Chapter 10
Alora
Asecond knock sounded at her door. When Alora opened it, she found Caelum standing at the threshold.
He wore his ceremonial uniform: white surcoat trimmed in Argyle’s colors, polished sword at his hip, silver pauldrons polished to a mirror shine, and a crimson sash marking his rank.
The torchlight burnished his dark hair, and his eyes softened as they swept over her and the silver tiara glinting at her brow.
Caelum laid an arm gallantly across his chest and bowed. “I came to escort you to dinner, Princess.”
She smiled faintly. “How kind.”
He arched a playful brow at her dress. “You wore red tonight?”
Alora smiled slyly as she curtsied in a gown of deep scarlet she had decided to change into out of protest. The heavy skirts hid her feet now resting in her soft, leather slippers.
“I may have to go to this banquet, but I will do so my way.”
He chuckled and held out his arm. “Bold.”
She took his arm. “Lead the way, Captain.”
Her royal guards who had been safeguarding her door, fell into step behind them as they moved down the torchlit corridor, their footsteps hushed against the marble. Neither hurried. Their slow pace was a silent understanding to delay the inevitable.
“Should I be worried about tonight?” Alora asked.
Caelum exhaled as if it weighed on him. “You are to be introduced to King Thalion and his son … Prince Eldrik.”
“We’ve met,” Alora said coolly.
Caelum halted mid-stride. “When? Did he harm you?”
“In my mother’s workroom. And no, he did not.”
His jaw clenched harder, anger flashing as he scowled at her guards. “You should not have been alone.”
The men ducked their heads.
“It is not their fault I slipped away unseen,” Alora said as they continued. “And I can protect myself, Caelum. I survived well enough in the Midlands without protection.”
His mouth parted slightly, as if to say more but he fleetingly glanced at their company and continued. She read the protest in his eyes.
In the Midlands, she had been locked behind an enchanted border where no outside threat could reach her. This was different and they both knew it.
Alora’s fingers brushed the weight of the spindle tucked into a hidden lining in her gown. After her first meeting with Prince Eldrik, she was unwilling to sit defenseless again.
“Who else will attend?” Alora asked, adding with a touch of wryness, “Besides the guests of honor.”
Caelum’s expression eased. “The High Lords and Ladies of the Realm, their heirs, your father’s council and border wardens. Ambassadors from both sides. A high priest or two, and a few others of note.”
“A full table, then.”
“I hope you are prepared to play the gracious host.” He winked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
They arrived in the main hall.
“Here I must leave you, princess,” Caelum said with a bow, brushing his lips across her hand. “I must join my father.”
Alora inclined her head. Warmth stirred in her chest despite the weight of the evening. “I’ll see you soon then.”
He straightened and marched away with the measured tread of a soldier. Left alone with her guards, Alora continued down the torchlit corridor until they came before the grand double doors of the dining chamber.
The castle guards stationed there crossed halberds in salute before swinging the doors wide.
The great chamber unfurled before her in a blaze of firelight.
Tall candelabras and wall sconces threw their glow across the vaulted ceiling, where Argyle’s banners of deep emerald and white rippled faintly in the draft from the open hearths.
A long dining table stretched the length of the hall, polished to a mirror sheen, heavy with silver platters and goblets that caught the fire’s gleam.
The air hummed with low voices and the clatter of armor as lords and ladies, courtiers and commanders alike, turned their eyes upon the entrance.
A carved dais rose at the far end of the hall, the king’s high-backed chair commanding the space like a throne, though tonight it was one seat among many.
The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine mingled with the faint tang of steel, for many of the guests wore their swords at their sides despite the setting.
The herald beside the doors struck his staff against the stone, his voice carrying over the gathered company: “Her Royal Highness, Princess Alora of Argyle, daughter of the king!”
Every face turned toward her.
Alora’s heart pounded as she descended the broad stone steps with her head held high, skirts trailing behind her.
Laurent stepped forward to meet her and offer his arm. He frowned at her dress but bent his head enough for her to hear. “You look beautiful, daughter. Thank you for joining me tonight.”
His tone was light. Compromising.
Alora’s lips tightened in a tight smile. “As if I had a choice.”
His jaw flexed but said nothing more. He patted her hand once before guiding her to stand by the steps to wait for more guests. But she stopped short.
King Thalion and Prince Eldrik sat at the head of the table.
In the place that belonged to her father.
She shot Laurent a look, but he nodded for her to keep walking.
Lords and ladies already clustered in the room in uneasy knots.
The Archbishop bent close to Queen Delphi in one corner, his voice hushed.
The Lords of Argyle huddled together, gaunt faces half-shadowed as they whispered: Ser Tallin of Gellmere, Lord Graye of Gloam’s Watch, and Lady Isolde, High Priestess.
More lords and ladies in attendance than Alora could name, most human among the fae.
And the atmosphere was tense.
But her gaze kept returning to King Thalion and his son, Prince Eldrik. They were the only ones laughing and drinking, already celebrating among their kin.
The herald’s staff stuck the floor again. “His Grace, Duke Gideon Basile of Ironvale, Commander of the King’s Armies! And Duke Ronan Alder of Stormwatch, Warden of the Seas, Lord Admiral of Argyle’s Fleet!”
Alora looked up at the doors.
Duke Basile cut an imposing figure, broad-shouldered and stern, his brown hair silvered at the temples.
He wore a ceremonial uniform of emerald and gold, the breastplate etched with his House crest of a falcon.
At his side walked Caelum, the likeness of him in youth, his dark hair neatly combed, his arm linked with Theia’s as her betrothed escort.
Theia’s pale blue gown set off her warm skin and dark hair, a pearl necklace gleaming at her neck.
Behind them came Duke Alder, his dark skin weathered by years at sea, his hair now fully gray.
He bore the look of a man carved by salt and storm, his navy-trimmed mantle bearing the crest of his house, a ship beneath a storm cloud.
At his side walked his wife, elegant in aquamarine jewels and a braid threaded with silver.
She shared Theia’s warm complexion and quiet demeanor.
Laurent stood tall at her side as the dukes and their families descended. The dukes and Caelum bowed low. Theia and her mother dipped in a graceful curtsy.
“Gideon, Ronan,” Laurent said, his voice carrying. “You remember my daughter.”
Alora inclined her head to the dukes. “My lords, you are pillars of Argyle’s strength.”
Duke Basile smiled at her warmly. “By the Seven’s grace, our princess has returned and a beauty far beyond naming.”
Duke Alder looked at her stoically, his mouth pursing.
Alora greeted his wife next. “My lady, welcome. May you find peace in our hall, though I know Stormwatch is never far from your heart.”
“You are most kind, princess,” Duchess Alder replied softly. She moved on with her husband, but not before Alora heard the duke mutter, “Pillars… pillars to be toppled.” To which his wife hushed, “Dear…”
Theia gave her an apologetic look, and Alora smiled it away. She knew Lord Alder’s anger wasn’t for her.
“Sire,” Caelum greeted the king. “Thank you for inviting us to your table this evening.”
Laurent clasped his shoulder firmly. “Of course. I am honored a knight of such renown has joined us. He may not say it enough, but I know you make your father proud.”
The statement brought warmth to Caelum’s eyes, then he and Theia moved on with their parents.
Alora flinched when the herald’s voice boomed, announcing the Thornbearer of the Midlands next.
Blessed Seven, she had not expected her godmother to arrive as well.
Lady Zinnia’s pale skin glowed in the torchlight, pink hair braided with silver threads. A silvery gown clung to her frame, butterflies of faint light drifting lazily about her shoulders. Queen Delphi stiffened across the room. Their gazes locked, tension veiled behind polite smiles.
“Thornbearer,” Laurent greeted stiffly when she reached the bottom of the steps. “I had not expected you to accept my invitation, yet I am pleased you are here.”
Zinnia’s lips curved in faint amusement.
“Are you? What more could I do but attend to witness what may befall tonight? I am most curious to see how it all plays out.” Her gaze flicked to Alora, eyes bright with meaning.
“I pray you know what you are doing, Laurent.” She inclined her head. “Princess, your grace shines tonight.”
Then she glided toward the table, pausing when King Thalion approached her, and they fell into informal conversation.
Alora raised her eyebrows. “They know one another?” she murmured to her father.
His expression darkened. “As do all the high nobles of Arthal, daughter. Your godmother hails from the Spring Court, if you recall.”
Alora stilled. Of course, she should have realized that when the Calveron envoy visited the Midlands.
The steward’s voice rang out, calling all to dinner.
Alora froze when King Thalion lowered himself into the throne-chair at the head of the table. Her father’s chair. Beside him, Eldrik sprawled into the heir’s seat, his smile sly as he lifted a goblet in a mocking toast to her.