"Not everyone considers blood ties as lightly as you do." Cadoc's voice made the others turn. The air mage was dressed in gray robes the color of dark fog. His dark red hair looked like a bloody skullcap, giving his skin less color than a fresh corpse.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Curane snapped.
"You had no second thoughts about providing your granddaughter for Jared Drayke's pleasure when she was barely of marriageable age."
"I secured a dynasty."
Cadoc raised one eyebrow. "In the farmlands, men can be stoned for such arrangements. Kings and armies are not so bloodless as you suppose. Isencroft and Dhas-son may choose war over gold for those blood ties you find so useless. Gold won't buy everyone."
"It bought your service, didn't it?" Curane growled. "And you shed plenty of blood serving Jared Drayke. We'll see how much blood ties count. Martris Drayke can't possibly hold out against our mages."
"What of the Margolan wedding?" Drostan asked.
"I've got a man in position at Shekerishet. Not only will there be no heir in Margolan, but more than a few of the king's guests will go home in pieces. We'll see how much love the other kingdoms have for Drayke then."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
King Martris Drayke stood on the steps to Shekerishet. The heavy cloak that protected him from the early Fall snows also hid his nervousness. Kiara's carriages had just arrived from Isencroft, bearing King Donelan, the princess, and her retinue. A lone figure stood on one of the castle balconies. Jonmarc. He and Gabriel had arrived from Dark Haven two nights before, on the eve of the heavy snows that now blanketed the Margolan landscape. Tris had stayed up late with them, talking over a bottle of brandy.
Soterius pushed the crowd back from the reception, keeping the well-wishers beyond bow range. The pomp Tris hated about kingship swirled around him. Zachar had worn himself ill making certain everything was perfectly according to protocol. Crevan, Zachar's assistant, had to take over to give Zachar a needed rest before the wedding. Carroway was beside himself with the sudden change, and his nervousness added to Tris's apprehension.
Heralds blew their trumpets as King Donelan's carriage approached. Every element was like an elaborately staged play, including formal greetings that satisfied protocol but felt stilted and awkward. As if I didn't have enough to be nervous about, meeting Kiara's father for the first time!
King Donelan was tall and gaunt, but his walk was purposeful. "Greetings, King Donelan," Tris said. "Welcome."
"Hail, King Martris. Your welcome is accepted."
Their eyes met. Tris felt his stomach knot.
"I trust your journey was uneventful?"
"Fortunately so." He gestured toward the waiting carriages. "May I present my daughter, Princess Kiara."
Trumpets blared. The crowd moved forward for a look at the princess. Despite his best attempts to maintain a regal indifference, Tris could not keep from smiling. Two footmen helped Kiara from the carriage, through Tris knew she could swing down from the saddle of a battle steed unassisted. Gone were the tunic and trews Kiara had favored on their journey, as well as her sword. A gown of pale blue showed beneath the white furs of her traveling cloak, brushing the snowy ground as she walked. Her auburn hair was elaborately coiffed, glistening with gems and pearls. She met his eyes, and Tris could tell she also chafed at the formalities.
Donelan took Kiara's arm. Gathering her skirts, Kiara slowly ascended the stairs, making a low bow as she came two steps below where Tris was standing. "Greetings, your majesty," she said, head bowed and eyes averted.
So much for being allowed to remain two nobodies from nowhere.
"We are graced by the honor of your presence, your highness," Tris replied, extending his hand for Kiara to clasp as she rose to stand. If she startled at the note that he passed to her in his palm, her face gave away nothing, although he thought he saw a glitter of amusement in her eyes.
"Come in, warm yourselves, and be comfortable," Tris welcomed them. The other carriages were now unloading their passengers, and Tris glimpsed Cam and Carina among the entourage. He was certain he saw Carina glance toward where Jonmarc stood, but by then, Crevan was leading the way into Sheker-ishet. Compared to all this nonsense, I almost prefer rappelling in from the top, the way we did when we fought fared. Storming the castle was easier than satisfying the diplomats!
"It's been many years since I visited Sheker-ishet," Donelan said as they entered. "Your father was an excellent hunter. I've missed him this autumn, when there are stag aplenty in the forest."
Tris smiled, taking Kiara's arm. "I don't think I ever saw father happier than on a hunt. And I know that he enjoyed your hunts together, although I suspect the stag got bigger with each retelling!"
There was no time for private conversation. Crevan led them to a dining room where a table lay glittering with all the formal settings that Jared had not pillaged. Servants bustled around them, seating each person in the order court protocol demanded. Tris hoped that his desire to be done with formalities was not plain in his face.
"Your shoulder is feeling better, I hope?" Donelan asked casually.
Of course Donelan bad heard about the assassin. He's got spies in Shekerishet, just as Margolan has spies in each of the other kingdoms, friendly or not. It's just good business—never mind that he's sending his daughter into a kingdom that's barely stable.
"Mending well, thank you," Tris replied.
"Most unfortunate. Such things happen in difficult times," Donelan replied.
Tris lifted his goblet, and the others followed his lead. "To peace and prosperity."
"To peace and prosperity."
When the meal finally ended, Tris felt relieved. Cam grinned at him and surreptitiously tapped a flask at his belt, an invitation for Tris to stop by for a drink when time permitted.
King Harrol of Dhasson made a less formal entrance, as boisterous as Tris recalled from his fostering. Seeing his aunt, Queen Jinelle, Bricen's sister, made Tris feel a sudden pang of loss. Jinelle had Bricen's eyes and her laugh reminded Tris so much of Bricen that it brought a tear to his eye.
"There you are! Look at you. A king. I shudder to think." Jair Rothlandorn of Dhasson slapped Tris on the back.
"Glad you made it. You look very official," Tris said, taking in Jair's well-tailored clothing and the circlet that marked him as the Dhasson heir to the throne. "Don't tell me you've become a responsible member of the royal family."
Jair was just as tall as Tris but stockier, and although Jair's features showed his Dhassonian heritage, there was no mistaking the family resemblance. "Spent the last year fighting those bloody magicked beasts out on the border." Tris saw a fresh scar across Jair's right cheek. "Heard tell they were meant for you."
"We met up with a few of them ourselves."
"So where's your bride-to-be? I came prepared with plenty of stories from your fostering. Father says he can add a few of his own. Although," he said with a conspiratorial glance toward King Harrol, "truth be told, father never really knew the best ones."
Tris laughed. Jair, just two years older, had shared Tris's love for adventure, much to King Harrol's chagrin. "I'll introduce you to Kiara at the reception. By then it'll be too late."
Jair clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I've heard some of what you had to go through to free Margolan. I'm sure the news that reached Dhasson is only half the story. I'm sorry about Uncle Bricen, Aunt Serae, and Kait."