The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(28)
“Fine.” Evelyn sighed with abundant disappointment. Then she bowed her head. “We thank you, Lord Novron, for the food before us. May we prove worthy of your kindness.” She lifted her head and looked at Hadrian.
“Am I supposed to say that now, too?”
Evelyn gave an exasperated shake of her head. “Just—just eat. Please.”
Lifting the lids, they found a steaming feast of eggs, pork, cheese, whitefish, shellfish, honey, almonds, pastries, and whey. For a moment, Hadrian was overwhelmed. “Did . . . did you prepare this all yourself?”
“Of course not. Didn’t you see the army of fairy-cooks that filed out while you were insulting Our Lord? I particularly like their tiny aprons, don’t you?”
“I—” Hadrian wasn’t certain she was mocking him.
“Eat,” she ordered.
They passed trays, loading up plates. Hadrian felt horribly selfish and decadent while piling up so much, but Evelyn insisted she’d cooked it for them and they had best eat it.
“I don’t recall hearing you come in last night,” Evelyn said, pouring herself tea from an elaborate pot made in the shape of an elephant.
To Evelyn Hemsworth and Royce, the pot was likely the whimsical design of a creative artist, but Hadrian had firsthand experience with the animals. He’d seen them during his years in Calis, where they were used as both beasts of burden and war machines. Much of the tableware setting was inspired by, or likely came from, Calis. The port of Rochelle was perhaps the first stop in the trans-Goblin Sea trade route. Even the spice shakers had monkeys on them.
“But I noticed you left quite a puddle on my rug and a nasty trail of wet up the stairs. I’ll ask you to please remove your boots in the future. I’m an old woman and have more than enough to do. I don’t need you providing me with extra work. And be aware, I lock the door promptly with the third chime of the bell tower after sunset.” She reached for the sugar and paused. “You’re not up to anything shady, are you? I won’t stand for any higgery-jiggery or jiggery-pokery for that matter. Not in this house. Understand? While you’re here, I’ll expect the both of you to conduct yourselves properly. And you”—she indicated Royce with a tilt of her head and the raise of a brow—“don’t wear a cloak to the meal table. And wash your hands before coming down. Who were your parents? That’s what I’d like to know.”
They ate for several minutes in silence. The food was wonderful, but Evelyn didn’t eat much at all.
“Might I ask, what became of King Reinhold?” Hadrian ventured and received an apprehensive look from Royce. Both of them visibly cringed in anticipation of the response. Talking to Evelyn was like searching for wayward eggs in a dark henhouse.
Evelyn sighed.
“I’m sorry if that’s not a polite thing to discuss over breakfast,” Hadrian added.
“What? Oh, no, that’s fine, but well, His Majesty . . .” Evelyn frowned over her plate, which consisted of only a single small roll and a slice of orange cheese. “It was quite the tragedy, you understand. His ship, the Eternal Empire, sank in a storm off Blythin Point about five months ago. The entire royal family was aboard, along with most of the royal court. That’s why stewardship of the kingdom has fallen to Bishop Tynewell.”
“Why the bishop?” Hadrian asked.
“Tradition mostly. When the last emperor of the Novronian Empire died, the Bishop of Percepliquis was the one who assumed the mantle of steward to the empire.” She peered at both of them for a moment expectantly. “Neither of you has any clue what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not really,” Hadrian said.
She sighed. “It’s like talking to children. You’re like a pair of five-year-olds dressed up in big people’s clothes. I’m afraid to let the two of you wander the streets alone. You might accept candy from strangers and be whisked off to darkest Calis.”
“He would.” Royce pointed at Hadrian.
“Don’t point,” she said. “It’s not polite.”
Royce rolled his eyes.
“Watch yourself, young man. You’re treading on thin ice, you are.”
Royce smiled at her malevolently. “I’m actually quite good at that.”
Hadrian didn’t like the look in his friend’s eye, which had changed from surprised raccoon to hungry panther. “I think you were going to tell us more about the death of King Reinhold?”
“Actually, no. I was explaining common history, of which you and your friend are as stunningly ignorant as you are lacking in suitable personal hygiene and proper manners.”
“Right,” Hadrian said. “That was it. Go on.”
“Oh, yes, well, history is something of a passion in Alburn, you understand. The people here are quite proud of their heritage—we are, you see, unique in the world. It’s our claim to the past that defines us as a people. Which is why it’s so disappointing to encounter the likes of you two, who appear so nescient of that which is so important to us.” She paused either to take a breath or to allow Hadrian the opportunity to prove her point, perhaps by asking what nescient meant. He didn’t take the bait.
“Well, what I was going to impart was that after the death of the last emperor, his family, and the destruction of the capital city of Percepliquis, Bishop Venlin stepped in and took over. It was the bishop who officially moved the empire from somewhere in the west to here. At that time, this was the Imperial Province of Alburnia. The bishop—that’s what the patriarch was back then—actually ruled the remains of the empire out of Blythin Castle until he finished his cathedral.” She gestured, but didn’t point, toward the east. “Even back then, Rochelle was a thriving port city. You need to understand that at that time, everywhere west of the Majestic Mountains was locked in complete and utter chaos because petty warlords were grabbing land and power.”