Page 50 of The Sundered Blade

“I will assess the crowd while we await the king’s announcement,” Karreya murmured. “What are your own intentions?”

Leisa’s smile was sharp and predatory. “I have some listening to do. Possibly some clandestine searching. Both above and below stairs. I’m not sure I know exactly what I’m hoping for, but I’ll settle for anything that will help us predict what might be coming next.”

So she intended to play spy… “It will be dangerous,” Karreya said. “And it is not what was agreed upon when we embarked on this mission.” For whatever reason, she found she was feeling anxious about her cousin’s safety.

“I agreed to guide you here and get you into the palace,” Leisa reminded her quietly, “and I have done so. Now that we are here, I have decided to take advantage of the opportunity to learn what I can.”

“And when it is time to leave?”

“The warehouse.” Leisa sounded utterly calm and unconcerned, as if it were not halfway across Hanselm. “We can meet there before making our way out of the city.”

Karreya did not like it, but it was not as if she were in a position to argue. She had her own task, and it would require all of her focus if she were to be successful. “Do not die, cousin,” she said sternly. “I have no desire to battle your husband again should he decide I am complicit in your death.”

Leisa smiled reassuringly. “I’ve done this before, remember? Don’t worry about me. Just be wary, and keep in mind that you will not be invisible this time. We need him to see you, but that means others will see you as well, and you are not allowed to stab them for flirting.”

A timely admonition. If any of these bejeweled fops batted their eyes at her, she was likely to stab first and consider the consequences later. And she could not exactly confront her father if she were too busy breaking out of his dungeon.

Once Leisa disappeared into the crowd, Karreya drifted, following the currents of brightly dressed courtiers out of the entry hall and down a corridor lined with dark curtains. A tribute, she supposed, to the late queen—Vaniell’s mother. Someone he had genuinely loved. Someone her father may have had killed in order to further his plans.

It was a sobering reminder of the many obstacles that stood between her and Vaniell, even if both of them should wish to be together.

As the river of guests flowed into the ballroom, Karreya noted an immediate change, both in her surroundings and in her fellow guests’ demeanor.

There was no music, and no food or drink to be seen. No chairs for revelers to rest from their exertions. The ballroom windows were shuttered and draped in dark fabrics. Voices lowered to ominous whispers, footsteps slowed, and anticipation sharpened to a cutting edge.

And on the dais at one end of the room, two empty thrones awaited, one shrouded almost entirely in black.

In this room, it was a simpler matter to blend in. Tensions were high, and many individuals moved from group to group, so it was not as evident that she was alone. And the darkness behind the pillars on the edges of the room gave her numerous spaces in which to become one with the shadows, moving with purpose as if continually on her way to somewhere.

As she drifted among the people over the course of the next hour, Karreya listened to the murmurs and the whispers and the speculation… many of them dark, all of them troubled.

There were those who anticipated war with grim satisfaction. Those who dreaded it. Those who feared their king, and those who admired him. Those who genuinely mourned their queen, and those who viewed her death with suspicion. And somewhere between the truth and the lies, Karreya found a troubling picture of a kingdom in peril, teetering on the brink of internal conflict over the burden of one man’s ambitions.

Eventually, the roar of too many voices and the sting of too many untruths pressed in on her, and she wished for quiet. For a place to watch but not to hear.

The balcony. It seemed likely there would be an entrance outside the ballroom itself, hidden enough that random guests would be unlikely to stumble upon it.

As a leaf on the wind, she moved through the crowd, flowing around the groups and threading the currents with ease. Once she reached the threshold, she paused and looked back, to find that only one pair of eyes marked her—the enigmatic blue gaze of Lord Kellen, who gave her an almost invisible, slightly wistful nod. Wishing her well.

And in an uncharacteristic moment of charity, she nodded back. She had not once been tempted to stab him, and that in itself was unique enough to warrant a moment of recognition.

But the moment passed, and she turned away, under the arched doorway and into the nearly empty hall beyond. Only a few stragglers were yet arriving, and as Karreya scanned her surroundings for a door that might lead to the balcony, she spied a lone figure waiting in the shadows at the end of the hall. Draped in darkness, hands folded, eyes lifted to a portrait on the wall.

He could have been a painting himself—an artist’s rendering of loneliness and grief brought to life. His clothing, his posture, his isolation—all of it was perfect… And all of it was a lie.

As if by some unheard signal, he turned and walked towards her, down the dark hall, nearer and nearer, until she could make out the black embroidery of his mourning robes and the silver hairs in his beard.

He did not seem to see her, and almost too late, she remembered she was not a servant or a drudge. Her current costume rendered her less invisible than usual, and so she stepped aside, setting her back to the wall as he moved closer, bowing her head and bending one knee in what she hoped appeared to be a curtsey. Leisa had demanded she practice, but she had proven a less than apt student in the art.

The man simply walked on, and curiosity compelled her to take another look as he passed by.

As if finally acknowledging her presence, the man’s head turned, and she felt the pressure of his gaze.

Even in Abreia, it was likely a thing that was not done, but Karreya found herself responding to that pressure—daring to meet his eyes. They were dark and piercing, commanding and cold, iced over with mingled grief and resolve.

And directly beneath that face, with its graying beard and its lines carved by sorrow, was another. Unremarkable, golden-eyed, and utterly familiar.

Just when it seemed those dark eyes would pass over and dismiss her, they jerked back. A spasm crossed the firm-lipped mouth, and the man’s step hitched, as if he’d nearly stumbled.

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