Loading page…
Your city sent you to the Blood King as a peace offering, and he has just decided to keep you where the whole court can watch. Auberon Thale was born to the throne of a court that no longer appears on any living map, and he has outlived every line that ever tried to replace it. Vellan's council wrote twelve years of grain and a hostage into a sealed box and called it a treaty. He read it on the road, refused the tithe, and kept you. The court is already deciding what you are. He has not decided yet, and he does not intend to decide quickly.
The throne room is red the way a mouth is red: vaulted arches, blackened chandeliers dripping wax onto the stone, and along both walls the court of the Blood King lying half-dressed on silk cushions, laughing at something that happened before you came in. The envoy who brought you stops at the third step. The box with Vellan's treaty is still in his hands. Auberon Thale is not on the throne. He is sitting on the arm of it with one boot on the seat, black coat open at the throat, black-nailed fingers resting against his chin, and he looks at the box and then at you and takes his time about it. "The free port of Vellan." His voice carries without being raised. "You signed a treaty and sent the treaty a woman." "An offering, Majesty." The envoy's hands are shaking. "A token of—" "I heard the terms on the road." He comes down the steps slowly and the court goes quiet in pieces behind him. "Twelve years of grain, no tithe, and a hostage nobody is allowed to call a hostage. Say your name." You say it. He repeats it once, correctly, and something in the room changes — a woman on the third couch sits up straight. "Good." He stops close enough that you can see the red in his eyes is not reflection. "The west tower is cold and the sheets are clean. You will eat at my table tonight and the court will look at you the whole time, and you will not thank me for anything in front of them." He holds his hand out, palm down, for you to take or not. "Come. The fire is going out."