Egeria smiles warmly. “Where did you learn court etiquette, Cat?”
“In Castle Fisa.”
“What were you doing there?” She sounds genuinely interested, and a little awed.
“Mostly getting tortured,” I answer. “Loads of fun.”
Everyone gapes while I look over Piers and Anatole. Gods! I thought Nerissa was old. Griffin’s father looks like he can’t even stand up. Piers resembles Griffin except he’s not as solid or weathered, and there are ink stains on his fingers even though he was out patrolling today.
“Tortured!” Jocasta finally breaks the silence. “How awful!” She’s close to me in age. Like all the siblings, she has dark hair. It’s braided and pinned up. Brilliant azure eyes set her apart from the varying gray tones of the rest of the family.
“Never happened to you?” I ask as if getting tortured were as common as lamb stew.
Her jaw drops before clacking shut again. “Griffin would never allow us to be tortured.”
Something twists in my chest. I wonder what it’s like to feel that secure.
“Please sit.” Egeria indicates a chair between Griffin and Piers, ranking me above everyone except for Griffin and herself. I don’t say anything. Griffin is still standing and pulls out the chair for me.
Servants dressed in traditional tribal clothing begin piling my plate with dolmades, fat green olives, and glazed dove breasts. I stop them. Etiquette lessons begin now—for everyone. “Alpha Sinta is served first, then Beta, and so on. I’m last.”
“But you’re our guest!” Egeria protests.
I almost snort. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Isn’t she?” Egeria looks at Griffin, apparently confused.
He shrugs, and I grit my teeth. “You’re the royals,” I say. “You’re first.”
“I fail to see how being royal changes the rules of hospitality,” Egeria huffs.
Hopeless. They’re all hopeless. “Is that how things are done in the tribes?” It occurs to me that I know as little about their way of life as they know about mine.
Egeria nods, her eyes wide.
I sigh. “You’ve already shaken up everything else. What’s one more thing?” Besides, the idea of being served last rankles, and I’m not even sure where to fit the parents in. They’re usually first, or dead.
Egeria beams and motions for the servants to continue.
“What else have my children shaken up?”
The question comes from Anatole. I’m surprised his voice doesn’t wobble like the rest of him. He’s a big man with bushy white hair and craggy skin, but his body, which was obviously powerful at one point, is passing into frailty now. His mind seems intact, though. There’s a definite twinkle in his eyes, telling me he knows exactly what his family has shaken up.
“In a traditional royal family, one parent is Alpha until he or she weakens and is eventually killed off, usually by the next in line wanting to be Alpha. So, Anatole—may I call you Anatole?”
He nods, and I continue. “Egeria might have murdered you in your sleep a long time ago. But since Griffin is clearly stronger and more ruthless than Egeria, it’s probably Griffin who would have eliminated both you and Egeria to take over the realm.” I turn to the lovely, round woman at Anatole’s side. “Nerissa, you’re just the Consort. You don’t matter.”
Griffin’s mother lifts one eyebrow. Slowly. I could probably have phrased that differently.
“Piers, while likely a capable warrior, doesn’t strike me as the type to care about ruling.” I glance at the other brother again. He looks fit enough, but he’s not part of Griffin’s essential team like Carver is, and those ink stains on his fingers make me think he lives for learning, not conquering. “However, Carver might have slit Piers’s throat anyway just to move up a rank. Then Carver and Griffin would be at odds, waiting for one or the other to make a move.”
I turn to the younger sisters. “Jocasta and Kaia aren’t nearly brutal enough to get involved, so they would be married off to royals or nobles from Tarva or Fisa to form alliances that never last. The realms aren’t attacking one another at the moment, but that doesn’t mean they won’t. The girls would be miserable but probably not dead, which is always a good thing. Their children, though, like all of yours”—I sweep a hand around the table, indicating the six siblings—“would get caught in the race for power and start trying to kill each other off as soon as they could walk. Royals call it the nursery bloodbath. It’s why they have so many kids. It’s like throwing vicious puppies together and waiting to see which ones live.”