Eleven. It was curtsy number eleven, which was generally appropriate for all introductions to reigning monarchs. Number ten was for royalty of equal rank, which would apply to Prince Vaniell. If he bothered to show up.
What did it mean that neither he nor his brother was present? What did it mean that the king’s personal guards also seemed to be missing? Did it signify that Farhall was a valued ally, trusted enough that guards were considered unnecessary? Or that they were too small and pathetic to be deemed a threat?
Sadly, it wasn’t as though there were any way to tell what they thought of her before introductions were made. So, with only the tiniest betraying wobble, Leisa removed her hand from Zander’s arm, ascended the last few steps, and sank into curtsy number eleven, nearly but not quite touching the ground with her left knee, and crossing her arms to touch each shoulder with the fingers of the opposite hand.
Balance. Balance was imperative. She had to make a suitably dignified yet reserved impression. Chin tucked just so, slightly to the left. The curtsy was to last for a count of five, and she was already on three when a quick puff of wind danced across the portico, carrying a few stray leaves and a tiny cloud of dust. It ruffled the queen’s skirts and disturbed the king’s robes only briefly before whisking right past Leisa’s carefully lowered face.
She sneezed. Not a tiny muffled sound easily concealed by a lace handkerchief, but a loud, explosive sneeze that knocked her right off her toes and into an undignified heap of skirts and petticoats and embarrassment.
She heard a collective gasp from the guards and ladies in her train, but was too busy trying to right herself to reassure them. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to find her own feet, but the accursed dress had so many layers… Fortunately, a hand appeared in front of her face for the second time.
But not Zander’s gloved one. This hand was alabaster-pale and covered in rings.
“Oh my dear, do let me help you.” The voice was warm, motherly, and somehow still slightly condescending, but this wasn’t a moment for rejecting an unexpected gift. Leisa took the queen’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled upright, while offering what she hoped was a shy smile rather than an irritated grimace.
“Your Majesty, I do apologize,” she said hastily. “And thank you.”
“Oh, think nothing of it.” Queen Portiana waved off Leisa’s apologies as she drew her around to stand between herself and her husband, King Melger, who… wasn’t at all what Leisa had expected.
For one thing, he was quite handsome, in an elder statesman kind of way. He was tall and obviously still strong, though there was gray in his hair and beard. His dark eyes, though they remained keen and piercing, suggested that the weight of statesmanship lay heavily on his shoulders.
“Princess,” he said, with a minuscule nod. “We are honored that you have chosen to give us this opportunity to show you what Garimore has to offer through this alliance.”
Eloquent, regal, and commanding—every inch a king, even if he did sound as though he were selling something. And perhaps he was—attempting to sell off his precious son.
“I am grateful,” he continued gravely, “to His Majesty, King Soren, for entrusting you to us. We will do everything in our power to ensure that your visit is of benefit to both our kingdoms.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Leisa murmured, in Princess Evaraine’s faint, colorless tone. “I am quite looking forward to it.”
King Melger nodded his approval of those sentiments.“Perhaps we should adjourn indoors?” He didn’t wait for an answer, simply turned away and left the portico, striding back through the wide formal doors at the front of the palace, which opened seemingly by magic at his approach.
No, not magic. King Melger hated mages. Hated anyone and anything that had to do with magic, including those races and kingdoms where magic flourished. At least that was the rumor that persisted in Farhall, and Leisa would choose to believe that rumor until she saw proof of its falsehood. In this matter, like so many others, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.
Queen Portiana smiled sweetly and followed in her husband’s wake, while maintaining a rather fierce grip on Leisa’s hand. As if there were anything for her to do but follow.
She really didn’t want the queen to feel her staring, but it was difficult to keep from studying the woman at such close range. Leisa’s impression thus far, gained through brief glances, was of a tall, slender woman with silver-gray hair, dark eyes, a motherly manner, and a secretive smile.
As they crossed the threshold, the queen paused and turned to the tall man in household uniform who’d led the way up the steps.
“Unger, please see to Her Highness’s entourage and ensure that they are treated with all courtesy while they are with us.”
He bowed, executed another perfect, well-oiled turn, and faced the party that had followed them up the stairs. Leisa tried to stop—meaning to enquire why, exactly, they were being separated—but the queen pulled her inexorably along, through the doorway and into the hall beyond.
The massive doors crashed shut behind them, and Leisa somehow found herself alone with the king and queen of Garimore.
Well, alone but for the usual complement of royal staff hanging about.
Was this normal?
Shouldn’t she be attended at all times by her ladies or her guards? But that wasn’t one of the topics covered by her hasty education, and she couldn’t afford to make a scene unless this was indeed out of the ordinary.
So she remained silent as the king turned and offered a smile that was somehow both sad and courtly. He’d probably been quite the charmer in his youth.
“Princess Evaraine,” he said, “welcome to our home. I would prefer to begin our acquaintance otherwise, but I’m afraid I must beg you to excuse us for a moment. There is something I must discuss with Her Majesty.”
“Of course,” Leisa murmured, not really knowing what else to say. This, also, seemed rather rude, but how was she to know how royalty treated one another?
The two of them retreated to the opposite side of the soaring entry hall, and Leisa turned partially to the side, pretending to allow them privacy. In reality, she would be able to hear every word, one of the odd quirks that had made her a perfect choice to guard the princess. Or, she thought grimly, to be used as a spy. Secret conversations weren’t much of a secret as long as she was in the same room.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as King Melger took a step closer to his wife. His expression remained kingly and serene, but his words gave the lie to the face he chose to present.
“And where, exactly, is your son?” he asked the queen, his deep voice grown cold with dislike. “I’ve been patient with him, and with you. I’ve coddled him and made allowances for his dissolute habits. But this is a matter of grave importance to the kingdom, and he cannot continue to play games with his duty. He’s disrespecting me and the continued safety of all Garimore with his reckless, irresponsible behavior, and I cannot permit it to continue.”
Leisa shuttered any expression of surprise and concentrated on maintaining an outward appearance of polite disinterest. Not that it was easy. These were precisely the sort of details she needed to know about His Highness, Prince Vaniell, if she were to determine his suitability as a match for Evaraine. And as a spy, though an ineffective and inept one, it seemed important to note the degree of discord between the king and queen.