Shadow War - Deborah Chester [107]
Could he read minds? She met his yellow, deep-set eyes briefly and managed a small smile of courtesy. He did not smile back, and his eyes seemed to glow at her, probing deeper than she liked.
Tirhin patted the emperor’s empty seat. “It seems his Majesty has already retired.”
She wished she could do the same. “It has been a long day,” she said neutrally.
Tirhin emitted a short bark of laughter and reached for his wine cup. “Gault, so it has.”
She noticed his hands were unsteady when he put down his cup. From his continued pallor, she guessed he was ill instead of drunk. But there was the banquet to open, and the guests were still standing at their places, awaiting her signal.
She gave it, and with a general scraping of chairs they settled themselves. An enormous roasted swan was carried in on a round silver platter by four sweating footmen. This was presented to her, and Elandra praised it.
At once a majordomo appeared at her elbow with a bow. “If I may carve for your Majesty.”
She smiled. “Take the most tender portion, please, and convey it to Lord Albain with my compliments.”
The man obeyed. Settling back in her chair, Elandra risked a quick glance at Tirhin and saw his face set like granite. Had the emperor been seated beside her, she would have given him the best portion; then he would have returned the favor. But since the emperor was not present, she would honor her father as was only fitting. Tirhin could not expect her to honor him for any reason.
When the laden plate of succulent meat had been carried to Albain, he rose from his place halfway down the table and raised his cup in a toast.
“To the empress!” he said gruffly, squinting through his one eye. “May Gault preserve her.”
The guests rose to their feet, echoing the toast as they raised their cups.
Then followed a long succession of toasts and compliments while the meats grew cold and Elandra’s face ached from so much smiling. She could feel fatigue around the edges of her consciousness, and knew that without the magic of the Mahirans she would have collapsed long ago.
At last the eating could begin. She nibbled at the delicacies, finding most of them too rich for her taste. Lord Sien ate in silence, ignoring everyone. Like Elandra, Tirhin barely touched his food, but he continued to drink steadily.
She marveled at his capacity. “You seem to have a deep thirst, sir.”
His dark head tilted toward her. “Call me Tirhin, mama. We are a family, are we not?”
Heat touched her face, and she bit her lip. “I do not think family is the best term for it.”
His eyes mocked her. “Then what would you call us? A gaggle of unhappy relics?”
“You may be unhappy. I am not.”
“Oh, ho,” he said, sitting up straighter with a sardonic smile. “I suppose you are not. All of Imperia lies at your feet. Or so you think.”
Again she thought of this man’s slave, distraught and torn between loyalties. She was suddenly tired of Tirhin’s petty jealousy, tired of his sulking face, tired of the subtle ways in which he mocked and defied his father.
“I understand you are a devotee of the gladiatorial games,” she said, changing the subject without warning.
The prince blinked, and a faint wash of color tinted his cheeks. “Why, madam,” he said, signaling for his cup to be refilled, “do you intend to become a spectator now that you are released from your bridal confinement? I had supposed you would instead be busy breeding a new heir for the empire.”
Her mouth tightened. He was skating dangerously close to insult. “This sport may begin to fascinate me,” she replied, conscious of Lord Sien listening at her other shoulder. “I understand you own the champion.”
This time unmistakable color darkened Tirhin’s cheeks. He glared into the depths of his cup, and his fingers gripped it so hard