Page 27 of Legacy of the Heirs
“As should you. You have spent as much time raising her as of late,” said Larelle, squeezing Lillian’s hand before folding it back around her own waist and sipping her wine with the other.
“The early years are the ones that matter,” said Lillian, “and that was all you.”
All her. Larelle looked into her goblet. Riyas would be proud of her—of both of them.
“Are you happy to spend some time with her? It will only be brief while I greet the others.” Lillian nodded, and as if on cue, the herald announced, “Nyzaia, Queen of Keres!”
Larelle turned to watch Nyzaia descend the steps. The candles lining the bannisters glowed brighter as she passed. Her dark hair hung in waves, pinned back by jewels and her golden crown. A chain linking the gold hoop in her nose to her ear glinted beneath the candlelight. She held her clasped hands against her stomach and watched her steps as the skirts of her lehenga pooled around her feet. The Keres queen appeared more confident than her last royal outing. Her Queen’s Guard filtered in from the side doors, all but one dressed in black leathers. It was the man from before with the curious pale-blue eyes. Something permeated his presence as though a deep trauma inhibited and tainted his aura. Larelle watched the woman whom she had previously seen interact with Nyzaia—Tajana, Larelle believed she was called, exceptthis time when she offered her hand to Nyzaia, the queen did not take it. Something had happened since Larelle last saw them. The two conversed quietly in the corner of the room.
“Lady Soren of Doltas Island,” the male voice boomed. This time, every head in the room turned to face the staircase. However, Soren did not descend. She remained at the top in her brown leathers and the silver breastplate of the Garridon Army. She glared at the herald. The poor man said nothing but stared back, his face paling as low growls sounded from the hallway. Seconds later, wolves entered the room and flanked their owner. Several guests stepped back, muttering to each other. Larelle glanced for Zarya and found her sitting close by, swinging her feet, and gaping at the wolves.
The pack bared their teeth at the herald, who gulped.
“Queen Soren of Doltas Island, and—” he stammered, “—heir to the Garridon throne.” The mutterings only increased as a wry smile graced Soren’s face. Her thin braids swung behind her as she descended and dismissed her wolves, who began stalking the hall. Larelle’s attention flitted back to Nyzaia, who spoke to Tajana yet fixed her eyes on Soren. Nyzaia’s captain nodded before making her way over to the Doltas queen. Nyzaia had been quick to accuse Soren of setting the explosion; it made sense to instruct Tajana to gather information.
“Queen Elisara of Vala.” When Elisara arrived, the whispers quickly morphed into gasps and gawping faces. Her entrance was punctuated by a gush of wind that nearly extinguished the flames.
“I can’t believe she came,” whispered one woman to her friend.
“You would not catch me dead at the engagement ball of a man I should have married,” giggled another. Yet those not gossiping about the queen of Vala watched open-mouthed, and it was clear why. Larelle was used to seeing Elisara in white and pale blue, perhaps the occasional lavender, and while the style of her dress was like the ones Larelle had seen before—billowing sleeves cuffed at the wrists, a cinched waist, and loose fabrics cascading into awaterfall at her feet—silk replaced the usual chiffon, and the pastel blues typical of Vala were exchanged with a blood-red. The cut of her dress was deep, revealing delicate golden chain jewellery that cupped her breasts and chest; her silver crown seemed out of place amid the golds and reds.
Larelle almost approached Elisara but stopped when Commander Kazaar entered the room from a side door at the bottom of the staircase, his eyes trained on his queen. Larelle noted how his gaze roamed Elisara’s body and how he strode instantly for her. The last time she saw the pair was in Nerida when they appeared to have set aside their differences. Elisara narrowed her eyes at her commander when he approached, though her body betrayed her true intentions; she shifted to mirror his every movement as though strings tied their limbs together.
Larelle could see nothing dark about the commander, and his gaze held no malice when he beheld his queen. In fact, Larelle saw something else—devotion, protection, and something more.
“Can you sense it?” spoke a quiet voice. Larelle turned to find the Historian withdrawing a chair to sit beside her. Noticing his unsteadiness, she offered her hand and helped him lower into the seat. Larelle glanced around, wondering if he had a caretaker or someone to look after him. If Olden was this frail, Larelle would want someone to support him.
“I did not expect to see you here, sir.” Larelle sipped from her wine again, avoiding his question. After speaking with Alvan, she decided she needed more evidence before drawing conclusions about the Historian’s warnings.
“I received no invitation,” he said. Larelle could not tell if a note of disdain tinged his voice. “But it is tradition. I have attended all rulers’ engagements and weddings, so I made my own way here.” His hand shook lightly as he drank from the water before him. “I had to speak to you again to hear your latest thoughts. Can you sense it? The darkness?” He inclined his head towards Kazaar and Elisara, who now stood side by side, peering out of the glass wallsinto the castle’s gardens.
“Honestly, sir, I cannot say I do,” she said. “Are you quite certain you felt something dark about him?” The old man nodded, the wisps from his hair falling from the tie at the nape of his neck.
“It is odd, is it not?” The Historian took a sip from his goblet. “That he was found at the steps of Tabheri palace as a baby and grew into as much power as any of you, despite not being a royal by birth.” Larelle contemplated his words. She had heard stories about the commander over the years but had never questioned it, assuming he was either the illegitimate son of the king or a lord with connections to the royal line. Larelle had no reason to listen to rumours suggesting otherwise; she had been subject to enough gossip to know it usually held no factual basis. But given the rise of the prophecy, perhaps there was more to it. She supposed someone with such a level of power and a reputation for causing pain could have an added darkness. But something gnawed at Larelle; she was not yet convinced.
“Will you tell the others?” asked the Historian. Larelle contemplated her response, having thought about it on many occasions since informing Alvan.
“Not until I am certain of my opinion,” she responded, draining the last of her wine. The Historian hummed.
“Then let us hope you come to your opinion before it is too late.”
Larelle spun her head to the Historian and opened her mouth to scold him.
“Lord Alvan of Seley,” the herald called.
Larelle’s attention flitted to Alvan, an element of pride warming her heart to see him dressed in Nerida’s deep blue—a statement of his loyalty to her, not Garridon. The velvet was fitted, highlighting the size of his arms; one swung at his side while he tucked the other under the breast of his jacket. His hair was freshly trimmed to his scalp, and as he drew closer, she could make out the inkings beneathhis hair.
“Look, Mumma! Mr Alvan!” Zarya said gleefully, her eyes shining as she ran over to her mother with Lillian in tow. Alvan scanned the room, and when his gaze found Larelle, he beamed.
He weaved amongst the throngs of people, who now headed to their tables for the celebratory dinner.
“Hello,” she breathed.Hello? Is that all you can manage?
“You look beautiful,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand. His fingers lingered, reminding Larelle of his touch during their visit to Seley. She cleared her throat.
“Thank you; you look very—” But words escaped her.
“Nice!” Zarya shouted from her seat. “Mumma means to say you look nice!” Alvan laughed, and Larelle grinned. “You should ask her to dance, Mr Alvan.”
