fleeting concepts over the last six months. They’d been replaced by the monotony of her daily treks to the castle to fulfill her duties as a member of the Council of Twelve, a collection of individuals from the various districts and townships within Neldar whose purpose was to advise King Eldrich. Laurel was the only female member of the Council, and by far the youngest. Her mother had given birth to fourteen children, seven of whom-all boys-had died before reaching the end of their first year. The only male child who grew to adulthood had perished two years earlier, when starving peasants fell on her family’s granaries with torches and pitchforks, demanding to be fed during an extended drought. Because she was the oldest surviving child and her father, Cornwall Lawrence, was suffering from the final stages of the Wasting, Laurel had been chosen to act as the court representative for her father’s sprawling settlement of Omnmount.
It wasn’t an easy task, truth be told. Even when she had the confidence to speak, her voice was rarely heard. Most of the men of the Council, when they weren’t ignoring her, levied her with disapproving glances. She tried to tell herself it was because she was young, but she knew better. Soleh Mori’s words often seeped into her thoughts: “Men hold tight to the power they think they wield, but it is those who linger behind the curtain who hold the true power.” The strongest reaction she had ever received was when she’d attended court in a firming corset and low-slung satin chemise. How their eyes had bulged then, and when she offered advice to the Council that day, saying that an extra tax should be levied against the farms in the southern agricultural belt, those owned by her own family, in light of the grain shortages caused by the brutal winter in the north, the motion had actually been put to a vote. It hadn’t passed, losing seven to five, but at least she’d been heard.
Since then, she had taken to flaunting seductive outfits whenever she entered court. It shamed her more than a little, but Laurel was nothing if not practical. Should she need to use her youthful beauty to accomplish her duties, so be it.
The doors to the throne room were opened by the guards, and Pulo led her inside. The walls of the cavernous chamber were polished stone the color of rust. Enormous tapestries and banners hung from them, with the sigil of the royal Vaelor house-two swords crossed over a shield adorned with the image of Karak’s roaring lion-dominating all others.
Two men she knew well stood before the dais supporting the ivory throne rimmed with curved grayhorn tusks. One was the man who had sent for her, Guster Halfhorn. The senior member of the Council of Twelve, Guster was a withered old man approaching eighty, with a wattled neck and brown eyes whitened by cataracts. The other man was Dirk Coldmine, representative of the lower Neldar townships. He was burly, with a thick black beard, and he wore his natty woolen doublet as if it were a suit rimmed with gold. Both raised a hand in greeting, and Guster’s pale lips lifted into a smile. Uncertainty and nerves sent dark thoughts spiking through Laurel’s mind. She didn’t know why court had been canceled earlier that day, nor did she understand why Guster had been so adamant that she arrive just as the rest of the castle was emptying out. They know of my sympathy for the minister’s plight.…Perhaps they think me a harlot and betrayer? She wrapped her arms over her breasts self-consciously and cast a fleeting glance behind her, fearing she would see a representative of the Sisters of the Cloth.
Captain Jenatt presented her to the two Council members, knelt to kiss her hand, and then left the throne room. The clank of his armor sounded impossibly loud to Laurel as she stood before Guster and Dirk, her arms still wrapped around herself protectively. She tried to say something, but worry formed a lump in the back of her throat that made it impossible to form words.
“I’m sure you are wondering why I called you here at this hour,” Guster said, his tone deep, throaty, and heavy with knowledge, befitting one who had lived so long.
Laurel cleared her throat, found her voice. “I am quite curious,” she replied.
The old man patted her on the shoulder, his gaze never leaving hers, even as her arms dropped to her sides. The same could not be said for Dirk Coldmine, whose eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts over her emerald-green bodice.
“There will be answers soon, my dear,” Guster said. “But first, I wish to set your mind at ease. You are safe here and always will be. Please, let us go to the Council chamber.”
With those words, Dirk offered Guster his shoulder and helped the older man scale the four broad steps onto the dais. Laurel trailed them, taking the familiar path around the massive throne, toward the door leading to the Council chamber. The vestibule was cold as ever, a stark contrast to the warmth of the rest of the tower.
They entered a room of rough gray stone to find Karl Dogon, the king’s bodyguard, awaiting them. He lingered off to the side of the large table at which the council held their debates, the twelve wooden chairs-now empty-dwarfed by the king’s tall mahogany one. Dogon’s deep-set eyes stared blankly from his rectangular head at the visitors. He nodded to them, inviting them to sit, which they did, taking the chairs closest to the king’s. Dogon then disappeared through the side entrance.
The three sat in uncomfortable silence for what felt like an hour, before footfalls pounded down the stairs on the other side of the door. Dogon re-entered, and then King Eldrich Vaelor appeared behind him. Laurel hastily rose from her seat in respect, as did Guster and Dirk. She held her breath as she took in the fact that the king was dressed in a modest, white, cotton tunic and breeches, not his usual lavish royal garb. She had always known him to be a gaunt man, but without the added layers of clothing, he seemed almost sickly. He wore his thirty-eight years as if they had been a burden, his eyes rimmed with black circles above sallow cheeks. He had never been an attractive man, yet there had been something about his offbeat demeanor that Laurel had found appealing. That seemed to have disappeared, leaving a wan, despondent creature in its wake.
The king motioned for his guests to sit. Laurel’s heart beat so fast and loud, she feared the others would hear it in the insufferable silence.
King Eldrich sighed, and then leaned back in his chair, propping his elbow on the armrest so he could cup his bony chin in his palm. “First, the lesser business,” he said. The thin man’s eyes darted to his bodyguard, who stood sentry at the side of the table, and Dogon produced a folded piece of parchment from the sack hanging on his hip.
“What is this about, your Grace?” Guster asked when Dogon handed him the paper.