“To our people, names have significance. Yes, they are named. If you mean to ask if they are sentient, I cannot answer with any certainty. You would have to ask their wielders. You have been tailing one of them for some time.”
“The Hawks?”
“One of them, yes. That is not what she is called within the High Halls unless one wishes to insult her. Ah. I see Corvallan is expecting us.”
The hall had narrowed, although the ceilings were, by mortal standards, high. Contained beneath them were eight men, dressed in the armor that Elluvian had disparaged; they held weapons, unsheathed, as if in challenge, and their faces were obscured by helms.
They did not bar passage; they did not demand to know Elluvian’s business. Nor did he appear to see them. Severn followed his master’s lead, but even his breath had become silent. His steps became almost silent as well, the better to hear movement.
If Corvallan desired their deaths, Severn would likely die here. Elluvian, however, would not—and Severn’s death would be costly.
The twin rows of armed guards pointed indirectly to two large doors at the end of the hall; this was their destination. Elluvian considered their presence and what it presaged. In some of the oldest of his kin, these men would be considered a sign of respect. Corvallan was not among their number. He showed respect seldom, where it could be at all avoided.
Such a display of guards might be considered a sign of caution, or its more problematic cousin, fear. Corvallan was not given to displays of fear, either.
No, he thought, wariness sinking roots. Corvallan was not alone.
The doors were opened to allow Elluvian and his servant entry before Elluvian reached them; they rolled to the side in utter silence. Magic, then. Standing in the doorway, dressed in a violet gown that pooled elegantly at her feet, was Corvallan’s wife, Cassandre. Her hair, the black of her kin, was drawn up and around her head with gleaming strands trailing amethyst and gold. Her eyes were blue, but the blue was that of caution, not anger or fear, and the gown itself was sleeveless, a summer dress. She tendered Elluvian a deep bow, but did not hold it long.
“We have been asked to allow you to leave in a timely manner,” she said, as she rose. “Please, join us. My lord is waiting within.” Her expression was gentle and welcoming, which put Elluvian instantly on guard. If Corvallan was not a man to show either respect or fear, his wife was more gracious. Elluvian guessed that the honor guard had been her decision.
“It has been far too long,” she said, waiting until Elluvian was forced to offer her his arm. “And I regret the brevity of such a meeting.” She did not glance once at Severn. “Has there been difficulty?”
“It is to avoid difficulty that I am here,” he replied. “You are correct. It has been too long, Cassandre.”
Her eyes lightened, a surprise to Elluvian. It implied that her delight was more than simple facade.
Corvallan had chosen a room in the interior for their meeting, which was unexpected, but not unheard of. When they entered the room, he was standing in its center, his back to the open door, the posture a symbol of the trust he most certainly did not feel.
He turned as they entered the room, looking first to his wife and then to the man whose arm she held. She released that arm, and Corvallan tendered Elluvian a nod. In this environment, a nod was sufficient to meet the demands of Barrani etiquette.
The lift of both brows as Severn entered the room behind Elluvian was not. Corvallan brought his expression under control, but the blue of his eyes darkened; there would be no green in them for the duration of the meeting.
“You spoke with some urgency on your last visit,” Corvallan then said. The side doors opened, and refreshments were carried in by a silent man. Elluvian did not recognize him. “I regret that I was otherwise occupied. It may have prevented some difficulty.”
“Misunderstandings cause wars,” Elluvian replied, smiling.
“And this was a misunderstanding. You must know what you are called at court among those who are not your friends.”
Elluvian nodded.
“And you, boy,” Corvallan continued. “Do you know?”
Severn’s silence would not be acceptable here. Elluvian did not choose to command him to answer. He was curious to see how the boy handled himself.
“I do not,” Severn said. “Perhaps it was not considered of sufficient import that I be informed.”
Corvallan’s eyes narrowed. What he would tolerate from Elluvian he would not, could not, tolerate from a mere servant, and at that, a mortal one.
Severn’s expression, however, was diffident; there was no challenge in it. In a different circumstance, it might have seemed apologetic, but absent an actual apology. Unless Corvallan intended to target the boy deliberately, it was hard to find purchase for offense.
As if to underline this, Cassandre chuckled. “It is certainly not of import to your master, and that must, of course, be your primary concern. Loyalty is valued. It is a pity you did not attend Elluvian on his last visit to the High Halls. I would love to know how you came to serve him—but now it is I who am being almost rude. Forgive me.”
Severn bowed his head.
This exchange did not appear to amuse Corvallan. His eyes retained their midnight coloration as he turned, somewhat stiffly, to the tray set upon the table. Empty glasses were arranged in a pattern around a decanter of cut glass; the liquid within was the color of honey.
Food was also placed upon the wide sideboard. An expensive array of delicacies from the West March had been far more artfully arranged; it was meant to impress. It was certainly not meant to be eaten by Corvallan or Elluvian.