meaningfully.
Maddie felt the old anger smoldering within her.
“Say anything to anyone today,” Ronesca said before she could speak, “and I’ll know of it. In which case you will be leaving considerably sooner.”
“My father agreed to this?”
“I have it in writing, my dear.” She pulled at the folds of her gray woolen outer cloak. “Of course, if you were to accede to my wishes and promise to properly identify your child with the kirik here in Chesedh, the king might be willing to rethink things. But as it is . . . he is concerned, Madeleine. For you, for your child, and for his realm.”
“His realm? My child will be no danger to his realm!”
“Perhaps not at your command, but we have many Kiriathans in Chesedh, unfortunately.”
“Helping us fight for our lives.”
“Some of them, yes.” Ronesca’s gloved hands fell still as her gaze came up to meet Maddie’s. “But others are simply leeches, noble exiles too good to do any real work. None of us is happy about this, for we all know Kiriathans are not to be trusted. If word were to get out that you had given birth to Abramm’s heir, what do you think would happen? They would flock to you, seeking to use the child to regain the throne of Kiriath and throw the usurpers out.”
“He would be a babe, incapable of leading any bid to regain the throne.”
“Perhaps, but your finance secretary was once First Minister of all the realm. And before that, a military leader. He is also the child’s uncle, and at one point his wife was actually Abramm’s designated successor.”
“That was changed when Simon was born.”
“Ah, but Simon is no longer in the way. Nor is your other one. . . . What was his name?”
Maddie stared at her stonily. “His name was Ian.”
Ronesca shrugged. “No matter. Neither is an issue any longer, which leaves Meridon as the perfect candidate to serve as regent while your child grows to maturity.”
“I can’t believe you think these things.”
“You deny they are truth?”
“The facts as you’ve outlined them are all true. Yes, Duke Eltrap would be the logical one to head a regency. But he would never do that. At least not right now. He knows the importance of winning the battle for Chesedh before we can even think about Kiriath again.”
“Does he? I’m not so sure. Nor is King Hadrich.”
The coach began to slow, then came to a stop, and soon the door creaked open. Maddie stepped out after Iolande into a white silk tent, erected at the villa’s entrance alcove to protect guests from the weather. She guessed there must be two layers, for the walls of the inner barely stirred despite the stiff wind gusting outside. The rain was so effectively blocked, the only moisture that dampened the pavement was that carried in by the coaches themselves.
Servants in short white jackets and blousy black trousers guided them to a long, upsloping corridor with a high, arched latticework ceiling of stone and glass. Warmed this chilly, wet day by tall bronze braziers full of coals, its length was lined with other guests making their way up to Tiris ul Sadek’s famed Grand Salon.
Ronesca was fashionably late, so the salon was already crowded, the rumble of their conversation competing with the minor key refrains of a cadre of balcony musicians.
Vast sheets of silk draped the great hall, reminding Maddie unnervingly of the night she’d served the Gilded Ram’s esteemed guest. Huge orbs hung about the room—not kelistars, but glass filled with swirling, dancing colored lights, mostly in shades of amber and blue. Their illumination reflected off great winged creatures rendered in brushstrokes of silver and gold and sparkling crystal on the silk draperies, benevolent beings watching over the crowd.
A golden fig tree stood at the room’s midst, encased in a glass dome, and beyond it a modest dais had been set up for a great gilded chair on which the draek sat to receive the compliments of his guests, the line as long
Maddie felt the old anger smoldering within her.
“Say anything to anyone today,” Ronesca said before she could speak, “and I’ll know of it. In which case you will be leaving considerably sooner.”
“My father agreed to this?”
“I have it in writing, my dear.” She pulled at the folds of her gray woolen outer cloak. “Of course, if you were to accede to my wishes and promise to properly identify your child with the kirik here in Chesedh, the king might be willing to rethink things. But as it is . . . he is concerned, Madeleine. For you, for your child, and for his realm.”
“His realm? My child will be no danger to his realm!”
“Perhaps not at your command, but we have many Kiriathans in Chesedh, unfortunately.”
“Helping us fight for our lives.”
“Some of them, yes.” Ronesca’s gloved hands fell still as her gaze came up to meet Maddie’s. “But others are simply leeches, noble exiles too good to do any real work. None of us is happy about this, for we all know Kiriathans are not to be trusted. If word were to get out that you had given birth to Abramm’s heir, what do you think would happen? They would flock to you, seeking to use the child to regain the throne of Kiriath and throw the usurpers out.”
“He would be a babe, incapable of leading any bid to regain the throne.”
“Perhaps, but your finance secretary was once First Minister of all the realm. And before that, a military leader. He is also the child’s uncle, and at one point his wife was actually Abramm’s designated successor.”
“That was changed when Simon was born.”
“Ah, but Simon is no longer in the way. Nor is your other one. . . . What was his name?”
Maddie stared at her stonily. “His name was Ian.”
Ronesca shrugged. “No matter. Neither is an issue any longer, which leaves Meridon as the perfect candidate to serve as regent while your child grows to maturity.”
“I can’t believe you think these things.”
“You deny they are truth?”
“The facts as you’ve outlined them are all true. Yes, Duke Eltrap would be the logical one to head a regency. But he would never do that. At least not right now. He knows the importance of winning the battle for Chesedh before we can even think about Kiriath again.”
“Does he? I’m not so sure. Nor is King Hadrich.”
The coach began to slow, then came to a stop, and soon the door creaked open. Maddie stepped out after Iolande into a white silk tent, erected at the villa’s entrance alcove to protect guests from the weather. She guessed there must be two layers, for the walls of the inner barely stirred despite the stiff wind gusting outside. The rain was so effectively blocked, the only moisture that dampened the pavement was that carried in by the coaches themselves.
Servants in short white jackets and blousy black trousers guided them to a long, upsloping corridor with a high, arched latticework ceiling of stone and glass. Warmed this chilly, wet day by tall bronze braziers full of coals, its length was lined with other guests making their way up to Tiris ul Sadek’s famed Grand Salon.
Ronesca was fashionably late, so the salon was already crowded, the rumble of their conversation competing with the minor key refrains of a cadre of balcony musicians.
Vast sheets of silk draped the great hall, reminding Maddie unnervingly of the night she’d served the Gilded Ram’s esteemed guest. Huge orbs hung about the room—not kelistars, but glass filled with swirling, dancing colored lights, mostly in shades of amber and blue. Their illumination reflected off great winged creatures rendered in brushstrokes of silver and gold and sparkling crystal on the silk draperies, benevolent beings watching over the crowd.
A golden fig tree stood at the room’s midst, encased in a glass dome, and beyond it a modest dais had been set up for a great gilded chair on which the draek sat to receive the compliments of his guests, the line as long
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