Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Leesha was left alone in the carriage for the rest of the journey. Wonda sat up in front, watching all around for signs of threat. She’d blamed herself for the ambush on Leesha, and hadn’t let Leesha out of her sight for more than a privy visit since. Even then, she waited only steps away. Close enough to hear things best kept private.

A weight seemed to descend on the carriage as Leesha was left alone with her thoughts for the first time in days. She used to need time alone like others needed water, but lately it led her to dark places.

Arlen, it seemed, had truly abandoned her. Jardir was gone, and Thamos would never be hers. The demons and Inevera wanted her dead, and soon enough, the Duchess Mum would likely want the same.

It was a relief to finally see the duke’s palace up ahead. Had it only been six months since her last visit? The whole world had changed. As she took Wonda’s hand and descended the steps of her coach, back arched with dignity in her best traveling gown, she felt the weight on her shoulders ease in the midday sun. Araine was not one to waste time with idle words. Whatever was coming, they would have it out before the sun was set, and that was for the best.

First Minister Janson was waiting for them in the courtyard with his son Pawl. It would be unseemly for the Royals to wait outside. He bowed at Thamos’ approach.

“Highness, it is good to see you again.”

Thamos clapped him on the shoulder. “And you, my friend.”

“I trust your journey was uneventful?” Janson asked.

“Hardly,” Thamos said. “Demon attacks on the road, and your nephew has left a black mark on the throne’s reputation.”

“Night, what has that idiot boy done now?” Janson grumbled.

“Later,” Thamos said. “I know you wanted a chance for him as herald, but he may be better suited to the opera house than diplomacy.”

Janson’s nostrils flared, but he nodded, turning to Leesha with another bow.

“It is good to see you looking well, mistress,” he said, glancing meaningfully at her belly. “Her Grace invites you and your bodyguard to afternoon tea, once you’ve settled and had a chance to refresh yourselves.”

Rojer eyed Janson warily as he and his wives approached, wondering, not for the first time, just how well the man knew his nephew. Ill fortune was common amongst the minister’s enemies as well. What Jasin had done might not surprise the man, or turn him from his kin, but it was likely he knew only that Jasin and Arrick had been old rivals.

The first minister’s eyes were unreadable as he gave a shallow bow. “Master Halfgrip. Fortune has smiled upon you since our last visit.” He turned to Amanvah, bowing much deeper. “Highness. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. I am First Minister Janson. Please allow me to welcome you to Angiers. Her Grace the Duchess Mum invites you to sup with her tonight at the royal table.”

Amanvah gave a shallow bow in return. “I am honored, Minister. I had thought good manners lacking in the green lands, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Janson smiled. “Apologies, Princess, if you have been treated with anything less than the respect you are due. Please call upon me if there is anything you need during your stay.”

The first minister escorted them quickly inside, signaling servants to lead them to their chambers. They were barely through the great hall when Rhinebeck appeared, his younger brothers Prince Mickael and Shepherd Pether flanking him a step behind, all three so alike in size and manner, and so different from Thamos, many years their junior.

“Thamos!” Rhinebeck boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. He caught his brother in a great bear hug. He kept an arm around Thamos’ shoulders as he turned to punch Gared on the arm. “And you. Last time you were here it was captain. Look at you now! Baron general!”

“Mother is nearly giddy with the thought of finding you a bride,” Mickael said. “The Baron’s Ball is all anyone around the palace has talked about for weeks.”

“And so wise men are getting out of the palace while we can,” Pether said.

Rhinebeck tightened his arm around Thamos’ neck, forcing his littlest brother to stoop under it. “We’re off to the hunting fort on the morrow. You and your new baron will have to come.”

Thamos frowned, caught between family and duty. “Brother, there are important matters …”

Rhinebeck waved the words away. “Matters best discussed away from prying ears.” He gave a slight nod of his head to one of the servants moving about the hall, this one in Milnese livery. Euchor already had a presence at court, it seemed.

The duke turned to Gared. “What say you, Baron?”

Gared rubbed the back of his neck, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Never been too good at huntin’ …”

“It’s true,” Rojer stepped in. “Your new baron is better suited to knocking trees over than tiptoeing around them.”

Rhinebeck’s guffaw was a raw gasping sound. The man was overweight, and his lungs strained. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Mickael. “That’s no problem. My brother couldn’t hit a tree in the middle of the forest.” Mickael glared at his back as he went on. “There will be ale as well, and food.” He winked. “And a few pretty things to look at.”

“You’re not married yet,” Shepherd Pether noted.

“Bring your Jongleur as well!” Mickael cried. “We’ll see if he can truly charm the pants from a demon!”

“I can’t,” Rojer admitted. “At least, I’ve never had opportunity to try. Getting the pants on them is difficult, you see.”

All the men laughed at that. In true Angierian fashion, the Royals spoke as if the women were not present, though they eyed them openly enough. Amanvah and Sikvah waited with patient silence two steps back. Krasian women must be used to this sort of thing, but Kendall, a step behind them, looked less tolerant.

“We’ll be glad to go,” Thamos said, though he did not sound glad at all.

“Leesha, welcome,” Duchess Araine said, rising from her tea table as Leesha and Wonda arrived in the women’s wing of the palace.

The woman even embraced her, and Leesha found herself savoring it. She had great regard for the Duchess Mum, and more than a little fear of becoming her enemy.

“And Wonda,” Araine said, turning to the big woman and offering her jeweled hand for her to kiss.

Wonda had been practicing her etiquette since their last meeting, and while she still chose the wrong fork as often as the right, she was smooth and graceful as she dropped to one knee and pressed her lips to Araine’s fingers. “Y’Grace.”

“Wearing some of the clothes I sent,” Araine noted. “Stand up and let me have a look at you.” Wonda complied, and the duchess circled her appraisingly. Her pants were loose from waist to knee, giving the appearance of a skirt, but fading to close cuffs that tucked into a pair of thick but flexible leather boots. Her blouse, too, was loose over her broad chest and thick arms, giving a soft look to limbs that could snap most men in half. Bracers kept the sleeves out of her way, protecting the silk—and her arm—from the snap of her bowstring. “My seamstress outdid herself. Elegant, yet practical. You can fight in these, yes?”

Wonda nodded. “Ent never felt so fine, but I move like I’m naked.”

Araine looked at her, and Wonda blushed furiously. “Sorry, Y’Grace. Din’t mean …”

Araine whisked a hand. “For what, girl? An apt metaphor? You’ll have to do far worse to offend me.”

“What’s a metta for?” Wonda asked, but the duchess only smiled, running her fingertips over the delicate wardwork stitched in thread-of-gold on Wonda’s fine wool jacket.

It was an Angierian officer’s jacket with a distinctly feminine cut, but instead of the emblem of the Wooden Soldiers, this one had held Araine’s personal crest, a wooden crown set over an embroidery hoop.