Page 110 of Prize for the King
When I come over to the desk ten minutes later, the king hands me a crumpled sheet of thick paper with a few handwritten paragraphs, many words and sentences crossed out.
“And this is the letter my father got from the king of Azur, theone who suggested I marry into the Eleven. He described the entire process for my father. He’s dead now, bless his soul, and his son took the throne.”
I stand by the desk, looking through the letter first, then Magnar’s draft. He ignores me, peering at a densely printed document, but his fingers drum restlessly on the desktop.
Movement catches my eye. Arvi crouches oddly, as if sitting on an invisible chair, and he makes flamboyant gestures, as if pulling something onto his lap. I grimace and look away.
“Well, yes, a letter does seem to be necessary to receive an official invitation to join the next Gathering of Kings,” I say at last. “You had many good ideas, and I agree a simple, direct style will suit. Would you like me to finish the draft? I’d need some sort of promise on your part, something that will prompt them to invite you as soon as possible. Otherwise, they might take months, at least from what my father told me.”
Magnar grunts in assent. “Tell them I’m ready to discuss sharing iron and copper from Zanvar’s mines. I know the loss of those mines hurt them the most.”
“Very well. Could I have a pen and ink, and a place to sit?”
He pushes away from the desk and sighs, rubbing his eyes. “You can have my mother’s study, but we have to ask her first. I must introduce you, anyway. Better get it over with. Come on.”
I walk fast to keep up with his long strides, and Arvi follows a few steps behind me. Magnar speaks without looking my way.
“My mother is old and cantankerous, and she will be unpleasant to you. I’m sorry in advance. I’ll make the introduction and we’ll leave. You’re not obliged to talk to her.”
“Wait!” I gasp out, breaking into a run when the distance between us grows. “Why will she be unpleasant?”
Magnar stops just long enough for me to reach him, then sets outat an even faster pace. I huff and puff, completely flabbergasted by his behavior. I feel the stirrings of anger. He’s not openly disrespectful, but it’s close.
“She’s always been opposed to Father’s plan and wanted me to marry an Agnidari woman. She’ll be rude to you on principle because you’re human. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone with her to get eaten. Here we are.”
He stops abruptly and raps on the door. I just manage to catch up, hastily patting down my hair after the run, when a strong, elderly voice says something I don’t understand.
“Ah.” Magnar winces, massaging his temple as if his head hurts. “She’ll only speak our language, even though she’s fluent in yours. Just ignore her, please. It won’t take more than five minutes.”
I shake my head, because all of this is so preposterous, but before I can voice my objections, Magnar’s already thrown the door open. He strides in, and I follow, looking around curiously. Arvi slips inside, closing the door.
The room is gloomy, with dark green, half-transparent curtains covering the tall windows. It’s large and cluttered, many tables, desks, ottomans, and small cabinets crowding the carpeted floor. The walls aren’t visible from behind heavy tapestries and multiple wardrobes.
I startle when a voice speaks from what I took to be a pile of blankets crumpled in an armchair. When I look that way, a pair of gleaming silver eyes flashes in the dark.
She says a few short sentences, and Magnar replies, his voice strong and neutral. He takes my hand and pulls me to stand in front of him, his hands on my shoulders. The only word I understand him say is ‘Caliane’.
The woman huffs, clearly unimpressed, and waves a hand toward the window. Magnar squeezes my shoulder and goes over to drawback the curtains. Muted light falls in. These rooms clearly look out north.
I swallow, peering into the old, wrinkled face of the former queen. Her hair is white like Magnar’s, but it’s thin and wispy. Her ears are large, framing her face like pale batwings. Sitting so hunched in the armchair, she seems like the smallest Agnidari I’ve seen, maybe save for the woman with a hump.
Her eyes study me coldly, and I straighten, feeling something akin to relief. Even though her skin is gray, eyes alien, and she hasn’t spoken a word I understand, I know her type. I had a dance tutor exactly like her, and met a few old matrons with a similar air.
Forgoing the normal curtsy, I press my forearm to my stomach and give the old queen a deep, ceremonial bow. Magnar said she speaks my language.
“My name is Caliane, and I am the queen of Farneer and Roharra,” I say after I straighten, looking boldly into her eyes. “It is an honor to meet you. Your son is a credit to you, Your Majesty.”
She lifts her pointed chin, her lips twisting in a sneer, but I stare her down. That’s the trick with old crones. They hate simpering and cowardice, and being nice is wasted on them. What they do enjoy is being challenged and treated with respect.
Our eyes are locked in a silent battle. I don’t dare look away, even when Magnar returns to my side, silent and tense. Finally, his mother nods once, breaking eye contact. A thrill runs up my back.
I won.
XXXIV Brothers
“Can she pour tea?” she asks without looking at me. Her accent is stronger than Magnar’s, but her words are clear. Without waiting for his reply, she continues, “Let her pour me a cup, four sugars, and I’ll take those liquor cakes Allundar makes for me. Knight, run to the kitchens. You go back to work, son.”
“I need Caliane’s help with…” Magnar begins, but I take his hand and smile.
