Steelhands - Jaida Jones [52]
It was one thing to be brave when thousands of lives were at stake and you were part of the only damned crew that could put an end to the war, but I had little delusions about my own ability to re-create that same atmosphere of victory on my own.
If I was in for something as simple as a discussion, then I didn’t have anything to worry about. But it was never something simple when it came to royalty. I’d seen the strange twists and turns the Esar’s family line had taken in the past, and I knew the history behind every untimely royal death, as well.
It was because of this, perhaps, that I wasn’t able to convince myself of anything.
The carriage bounced to a halt and the Esar’s man sprang out ahead of me to lift the catch on the steps. I emerged from the carriage somewhat disoriented, but the beauty of Palace Walk made me catch my breath just as it always did. Even in winter, when the trees were bare and no lanterns lined the path, it was quite lovely in its minimalism.
“I assume you already know the way,” the Esar’s man said, bundling the stairs up under the carriage again. They fell into place with an ominous click. “If you don’t deviate from the path, it’ll take you right inside. Should be someone waiting to escort you to His Highness from there.”
“I see,” I said, tugging my gloves on a little straighter. My fingers were stiff from the cold. “Well, thank you very much for your assistance.”
“And for yours,” the driver agreed.
The one unfortunate thing about Palace Walk was that it was largely empty: Servants used other entrances for their comings and goings, and unless there was a party—a favored family visiting from their country estates, or perhaps a ball—most of the people with business in the palace were already within. I couldn’t get lost in a crowd, and I couldn’t distract my mind by observing others. I had only myself to think about, and the large, white stone building looming before me was causing me to feel very small indeed.
There were guards bundled up in coats to open the doors for me, and they did so, nodding as though they knew me, which made me slightly uncomfortable—if only because I most certainly did not know them in return.
Someone was waiting for me in the inner chamber, but it wasn’t another servant, or even a guard as I’d half expected. She was sitting on a low, ornate couch beside one of the few, long windows that was still gathering the winter light, her voluminous skirts shimmering just slightly like an oyster pearl in shades of white and pale gold, with an overlay of blue. There were little pearl drops hanging from her ears, though her throat was bare, and she wore long gloves that extended nearly up to her shoulders against the cold. Her hair was the same gold as her dress, drawn back from her face and swept up off her neck—held there by what I could only assume was some little magic charm but was in all likelihood a hidden talent with pins that I’d never understand.
I had only ever seen the Esarina in passing and from a distance, but it was unmistakably she seated before me.
“I …” I managed, as my brain refused to follow where my mouth had already ventured forth. What was the proper depth of bowing for a woman of her station? I knew it, and yet the sight of her caused me to forget it almost immediately. “I am sorry … and humbled, Your Majesty. I must have gotten turned around somewhere. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Not at all,” the Esarina said, standing with a hushed swish of her skirts. “You are Balfour Vallet, Adelaide Vallet’s son, are you not? I am acquainted with your mother. She speaks very highly of you.”
“You’re too kind,” I said, still not quite managing to convince myself that I hadn’t tripped and hit my head somewhere along the walk. This felt like an ambush, though too subtle to be planned by the Esar. If he wanted to hit you on the back of the head, he did so, and was done with it. “Or perhaps she is.”
The Esarina laughed, covering her face with a fan that had suddenly appeared in