I meet Mother’s gaze over the animal, raising a single brow. “Hell of an entrance.”
“It was the panther or the python,” she replies. Emeralds flash across the crown of her head, expertly set into silver. Her hair falls in a thick, black sheet, perfectly straight and smooth. “I couldn’t find a gown to match the snake.” She gestures down at the jade folds of her chiffon dress. I doubt that’s the reason, but I don’t say so out loud. Her machinations will become apparent soon enough. Smart as she is, Mother has little talent for subterfuge. Her threats come openly. Father is a good match for her in this way. His maneuvers take years, always moving in the shadows.
But for now, he stands in bright sunlight. His advisers fall back at a wave of his hand, and he ascends to sit with us. A powerful sight. Like Ptolemus, he wears clothes of brocaded silver, his old black robes abandoned. I can feel the suit of armor beneath his regalia. Chromium. Just like the simple band across his brow. No gems for Father. He has little use for them.
“Cousins of iron,” he says quietly to the Sunset Stretch, looking out on the many Samos faces dotting the receiving crowd.
“Kings of steel!” they shout back, putting fists to the air. The force of it thrums in my chest.
In Norta, in the throne rooms of Whitefire or Summerton, someone always crowed the name of the king, announcing his presence. As with gems, Father doesn’t care about such needless displays. Everyone here knows our name. To repeat it would only show weakness, a thirst for reassurance. Father has neither.
“Begin,” he says. His fingers drum on the arm of his throne, and the heavy iron doors at the far end of the hall swing open.
The ambassadors are few but high-ranking, leaders of their houses. Lord Salin of Iral seems to be wearing all the jewels my father lacks, his broad collar of rubies and sapphires stretching from shoulder to shoulder. The rest of his clothes are equally patterned in red and blue, and his robes billow around his ankles. Another might trip, but an Iral silk has no such fear. He moves with lethal grace, eyes hard and dark. He does his best to measure up to the memory of his predecessor, Ara Iral. His escorts are silks as well, just as flamboyant. They are a beautiful house, with skin like cold bronze and lush black hair. Sonya is not with him. I considered her a friend at court, as much as I consider anyone a friend. I don’t miss her, and it’s probably for the best she isn’t here.
Salin’s eyes narrow at the sight of my mother’s panther, now purring beneath her touch. Ah. I had forgotten. His mother, the murdered lady of Iral, was called the Panther in her youth. Subtle, Mother.
Half a dozen Haven shadows ripple into being, their faces decidedly less hostile. In the back of the room, I notice Elane appear as well. But her face stays in shadow, hiding her pain from everyone else in the crowded room. I wish I could seat her next to me. But even though my family has been more than obliging where she is concerned, that can never happen. She’ll sit behind Tolly one day. Not me.
Lord Jerald, Elane’s father, is the leading member of the Haven delegation. Like her, he has vibrant red hair and glowing skin. He seems younger than his years, softened by his natural ability to manipulate light. If he knows his daughter is in the back of the room, he doesn’t show it.
“Your Majesty.” Salin Iral inclines his head just enough to be polite.
Father does not bend. Only his eyes move, flickering between the ambassadors. “My lords. My ladies. Welcome to the kingdom of the Rift.”
“We thank you for your hospitality,” Jerald offers.
I can almost hear my father grind his teeth. He despises wasted time, and such pleasantries are certainly that. “Well, you traveled all this way. I hope it is to uphold your pledge.”
“We pledged to support you in coalition, to supplant Maven,” Salin says. “Not this.”
Father sighs. “Maven has been supplanted in the Rift. And with your allegiance, that can spread.”
“With you as king. One dictator for another.” Mutters break out among the crowd, but we remain silent as Salin spits his nonsense.
Next to me, Mother leans forward. “It’s hardly fair to compare my husband to that addled prince who has no business sitting his father’s throne.”
“I won’t stand by and let you seize a crown that is not yours,” Salin growls back.
Mother clucks her tongue. “You mean a crown you didn’t think to seize yourself? Pity the Panther was murdered. She would have planned for this, at least.” She continues stroking the glossy predator at her side. It growls low in its throat, baring fangs.