Page 4 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘Oh. How lovely,’ Yscabel breathed. ‘Is it a greenfinch, Essa?’
‘A serin,’ Priessa said. ‘Most likely from Inys.’
The serin pecked the seeds. Its plumage was black and yellow, and a forked tail kept it balanced. Ever since the molten lava had appeared, it was rare for new birds to come to Cárscaro.
‘A handsome bird,’ Marosa observed. ‘Where does it fly in the winter?’
‘Lasia or the Ersyr.’ Priessa raised a faint smile. ‘A bird that sees much of our world.’
The serin chirruped and took wing. Marosa gazed after it.
‘Donmata,’ Ermendo said, ‘Lord Wilstan Fynch, Duke of Temperance, Dowager Prince of Inys.’
Marosa set her glass aside. ‘Thank you, Ermendo.’
Wilstan Fynch stepped on to the terrace. From the sweat on his brow, it had been a hard climb, but he was hale for his age, often going to the plain to exercise with the Hróthi ambassadors. His eyes crinkled when he saw her, banishing the austerity from that long face.
‘Donmata.’ He took off his bonnet and bowed. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘Your Grace,’ Marosa said in Inysh. ‘The heat is very strong today. Would you care for some iced wine?’
‘No, thank you. I will take some nutmeg in milk, if I may.’
‘Of course.’
Priessa went inside to fetch it. Fynch chose the seat opposite Marosa. Most Inysh nobles dressed to reflect the seasons – a recent fashion – but the Dowager Prince had worn mourning grey for as long as Marosa had known him, with no jewellery but his signet ring. Quite the contrast to his daughter, Queen Sabran of Inys, who glinted with gold whenever she moved.
‘It has been far too long, Your Radiance,’ Fynch said warmly. ‘How do you do?’
‘Very well, Your Grace,’ Marosa said. ‘I trust that you are still comfortable here.’
‘The hospitality of Cárscaro is unrivalled. As is your generosity in inviting me to your table again.’
She wished itwerethe Knight of Generosity that moved her. The foreign ambassadors were her only means of glimpsing the world beyond Yscalin. She had long since befriended Sir Robrecht Teldan, the Mentish ambassador, who she found amiable and intelligent.
Her father had never forbidden her to extend invitations, but she sensed it was better for him not to know.Fortunately, like Sir Robrecht, Fynch understood her preference for privacy.
‘Donmata, I came to—’ Fynch stopped to accept a cup from Priessa. ‘Thank you, Lady Priessa. As swift as your name.’
Priessa inclined her head. ‘I am aware of the Inysh liking for nutmeg in the summer, Your Grace.’
‘Well, it counters the dry heat, you see, in the absence of a bloodletter.’
Marosa exchanged a glance with Priessa, whose mouth twitched. Inys was the cradle of a faith that ruled four nations, but it had also produced some of the worst physicians in history.
‘Your Radiance,’ Fynch said to Marosa, ‘I will not impose upon you for long, but there is a delicate matter I wanted to raise.’ She gave her ladies a small nod, and they left. ‘King Sigoso has refused to grant me an audience since the autumn, and even that was not for long, since His Majesty had a headache that day. He and I have much to discuss. Is he well?’
‘My father is a devout man, Your Grace. He spends much of his time at prayer.’
‘His dedication to the Saint is admirable, but he is a sovereign, not a sanctarian.’
Fynch made her father nervous. She had noticed as soon as the Dowager Prince arrived, replacing a less attentive Inysh ambassador, who had been content to enjoy the spectacular outlooks and steam baths of Cárscaro and only ever meet with the Secretary of State.
‘Yscalin was first to join Inys in worship of the Saint,’ Fynch continued. ‘There has been no greater friendship between realms in all of history. Let us not pain the Knight of Fellowship by allowing it to corrode.’
In her lap, out of sight, Marosa twisted the posy ring on her little finger.
‘I assume there is good reason,’ she said, ‘but I do apologise, Your Grace. I will ask my lord father if he will meet with you as a matter of priority, but in truth, there is little more I can do.’
