Kell nodded at the Isle. “Tell that to our guests.”
Below, the other vessels had parted to make way for the Veskan fleet as it came up the river, stopping only when it reached the barricade. The Veskan royal barge, a splendid rig made of redwood with dark sails bearing the royal emblem of the crow in flight against a white moon, was flanked by two military ships.
Minutes later the Faroans’ imperial vessel followed, its ships all skeletal and silver-white, the crest of the black tree scorched into their sails.
“We should get going,” said the prince. “We’ll have to be there to welcome them.”
“We?” echoed Kell, even though the king had already made it clear that his presence was required. Not because Kell was family, he thought bitterly, but because he was aven. A symbol of Arnesian power.
“They’ll want to see you,” the king had said, and Kell had understood. When Maxim said you he didn’t mean Kell the person. He meant Kell the Antari. He bristled. Why did he feel like a trophy? Or worse, a trinket—
“Stop that,” chided Rhy.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever’s going through your head that has you frowning even more than usual. You’ll give us both wrinkles.” Kell sighed. “Come,” pressed Rhy. “There’s no way I’m facing them on my own.”
“Which one are you afraid of? Lord Sol-in-Ar?”
“Cora.”
“The Veskan princess?” Kell laughed. “She’s just a child.”
“She was just a child—and a nightmarish one at that—but I’ve heard she’s grown into something truly fearsome.”
Kell shook his head. “Come on, then,” he said, slinging his arm around the prince’s shoulder. “I’ll defend you.”
“My hero.”
* * *
The Red Palace had five halls: the Grand, an extravagant three-story ballroom made of polished wood and sculpted crystal; the Gold, a sprawling reception hall, all stone and precious metal; the Jewel, seated at the palace heart and made entirely of glass; the Sky on the roof, its mosaic floor glittering under the sun and stars; and the Rose. The last of these, positioned near the front of the palace and accessed through its own hall and doors, possessed a stately elegance. It had been built in a wing of the palace with nothing overhead, and light shone through windows set into the ceiling. The walls and floor were royal marble, pale stone threaded with garnet and gold, crafted by mineral mages for the crown’s use alone. In place of columns, bouquets of flowers in massive urns cut parallel lines through the chamber. Between these columns, a gold runner ran from doorway to dais and throne.
The Rose Hall was where the crown held court with its people, and where it intended to greet its neighboring royals.
If they ever showed up.
Kell and Rhy stood on either side of the thrones, Rhy leaning against his father’s chair, Kell at attention beside the queen’s.
Master Tieren stood at the foot of the dais, but he wouldn’t meet Kell’s gaze. Was it his imagination, or had the Aven Essen been avoiding him? The royal guards stood statuesque in their gleaming armor, while a select assembly of ostra and vestra milled about, having drifted into clusters to chat. It had been more than an hour since the royal ships had docked and an escort had been sent to accompany them to the palace. Sparkling wine sat on trays, going flat with the wait.
Rhy shifted from foot to foot, clearly tense. This was, after all, his first time at the helm of a royal affair, and while he’d always been one for details, they usually centered around his clothing, or his hair. The Essen Tasch was on another scale entirely. Kell watched him fidget with the gleaming gold seal of the Maresh—a chalice and rising sun—over his heart. He’d produced a second one, for Kell, which he had reluctantly pinned on the breast of his red coat.
King Maxim fiddled with a coin, something Kell only saw him do when he couldn’t sit still. Like his father before him, Maxim Maresh was a metalworker, a strong magician in his own right, though he had little need of it now. Still, Kell had heard the stories of Maxim’s youth, tales of the “steel prince” who forged armies and melted hearts, and he knew that even now the king traveled twice a year to the borders to stoke the fires of his men.
“I hope nothing has happened to our guests,” said King Maxim.
“Perhaps they got lost,” mused Rhy.
“We could only be so lucky,” murmured Kell.
Queen Emira shot them both a look, and Kell almost laughed. It was such simple, motherly scorn.
At last, the trumpets sounded, and the doors swung open.
“Finally,” muttered Rhy.
“Prince Col and Princess Cora,” announced a servant, his voice echoing through the hall, “of the House Taskon, ruling family of Vesk.”
The Taskon siblings entered, flanked by a dozen attendants. They were striking, dressed loosely in green and silver, with elegant cloaks trailing behind. Col was eighteen now, Cora two years his junior.
“Your Majesties,” said Prince Col, a burly youth, in heavily accented Arnesian.
“We are welcomed to your city,” added Princess Cora with a curtsy and a cherubic smile.
Kell shot Rhy a look that said, Honestly? This is the girl you’re so afraid of?
Rhy shot him one back that said, You should be, too.
Kell gave Princess Cora another, more appraising glance. The princess hardly looked strong enough to hold a wine flute. Her cascades of honey-blond hair were done up in an elaborate braid that circled her head like a crown, woven through with emeralds.