The guard who rushed ahead to announce the king is waiting at the open gate with another. A woman in a flowing white gown approaches us along a path that cuts through a rose garden. Elven, surely, by the way she carries herself, much like the ones who spent their days gossiping in the royal gardens. Behind her, a young woman follows. If her simple gray linen dress doesn’t mark her as a servant, the golden ear cuff does.
“Lady Danthrin?” Elisaf asks.
“That is correct.” Her blond hair is collected at her nape in a tidy chignon.
This is that pompous snake’s wife? And his child, I presume, taking in how her palms settle on her swollen belly. Which means they requested access to the nymphaeum on Hudem, and Zander’s father granted it. Does she know the terrible things her husband does to the mortal servants in their household?
Her piercing blue eyes skitter over our faces, lingering on mine a moment before dismissing me. She assumes I’m just another Islorian elven. Gesine’s shriveled morels must be working because she doesn’t seem to suspect she has the Ybarisan princess at her doorstep. “Will the king be arriving shortly?” Her voice is smooth with an air of snootiness.
“Indeed, he will. He had matters to attend to.”
“My lady.” She glares at Elisaf. “You will address me appropriately for my station, soldier.”
Elisaf dips his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, of course, my lady.”
I gnash my teeth. Sometimes I wish Elisaf was capable of being an asshole.
She sizes up Gesine. “You are one of the king’s priestesses?”
Gesine nods.
“I would request that you attend to me later. I would like to know how my child is faring.”
“It would be a pleasure, my lady.” Gesine’s smile is warm and genuine, and I wish she would also be less so.
“My people are preparing two rooms as we speak. That is all I can spare. The stables are to the left. Your soldiers will be crowded, but I should expect they find suitable respite there for the night.” Displeasure mars Lady Danthrin’s features as she regards the legionaries with us.
Suddenly, I regret Zander sending Abarrane off on an errand. She wouldn’t tolerate this.
Lady Danthrin’s cold stare settles on me—on my stinking, dusty clothes and boots—and I tense with anticipation of what might come out of that sour mouth.
“I will have my servants fill one of the horse’s troughs so those traveling with the king may cleanse.”
Those traveling with the king. She couldn’t say “common whore” louder.
With everything I’ve been through and all that I know of her despicable husband, my anger reaches its boiling point. Yeah, she knows damn well the kind of monster she married. “Your Highness,” I hiss.
Confusion mars her tight face.
“You will address me as Your Highness, as is appropriate for someone of my station. And I can’t wait to tell the king what you think is suitable for his future queen.” I may as well throw that title around while I still can.
All color drains from her face, her gaze flittering among faces as if searching for the truth to my claim. “I … I did not realize—”
“I will take my bath in the room you have prepared for me.” My voice is cold and hard. I nudge Elisaf with my hand on his back.
“My lady.” He leads us along the drive. Only when we’re halfway to the stables does he whisper, “You do choose odd times to wield that title, Your Highness.”
The sheer curtain at the window provides ample cover for spying on the warriors as I drag a comb through my freshly washed hair. Lady Danthrin transformed into an exemplary host after her humiliating introduction. By the time a servant led us here—a large guest bedroom with an enormous four-poster bed draped in velvet—warm towels and robes had been laid out and a copper tub was already half full, a steady line of gangly mortals rushing up the stairs with buckets of water. They’ve returned twice, delivering platters of food and pitchers of wine.
Most legionaries have made their way back to the stables and are either cleaning up in the water trough or settling on hay bales to rest, their laughter carrying into the otherwise quiet evening. Three tributaries huddle in a corner behind an elven man, the torchlight glinting off their gold ear cuffs. I assume the Islorian is their keeper, his clothing fashioned from fine cloth that doesn’t hint of the poverty I saw entering town, his hair pulled into a ponytail to highlight the severe cut of his cheekbones. His scowl says he’s complying with Zander’s demand, but he’s not happy. Or maybe it’s about being made to wait, given how he keeps tapping his foot and looking around. No one seems in a rush to take advantage of his donations.
What of these tributaries, though? What do they think of being passed over to a group of fierce warriors?
“Do you think any of those vials have made it here yet?”
“I think not, but I will test the tributaries before they feed, just to be sure.”
“You can do that?” I can’t help but steal a glance at the priestess, submerged in her freshly drawn bath, scrubbing a dried patch of dirt from her elbow. A simple beige linen dress hangs by the door for her, delivered by Zorya, along with riding pants and a fresh tunic for me. Danthrin’s servants are busy scrubbing the smell of sewage from our other clothes. A futile effort, I’m afraid.