Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(97)

The hall was a smaller, more intimate version of the throne room, adjacent to the king’s privy chamber. Montaigne even had a throne of sorts, an elaborate chair on a raised dais, so he could look down on those around him.

Pettyman knew how to find that sweet spot where hospitality and politics met. He’d refreshed the Solstice greenery around the mantel and doorways, and laid a modest display of food and drink out on the sideboard. Jerome was in the process of tasting it under the watchful eyes of Fleury and Marc DeJardin.

It was a waste of time. Ash knew by now that the king wouldn’t touch it anyway. Montaigne had always been paranoid, but he’d grown worse after the assassination attempts. His personal guard searched his bedchamber each night before he locked the door. No morsel passed his lips without being trialed on the taster—multiple times. He constantly complained of headaches, tremors, and rashes, but refused Ash’s offers of help.

Could the king’s symptoms be a signal that Ash’s plan was working? He didn’t know. It would help if he knew whether the king was using “white magic,” but he didn’t want to draw attention to the living silver by asking about it.

Ash and Jerome were spending lots of time together these days. Ash had become the equivalent of the king’s magical taster—assigned to keep a constant eye out for magical threats, scrutinize visitors, and be ready to leap into action in the event of sudden illness or another attempt on the king’s life.

Ash would have been more than happy to allow any rival assassin to do the honors, but it hadn’t happened yet. With the arrival of the emissary, he knew that time was running out—for Jenna, anyway. A handful of people would be coming together with the Carthian delegation to decide Jenna’s fate like brokers at a slave auction.

Ash took a deep breath, forced himself to unclench his fists, to loosen his muscles, to lean against the wall as if he had nothing to lose. He hadn’t survived this long by being stupid.

Speaking of the slave trade, Lila and Destin Karn arrived together—of course. Ash fingered the collar around his neck. Since the delivery of the crates of flashcraft, Ash’s last illusions about Lila had disappeared. Lila would go anywhere and do whatever it took in order to make some coin. If she thought she was going to take him back to the Fells and collect a reward, she was in for disappointment.

Now that Lila and Karn were experts on magical devices, they’d been called in to offer an opinion on the “weapon” Commander Strangward had brought.

Or maybe the king was just lonely. General Karn was in the field, deploying his forces in the path of a possible attack by Arschel Matelon and his allies. Matelon was on his way to his fortress at White Oaks, calling in his bannermen along the way, getting ready for a fight.

I wonder if my mother knows the consequences of her claiming of Delphi.

Maybe that was the plan all along.

It seemed like he was learning more about his mother at a distance than he ever had at home.

While little Karn made plans with the blackbirds, Lila drifted over to where Ash stood.

“You’re not even tempted?” she asked, nodding at the spread along the wall, a blackbird standing guard at either end.

“I just ate,” Ash said, “and I don’t care for herring.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Ash said, showing his teeth in a smile. “But help yourself if you’re hungry. The king’s not going to touch it, not after it’s been sitting out.”

Apparently, Lila wasn’t hungry, either, because she didn’t chance it.

The king arrived soon after that, with Botetort. The king was well turned out in black and silver, but he looked a bit under the weather. The skin on his cheeks appeared chapped and he repeatedly rubbed his forearms, as if they itched. His hands tremored a bit until he clasped them together on his lap.

Ash bent his knee to the king, then rose, studying his face. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”

“Never better,” the king snapped. “Did you scan the room?”

“I did, and found nothing suspicious,” Ash said.

Greenberry, the chamberlain, appeared at the door. “The principia, Father Fosnaught, is here with the delegation from the Northern Islands, Your Majesty,” he said. “Shall I show them in?”

“By all means,” Montaigne said. “Let’s get this done.”

The first man through the door was massive, broad-shouldered, a mountain of a man. His hair was the color of burnt honey, braided and twisted into locks. He wore a loose linen shirt, tucked into trousers, a baldric and belt over top. He wore his wealth on his wrists and around his neck—a random assortment of gold cuffs and chains and pendants. A light cape was thrown over all, and it seemed to change colors in the light from the torches. No weapons were in evidence—the delegation had been relieved of them outside.

I wonder if the empress is as impressive as her emissary, Ash thought, eyeing him.

There were six of them in all, none of them wearing any kind of uniform. They were dressed in clothing in various colors, of a comfortable style similar to that worn by the emissary. Men and women dressed the same, resembling sailors more than anything else. Their one consistency was that all of them displayed wavelets of tattoos covering their arms. Ash guessed that must be the signia of the empress. Most were fair-skinned, but colored by long hours in the sun, their hair ranging from a shade like bleached linen to corn silk to light brown.