Dividing Eden (Dividing Eden #1)(8)
Despite her care, and his obvious cure, his family didn’t want him back. They believed devils were possessing him every time he struggled for air. If they could believe such a thing, Andreus had thundered, then they didn’t deserve him. Breathing condition or no, Max would serve in the castle as a page. When he was old enough he could act as Andreus’s squire. He would make sure the child had a place—just like his mother and sister made sure Andreus retained his, despite his own secret. It was the just thing to do.
By the time Andreus had climbed the narrow servants’ staircase to the third floor and reached the double doors of his parents’ solar, he was out of breath. He leaned against the wall for several minutes and waited for the tightness in his chest to dissipate. When it did, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and made sure his cloak was arranged to hide the worst of the grease stains marring his white shirt. Then he knocked. Less than ten seconds later, Oben, his mother’s longtime chamberlain, opened the dark wooden doors and Andreus stepped into the room that he and Carys had spent much of their childhood avoiding.
The rug on the floor had been replaced at least a dozen times since those years, his mother always searching for the perfect style. This one was yellow. Blue velvet-covered chairs he didn’t remember being here on his last visit as well as several lounges were scattered throughout the room. When his father was out of the castle, as he was today, the seats were almost always filled with women knitting or doing needlework. Mother liked to monitor the gossip circulating through the palace and use the best bits as she saw fit. Now, however, the only people in the room were his mother, Oben, and two of the Queen’s attendants pouring tea.
“You summoned me, Mother?” Andreus said as his mother turned.
Her dark brown hair was the same color as his, but her eyes were the deepest of browns—very different from his hazel ones. Right now her dark eyes shimmered with anger. Perfect since she was wearing a dress of red. Still, his mother’s voice was controlled as she spoke. “The word summoned implies that I had to compel you as your queen to visit. One might assume you would not have come had it simply been your mother who asked for your company.”
“I misspoke. Summoned was the wrong word.” He changed tactics. “Forgive me, Mother. Of course I enjoy your company.”
“Do you?” She looked at him as she crossed to the table and took a seat. “I can’t help but notice that you have only visited with me three times since your father and brother went to observe the guard fighting the war.”
“I’ve been busy, Mother.” Andreus slipped into the seat across from the Queen and presented her the stem of flowers. “Besides, Micah told me you were going to be spending time with Imogen. Something to do with wedding plans and picking out dresses. Activities not aligned with my enthusiasms.”
“Lady Imogen has no need of my help, and if I have my way she won’t be around long enough to become the next Queen.” His mother sniffed the flower before placing it on the table. She then picked up her tea and downed the entire cup in one gulp. She gave a contented sigh and signaled her maid for a refill. “Would you like some, dear?”
“No.” He put his hand over the cup. He’d learned from his sister’s troubles that it was best to be cautious of his mother’s brew. One was never certain what it might contain.
His mother looked down at his hand and stared long and hard. The silence was deafening with condemnation. When he looked down he realized why.
The grease. It not only streaked up the back of the hand, but was dug under his fingernails.
Quickly, he gave his mother his best boyish smile. “My apologies for my appearance, Mother. I was heading to clean up before I got your message. I figured it was best not to keep you waiting just because of a little dirt.”
It was a lot of dirt, but at the moment he failed to think quantity mattered.
“Your father is right. You shouldn’t be working as a commoner. It makes you look like one. People look to their kings and queens for inspiration, especially in times of war. No one is inspired by soil.”
Clearly, his mother hadn’t met Max.
“I’m sure you didn’t call me here to discuss the dirt under my fingernails. You were talking about Imogen. Did the two of you have a falling out?”
His mother took another long drink of tea as she studied him over her cup. Finally, she sat the delicate cup down on its saucer and signaled the maids to leave. As soon as they closed the door, she leaned forward and said, “I’ve asked Imogen several times to look into the future and tell me what she sees. Do you know what she says?”
“No.” Now that Imogen had made a point of asking him to keep his distance, he knew very little what was in her mind or her heart.
“She says there will be darkness. When the darkness fades, two paths will appear in front of our kingdom and there is no telling which one will be chosen.”
“Sounds like the same kind of mystical nonsense Seer Kheldin used to say. You were always happy with his fortune-telling.”
“Fortune-tellers guess at the future,” his mother snapped as she pushed back her chair and began to pace across the yellow carpet. “Seers have true powers. How else do you explain Seer Kheldin’s ability to shift the position of the windmills to perfectly capture the winds?”
The Masters of Light’s observational abilities sprang to mind as well as about a dozen other nonmystical rationalizations, but Andreus held his tongue. His mother was a firm believer in the magical powers of seers, their ability to call the winds, read the stars, and therefore know the future. She loved to lecture him on the legend of the Artis root, and how it had been used for centuries to test seers. While it made for a nice story, Andreus had a hard time believing anyone could speak to the wind and call it to obey, let alone get glimpses of the future from staring at the night sky.