Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(80)
And later, Solstice at Oden’s Ford, when the Temple choirs sang on the quad, and speakers from all the temples proclaimed the good news of the returning sun.
Lila grinned. “I thought you might have overlooked it. I came to get you. They’re serving wassail in the Great Hall, and we are invited to drink to the king’s health.”
To his good health or bad health? “Thanks for coming to get me. Just . . . I need to get something from my room. I’ll be right back.”
In his room, Ash stood on his bed to retrieve a thin leather sleeve that he’d slid behind the crown molding. Inside, he’d hidden a needle painted with black adder. Anyone pricked with it would be unlikely to know he’d been stung until much later. When it was too late.
Ash slid it into the pouch under his collar alongside the bottle he’d hidden there the day before. Slinging his healer’s bag over his shoulder, he rejoined Lila. “Let’s go,” he said.
She eyed the bag. “Do you ever stop working?”
“I’m going down to see my patient afterward,” he said.
The Great Hall was crowded with servants and soldiers and the petty nobility, many of them already deep in their cups. There were huge wassail bowls at either end of the room, and fruits and nuts and cakes and pastries. Many of the servants were decked out in unusual finery, having left off the uniforms of Arden for a day. Apparently this wassailing custom was a long-standing tradition. Ash found it interesting how different people looked when they wore the clothes they chose themselves. Almost unrecognizable. He was still wearing drab healer colors, since he didn’t really have any other clothes.
The wassail was thick and potent. Someone had tacked up sprigs of mistletoe in every doorway, and many were taking advantage of it.
At the center of the hall, a small dais had been constructed, layered over with evergreens and white and gold ribbon. Up on the platform stood a table centered with two large gold chalices. That must be where the royal family would preside over the festivities and drink to the return of the sun.
Ash worked his way in that direction, hoping to get access to the stage before the king arrived. But when he went to mount the steps, a brace of blackbirds blocked his way. “That up there is for the king and his family,” one said. “There’s plenty for you lot at the ends of the hall.”
Ash loitered next to the dais, nursing his drink, waiting for another opportunity. Finally, a stir at the far end of the room announced the arrival of the king and queen and their entourage, clad in their holiday finery, a riotous bouquet of color. The procession was surrounded by perhaps four dozen blackbirds, armored and grim, no doubt the result of the recent attempt on the king’s life.
Whoever this competing would-be assassin is, he’s making my job a lot harder, Ash thought.
The contrast between glittering armor and glittering jewels and silk and gold and taffeta was striking. Under the pikes of the guardsmen, the crowd parted like water before the prow of a great ship, closing behind the royal procession like a wake.
Montaigne was clad in cloth of gold. Queen Marina was dressed all in white, her gown a stunning contrast to her dark hair and complexion. Her trailing sleeves were edged in white ermine, uncommon here in the south. Ash studied her with interest. He rarely saw the queen, who almost never left her apartments. She seemed ill at ease, and kept her eyes on her feet, moving cautiously as if afraid of a misstep.
With them was a handsome, dark-haired boy, near Ash’s age, perhaps a little older, wearing a circlet of gold, and a younger girl, maybe a seven-year, whose hair had been arranged in soft ringlets.
“That’s Prince Jarat, heir to the throne, and Princess Madeleine,” Lila murmured. She’d found him in the crowd.
Both royal children had inherited something of their mother’s beauty, though their complexions favored their father’s. The boy had a stingy-looking mouth and his father’s glacial blue eyes.
Ash planted himself by the steps where the royals would pass by, carefully palming his needle. But an impenetrable wall of black uniforms kept him from getting to within arm’s length of any of them.
When the royal family reached center stage, a servant filled jeweled cups from the two gold chalices—one for the adults, and another, perhaps less potent brew for the children. Marin Karn stood to the right of the dais, and a foot or two below, covered in the military glitterbits appropriate to his rank. Ash looked around the room, finally spotting Destin Karn in the galleries, scanning the crowd for trouble. For once, he was wearing the black of the royal guard, a dress sword belted at his waist.
When everyone on the stage was served, Montaigne and his queen lifted their cups. As was traditional, they would drink first. “To the great good health of the servants of this household, and the noble houses that are our strength! To the health of the nation, and glory to the great saint!”
And the assemblage lifted their much less elaborate cups and cried, “To the great good health of their majesties, King Gerard Montaigne and Queen Marina, and their royal highnesses, Prince Jarat and Princess Madeleine!”
That was when a servant standing next to the chalice swayed and crumpled to the floor.
There was instant pandemonium up on the stage. Marin Karn batted the cup from the king’s hand. It landed, rolling, splattering steaming wassail everywhere, until it disappeared over the edge. The royal children set their cups down with a thunk, their faces pale and frightened. The blackbirds surrounding the stage formed a prickling wall around the dais and blocked all the exits to the hall.