Storm Born by Richelle Mead Page B

imagined they’d be beautiful in full sunlight. And framing everything, of course, were those brilliant, yellow-orange trees. Volusian had told me that the kingdoms’ seasons were dependent on their rulers’ whims and could last for extremely long times. This was beautiful, but I couldn’t imagine living in a place that was perpetually autumn. I knew some claimed Arizona was perpetually summer, but, then, the people who said that didn’t actually live there. The seasons were subtle, but they were there.
    I had to keep reminding myself I wasn’t in some kind of wacky movie as Rurik and his gang led us through twisted hallways lit with torches. People passed, giving us curious looks as they went about whatever one did in a medieval castle. Churning butter. Flogging peasants. I really didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of there.
    “Wait here,” Rurik told us when we reached a large set of double oak doors. “I will speak to the king before you’re shown into the throne room.”
    Wow. An honest-to-goodness throne room. He disappeared behind the doors, and a couple guards watched us but kept their distance.
    “Volusian,” I said softly, “did you purposely lead us here?”
    “My only purpose, mistress, is to keep you alive. Being here will increase your chances.”
    “You didn’t answer the question.”
    “You will also increase your chances,” he continued, “if you are nice to King Dorian.”
    “Nice? They just assaulted me and threatened to rape me.”
    He gave me an exasperated look.
    “The king will see you now,” said Rurik dramatically, returning from inside the room. He held the door open for us. Trumpets wouldn’t have surprised me.
    The throne room was not what I expected. Sure, there was a dais with a chair on it, just like in the movies, but the rest of the room was in a state of disarray. A large space ran through the middle, for dancing or processions, perhaps, but the rest had an almost lounge sort of look. Small couches, chaises, and chairs were arranged around low tables set with goblets and platters of fruit. Men and women, again dressed in sort of a goth-Renaissance style, draped themselves on the furniture and on each other, picking idly at the fruit as they watched me. I was put in mind of the way Romans used to dine.
    More than gentry lounged around, however. Spirits and sprites and trowes and wraiths were also in attendance, along with an assortment of Otherworld creatures. The monsters of human imagining, side by side with magical refugees who had immigrated to this world.
    I wondered then if any other shaman had been this far into gentry society. I remembered Roland’s warning, that I could be taken right into the heart of their world. If only our kind had some sort of scholarly journal. The Journal of Shamanic Assassination and Otherworldly Encounters. I could have used this “research” to write a compelling article to share with my fellow professionals.
    Conversation dropped to a low hum as the gentry leaned over and whispered to each other, eyes on me. Smirks and scowls alike lit their faces, and I put on the blank expression I would wear going to meet a new client. Meanwhile, my pulse raced into overdrive and breathing became a bit difficult.
    Volusian trailed near me on one side while Rurik walked on the other. Wil and the others moved behind us.
    “Why all these people?” I murmured to Volusian. “Is he having a party?”
    “Dorian is a social king. He likes keeping people around, most likely so he can mock them. He keeps a full court and regularly invites his nobles to dine here.”
    We came to a stop. On the throne sat a man, Dorian, I presumed. He looked bored. He leaned into the arm of his chair, one elbow propped on it so he could rest his chin in his hand. It sort of made him view us at an angle. Long auburn hair, reminiscent of the trees outside, hung around him, highlighted with every shade of red and gold conceivable. He could have been