Page 41 of The Exile's Curse

Hopefully his proficiency was shared by most of his court. Her Andalyssian was improving, and she would use it where she could, but she didn't want to make a fool of herself.

"It is His Imperial Majesty's pleasure, Your Majesty," Colonel Brodier replied. "He wishes you and your bride-to-be every happiness."

King Mikvel nodded thanks, and Honore launched into a longer speech in Andalyssian. The king's face was serious as he listened, his expression still. Which, in Chloe’s experience of courts, was the way of things. Kings and queens and emperors didn't show their hand until it was useful to do so.

Now that the speeches were underway, she risked sneaking sideways glances at the court. But unlike the Illvyan court, where there would probably have been a courtier or two making whispered remarks, the Andalyssians were remarkably focused on the throne. Perhaps they were reserving their commentary until they saw whether or not Honore made it through her speech without stumbling. Or maybe they were quelled by the presence of the sanctii.

Right now, faced with a court silent as stone, she wished they'd brought more sanctii with them. But some had stayed with the navire, bonded to the water mages who would be taking it to the next stop. The emperor didn't have enough of the vessels yet that he could afford to have one sitting idle for five weeks while the delegation was in Andalyssia. So the navire would carry out some smaller errands in the region and return every week to make sure things in Andalyssia were running smoothly.

There were contingencies in place if something went wrong. Ways for sanctii to contact sanctii if there was need, but they may have to retreat to Haalbrod and wait if something went truly terribly wrong.

Which it wouldn't. Honore was smart and experienced, and Lucien was no slouch at navigating political situations either. It would be fine. It was a wedding, not a treaty negotiation.

Though all royal marriages were treaty negotiations to some degree. It just wasn't a treaty negotiation with Illvya.

Rather between the man on the throne and his stone-faced court.

Who, she hoped, would prove somewhat less stony during the festivities. Or else it would be a very long five weeks indeed.

Honore finally fell silent, drawing a deep breath before bowing again to the king and then stepping back to stand beside Lucien.

Mikvel inclined his head once more, then turned to look to his left. Chloe couldn't help following the line of his gaze. In the far wall of the room, a door she hadn't noticed before opened and a woman strode through, her footsteps striking the stone floor with a confident rhythm, accompanied by the tap of the tall black staff she carried in her right hand, and deep red robes flowing around her.

She reached the king in seconds, though she didn't seem to be moving overly fast, bowed to him, then turned to face the Illvyans.

Chapter 14

Chloe's spine prickled, and she fought not to step back a pace. Something about the woman's posture reminded her of Domina Skey, back in Anglion. A woman perhaps too comfortable with her own power.

Or maybe that was Chloe being paranoid, having trained herself for too many years to avoid drawing the attention of the temple. Not that this woman was a domina. The Andalyssians didn't worship the goddess exactly. The dominas in Lumia had always said that other religions were just acknowledging the goddess in one of her many aspects, but whether or not the people who worshiped those other gods agreed was not always clear. But Andalyssian priests wore green, not red.

No, this woman was something else.

A sejerin, unless Chloe was mistaken. One of the mysterious Andalyssian seers.

Maybe it was the firelight, but the shade of her robe was too close to blood, deep and bright, for comfort. It was unadorned other than the hem, which had a border several inches deep embroidered with densely clustered Andalyssian runes in white, forming a triangular pattern that resembled the stylized mountains on the king's banner.

The seer regarded the Illvyans steadily, hand easy on the twisted and carved staff. Unlike Madame Simsa, it didn't seem as though she particularly needed the staff. It was too tall to be a useful support anyway. Ceremonial, then.

Or else she was going to lay into someone. The blood mages back home trained with staffs to build strength and agility, and Chloe's experiences in the training ring had given her a healthy respect for the staff as a weapon.

Easy to picture this woman striding into battle with one.

Her eyes were eerie. So light as to be nearly colorless. In contrast, her hair was a pale shade of red gold. Faint lines at the corners of her eyes suggested she was older than she first appeared. Unlike the rest of the court, the sejerin was using her magic.

Chloe watched warily. Better to be overly cautious than foolish. The song of the seer’s magic echoed with a sound like a rush of cold feathers underscored by the deep heart of a bell tolling. For a moment she was suspended in time, as though icy chilled air surrounded her, the sun sharp in her eyes and the song of the mountain hawks piercing the air. Almost as though she stood on the mountain rather than within it.

But then she blinked and she was back breathing smoke and mystery, staring at the seer. Who glowed from more than the firelight, the edge of magic around her a misty rainbow shine that Chloe hadn't never seen before.

She blinked again, but the glow didn't fade.

The sejerin struck the ground with the staff and began to talk. Or declaim, perhaps. It was clearly a formal speech, the syllables measured and rhythmic. It was also clearly not Andalyssian. This was harsher and stranger, the sound of Andalyssian ground beneath stone and echoed back.

Compelling, but also frustrating not to know what she was saying.

Neither Colonel Brodier nor Lucien nor any of the others who had been here before seemed alarmed, so she had to assume it was a ritual speech, not some sort of spell.

Evoking balance, most likely. The obsession with balance had struck Chloe as an odd choice, perhaps, for a people who lived in a place of extremes. Or maybe not. When you lived on a knife's edge of ice and snow where bad weather could potentially obliterate the world, maybe the idea was appealing. Something to strive for.

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