Slowly, Saris released her embrace but took a firm grip on Wycke’s hand, graciously accepting her escort’s assistance in rising. “Stay close to me,” she told Wycke.
The soldier led her to a series of gilt chairs. How pretentious! The most garish judgment seats in history. She took her place next to her older brother Radre. Neither he nor their father, seated on Radre’s other side, acknowledged her. Why should they? They’d always considered her a mere girl, a puppet to their ambitions.
Saris didn’t release Wycke’s hand.
“Saris,” Wycke hissed, “what will they do to us?”
“I do not know,” she replied, giving what she hoped passed for a smile. “But I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
The stiff set of Wycke’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. “Promise?”
Saris poured every ounce of her strength into her vow. “I promise.”
Throat clearing called her attention to the throne.
Dark red hair spilled from the head of the solidly-built man sitting in her father’s place. His penetrating eyes appeared green from this distance. He dressed similarly to Saris’s soldier escort. However, his armor and boots were much better quality and had likely seen fewer battles.
Behind the throne, a younger version of the man stood, face unlined by age.
Wycke picked at the armband.
Saris swatted his hand. “No. Don’t touch.” She shielded his hand in the folds of her skirt, bowing her head.Please let them not sense my brother. Please let them not sense Wycke.
If they did, he’d be dead.
CHAPTER THREE
The purple sigil of House Hanaran filled the great hall of Castle Bertillian when Nyanda entered, surrounded by her enemy guards. Even in overcrowded corridors, all drew back from her presence. Only the captain who’d taken her showed enough lack of sense to lay hands on her person. Were she at full power, she’d make an example of the fool.
The man shoved her forward toward the throne, stopping her halfway down the aisle.
Time for the victor to gloat over the spoils. King Umbri, the high king of Tirra Neu, come to quash a threat to his reign.
The Myrgren royal family sat in gaudy chairs at the front of the room: King Gustaf Bertillian and his whelps, all with their father's nearly colorless white hair and golden eyes. Would the white hair have bred true in Nyanda’s son if she'd gotten her way? Thank the gods Pieravor had taken after her and not his father.
The guards deliberately kept her waiting, only bringing her forward after the royal family. Reminding her of her station? Why bother? No one dared dispute her superiority to these weak insects.
A gauntleted hand pushed Nyanda onto the chilled stone floor near the throne. She'd make these beasts pay one day for sending her to her knees. Oh, how they'd pay.
The long tables customarily used for dining formed a jumble against the walls, making room for the courtiers, servants, and other castle occupants still drawing breath. The elaborate tapestries covering the walls now mocked the defeated people with garish displays of past Bertillian deeds.
Radre, eldest child and crown prince—or former crown prince—sat next to his father, defiance in the arrogant lift of his shoulders. Princess Saris, next in line in age, comforted her whining younger brother. What had she done with Pieravor? The girl with more courage than sense must've hidden him well.
The compulsion spell guaranteed success.
Nyanda paused, taking a deep breath.Blood of my blood.She couldn't feel her son. Where was he? Surely the little bitch hadn't… But no. Very faint, but alive. Hidden. But where?
The youngest of King Gustaf's children clung to his sister, terror in his amber eyes. He'd always avoided Nyanda's tower. She'd scarcely laid eyes on him at all. The spare heir held no interest for her.
Triumphant King Umbri stared down his stubby nose with a mixture of contempt and pride from the vulgar Bertillian throne. Twelve seasons of war now ended—so much death, especially among nonhumans determined not to take sides.
Their neutrality hadn’t spared them.
Guards stood at attention on either side of the high king. Behind him stood Crown Prince Broen, the image of his father, who'd one day be high king—briefly. The copper hair and green eyes of the Hanaran line shone as true in the son as the father.
King Umbri's gaze slid past Nyanda, giving no sign of recognition. Good. He'd either not seen through her glamour the one time they’d met before, or poor memory meant he didn't recall her visit to his pretentious palace.
He'd been deep in his cups at the time.