Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(43)
She evaluated herself in the looking glass by the door, careful to tuck her serpent’s tooth talisman into the neckline of her shirt. Crafted of rowan, ebony, and ivory, it had been given to her by her clan friend and sometime partner, Shadow Dancer. It had proven itself once again when Destin cornered her and questioned her with persuasion soon after the meeting in the garden.
Then he’d disappeared. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to learn anything about his whereabouts. She hoped he still lived. She’d stuck out her neck to save him, after all. Though, truth be told, she had enjoyed his flustered reaction to her story about the princeling’s fit of crazy.
Hearing the temple bell mark the quarter hour, Lila knew it was time to go. Slinging her carry bag over her shoulder, she bolted out the door.
She’d been called to a meeting with the king and Marin Karn, the general of the southern armies and the architect of the war against the Fells. She’d not met the general before, since Lila usually came to Ardenscourt during the marching season, when General Karn was in the field. She tried to tell herself that this was what she’d wanted all along—to be allowed the kind of access that would enable her to play the big game. But she missed having the insulation of Destin Karn between her and the king.
She moved through the corridors at a trot, afraid she’d taken too much time primping, worried she’d be late. She climbed the stairs from the cellar and passed swiftly through the labyrinth of echoing, marble-faced hallways, intentionally confusing to the untutored, until she reached the unmarked entrance to the king’s apartments.
The blackbirds at the door were familiar. Fleury and DeJardin. Though Lila was taller than many, Fleury could have made three of her. He wore a wicked-looking sword strapped to his waist and the black of the King’s Guard. DeJardin was a collared mage, pinch-faced and wary. A slave. Lila tucked her carry bag more securely under her arm.
“What’s in the bag, girl?” Fleury demanded. He knew her name, but never used it.
Lila thrust her carry bag toward him, knowing there was no getting out of it. “Have a look,” she said, avoiding DeJardin’s eyes.
Fleury poked through the bag, smirked at DeJardin, and handed it back. “Search her,” he said to DeJardin.
The wizard patted her down thoroughly. He found nothing, of course. Lila had brought no weapons, knowing they’d only be taken away from her.
Gripping Lila’s wrists, he sent a tendril of power in. “Tell the truth,” he said softly. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to meet with the king,” Lila said. “We have business.”
“Do you intend harm to His Majesty or any close to him?”
“No,” Lila said, “I do not.” Not today, anyway.
“Are you carrying any weapons or poisons that I did not discover?”
“No,” Lila said, her fingers going numb from the pressure of the mage’s hands. The talisman at her neck sizzled against her skin. Protection against magic.
DeJardin turned to Fleury. “Is there anything else?” he asked.
Fleury shook his head, and DeJardin released her. Fleury gestured to Greenberry, the chamberlain, who disappeared inside. A moment later, he returned, saying, “The king will see you now.” He shoved open the door, and Lila proceeded into the king’s apartments.
A map of the kingdom and surrounding territories covered one wall. Large, arched windows at either end of the room were designed to catch any breeze during the stifling heat of the southern summer. It had been a warm day for the time of year, and the shutters stood open, admitting the failing light.
The room was furnished sparingly. A small conference table was set up next to the fireplace, with three men ranged around it, bottles and glasses in front of them, though it was just mid-morning. There were no servants in evidence, only the usual flock of blackbirds by the door. It was to be a very small meeting, then.
One of the men at the table was Michel Botetort, a thane Lila had worked with in the past. A thane whose unflinching loyalty to the king had won him lands and titles at the expense of less pliant nobles. The other, a stocky, middle-aged man, must be Marin Karn—the Butcher, as he was affectionately known. The third man was Gerard Montaigne, King of Arden.
Lila crossed to within twenty feet, then assumed the position. The king waved her to her feet. “Please,” he said. “Let’s keep it informal. Be at ease.”
As if that were possible in the presence of this king.
This morning the king wore an elegant pearl-gray doublet over a shirt and charcoal trousers. His hands were manicured, the nails buffed to a soft shine. The heavy gold chain around his neck bore his device of office.
It would be a mistake to think of the king as an easy mark. An ornate blade leaned against the wall behind him, and even at a distance, Lila could tell that it had seen heavy use. She’d heard from reliable sources that the king was a deadly swordsman and he rarely went unarmed. Which, considering his history, was no doubt a good idea.
Next to the elegant king, Marin Karn was a stocky plug of a man with snuff-colored eyes. His uniform was a poor fit, straining across his back and shoulders. Perhaps he was getting fleshy in his middle age, but Lila guessed it was mostly muscle. He’d still be deadly in a fight, especially since he wore the glow that said he was gifted.
She couldn’t help comparing him with Destin. The only resemblance Lila could see between father and son was that they shared the same tawny brown hair color. At least she guessed they did: the general’s was clipped so short that it might have been a stain on the top of his head.