Chapter 33 Mother #2
I dig my heels in, shaking my head. “I need another dress.”
“Too late. He’ll behead someone any moment,” Arvi says, eyes flashing behind the spectacles. “If you don’t come, innocent people will suffer.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room. I desperately try to keep up as he leads me through narrow, tall corridors, finally throwing open a black door.
He pushes me inside. Magnar sits behind an enormous desk piled high with papers, his mien thunderous, shoulders rigid. When he looks up, his expression doesn’t change. He neither blinks, nor says a word.
He only stares.
“He’s not beheading people,” I whisper, inching closer to Arvi when Magnar’s expression remains stony, mouth flat. “Let’s go.”
“Sit down and wait for breakfast,” Arvi hisses, forcing me into a wide, tall armchair by the empty fireplace. He moves over to the door, where he pulls a rope that probably has a chain attached at the other end, then retreats into the furthest corner of the study.
Magnar finally looks away, closing his eyes as he leans back in his chair.
I take in the room, but it’s pretty bare.
All the furniture is heavy and functional, the windows devoid of colored glass.
The rug covering the center of the stone floor is black, and there are no tapestries on the walls.
It feels pretty cold in here—so different from my bedroom.
“Um, are you tired?” I ask meekly when Magnar doesn’t move, only his chest rising and falling.
“Yes,” he sighs. “And I’ll stay tired until I plow through all this—and my people finally find those traitors who sell our secrets abroad. Have you come to help me with the letter?”
Arvi, who stands behind Magnar, widens his eyes meaningfully and points at his hips, flexing them a few times in a lewd display. He points at the desk and waggles his eyebrows, but there is no way I’ll ever utter the words, “Take me on your desk,” so I clear my throat and nod.
“Yes, of course. I promised I’d help.”
Magnar nods curtly, and behind him, Arvi covers his face with his palm, dejectedly shaking his head. His spectacles are gone. He probably only needs them for reading.
“Let me see, I’m sure it was somewhere in here,” my husband mutters, standing up to shuffle through the piles of papers.
His hair is braided back today, and he’s wearing a dark blue linen shirt and brown trousers cinched with a wide belt with a silver buckle. I catch myself considering how he’d even have me on this messy desk. It’s impossible. Arvi must have been joking.
The door opens and Raduna comes in with a tray. “Good morning, my queen,” he says warmly, putting the tray on a low table by my side. “Porridge with raspberries and nuts. I cooked it myself, and here’s coffee made after the Agnidari fashion. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
I take a sip of the strong, fragrant brew. It’s dark and sweet, and I frown, trying some more. Finally, I smile.
“It’s perfect. Thank you. I’ve had milky coffee a few times before and didn’t like it. This is very pleasant.”
“My queen has excellent taste,” Raduna says, beaming.
I have the porridge next, and can’t keep back a sigh of pleasure. “You are an excellent cook!”
A growl comes from the desk, and I look up at Magnar. His lips are pursed tightly, a document crumpled in his fist. “Found it,” he grits out. “Come here when you’ve eaten.”
I glance at Raduna, who sighs wearily but gives me a reassuring smile. I’d love to ask what exactly is wrong with my husband, but can’t very well do it in his hearing. Raduna leaves soon, anyway.
When I come over to the desk ten minutes later, the king hands me a crumpled sheet of thick paper with a few handwritten paragraphs, many words and sentences crossed out.
“And this is the letter my father got from the king of Azur, the one who suggested I marry into the Eleven. He described the entire process for my father. He’s dead now, bless his soul, and his son took the throne.”
I stand by the desk, looking through the letter first, then Magnar’s draft. He ignores me, peering at a densely printed document, but his fingers drum restlessly on the desktop.
Movement catches my eye. Arvi crouches oddly, as if sitting on an invisible chair, and he makes flamboyant gestures, as if pulling something onto his lap. I grimace and look away.
“Well, yes, a letter does seem to be necessary to receive an official invitation to join the next Gathering of Kings,” I say at last. “You had many good ideas, and I agree a simple, direct style will suit. Would you like me to finish the draft? I’d need some sort of promise on your part, something that will prompt them to invite you as soon as possible.
Otherwise, they might take months, at least from what my father told me. ”
Magnar grunts in assent. “Tell them I’m ready to discuss sharing iron and copper from Zanvar’s mines. I know the loss of those mines hurt them the most.”
“Very well. Could I have a pen and ink, and a place to sit?”
He pushes away from the desk and sighs, rubbing his eyes. “You can have my mother’s study, but we have to ask her first. I must introduce you, anyway. Better get it over with. Come on.”
I walk fast to keep up with his long strides, and Arvi follows a few steps behind me. Magnar speaks without looking my way.
“My mother is old and cantankerous, and she will be unpleasant to you. I’m sorry in advance. I’ll make the introduction and we’ll leave. You’re not obliged to talk to her.”
“Wait!” I gasp out, breaking into a run when the distance between us grows. “Why will she be unpleasant?”
Magnar stops just long enough for me to reach him, then sets out at an even faster pace. I huff and puff, completely flabbergasted by his behavior. I feel the stirrings of anger. He’s not openly disrespectful, but it’s close.
“She’s always been opposed to Father’s plan and wanted me to marry an Agnidari woman. She’ll be rude to you on principle because you’re human. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone with her to get eaten. Here we are.”
He stops abruptly and raps on the door. I just manage to catch up, hastily patting down my hair after the run, when a strong, elderly voice says something I don’t understand.
“Ah.” Magnar winces, massaging his temple as if his head hurts. “She’ll only speak our language, even though she’s fluent in yours. Just ignore her, please. It won’t take more than five minutes.”
I shake my head, because all of this is so preposterous, but before I can voice my objections, Magnar’s already thrown the door open. He strides in, and I follow, looking around curiously. Arvi slips inside, closing the door.
The room is gloomy, with dark green, half-transparent curtains covering the tall windows. It’s large and cluttered, many tables, desks, ottomans, and small cabinets crowding the carpeted floor. The walls aren’t visible from behind heavy tapestries and multiple wardrobes.
I startle when a voice speaks from what I took to be a pile of blankets crumpled in an armchair. When I look that way, a pair of gleaming silver eyes flashes in the dark.
She says a few short sentences, and Magnar replies, his voice strong and neutral. He takes my hand and pulls me to stand in front of him, his hands on my shoulders. The only word I understand him say is ‘Caliane’.
The woman huffs, clearly unimpressed, and waves a hand toward the window. Magnar squeezes my shoulder and goes over to draw back the curtains. Muted light falls in. These rooms clearly look out north.
I swallow, peering into the old, wrinkled face of the former queen.
Her hair is white like Magnar’s, but it’s thin and wispy.
Her ears are large, framing her face like pale batwings.
Sitting so hunched in the armchair, she seems like the smallest Agnidari I’ve seen, maybe save for the woman with a hump.
Her eyes study me coldly, and I straighten, feeling something akin to relief. Even though her skin is gray, eyes alien, and she hasn’t spoken a word I understand, I know her type. I had a dance tutor exactly like her, and met a few old matrons with a similar air.
Forgoing the normal curtsy, I press my forearm to my stomach and give the old queen a deep, ceremonial bow. Magnar said she speaks my language.
“My name is Caliane, and I am the queen of Farneer and Roharra,” I say after I straighten, looking boldly into her eyes. “It is an honor to meet you. Your son is a credit to you, Your Majesty.”
She lifts her pointed chin, her lips twisting in a sneer, but I stare her down. That’s the trick with old crones. They hate simpering and cowardice, and being nice is wasted on them. What they do enjoy is being challenged and treated with respect.
Our eyes are locked in a silent battle. I don’t dare look away, even when Magnar returns to my side, silent and tense. Finally, his mother nods once, breaking eye contact. A thrill runs up my back.
I won.