Page 11 of Haunted

The empress stands at the end of the table in the banquet hall, dressed in all her finery. A thin ornamentation of brushed bronze circling her head represents her authority. Her hair is done up in tight braids that are coiled high and sit at her crown. A tight black bodice and leather trousers skim her body, and tails in the front and back swirl about her legs. Her outfit’s not a dress, but the fullness of the tails give the illusion of one.

She’s fierce in presence, and the room feels it.

The seven lords, their daughters, and their ambassadors are all seated around the table, dressed just as regally, also wearing the adornments of their station. The empress insisted the lord’s bring all their daughters from ages ten to eighteen to introduce them to her. I fear her motives. Does the empress suspect one of the lords of treason? Could this be the real reason for the feast, to flush out a traitor? In all likelihood, the presence of the young women are to keep the lords from misbehaving—a clever ploy on the empress’s part.

As Empress Rhianu holds her glass of wine high, she says, “My lords and your dear beloved daughters.” She pauses as her eyes sweep the young ladies’ innocent and slightly terrified faces. “I’m pleased we could all gather for this celebratory feast.”

I’m at the empress’s right, sitting in for Siarl, who’s become too frail to travel. The empress has surprisingly given him leave since I’m at hand. I rise and lift my goblet high. The men readily follow my example. The young ladies more timidly.

“This past month has been prosperous,” the empress continues. “The integration of the dragon riders into each of the regions and the enhanced trade has gone better than planned.”

Except for the dozen men who died in Goleuddydd, I add in my head. The dozen men who refused to allow the dragon riders to interfere with the trade coming in from the southern coast. Stubborn fools.

“Let us feast to good relations and peace.” The empress hoists her goblet.

“Hear, hear,” I say.

The men and young ladies around the table jump into action and clink their glasses. Goblets are sipped timidly. I take an enthusiastic swig to show the visiting lord’s they have nothing to fear, to show them they need to act as though they aren’t afraid of the empress.

I talked with them about this.

No matter what I say, they can’t enter her presence without worry that they’ll leave with unattached heads.

The empress sits, and her guests scrape into their seats, some drawing napkins across their laps.

The main platter is carried out by a server, who sets the silver dome in front of the empress.

“Ah, gentlemen. Our main enticement we owe to Lord Cadwallader and his fine geese.” The empress dips her chin, signaling for the servant to lift the dome.

When he does, the men gasp. Several of the young women screech with horror. One rises from her seat and nearly bolts from the room, but her father pulls her into his arms instead. Someone sobs.

All for good reason. Nestled in the center of a bed of potatoes, carrots, and turnips is a head. Not a nice fat goose with skin cooked to a golden-brown crisp, but rather the severed head of a gray wolfhound—Drago.

Lord Berwyn, on the empress’s left, pushes his chair away from the table. His face is sickly pale. “Is this a joke?” His daughter, almost to the age of womanhood, grabs his hand to comfort him. Her countenance is brave despite the small amount of fear that swims within her.

Empress Rhianu rises to her feet. Her face is hard. Stern. She breathes steadily as she stares at what’s left of poor Drago.

I wait for a sign that she’s about to crumble—glistening moisture in her eye, a quiver in her lip.

There is nothing.

She doesn’t lift her gaze, but she assesses the situation, perhaps gauging who presumably is the culprit of the souls in the room.

Whichever lord killed her wolfhound will lose his head in much the same manner.

After several moments, in which several young ladies weep softly, the empress speaks. “I can assure you, Lord Berwyn, this is no joke.” With a deep breath, she gestures to the servant. “Take this away.” When the servant flinches with hesitation, she hisses. “NOW!”

Lord Berwyn shakes his head, mumbling to himself, unable to take his eyes from the spot poor Drago was unveiled, even after the servant takes the tray away. “He was the best of Virga’s last two litters. Who would do such a thing? Who?”

His daughter rubs his shoulder, without comment.

“Lord Berwyn, perhaps you’d like a brandy to calm yourself,” I say. “Please sit.” Another server rushes forward with a tiny goblet while Lord Berwyn’s ambassador coaxes Berwyn into his seat.

“Someone bring in the goose,” the empress says through gritted teeth. She eyes each face in the room, most likely hoping to force the guilty party into giving something away.

All faces are impassive now that the empress’s eyes are on them.

But she won’t rest until someone’s punished.

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