After all, most people here hated elves. The Norveshki had lost too many loved ones in the war with Woodwyn. That would explain why this group had a military escort.
Her gaze narrowed on the second flag. Brown. The flag of Woodwyn boasted a tall green tree on a brown background. A strong gust of wind whistled down the river valley, unfurling the flags once again and blowing the hoods off two of the men. Sorcha gasped. They had white-blond hair, just like Gwennore. And the brown flag had a green tree in the middle.
She jumped when a horn suddenly blasted from the southeastern tower. The guard there was alerting the castle.
“What is it?” Dimitri demanded as he and Annika dashed toward her.
“Elves.” Sorcha motioned toward the horsemen as, once again, fear for a loved one clawed its way into her heart. “What if they insist on taking Gwennore?”
Annika frowned. “They can’t have her. She’s our queen.”
Dimitri waved a dismissive hand. “They just want to talk. We’ve known about them since they crossed the border two days ago.”
Annika’s mouth dropped open. “And you never thought to share that with me?”
“Well, I . . . I’d better tell Silas that they’re here.” Dimitri ran to the stairwell.
“I’m not forgetting this,” Annika yelled as he disappeared from view. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”
Sorcha huffed. “I didn’t know, either. You would think Silas would keep us informed of this sort of thing. After all, we’re his heirs.”
“Men,” Annika muttered.
“Well, I’m relieved you can still get mad. I was afraid marriage had turned you into a meek lamb.”
Annika snorted, then pressed against the battlements to study the elves. “The two in front have the white-blond hair of the River Elves, so they must hail from the area around the Wyn River. They could be from Wyndelas Palace, where the king of Woodwyn lives.”
“That would be Gwen’s grandfather?” Sorcha asked.
“We believe so,” Annika replied. “When Dimitri’s uncle went to Woodwyn as an envoy, we think he may have had an affair with the king’s daughter, and Gwennore was the result. Since she’s half Norveshki and our queen, there’s no way we’ll let these envoys take her.”
Sorcha watched as Dimitri and a group of soldiers strode from the southern gate to meet the elves. “Where do you think Silas and Gwen will talk to them?”
“The Great Hall, most probably.”
“Then, let’s go.” Sorcha headed for the stairwell.
“Wait a minute.” Annika scooped a dagger off the floor and slid it into her boot. “They won’t allow us in there.”
“But I have to know what’s going on. I have to . . .” The fear in Sorcha’s heart tightened painfully. Good goddesses, she was so sick of feeling useless whenever her sisters were in danger. “I refuse to be left out!”
Annika’s eyes lit up. “The minstrels’ balcony. I know a secret way in.”
They could hide there and hear every word. Sorcha ran to the stairs. “Let’s go!”
* * *
Sorcha was grateful she was wearing a shirt and breeches as she sprawled on the wooden floor of the minstrels’ balcony at the far end of the Great Hall. The balcony was usually accessed by a staircase in the Great Hall, but Annika had shown her a hidden staircase that originated in a nearby waiting room.
After blowing out the candle they’d used to light the dark stairway, Sorcha and Annika had hurriedly closed the balcony’s thick, velvet curtains. Now, they were lying on the floor, peeking under the curtain’s hem and between the wooden slats of the balustrade.
The afternoon sun was streaming through the long westward-facing windows, illuminating the large, rectangular room and cooling it with a mountain breeze, but up here in the balcony with the curtains drawn, it was dark. And hot.
“What’s taking them so long?” Sorcha adjusted the belt buckle that was digging into her stomach.
“Silas and Gwen must be putting on their finest clothes. And they probably sent for their crowns,” Annika whispered. “They’ll make the elves wait.”
Sorcha wrinkled her nose. She hoped the elves had been told to wait outside in the courtyard, where it tended to get hot and stuffy at this time of day. “We’re Silas’s heirs,” she grumbled. “He should have invited us to this meeting. I’ll be letting him know how aggravated I—”
“Sorcha.” Annika sounded impatient. “You’re still too naïve. I guess it comes from growing up in a convent. But this is strategy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Silas doesn’t want the elves to know what his heirs look like. It will keep us from becoming easy targets.”
“Oh.” Sorcha swallowed hard. Her cousin had a point. If she was going to be useful, she needed to be smarter. And stronger. And if she was going to survive as the heir to the throne, she would have to be wary and suspicious of almost everybody. Completely the opposite from the convent. “I’m glad I have you, Annika.”
Her cousin gave her shoulder a squeeze, then lifted the curtains a bit more to peer down into the room.
The curtain and floor were dusty and made Sorcha’s nose twitch. “I’m afraid I’ll sneeze.”
“Don’t you dare.” Annika handed her a handkerchief. “Here, hold this against your mouth and nose.”
Sorcha pressed the lavender-scented cloth to her nose as a creaking noise reverberated below. The doors were being opened. Footsteps sounded on the stone floor and a low voice spoke in Norveshki. It was Dimitri, giving orders. Only two elves had been allowed in, the two with white-blond hair. The other two, who had been tasked with carrying the flags, were most probably servants.
Sorcha couldn’t tell much about the elves as they crossed the hall, since she was seeing them from the back. With their hooded cloaks gone, their fancy clothes were now revealed—blue velvet tunics over cream-colored silk shirts and cream-colored leather breeches. That had to be hot, she thought, although they didn’t show any sign of discomfort. They were tall, as tall as Dimitri, but whereas he moved like a wildcat stalking his prey, the elves were as smooth as a pair of swans gliding across a cool lake.
Dimitri instructed them to stop a good six feet away from the dais and to move to the left. They set down two parcels encased in blue silk, then stood, facing Dimitri.
Now that Sorcha had a side view of them, she could see they were not the same envoys who had come to the Eberoni camp. But they were equally as handsome, damn them.
Hopefully, the Telling Stones had not referred to either of these men. One was shorter and looked quite a bit older than the other with strands of silver gleaming in his hair. Sorcha glowered at the younger and taller elf. He was as pretty as Gwennore. She was tempted to run down there and mess up his hair.
They were just too perfect. No wrinkles in their elegant clothes, even after a long journey. Not a single smudge on their flawless complexions. Like Gwennore, these elves had black eyebrows, which made a stunning contrast to their white-blond hair that fell to their shoulder blades like silk curtains. Side braids kept their hair back from their noble brows, which were decorated with circlets of gold.