Shadow War - Deborah Chester [59]
“Stop. I will walk alone. I wish no accompaniment.”
They protested, but she left her chambers and walked rapidly outside into the frosty air of midday. The winter sunshine looked pale and blighted today. Even inside the protected walls of her garden, her flowers had been nipped by frost. They drooped, the edges of their leaves rimmed in black. Two guardsmen trailed after her, keeping a respectful distance.
Elandra glanced over her shoulder at them once, and quickened her step. Her garden walls loomed high, and she felt enclosed inside a topless box. This was a prison, no matter how comfortable. She felt confined and frustrated. Why must she be watched over constantly? What harm could befall her here within the palace? Why, for once, could she not be alone?
Her head ached more fiercely. Stopping a moment to rub her temples with her gloved fingers, she drew in several breaths of frosty air. Nothing helped. The tension knotting her neck did not slacken. And it was too cold for her to linger out here.
Yet she did not want to return to her chambers to be fussed over endlessly, suffocated with attention. Abruptly she made a decision and veered from her garden. Indoors, she headed toward another section of the palace, walking with swift determination. Her guards moved closer. Unobtrusive, yet there in her wake. She reminded herself they followed to protect her, yet she did not feel safe.
She walked quickly along the galleries and passageways, keeping her hood up and her veil in place for concealment. Each time she met a courtier or a servant or a chancellor, she was conscious of the swift flick of their eyes, followed by a little gasp of recognition. It irked her. Why should she maintain this pretense of being hidden away when anyone who saw her knew who she was? Or maybe it was the fact that she’d left her chambers to stroll through the palace at large that shocked everyone she met. She must be violating another rule and another set of protocols. For once she did not care. She felt restless and edgy, rebellious and daring.
Finally she reached a section where she did not know her way. She stopped and gestured. One of her guards stepped forward and bowed.
“The new healer,” she said impatiently. “Where is his workroom?”
The guard frowned, looking shocked. “But, Majesty, if you are ill he will be brought to you. You must not go to him. It is not—”
“Do not tell me what is and is not permitted,” she said sharply enough to make the man blanch. “Direct me to his workroom.”
The guard bowed again. “If your Majesty will follow me ...”
He led her into a modest area of pokey passageways, dark, ill-lit rooms, and storerooms stocked with provisions. Women on their knees scrubbed steps and floors with brushes. The men were all carrying items or hurrying somewhere. Elandra saw no idleness, no slacking.
Unconsciously she gave a nod at the activity. It looked well supervised, but she would very much like to check the inventories someday to see how much waste and graft were going on.
Then, for the first time all day, she nearly smiled at herself. The steward would die of horror if he found her in his storerooms, counting barrels herself. No, no, he would expect her to sit in her audience room while he laid carefully penned lists before her and assured her all was as it should be.
She passed an open door where cold air was pouring in along with servants busily unloading laden carts. More feast day provisions. So much work toward an event that might be canceled.
Stop it, she told herself sharply. The emperor had said there would still be a coronation. She might as well shake herself out of this dark mood.
They climbed a long series of steps, leaving the bustle of the storerooms behind. Here, there was no heat and no activity. Despite the warmth of her cloak, Elandra shivered. Ahead she could smell the unpleasant scents of a sickroom mingled with the aroma of herbs and bracing tea.
The guard leading her stopped. “Wait here, Majesty.”
He walked alone to the infirmary door and knocked,