Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [328]
"I should have anticipated this," Lady Denise apologized. "You may refuse, of course, but… it would be better if you don't."
"We'll go," I said. Eamonn, not bothering to hide his impatience, grumbled reluctant agreement.
A squadron of the princeps' personal guard arrived to escort us. As a sign of honor, we were allowed to ride. They fell into formation around us, clad in shining breastplates, their white cloaks with the purple border swinging briskly about their bare legs as they marched. I wondered if they felt the chill. I had no idea what to expect of the princeps, Titus Maximius. In my time as a scholar in the city, I knew him only as a distant figure of derision among the University students, who had little respect for the office he held, diminished as it was from its long-ago glory. I'd never expected to meet him in person.
Like the Temple of Asclepius, the royal palace was located on an island in the Tiber River, though it was closer to shore and joined by an elegant bridge. Our escort marched us across it. We dismounted in the courtyard and were conducted inside.
Here, the vestiges of Tiberium's splendor remained on display. We were led into the throne room, which sported a polished floor of pink marble, high ceilings, and a border of gilded friezes. There was a throne, too; an ornate affair of gilded wood crusted with jewels, a purple cushion on the seat. It was empty.
"Dreadful, isn't it?" A man emerged from behind the throne. He was some thirty years of age, with bad skin and a prominent bulge to his skinny throat. In one hand, he held a scroll; the other was extended in greeting. "Well met, Prince Imriel de la Courcel."
I clasped it unthinking. "Well met, messire." Even as I said the words, I realized he wore a simple diadem; a purple ribbon tied around thinning brown hair. I released his hand and bowed deeply, mindful of Court protocol. "Forgive me, your highness."
"Oh, call me Titus," he said. "Please."
I straightened and found him smiling. "Imriel."
"Imriel." The princeps of Tiberium turned to Eamonn. His gaze rested on the gold tore around his neck, oddly wistful. "And you must be Prince Eamonn mac Grainne of the Dalriada, from the far reaches of Alba. I've just been reading about it."
"I am." Eamonn bowed.
Titus Maximius sighed. "Come and take a cup of wine with me, won't you?"
We spent an hour with him, drinking and talking. He wanted to hear of our adventures, here in the city and in Lucca. To my surprise, I found I both liked and pitied him. The princeps had led a sheltered, protected life. He yearned for more, more than his role would ever allot him.
"I wanted to go, you know," he said sadly. "To Lucca. I wanted to lead the army myself. But the Senate refused to allow it."
Eamonn coughed. I daresay he thought it was the right decision.
"Terre d'Ange is grateful beyond telling for Tiberium's aid in this matter," I said diplomatically. "To risk yourself in such a manner would have been far too much to ask."
"That's what they said." Titus Maximius snorted. "You needn't be grateful. I would have done it for the sport. For the glory. And unless your ambassadress is a liar, and I am assured she is not, your queen will pay dearly for our assistance. After all, it was a prince's ransom of sorts."
"Lady Denises word is Queen Ysandre's bond," I assured him.
"That's good." He drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of a chair. I noticed his nails were bitten to the quick. "It was my wife's idea, you know. She's very clever."
I met his gaze. Although his pale blue eyes were a trifle watery, it was frank and ingenuous. I wondered if his wife was a member of the Unseen Guild. If she was, I wondered if he knew. "Will we be meeting your lady wife?"
Titus blinked his watery eyes. He looked from me to Eamonn, then back at me. He was an unlovely man with unrealized dreams of heroism and glory, and I didn't need to step outside myself to see