Page 36 of A Crown of Tears and Treason
What in the–
I stood perfectly still, ears straining to hear. It was almost a whisper, but not quite. Gods, if this was the king–
“We need to take a good look at her ourselves,” another voice said. A woman who elongated her vowels too much.
“They say she has no power. If true, that’s a waste of good Vegheara blood.”
They? Who in the underworld was he talking about? And who, aside from Zandyr, knew I couldn’t cast a single spell to save my life?
“Not pretty, either. No sonnets will be written for her,” the first voice said again, followed by a nasty little laugh.
“Maybe with some more meat on her bones. Skinny like a beanpole, I hear.” A melodramatic sigh. “The prince will feed her, we can’t count on starvation.”
“Pity, that. But if she doesn’t have power…”
“One less thing we have to worry about. But if she has a good pair of hips, she might have four, five kids in her.”
“She doesn’t sound interesting enough past the wedding night. Otherwise, her coming here is not good.”
No, what wasn’t good were these two people talking about me. Gods above, these were my future in-laws? Discussing me like I was a sow ready for calving? An emaciated sow, at that.
My blood boiled. Before I knew it, I stalked up the last steps. The grand doors swung open as I neared, blowing a soft, lemony breeze against my face.
I stopped in my tracks. Magic. Magical doors that revealed a golden colossus of a throne room.
I couldn’t decide if the hall had more columns or guards, but they were both equally still.
With my shoulders squared and grandpa Constantine’s words of encouragement cooing in the back of my mind, I stepped forward, making sure I didn’t trip on the many layers swaddling me.
Meager little thing. I thought I was, in some ways, but hearing it out loud…
My footsteps echoed on the dark marble floor flecked with gold filigree. Dragons, carved out of wood, stone, and precious rocks guarded the interior as well.
One of them snaked all the way from the wall up to the golden chandelier hanging from the web of wooden beams.
It felt like a cathedral, high and mighty.
Two empty thrones speared the end of the room, sitting atop a crimson platform. On its right side, two more golden seats, smaller and without the Blood Brotherhood symbol, were already occupied.
Two people overfilled the chairs with their massive robes; yards upon yards of fabric must’ve gone into cushioning their behinds.
They couldn’t have been the king and queen.
The man had a long, plump face, with cheeks so beefy, he had to squint his dark eyes. He had a long red beard that fell past his protruding belly, slick with oil until it shined. He hadn’t gone hungry a single day in his life, had he?
The woman was a narrow thing, with a long neck and an angular face that reminded me of a snake. How that small neck could hold up her enormous jewel-encrusted headdress was beyond me.
They both stared down at me with their narrowed, beady eyes.
The guard with the tallest helmet stepped forward from the wall.
“Their Excellencies, Grand Advisors of the Blood Brotherhood Clan, Custodians of the Three Holy Temples and the Official Archives, Lord and Lady of the Northern Isles, and Illustrious Leaders of the Blood Brotherhood Senate of Sages, Banu and Valuta Kovetmore, of the noble Kovetmore family,” the guard managed to say in one full breath. Lungs like a lion, that one. “I present to you the Lost Daughter of the Protectorate Clan.”
Short, easy, and wrong. Lost Daughter was rumor fodder, not an official title. Before I could interject, Valuta leaned forward, her snake neck bending at an unnatural angle.
“Come, dear,” Valuta said in a sickly sweet voice, fanning herself lazily with a silk fan. The whispers were gone, but the vowels were there. “You can approach, you don’t have to worry.”
My instincts told me I very much did. The urge to run coursed through me and I had to force myself to stand still. All the guards looked ahead, unbothered.
