Though no answer came, Erida knew she would will one into being eventually. She nodded slowly and he smiled, cruel as a knife-edge.
“Very well,” she said. “You’ll leave this evening.”
He dipped his head, glancing at Ronin again. The wizard placed his white hands on the table and stood, despite the second course being served around him.
“I’ll leave in an hour,” Taristan replied, matching the wizard.
Erida watched him stand, her face carefully blank. She was not the only one to see. The eyes of the court rose with her consort, some of them grinning rudely, others whispering. Erida did not like being pushed into a corner, but this was a corner she needed to face.
With a sigh, she rose to her feet as well, leaving the plates and wine abandoned.
“I suppose it’s best the court think you eager rather than indifferent,” she hissed. He eyed her sharply, confused for a blistering second.
Then she pulled him away, the Lionguard traipsing along at a respectable distance.
“One course of the wedding feast,” she muttered, taking his arm with a violent grip. “I believe we’ve set the record.”
The royal residence was oddly quiet. Most of the palace servants, even her handmaidens, had been commandeered for the ceremony and reception. The halls echoed, yawning as Erida walked the well-known steps to her bedchamber. The Lionguard tromped behind, their armor ringing, but they would not follow much longer. The bedding of a ruling queen would have no witnesses. Not even the red wizard, who followed behind the knights with his haunting glare.
It was not so warm within the cool stone of the palace, but she felt heat all the same, creeping up her arm and into her spine. Taristan’s palm still pressed against hers, neither of them dropping the charade of a couple. As with the glass at the feast, he looked sharply at everything—the walls, the rugs, the tapestries—drinking in a world he had never known before. All of it was as familiar to Erida as her own face. She tried to see it through the eyes of another. It felt bizarre.
Her solar was as long as a gallery, lit by a wall of windows looking out over the gardens. She could see the tents, big as ship sails, and the lagoon beyond like a green mirror. The knights planted themselves beside the windows in practiced formation. Their path ended here, guarding the door to the Queen’s bedchamber. But no further.
Better to get it over with as soon as possible. One less thing to do.
Taristan glanced at Ronin before Erida could, his expression tight. “Be ready to leave.”
The wizard didn’t argue, and turned in a smooth arc, his red cloak sweeping behind him. He left the long sitting room without a word, disappearing through another doorway, seeking a back stair. Only a few weeks and he knows the palace as well as my oldest servants.
It was not often that Queen Erida of Galland opened a door for herself, and she endeavored not to struggle with the thick oak ones leading to her bedchamber. They swung on greased hinges, heavier than she remembered, to reveal what looked like the heart of another cathedral.
Rugs patterned the floor, frames of priceless mirror glass decorated the walls, and curtains hung the columns and archways. Red flowers bloomed in vases, perfuming the air. A rose window illuminated the chamber, an ancient bed caught in the circle of rainbow light. In winter, curtains could be drawn around it, to insulate against the cold, but they were flung open in summer, the down pillows and brocade silk blankets difficult to ignore. Erida had never seen this room so empty or so still. With a jolt, she realized she had never been alone in her bedchamber, not once in her life.
The door shut with a snap. In spite of herself and the calm she tried to exude, Erida jumped in her skin.
Taristan dropped her hand. “This is of little use,” he grumbled, gesturing between them.
Then he shucked off the golden chain between his shoulders. His cloak fell with it, a pool of silk blood. He walked, not to the bed but to the closest window. It looked over the spires of the New Palace, beyond the walls to the river, the canals, the bridges. Ascal splayed out, served up on a plate. He looked eager to devour it whole.
Erida removed her crown with more care, laying it on a dressing table. “To me, yes,” she answered, grateful for something to argue. It would make this less strange. “But an heir would cement your precarious position here.”
He leaned against one of the columns, arms and ankles crossed. “A waste of time. I don’t need a child; I need Spindles,” he replied. “I’ll consider our dynasty when the Ward is won.”
The Queen scoffed and set to the pearl buttons marching down the back of her dress. They were difficult, near impossible without her fleet of maids. Taristan let her struggle, never moving from the window.