Firebrand

TEA WITH THE PRINCE

“Are you sure you are up to this?” Connly asked.

Laren sighed. “It doesn’t matter if I’m up to it or not.”

They walked slowly toward the west wing, the Weapon Willis escorting them. More guards than ever stood sentry along the walls. The castle was on full alert, and ever since the ousting of the aureas slee, Laren had been guarded and trailed by a Weapon. She was certain it had little to do with her own safety, but with the queen’s. They wanted to make sure that all who came in direct contact with the queen were not replaced by the changeling elemental as Zachary had been.

Zachary, Zachary, where are you? For all her knocks and injuries, the re-dislocated shoulder, it was her heart that hurt most of all, for she knew not whether he lived or was dead.

Her progress through the castle was painstaking. How she hadn’t been killed by the aureas slee, she did not know. Somehow she had avoided broken bones. She’d bumped her poor skull, of course, but she was alive. After the queen had been seen to, Vanlynn ordered Ben to heal her, but in increments so he did not exhaust himself, should the queen need him. For Laren, he’d first taken care of her head, but it was the shoulder he would work on over time. Despite the healing help, she was stiff and exhausted, and she’d been doing poorly enough that Gresia excused her from arms training. For the time being.

When they reached the entrance to the royal wing, they halted. The way was blocked by four Weapons, two of whom were unfamiliar enough that they were likely tomb guards.

“I guess this is where we part,” Connly said. “If you need anything at all, if you get tired, send for me.”

“Thank you, Connly, I will.”

The Weapons permitted her entrance, Willis still trailing her, and she made her way down the corridor and then to a flight of stairs. She halted and gazed at all the climbing she’d have to do.

“Do you require assistance, Captain?” Willis asked.

She was tempted to ask him to carry her, but pride and the ridiculous image of herself being thrown over one of his broad shoulders overcame her exhaustion. “No, thank you. I’ll manage.”

It seemed to take hours to climb the stairs. When she paused on the top landing, she found the corridor blackened by more Weapons than she had ever seen assembled in one place before. They all looked angry and bristling for a fight, and she found herself relieved to be escorted by one of their brethren so she would not be mistaken for an enemy. They were, she knew, taking the disappearance of their king, and the impersonation of him by the aureas slee, very personally, and had no real way of venting their fury. No one had any idea where Zachary had been spirited to, if he was alive, or where to even begin searching. Someone had suggested going to Eletia to find out if they knew how to reach the slee’s domain, but entering Eletia was a problem in itself. No mortal had found a way in for hundreds of years, except Karigan, and even then by means improbable—if not impossible—to duplicate.

There were more Weapons in Estora’s apartments. She could feel their intensity as a physical thing. Estora was not on her sofa in the sitting room as had been customary, the burned one having been replaced. Laren was led all the way back to the bed chamber. There she found yet more Weapons, and Estora in bed propped against pillows. She spoke quietly with a moon priest.

“May the blessed ones be with you,” the man said, and he made the sign of the crescent moon. “I will make offerings in the king’s name during tonight’s rituals.”

Laren wondered what Zachary would think of that. Following the Clan Wars, his Hillander predecessors had removed the influence of the moon priests as far away from the throne as possible, and limited their powers in other ways, an arrangement Zachary embraced. He did celebrate high days and attended chapel, but he sought no counsel from priests in matters of state, or anything else as far as she knew.

Was that what Estora was doing? Ignoring two hundred years of tradition and seeking counsel? Laren chided herself for jumping to conclusions, recalling where Estora came from. The east coast of Sacoridia tended to be more traditional, parochial. It would be natural for her to seek succor from a priest, under the circumstances.

“Blessings to you, as well, Prime Brynston.”

The luin prime? Laren gave the priest a second look as he bowed to Estora, and she kissed his ring. Laren had heard a new priest had recently ascended to prime and been installed in the Sacor City chapel of the moon. He was relatively young, in his late twenties, perhaps, and not difficult to look upon. As he left Estora’s bedside, his long ivory robes of silk flowed silently behind him. She watched after him as he exited the chamber and a Weapon closed the door.

“Captain,” Estora said, “I am so glad you have come, but may I say you look . . . unwell? Please sit and rest.”

Laren bowed. A chair was brought forward and she dropped into it with relief. Estora looked healthy, her cheeks rosy, and she, like the Weapons, emanated energy. Not bad for a woman in her gravid condition whose husband had gone missing, and with a kingdom to run.

“I believe the bed rest is unnecessary,” Estora continued, “but Vanlynn insists. I am fine. My children are fine.”

Laren, who wouldn’t have minded trading her the chair for the bed, replied, “I have found it easiest to acquiesce to that woman’s demands, my lady. I’ve had enough experience of late to know better.” She rubbed her shoulder.

Estora’s expression softened. “Yes, for all that we know, Vanlynn is in charge around here. I am, however, glad she has been looking after you.”