“Always, shan’ei,” Alastair said.
She dipped her head down and pressed her snout to Alastair’s forehead. He patted her neck.
“An-Tyrekel be your shield,” he said quietly.
She withdrew and then, to my surprise, kissed my forehead as well. “And Ket take your enemies,” she finished. “I’ll see you both at dawn.”
The ivy tossed madly as she took to the air. I settled back against Alastair’s chest as he wrapped his arms around me and watched her shrink against the sky. A thousand trivial fears, ten thousand tiny worries bubbled up inside me, only to die once they reached my tongue. The silence was strangely precious, unbroken by the half-expected plea for me to remain behind. Whatever we faced, we faced together.
After another minute we returned to the house. There was much to prepare.
The light of the early evening sun fell flat and heavy along the streets of the First Circle when we set out for the palace. We watched from the windows of our carriage without speaking, reflecting the strange hush that had fallen over Edonarle. By tradition, a Saint Ellia’s Eve in the capital should have seen festivities in all corners of the city, with laughing children pursued by fathers in paper sea-serpent masks, who were in turn pursued by the oldest daughter of the house, robed in white and shooting fake arrows from her flimsy wooden bow. Sweetmeat sellers and half-trill traveling bards would lay claim to the available street corners, hawking their wares to wide-eyed, sticky-fingered youngsters, and festive lanterns would have burned in every casement.
Tonight the lanterns still burned, but the cheerful atmosphere that accompanied the holiday was dampened by a vague but weighty sense of apprehension. No children ran in the streets; no costumed Ellias reenacted her legendary last stand to the cheers of her neighbors. We passed a lonely handful of revelers in the Avenue of Kings, already sopping drunk despite the earliness of the hour. They sent up a ragged and rather vulgar cheer at the sight of us but otherwise ignored our little procession.
Just past the revelers, the sound of music and bustle rose to something close to its usual festive volume. The carriage rounded a corner and the avenue opened into the great half-moon courtyard before the palace gates. Hundreds of men and women huddled around a great bonfire in the center of the square, watching the performance of “The Lay of Saint Ellia” by a troupe of street performers, who were in turn watched by the lines of stone-faced palace guards ranged before the main gate. Their attention was rapidly redirected, however, when our carriage rolled to a stop. They saluted as Lady Catriona descended.
“Ah! Hello again, Master Rothwinter,” she said.
The head guardsman bowed. “Your Ladyship. My lords and ladies, welcome. You are expected.”
I climbed down after Julienna, conscious of every unfamiliar movement of the split skirt she’d insisted I wear. A banquet at the palace demanded finery, of course, but both Julienna and Lady Catriona assured me that the practicality of trousers was a much-cherished privilege of Daired women. We’d settled at last on a compromise: a long soft surcoat embroidered with a pattern of violet and golden leaves, covering a pair of trousers and tall iron-shod boots. An ornate little knife—a dress dagger, Julienna called it—hung at my side.
It took effort not to stare as we entered the main gate. The lingering dread clinging to our errand notwithstanding, the Royal Palace demanded a moment of wonderment. In my summer visits to Edonarle, Aunt Lissa and Uncle Gregory had only ever taken us as far as the Half-Moon Court, and everything I had ever seen of the palace had been through rows of ornate ironwork gates. I resisted the impulse to whistle at this new view. Tiered like the city, the palace took after the Gray Abbey in shape, with diamond-cornered towers rising from each of the cardinal points of the compass. The great main hall thrust its vaulted roof from the ring of towers, capped by a fifth tower, from which a blaze of lights shone, visible even to distant ships. A stone dragon curled around the Tower of Torches, its bared talons clutching the fluttering standard of Arle.
More guards waited on the steep stair leading to the long front portico, pillared and tiered like the rest of the palace. Great urns overflowing with faded autumn foliage, now dull in the waning light, stood between the pillars, alternating with more green-and-white-liveried guards. Two men broke from their stations to open the great doors before us, and not, I noticed, without a good deal of ceremony. The grounds, the staff, the ritual: I couldn’t be sure this wasn’t the way all guests were welcomed to the palace, but I had the feeling the formality was not for us.
“Welcome, Family Daired.” Without the least noise to announce him, an elderly man in the impeccable white suit and golden chain of the Royal Herald appeared at Lady Catriona’s elbow. He bowed gravely. “The king, queen consort, and High Cantor await your presence in the reception hall. If it please you to follow me?” he said in a tone that suggested no sane person would be displeased by the idea. I took Alastair’s offered arm and followed Lady Catriona after him. The sword on his hip swung in time to our steps, and a sudden fear gripped me.
“Are you allowed to bring weapons before royalty?” I whispered.
“Under normal circumstances, no,” he said in my ear, “but Aunt said she had a word with the Captain of the Guard. Tonight they’re considered ceremonial necessities.”
“What about the guards from the other embassies?”
“They won’t be permitted beyond the reception hall. The king offered his own guards for their security.”
The fear eased a little. Perhaps King Harrold was not as unprepared as we expected.
The herald ushered us down a wide stair lit by an enormous crystalline chandelier. Shani gamboled in delicate marble knots on and around the banisters, to which a handful of jeweled courtiers clung. They bowed deeply, turning on the risers to watch our progress and whispering to themselves. I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder as we passed.
“Just ignore them,” Alastair muttered.
At the bottom of the stair the herald motioned for us to stop. A grand doorway opened up before us, flanked by more guards. One of them, an older man with a gray-shot beard and the golden tassels of the Captain of the Guard, cleared his throat nervously as we approached. “Fair evening, Your Ladyship,” he said to Lady Catriona. “And to you, my lords and ladies Daired.”
“Good evening, Captain,” she said. “And how are your grandchildren?”
“Very well, my lady, but . . . ah. Ahem. Yes. I’m dreadfully sorry about this, but I must ask that you and your family remove your weapons before entering the reception hall.”
Lady Catriona drew up short. “What’s this about?”
The captain stared studiously at the chandelier. “Begging your pardon, my lady. Lord General Camron’s express orders.”
“Captain, I thought we’d discussed this.”
The face beneath the beard grew very red. “So we had. Then the lord general and I discussed it further. Er. Apologies.”
Alastair frowned and made as if to speak, but Lady Catriona made a sharp motion with one hand and he stepped back. “Very well,” she said. “Alastair, Edmund, Julienna, do as he says.”
Alastair obeyed reluctantly, exchanging dark looks with Edmund and Julienna. Julienna hefted her blades in each hand and glared at the guard who came to collect them with an expression that suggested she’d put them to good use if he tried to take them from her by force, but her aunt raised an eyebrow and Julienna relented. I handed over my little dagger with almost the same reluctance.