She’d never walked onto a battlefield but as Sophie walked into the foyer of the ballroom, waiting with Cameron and Henri so they could be announced, she wondered if the uneasy mix of fear and feigned bravado and trying to remember all the things she was supposed to do was similar to what a soldier might feel taking his place in the ranks before a battle.
Cameron would know, but if any of this was at all familiar to him, he gave no sign. He seemed to be perfectly at ease, his forearm steady under her hand.
Though there were some limits to his charade. Men trained to fight, as he had been, were rarely truly relaxed, and this was not the environment to foster that. His back was poker straight, his expression somewhat watchful, as he studied the vast room before them with practiced eyes.
It was not permitted to come armed into the presence of the emperor, a fact that Cameron had not been pleased to discover when Henri had told him. If Sophie had to guess, she would say that Cam was busy identifying any objects in the room that could be used as potential weapons. Possibly those worn on the bodies of the people thronging below as well. He could probably tell her where all the exits and entrances were by now as well.
His watchfulness was more than a little comforting. Cameron always said she was more powerful than him, but she was still untrained. He might be the lesser mage, but he was far more likely to be of use during any trouble that may arise than she was.
And now here they were. Entering the fray. Where there was little way of knowing what may happen. Victory or disaster. Either seemed possible. And the latter seemed more likely. Not wanting to borrow trouble, she resolutely put that possibility out of her mind and focused back on the scene before her.
Henri had not exaggerated the numbers. The ballroom was huge, yes, but it was also heaving with people. Women in gowns every color of the rainbow and men in a similar range of hues. Perhaps the majority of the men wore black—to stand out all the better against the silver and gold and white walls, perhaps—but everywhere she looked, long coats in many other colors stretched across broad and less broad shoulders.
She supposed the mirrored panels lining the lower ten feet of the walls were intended to add to the sense of space in the room, but with so many reflections moving and shifting in them, it only increased her sense of being completely surrounded. It was all she could do not to clutch at Cameron’s arm as they moved forward. If he could pretend to be calm, so could she.
They reached the top of the long staircase that curved down to the main part of the room and paused while the servant announcing the guests boomed their names across the room. She fancied that the noise rising from below hushed slightly as the words “Scardale of Anglion” floated into the air.
Certainly there were numbers of curious upturned faces watching their descent. Henri murmured low-voiced comments, putting faces to some of the names they’d been busy memorizing since the emperor’s invitation had been delivered. Senior courtiers, mid-level nobles. They didn’t encounter anyone with a more exalted status. The length of the staircase gave her a chance to take in the entirety of the room. It sprawled off to the either side of the stairs, so large it was hard to take in.
To the right, people were dancing, pairs spinning and turning under the chandeliers. To the left, people were strolling or standing, conducting conversations or flirtations or goddess only knew what. There were low sofas and tables scattered around but far too few to accommodate all the people here. So most people gathered in small groups, the women’s fans waving against the heat so many bodies in one place were sending forth.
From their vantage point on the stairs, the heat below was palpable. The heavy red satin, already warm, suddenly felt far too weighty. Then again, even the thinnest of muslins would be too much in this room. She snapped open her own fan, trying to raise a breath of a breeze. She supposed she should be grateful that there was no fashion for wigs in Illvya. She’d worn one to a costume ball thrown by King Stefan once in high summer and had never felt so uncomfortable in any other piece of clothing in her life.
Just the memory of it made her head itch. Which was a distraction from the heat, at least.
In the distance, beyond where the courtiers were mingling, there was a sudden oasis of space. The white marble floor changed abruptly to black and gold, the pattern like a rayed sun, fanning forth from the raised dais near the very edge of the room where an unmistakable throne sat in solitary splendor. The dais was framed in gold that seemed to melt down to join the sun pattern on the floor. Between the curved lip of the dais and the edges of the black marble where the long spokes of the sun design reached their limits, two long tables stood draped in blinding white and gold linens, set with sparkling crystal and golden flatware so they glittered like the rest of the room. They were set to either side of the throne so they—and whoever might sit at them—formed a gauntlet of a kind for anyone approaching the throne to pass through. Though currently no one occupied any of the chairs.
Likewise the throne stood empty. Where was the emperor, then? Mingling with the court? She doubted it. There would be far more guards in the room if that were the case. Was he still behind the scenes, hidden away in an audience chamber somewhere attending to urgent business? Or waiting to make a grand entrance?
That seemed more feasible. Unless of course, he was the type to try to slip in to a room.
The palace itself didn’t raise her confidence in the likelihood of that possibility. It was designed to awe and overwhelm, to display the wealth and power of its occupant to the very best effect.
And to remind everyone of their place firmly beneath the feet of the emperor.
She would wager that the man did very little that would not serve to reinforce that message but she would have to wait until she met him to find out if she was right about that.
“Should we dance?” Cameron asked Henri. “Sophie and I?”
Henri pursed his lips. They’d moved forward at the end of the staircase, slowly moving through the crowd rather than deliberately aiming toward either the dance floor or the assembled throngs of gossiping nobles.
“I’m not sure,” he said finally. “It is unusual for the emperor to be absent from his ballroom.”
“So it would be bad form?”
“Not exactly. As you can see, many people are dancing. I just feel it might be prudent to await the emperor’s arrival. You don’t want him to be kept waiting if he decides to summon you.” Henri’s eyes went absent for a moment, the pale blue almost shimmering in the lights reflecting off every surface. For a moment Sophie thought there was an echoing shimmer across the black of his suit, but then it vanished.
“Perhaps we should wait,” Sophie said. There was something to be said for blending in to the crowd of dancers at the other end of the room, but there was no point trying to camouflage themselves if being extracted would only draw attention.
Cameron nodded in assent, looking enquiringly at Henri. “Maistre, we are in your hands.”
As he spoke, a liveried servant came up to them and offered a tray of drinks in tall stemmed glasses. The liquid fizzed slightly, its pale green color unlike any wine Sophie was familiar with. Henri reached for a glass
“Campenois,” he said. “From Partha.” He sipped. “Try it, it is delicious.”
Sophie reached for a glass, more to be polite than for any desire for alcohol. She touched it to her lips. The flavor was herbal and faintly sweet, the bubbles fizzing gently over her tongue. The maistre was correct. It was delicious. And would be far too easy to consume quickly. She lowered the glass and turned her attention back to the room as Henri slowly moved through the crowd, angling toward the area where the dais stood.
She was about to ask Henri to tell her who some of the people in the crowd were when a woman in a brilliant blue gown stepped into his path.
“Maistre Matin, how delightful.” She dipped her head. The weight of the sapphires and diamonds looped around her neck and wrists and hanging from her ears would have possibly sunk a small boat. Henri bowed deeply in response to her greeting. Who was this woman? Someone of high rank, surely, to earn that bow?
“Venable du Laq,” Henri said. “It is always a pleasure.”
She was a mage?
Sophie covered her surprise by offering a curtsy as well.
“Venable, may I present Lord and Lady Scardale?” Henri said as Sophie rose.
“Indeed you may,” she replied in a tone that made Sophie think that her crossing their paths hadn’t been an accident.
Her face in a carefully pleasant expression, she studied the woman. She was taller than Sophie, though not by much, her hair a mass of black and brown and red streaks. A combination Sophie hadn’t seen since the last time she’d seen Chloe de Montesse. Earth witch. Water mage. Maybe other powers. Venable du Laq was not one to be underestimated. Her face was sharply beautiful, eyes the color of sapphires studying Sophie just as intently as Sophie studied her. It was also carefully painted, making it hard to judge her age. Not old, certainly. Definitely older than Sophie herself though, to hold the rank of Venable. Perhaps more toward Chloe’s age.
“Lord and Lady Scardale, this is Venable Imogene du Laq, wife of the Duq du Laq,” Henri said.
“Your Grace,” Sophie murmured as Cameron bowed. Venable du Laq, Henri had said. Not Her Grace, or Lady—she was forgetting just now what the correct title for the wife of a duq was. Interesting. Did her rank as a venable take precedence?
“Her Grace works for the emperor,” Henri continued. “As one of the corps de sages. They are part of the Imperial Guard.”
Imperial mages? She knew they existed. But for some reason she’d assumed they would be battle mages, like the Red Guard. Was Venable du Laq also a blood mage, then? Sophie shot Henri a sideways glance. It seemed this battlefield contained more potential dangers than she had thought. “That sounds fascinating,” she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “I would love to hear more.”
Venable du Laq’s red-painted lips smiled broadly. Though it was a court-mannered smile if ever Sophie had seen one, hiding whatever true emotion she may have been feeling. The cascading diamonds and sapphires at her ears sparkled under the lights as she tilted her head slightly. “Well, aren’t you a bright one?” She gave Sophie a curiously intent look. “I should be glad to tell you of my work. Perhaps in return, you can share some knowledge of your homeland with me. One hears such curious things.”
“Oh, we’re not so interesting,” Cameron said. “I’m sure there are far odder places in the empire.” His voice was as polite as the venable’s.
“Perhaps, but those are all places I could go if I chose,” the venable returned. “Though perhaps your presence here may herald the beginning of better things between Anglion and Illvya.”
Did she know something about the emperor’s intentions toward them? Aristides seemed to have kept his views—along with his reasons for summoning Sophie and Cameron—close. Close enough to keep them from Henri’s spies at least, but this woman worked for Aristides. For his mage corps. It was hard for a ruler to keep secrets from his own guards for too long. Though Eloisa had certainly managed to hide her affair with Cameron from hers. And he’d been one of them. She’d even kept that secret from her ladies-in-waiting. Or from Sophie, at least.
Sophie cut that line of thought off before it distracted her. Cameron was hers now. Eloisa was far away. She needed to keep her attention on more immediate dangers. Like the woman in front of her. Her gut said that Imogene was not to be trifled with. And not to be trusted. But perhaps she could be useful. “I would be delighted to talk to you sometime,” she said. “I have only met some of the venables who work and study at the Academe so far. I would like to know more of you.”
The venable’s smile turned more sincerely pleased. “Excellent.” She turned her gaze to Henri. “But I think I have taken up enough of your time. The maistre is looking impatient with me.”
“With you? Never?”
Venable du Laq tilted her head. “That is kind of you to say, Maistre.”
For an instant, Sophie thought her eyes looked sad.
“And did these charming Anglions bring you any news, Maistre?” Her voice had lost a little of the polished edge it held.
Henri’s lips pressed together. Sophie thought perhaps he wasn’t going to answer the question, but then he said, “Only that she is well, Imogene.”
She? Chloe? Had this woman known her?
Had they perhaps been friends? If that had been the case, wouldn’t Henri be offering more information than merely that Chloe was well? Most likely. The only conclusion then was that he didn’t want her to know. Noted.
Before Venable du Laq could ask anything more, the servant who’d escorted them earlier pushed through the group standing nearest to them and stopped next to Henri, looking intent.
At the sight of him, the venable’s expression turned to a court mask again, that glimpse of something more human locked away. “Louis,” she said politely. “What brings you into the throng?”
The servant smiled tightly at her. “Duquesse, Maistre, good evening,” Louis said. “Lord and Lady Scardale, my Imperial Master requests your company.”
One of Venable du Laq’s dark eyebrows flickered upward briefly.
“You, too, Maistre Matin.” Louis smiled politely at Imogene. “I’m sure Her Grace will excuse you all.”
“I serve at the pleasure of the emperor,” Imogene said. “I’m sure my husband must be wondering where I have gotten to.”
Sophie almost snorted at that. From what she’d seen of the woman in this brief time, it would be a brave man who expected her to dance attendance on him as his wife. Which meant, perhaps, that they should take the man who did command her loyalty and attention even more seriously.
The venable bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Maistre. Lord and Lady Scardale. I hope we meet again.” She didn’t say anything to Louis as she turned and began to move away from them.
Headed on a path that would take her toward the area where the dais stood, Sophie noted. Imogene clearly did not intend on missing out on anything important that might be about to happen. There was also clearly not a lot of love lost between her and Louis. But that was not so uncommon. Senior servants often had to perform whatever unpleasant tasks their masters set them. In a court like this, the more unpleasant tasks would include denying access or information to the nobles and courtiers. A loyal and unbribable servant was valuable but often not well liked by those who couldn’t get around them.
This particular loyal—and presumably unbribable—servant was starting to look impatient.
“Lead on, Louis,” Henri said, and the three of them followed him as he walked through the crowd. It was somewhat easier than their earlier progress had been. The people tended to fall away, clearing a path for Louis and for the three of them following in his wake. It only confirmed Sophie’s suspicions of just how senior Louis might be amongst the emperor’s functionaries.
They walked past the dais. Sophie had half expected to see the emperor sitting there, but apparently whatever he wanted now was not business to be conducted in public. They followed Louis beyond the dais to the far end of the room where he opened a door and led them into a corridor beyond.
There were guards standing by the door on the corridor side. It seemed likely that wherever they were now within the palace was off-limits to anyone not invited.
They moved briskly down the corridor, passing several more sets of guards, which only reinforced her theory. So where exactly were they going? She tightened her fingers around Cameron’s arm. He reached over with his free hand to rest it on hers. A brief touch of reassurance. Whatever was happening, they were there together.
It was a comfort, if a small one, as her nerves, forgotten while talking to Venable du Laq, returned and multiplied with each step along the plush silk carpets.
Their final destination became clear when they reached a larger set of doors shielded by not two but six black-clad guards standing at either side of it, like a rank of well-armed ravens. Two of them moved in unison to open the doors.
The room beyond was less formal than the previous audience chamber. It was decorated in shades of pale blue and green and lacked anything resembling a throne. Which was a relief. But it also wasn’t empty. A tall, dark-haired man stood near the center of the room.
“Maistre Matin, Lord Scardale, Lady Scardale, Eleivé,” their guide intoned with a bow even deeper than that he had greeted them with at the carriage.
The man waved impatiently. “Very good, Louis. Leave us now.”
There was unmistakable command in that voice. Which left her in little doubt as to who this man was. She followed Maistre Matin’s example and curtsied as low as she could in the dress as the maistre bowed.
“Well, Henri, what have you brought me this evening?” The voice was a rich low baritone.
“Your Imperial Majesty, may I present Lord and Lady Scardale.” Henri bowed again, straightened, and then gestured Sophie and Cameron forward.
Aristides Delmar de Lucien was dressed in layers of gold-embroidered white satin, lace, and jewels, his dark hair bound back with more jewels and his hands glittering with rings. But the finery was not what commanded attention. No, that came from the sheer certain command in his clear gray eyes. Here was a man used to having his every wish fulfilled, his will obeyed, his world ordered perfectly according to his needs and wants.
And what Sophie suddenly understood as that gray gaze met hers was that, when it came to herself and Cameron, he was not yet decided what those wants and needs may be.
“Lord and Lady Scardale. Welcome. I am glad you could accept my invitation to attend tonight,” the emperor said.
His tone was pleasant, as though they had indeed had some choice in the matter, instead of being compelled by his request.
Sophie curtsied again. “Your Imperial Majesty is too kind. We had not looked for such an honor.”
“Indeed. That makes two of us. I find myself wondering what I have done to deserve the arrival of such distinguished . . . . guests on my shores,” the emperor replied.
That was a question with no immediate easy answer. Sophie rose from her curtsy and stayed silent.
“We did not intend to cause Your Imperial Majesty any trouble,” Cameron said.
Aristides tilted his head at that. A jewel swung from his ear. A single enormous black pearl, she realized with a start. She had not thought that Illvyans wore pearls.
Was this why Martius had not accompanied them into the palace? Had he remained in the carriage? Sanctii weren’t always visible, after all. She couldn’t feel the chill in the air that would have told her one was close, so she had no idea.
“Regardless of intentions, I thought we should deal in person,” the emperor said. “To keep matters simple.”
“Simple, Your Imperial Majesty?” Henri asked. Was that a slight note of alarm in his voice?
“To lay matters out,” came the cool response. “These two are not the only Anglions seeking our shores lately.”
Sophie clamped her lips together to stop the gasp that rose in her throat but the emperor must have heard something. His gaze swung back to her.
“Indeed, Lady Scardale. An unexpected honor. We received a request for a diplomatic party to be admitted to Lumia not two days after your arrival. Several days ago, that envoy—envoys—arrived. They are very concerned with your well-being, it seems.”
They? Who? Her mind was reeling. Anglion had sent people to Illvya. To . . . retrieve Cameron and her? To what end? To bear them home to safety? Or to finish the job started at the palace? She clasped her hands, worried they might start to shake.
“I have reassured them that you are unharmed,” the emperor said. “But they seemed insistent on seeing for themselves.” He smiled a little.
It wasn’t a pleasant expression. Anglion was in no position to insist that the Emperor of Illvya do anything. In fact, the country spent a good deal of its time, money, and resources on ensuring that the emperor had no influence in Anglion at all. Some limited trade occurred between the empire and the island nation, but other than that relations were cool.
The might of the empire should be able to crush Anglion, but as the Illvyan imperial forces traditionally used water magic and sanctii to quickly subdue nations they wished to conquer, they had, so far, not been successful. Anglion remained protected by the breadth of ocean between its shores and the mainland. By the vast depths of salt water the sanctii could not cross.
And yet, she was to understand that they had sent people seeking her in the face of the knowledge that all that such a mission could possibly do was focus the attention of the empire back on Anglion?
“May I ask who these envoys are, Your Imperial Majesty?” Cameron said carefully.
“As to that—”
The doors behind them were suddenly flung open. “Father!” a voice cried. “Our guests grow impatient.”
She couldn’t resist looking, though it was a breach of protocol to do so. Luckily she didn’t have to turn away from the emperor for long because the young—though perhaps not quite so young as the petulant tone suggested—man ignored the three of them completely to join his father. Crown Prince Alain, it seemed, didn’t care much for protocol either. Or to notice lesser mortals than himself.
“Alain, I asked you to wait,” Aristides said, sounding displeased.
“They are very insistent,” the prince said casually, as though he didn’t hear the rebuke clear in his father’s voice. He looked very like his father, though his eyes were a dark and impenetrable shade of brown rather than gray. But they shared the dark hair, the rangy build, and the angles of cheek and jaw and nose that framed their faces like blades.
“You are the Crown Prince of Illvya. It doesn’t matter how insistent they are,” Aristides said, his tone quelling. “But perhaps you and I will discuss that later. Shall I present you to our other guests?”
Sophie had the feeling that the crown prince knew very well who they were. And that he’d forced himself into this discussion prematurely. But if the emperor wished to behave as though this was all perfectly normal, then they had to follow his example.
“Of course,” Alain said. “I would be delighted.”
His gaze was firmly on Sophie, and she found herself suddenly wishing for a neckline that had been constructed a little less daringly as his expression warmed.
She didn’t dare look at Cameron. Punching the crown prince was not an action that would be to their advantage.
So she channeled a version of Madame Simsa’s—or maybe it was Domina Skey’s—imperious stare. The one that said you are an insect beneath my shoe and I could crush you if I was so inclined. She didn’t sense any hint of magic rising from the prince. The room, though, was well warded, making even the deep throb of the ley line that still ran beneath their feet feel muted.
“My son. Crown Prince Alain Phillipe Delmar de Lucien of Illvya,” Aristides said with a short sweep of his hands that encompassed the prince. “And this is Lord and Lady Scardale. Sophia and Cameron, as I understand it. Henri, you have met before.”
The prince’s lips drew back, revealing very white teeth. The overall effect was somewhat wolfish, though Sophie wasn’t sure if the expression was aimed at her or Henri. He clicked his heels and bowed shallowly. “The Anglions! An unexpected pleasure.”
To hide her instinct to roll her eyes at the comment, Sophie curtsied again. Cameron followed her example.
“Or should I say some of the Anglions,” the prince continued.
Sophie straightened a little faster than strictly polite at that. The prince was still smiling at her. The more she saw that smile, the less she liked it. The emperor was clearly dealing in politics, and that was to be expected. The son, however, seemed as though he would be more interested in stirring up trouble. Not a welcome trait in a man who would someday rule an empire. His father should put him to work. He was already married, but that didn’t seem to have turned him into a sober, fatherly type. So. What to do with a bored princeling? Send him to govern a distant country or two? Give him a war to fight?
Anything to take him far away from her. Hopefully her antipathy toward him didn’t show. She rarely took an instant dislike to anyone, but apparently the crown prince was an exception. Well, his father was not yet old. Only in his forties. The prince had a long wait ahead of him for any true power. And if she was wary of the son, then best to make sure that she did nothing to offend the father.
“To think we go for so long with nary a visit from your little island and then such a crowd appears at once,” the prince said, expression serious but voice amused. “I’m sure it will be a joyous reunion for you all.”
That depended entirely on who the envoys were and who had sent them. She wasn’t going to ask. It was the emperor’s information to share or not.
“Alain,” the emperor said warningly.
The prince bowed. “Father. Shall I fetch the ambassadors?”
Aristides nodded. “Yes.”
Alain smiled and left the room. Sophie tried to look calm as she stood waiting for him to return. The emperor was silent, and she could hardly question him further. Cameron moved a little closer to her, offering silent comfort.
She turned her mind to considering who Eloisa may have sent. It was difficult to know. It was difficult to believe that the queen had sent anyone at all.
The amount of meticulously cautious negotiation and compromise that had taken place in the palace at Kingswell each year when the preparations for the annual trade delegations to Illvya were being planned had been staggering.
To have a delegation decided upon, assembled, and sent in a few days was unheard of.
That she was the reason for it to occur made her more ill at ease about being in the Imperial Palace than she had been before.
When the door opened again, the sound of it startled her, even though she’d been braced for it. She turned, abandoning protocol once more, to see who accompanied the prince. Four men came in behind Alain, filing in quickly to stand to the prince’s left as he took up position by his father’s side.
She recognized all of them.
Rigby Lancefeld—Barron Deepholt—who had been one of King Stefan’s advisors and still served in that capacity to his daughter, stood closest to the emperor, leaning on the cane he always used. Next to him, Sir Harold Lenten, who had once headed King Stefan’s personal guard. He had long since retired from service, though the long jacket he wore was the distinctive shade of red worn by the Red Guard.
Beside Sir Harold, standing slightly back from the line, was a tall, thin, intense-faced younger man Sophie thought was Sevan Allowood, a courtier and distant cousin to the young Barron Nester who stood above Sophie in the line of succession.
And lastly, and most surprisingly, was James Listfold, heir to the Erl of Airlight. Cameron’s sister-in-law’s brother.
Cameron took half a step forward, then checked himself as Sophie tightened her grip on his arm.
Sophie watched as the Anglions all bowed to Aristides. She’d forgotten in her few weeks away from court life how much time one wasted in all the endless acts of deference to rank and power.
When they were done, she turned slightly to face them. Technically, given her position in the line of succession, she outranked all the men. In a situation where she wasn’t in attendance on the queen, they owed her courtesy, not the other way around.
She stared at Barron Deepholt. Who slowly, reluctantly, bowed to her. The others followed suit.
Well. That was a small victory. They still acknowledged her rank. Perhaps that was a good sign.
“These gentlemen were desirous of assuring themselves of your well-being, Lady Scardale,” the emperor said. “Quite insistent, in fact.” He spoke Anglish, his voice barely accented.
Who had taught him to speak like that? Oh, for a longer acquaintance with the emperor so that she might know what the small changes in his tone signified.
Or, for that matter, know what any of this signified. None of the four men looked particularly relieved to see her. James had smiled quickly at Cameron when they had first entered, but he was now stolidly blank-faced.
The lack of warmth did not bode well for the outcome of the meeting. She made herself wait. Better not to speak when she did not know what the right thing to say would be.
“We are grateful for their concern,” Cameron said when it was clear she wasn’t going to respond.
“Did you expect anything less from Her Majesty?” Barron Deepholt asked. His voice was deep, like his name, the rumble of it familiar. The sound of Anglish spoken by a native—something she’d heard from no one but Cameron since they’d come to Lumia—made her suddenly long for home.
These men were her chance to return. If, indeed, that was what they were truly offering.
“Well, Lord Scardale?” the barron prompted. “Did you not think Her Majesty would be keen to assure herself of the welfare of one of her own ladies-in-waiting? Not to mention a member of the succession?”
Cameron glanced at Aristides. Was he deciding how much of their story he wished the emperor to know or waiting to see if the emperor would intervene in the conversation?
But the emperor didn’t speak. Merely watched with those gray eyes that gave no clue as to what the mind behind them might be thinking.
“As we were attacked the last time we were in Her Majesty’s palace, it is difficult to form any expectation at all,” Cameron said.
Aristides’ mouth twitched fractionally. She wondered what explanation he had been offered previously by Henri—and the Anglions—about what had brought Cameron and her to his country.
Perhaps not a full one. Not that Cameron had revealed all the details yet.
“Her Majesty had nothing to do with the attack,” Barron Deepholt protested.
Cameron shrugged. “That is a matter of her word.”
The barron’s face was reddening. “As your attacker did not survive the encounter, there seems little other evidence to offer. Is the queen’s word not good enough for you, a sworn member of her guard, Lord Scardale?”
Sophie stilled. What would Cameron say to that? Would he mention that they had questioned the man before he died? That he had told a tale of being hired by a woman wearing brown and smelling of temple incense? A plausible enough tale, given the Domina’s dislike of Sophie and her lack of binding. Plausible enough to make them flee.
“Let us say that hearing her word secondhand currently presents a dilemma,” Cameron said neutrally.
Which left Sophie none the wiser about what he might be thinking. Only that he was taking a more aggressive stance with the delegation than she might have expected. He had been the one counseling caution, that they should not do anything that would endanger their ability to one day return to Anglion whilst in Illvya.
The barron squared his shoulders, bushy eyebrows drawing down. “The queen wishes you and your lady wife to return with us to Anglion.”
Sophie’s breath rushed out of her. That blunt statement contained no assurance as to what might happen once they set foot on Anglion soil, no evidence that the queen was worried about them. Just a bald expression of Eloisa’s will for them to return. But then again, Barron Deepholt had never been one to mince words.
“And what evidence do you offer that you are actually here at the queen’s behest, Barron?” Cameron asked.
Deepholt tapped his cane on the floor, which sent the long black coat he wore rippling around him. “Who else has the power to send a delegation to Illvya?”
“Be that as it may,” Cameron said. “ I would prefer to see proof that you speak for her.”
“Her Majesty can hardly travel to Illvya,” Sir Harold blurted.
Aristides raised his hand before Cameron could respond to that. “Lord Scardale, I am satisfied with the credentials the ambassadors presented me. They would not be here were I not. You may trust they come in service to your queen.”
They could. If they trusted the emperor. But that wasn’t a point they could argue. Sophie focused on the barron. “In that case, I’m sure she sent you here with messages.”
All four of the Anglions turned their gazes on her. James looked faintly approving. The others, far less so. The barron didn’t answer. She straightened her shoulders. “Did the queen send a message for me, milord? Or my husband?”
By right, it would come to her. But Eloisa and Cameron had been . . . intimate once. Sophie would once have said that she and Eloisa had been friends, too, but that was before the attack on the palace in Kingswell that killed King Stefan. Before Eloisa had been near-fatally injured. Before Sophie and Cameron had been bonded out of wedlock, Sophie unwittingly stealing the queen’s lover in the process. Even if Cameron was a man Eloisa could never have married.
Before Domina Skey’s influence over the court had expanded so rapidly.
So she knew nothing, really.
Barron Deepholt snapped his fingers toward Sevan Allowood. Sophie hadn’t noticed the leather folio the younger man held earlier. But now he extracted an envelope from it, passing it to the barron. Sophie recognized the seal. Eloisa’s. The same wave and crown device her father had used.
Seals could, of course, be forged.
The barron held the envelope out. She didn’t reach for it. After a beat, Henri stepped forward and took it, passing it to Sophie.
“The queen would find your distrust distressing, milady,” Sir Harold murmured.
“Queen Eloisa has never valued fools, Sir Harold,” Sophie replied. “She does not teach her ladies to be reckless.” And Sophie’s time at court had, on occasion, demonstrated exactly why caution was to be favored over bold action.
“You think we would snatch you from the depths of the emperor’s palace?” Barron Deepholt sputtered.
A little too indignant, perhaps. Though she didn’t think they would attempt such a blatant violation of the emperor’s hospitality, there were other things that could be passed by contact. Poisons. Or charms to make her believe what they said. Illusioner’s work. Rare, but possible.
“Perhaps now would be an opportune time to remind you all that you stand under my hospitality. And my protection. All of you,” Aristides said dryly.
A reminder that any attempt to take the Scardales by force would be ill-received? Or simply a caution for them all to maintain some semblance of civility?
Either way, she bobbed a quick curtsy of recognition at the emperor and then focused back on the seal.
Normally she would have asked Cameron for the loan of his dagger to open it. But here, he stood unarmed. Aristides, as though anticipating her lack, clicked his finger and one of the guards stepped forward, offering her a small blade.
She slid it beneath the wax, then handed it back somewhat reluctantly. A weapon would have been a comfort.
The paper she pulled from the envelope was heavy and a familiar weight and color. Sophie had penned enough notes on Eloisa’s behalf to recognize the stationery the queen used. The sea blue ink was the color she favored as well.
Sophie studied the words on the page. The hand appeared to be the queen’s. But the written words were unyieldingly formal. Stiff. They conveyed little more than what the barron had said. The queen wished for Sophie and Cameron to return to court. To be “restored to their rightful place” with all due haste.
It was no more comforting than the barron’s message, for all that it appeared to be genuine. “Rightful place” could be interpreted in a number of different ways, entirely dependent on how the queen currently viewed them.
Wordlessly, she passed the letter to Cameron, who scanned it, then refolded it without comment.
The barron held out his hand, clearly expecting Cameron to pass the letter back to him.
Sophie lifted an eyebrow. “Are you requesting to read my personal correspondence from the queen, milord?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
She smiled tightly. “Request denied.” She had the feeling if she returned the letter she might not see it again. Besides, she wanted it to be checked for anything hidden in the paper or ink. She turned to Henri. “Perhaps you could keep this safe for me, Maistre?” Taking a chance that the Anglions were unlikely to tackle an Illvyan mage.
Henri nodded and then made a small gesture in the air. Martius suddenly appeared beside him. To a man, the Anglions stumbled back before they caught themselves, staring at the sudden manifestation of their worst nightmares standing by the maistre’s side. Henri handed Martius the letter, said something in the sanctii tongue, and then the demon disappeared again.
“Really, Maistre?” the emperor murmured. Sophie couldn’t agree more. That wasn’t exactly what she had been thinking of when she’d asked Henri to take the letter.
Involving a sanctii was hardly going to make the Anglions view her with any less suspicion. But it was too late to act as though she was as shocked as the others at the sight of Martius.
“My apologies. I beg Your Imperial Majesty’s indulgence,” Henri said, bowing low.
“Most people would request permission before an act, not after,” the emperor remarked.
Henri nodded in acknowledgement as he straightened but didn’t appear to be terribly contrite.
The four Anglions still stared at the place where Martius had stood, faces pale and panicked.
“Are there any other messages?” Sophie asked. The chill Martius had left in the air was fading but still enough to make her want to shiver. She was determined not to react. Perhaps she wasn’t doing her cause any good by demonstrating she was accustomed to sanctii, but so far the Anglions had not done anything to give her any real hope that it would be safe to return home.
Maybe she was being pessimistic. Cameron might have a different view. But so far, her instincts said she was in danger. Even the presence of James Listfold seemed more likely to be a means to try and compel Cameron’s compliance than anything else.
“Barron Deepholt,” she repeated as no one replied. “Do you carry any more messages for us?”
“Th-that was a demon,” the barron stuttered.
“It was a familiaris sanctii,” Henri corrected. “They are not uncommon here.”
“But—” The barron’s expression turned from upset to appalled. “Lady Scardale, have you . . . “ He trailed off, as though unwilling to even speak the accusation.
“Lady Scardale is an earth witch,” Henri said firmly. “She knows nothing of water magic.”
The barron almost shuddered at the words. He clutched at his wrist, where he usually wore a heavy metal band studded with black pearls. It had been the fashion amongst the older men of the court. But his wrist was bare.
None of the party wore any pearls, in fact. Had they attempted to be polite? Or had they been warned not to. What, then, had they made of the emperor’s choice of jewels?
“Even so—” the barron began.
“Even so, what?” Cameron interrupted. “My wife has done no more magic here than she would have back in Anglion.”
“But she has kept company with a man who consorts with demons.”
“In my time here, I have observed little consorting of any kind,” Sophie interjected. “And demons—sanctii—are not slaughtering people in the streets. Not everything we have been taught about them is true, it seems. As you will have seen for yourselves since you arrived.”
“This is true,” James said, speaking for the first time. Sevan Allowood shot him a look of disgust.
“That does not change the fact that demons are an—” the barron started to say, but the rest of his sentence was cut short by the simple mechanism of Aristides clearing his throat. All attention turned back to the emperor.
“Gentleman, you have delivered your queen’s request. I believe it is only fitting that Lord and Lady Scardale be given time to consider their response.”
The expression on Barron Deepholt’s face made it plain that he didn’t think there was anything to consider. But he didn’t argue.
“Now, I believe I must join my ball before the entire court explodes in a fervor of curiosity about my whereabouts. We shall announce the presence of your delegation as a renewed sign of hope for improvement of relations between our two countries, and then we shall have an evening of entertainment.”
Clearly anything else was not going to be a possibility. Beside the barron, Sir Harold looked like he was going to have an apoplexy, and Sevan Allowood was still looking most unhappy. James’ face had returned to standard courtier neutrality, though he alone seemed to be focused on Sophie and Cameron rather than the emperor.
But before anyone could speak, the doors opened once more and the emperor’s guards filed back into the room.