Page 40 of The Exile's Curse

There was a large double window in the far wall and lamps already burning on each wall. A fire crackled in the small grate, throwing out a surprising amount of heat. Allita crossed over and fussed with the curtains, drawing them tight across the window, hiding the last rays of light. Chloe took quick stock of the rest of the room. A large bed framed with wrought iron and piled with layers of blankets and feather quilts with a dark fur draped over the end stood in one corner, positioned out of any drafts from the window. Against the other wall sat an armoire that looked like it would just be large enough to fit all the damned gowns.

“Once your luggage is brought up, I will help you unpack,” Allita said, stepping back from the window. Chloe was pleased that she could follow the girl's Andalyssian, though she suspected Allita was speaking a little more slowly than usual to be kind to a foreign guest.

“This is the bathroom,” Allita continued, opening a door between the bed and armoire.

Chloe stepped through, keen to wash her hands and face after the long journey. The bathroom wasn’t huge, but it was more luxurious than expected. Tiled in a riot of colors partially obscured by plants in woven hangers, it was dominated by a large tub sunk partway into the floor.

"It's warmer here than in the other room," Chloe said, puzzled. "How?"

Allita smiled. "There are hot springs beneath the palace. Under parts of the city, too. The hot water gets piped through the palace, which helps keep it warm. The bathrooms tend to be warmer. They have the most pipes."

With that, she excused herself and went to help Giane, leaving Chloe to contemplate the empty room. It was the first time she'd been truly alone in a week, and after washing, she made a beeline for the hearth to soak up the heat. Hopefully there might be time before dinner to test out the bath and soak some of the charguerre-induced aches from her body, too.

Because tomorrow the real work began.

"Someone should tell them that ‘hearth’ is supposed to mean something cozy," Giane whispered as they waited for the welcome ceremony to begin the next morning.

"Shhh," Chloe hissed back. She didn't disagree. The King's Hearth, as the Andalyssians called the throne room, had nothing welcoming about it. She'd been in the throne rooms of the emperor's palace and the Anglion palace at Kingswell, and while those were both ostentatious and dazzling, displaying power through wealth, this one was brutal.

Dominated not by the throne but by the massive fireplace it was named for. A rough-hewn gaping space that could have easily roasted a team of the fer-taureaus within its depths, it looked like it had been drawn forth from the heart of the mountain. If not for the fire blazing within, Chloe wouldn't have been overly surprised to see snow on the rough-hewn wall above it. The flames were a curious golden color, too uniform to be entirely natural. Illvyans burned salt grass anointed with oils to make offerings to the goddess, and those burned blue or green. Perhaps the Andalyssians had a similar tradition.

Or perhaps it was something more.

Whatever burned in the fire, the air was permeated with the scent of smoke and incense and something damper and greener that reminded her of some of the mosses Ginevra had used to bind wounds. Not entirely unpleasant but strange, like the slow, icy song of the ley lines below her feet, even cooler and deeper than they had seemed on the journey up the mountain.

For someone used to the emperor's palace, which was all glass and gold and white marble and vivid colors, the King’s Hearth felt like stepping into another world.

Everything was shades of gray and silver. Sharp edges and angles to the arches and columns supporting the roof conveyed rock and mountains and strength and threw odd shadows over the assembled court.

The throne was as unforgiving as the hearth. Tall slabs of pale gray granite formed a rough chair shape that protected the king from the heat of the fire behind him but couldn't be comfortable. No furs or cushions padded the stone, only the king's robes providing any barrier between him and the stone.

Perhaps that explained the elaborate layers of court robes the Andalyssians wore. Pleated into shapes as angular as the stones, overlaid with embroidery in intricate geometric designs that somehow only added to the severity. There was symbolism in those lines of color. Statements about houses and loyalties and history. But deciphering the subtle details was beyond her. Difficult enough to try to recall the key colors of the sixteen houses, let alone their lesser vassal families and everything else the embroidery conveyed.

The large room was cool despite the fire roaring in the hearth. Perhaps that was the other reason for the heavy structured robes. A convenient way to hide the layers of clothes needed to avoid turning to icicles.

But the Andalyssians showed no sign of feeling the cold. Predominantly pale-skinned and pale-haired, they might have been carved from stone, too.

The eyes in those pale faces ranged from ice-pale green to leafy to something near the color the darkest heart of a forest. There were a few other shades, pale grays and blues, and the odd more coppery head of hair, but on the whole, the assembled court seemed cut from a single mold. No streaks of deep red or black in their hair to indicate a strong connection to earth or water. But Andalyssians used magic differently. Their devotion to balance demanded that no one strength was used dominantly, with few exceptions for healers and their priests and seers. But even they used magic woven from all the strengths.

Andalyssians didn’t bond sanctii. Which was one reason the empire had an upper hand. All the mission's sanctii stood with their mages, possibly more sanctii than any of the Andalyssians had seen in one place before.

How they reacted remained to be seen.

Colonel Brodier stood closest to the throne, back straight, her blonde hair pinned around her head in coils. The Andalyssians favored looser styles, their hair falling halfway down their backs, the pieces around their faces picked up in groups of thin braids in a variety of configurations as complicated as the embroidered robes.

At the front of the court stood fifteen men in robes more elaborate than the others. Eight to the king's left, seven to his right. All of them older than the king, though two of them looked as though they had, at best, maybe five or six years on him.

The Ashmeisters.

Only fifteen. They had deliberately left a gap in the row of seven. A space where an eighth man would have stood. House Elannon. Their colors were green and orange, and so far, she hadn't spotted anyone wearing those colors.

King Mikvel had shown no emotion as they'd entered the room, merely watching their approach with vivid green eyes. Unlike the rest of the court, his robes were a gray so pale it was near silver, the designs picked out in silver and white threads that shimmered in the flickering light from the fire and the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. His hair was unbraided, held back from his face by a silver band studded with diamonds that glittered like his robes.

The king finally nodded at Honore, acknowledging her presence. She stepped forward and bowed. Well rehearsed, the rest of the delegation did the same. When they'd all straightened again, Colonel Brodier launched into her greeting, her Andalyssian sounding effortless to Chloe's ear. The words provoked no reaction from the court, at least. Though stony silence could be good or bad.

"Thank you, Colonel Brodier," the king said after Honore fell silent. "You are welcome at my court. And my thanks to the emperor for sending you to share in my joy."

His voice was deep and low and his Illvyan near flawless. The s's were perhaps stretched a little too long, as they would have been in his native tongue, but otherwise there was no hint of an accent.

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