“See you.” Skye left feeling like she might actually float down the street. What kind of spell had that shawl-and-jingle dancer cast on her? Whatever it was, it felt wonderful.
The courthouse’s main hall appeared to belong to a different century, with marble floors, rounded walls, and a lofty domed roof. They had not been allowed to bring weapons inside, which Lark took as an advantage. She figured she was better in a bare-knuckle fight than most in the building.
With the rest of their party talking softly among themselves, Lark faced Azaleen at a respectable proximity and took her hands, their eyes locking. “I’ll be right here,” she said.
“I know.”
Azaleen maintained her cool, regal demeanor, looking every bit a queen in the same dress, sash, and belt she’d worn for the AlgonCree treaty ceremony. Someone had managed to get all the bloodstains out.
“Play nice with our neighbors,” Azaleen said, “and I’ll try to do the same.”
“None of them can touch you,” Lark murmured and gave her hands a squeeze. Then, with a crooked smile, she added, “Well, maybe the old chief, but she’s on our side.”
Azaleen leaned close, pressing her cheek to Lark’s, and whispered, “I wish you could be with me in there.” Then she straightened, releasing Lark’s hands.
“I will be,” Lark replied, touching two fingers to her heart.
Rough laughter echoed across the rotunda. She glanced over at a man with fancy strawberry-blond hair wearing a western-style charcoal suit, white shirt, and red ascot tie. He was surrounded by a group of that-a-boy types, several soldiers in familiar Iron Army gray, and one severe-looking blonde woman. If her bun were any tighter, her powdery pale face might crack.
Luther Irons and his cronies.
An equal distance away stood a dignified, quiet group of studious-looking men and women, uniform in their dress and grooming. Five guards in stormy sage uniforms, with matte graphite body armor and visored helmets, formed an impenetrable shield around the more delicate-looking figures in their center.The Appalachians.
“Queen Frost?” Mayor Dorr’s distinctive voice drew Lark’s attention back to Azaleen. Her insides drew tight as a bowstring. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to the conference room.”
“Mom?” Eldrin stepped between Lark and Azaleen. “I mean, Madam Queen.” He bowed from the waist, taking her hand like a young gentleman. “Don’t give them any undeserved ground.”
Azaleen beamed proudly at him. “Don’t worry about that, son. Keep an eye on things out here, will you? I love you.” Her eyes swept from Eldrin to Lark before she turned, letting Mayor Dorr escort her away.
Eldrin pivoted to Lark, raising a brow, standing as tall as possible. In a low, deep tone, he inquired, “What are your intentions toward my mother?”
Lark met his gaze, answering without hesitation. “Purely honorable, my prince.”
He moistened his lips, then nodded. “I believe you. You are not, nor will you ever be, my father. But I don’t wish my mother to be alone forever.” Then he frowned. “You’re too young for her.”
“The queen is a vibrant woman,” Lark replied.
“I don’t want to hear that,” Eldrin hissed between his teeth. Rolling his eyes at her, he strode away to stand with Luke and General Stark.
Lark’s gaze trailed Azaleen as she disappeared behind a door.She’s got this.
Tamsin had arranged comfortable armchairs brought in from other rooms in a cozy circle, far enough apart to give each leader a sense of their own space, and close enough together to promote engagement. Instead of a large table separating factions, she had placed a small tea table draped in white beside each chair, with a pitcher of water, a glass, and a small plate of blueberry-and-honey wafers. She reserved a seat in the circle for herself between President Irons and Queen Frost, since they had been most actively involved in the conflict.
No one else was allowed in, as the rules required all aides and soldiers to remain elsewhere. Tamsin wouldn’t allow escalation or agitation from others. She had a bell to chime should she require the neutral Olive Branch security officers to intervene.
Though the dossier provided valuable background, many details conflicted, leaving gaps for her to fill as she observed the participants. To avoid fights from breaking out in the lobby or hallway, the leaders were escorted in by Mayor Dorr one at a time. A tiny old woman arrived first.
Sweeping Tamsin with a keen gaze, she declared, “You will do,” and took her seat. Her feet didn’t touch the floor.
“Welcome, High Chief Batise,” she said amiably. “I am Tamsin Redfern, your mediator for today’s summit meeting.”
The old chief giggled, her bright eyes crinkling at the corners. Tamsin tilted her head curiously at the woman.
“I hope you brought lots of strong spirits to consume,” she said in an oddly accented English. “And ropes to tie them all down with.”
“Well, High Chief,” she replied with an amused smile. “I hope neither will be necessary.”
The door opened again, and Mayor Dorr brought in a stunning woman in the prime of her life with hair so pale it glistened like moonlight. “Queen Frost,” she greeted, and introduced herself.