The empress stands on the finish of the desk within the banquet corridor, wearing all her finery. A skinny ornamentation of brushed bronze circling her head represents her authority. Her hair is finished up in tight braids which are coiled excessive and sit at her crown. A good black bodice and leather-based trousers skim her physique, and tails in the back and front swirl about her legs. Her outfit’s not a costume, however the fullness of the tails give the phantasm of 1.

She’s fierce in presence, and the room feels it.

The seven lords, their daughters, and their ambassadors are all seated across the desk, dressed simply as regally, additionally carrying the adornments of their station. The empress insisted the lord’s deliver all their daughters from ages ten to eighteen to introduce them to her. I concern her motives. Does the empress suspect one of many lords of treason? Might this be the true motive for the feast, to flush out a traitor? In all chance, the presence of the younger girls are to maintain the lords from misbehaving—a intelligent ploy on the empress’s half.

As Empress Rhianu holds her glass of wine excessive, she says, “My lords and your expensive beloved daughters.” She pauses as her eyes sweep the younger women’ harmless and barely terrified faces. “I’m happy we might all collect for this celebratory feast.”

I’m on the empress’s proper, sitting in for Siarl, who’s grow to be too frail to journey. The empress has surprisingly given him depart since I’m at hand. I rise and elevate my goblet excessive. The lads readily comply with my instance. The younger women extra timidly.

“This previous month has been affluent,” the empress continues. “The combination of the dragon riders into every of the areas and the improved commerce has gone higher than deliberate.”

Aside from the dozen males who died in Goleuddydd, I add in my head. The dozen males who refused to permit the dragon riders to intervene with the commerce coming in from the southern coast. Cussed fools.

“Allow us to feast to good relations and peace.” The empress hoists her goblet.

“Hear, hear,” I say.

The lads and younger women across the desk soar into motion and clink their glasses. Goblets are sipped timidly. I take an enthusiastic swig to indicate the visiting lord’s they don’t have anything to concern, to indicate them they should act as if they aren’t afraid of the empress.

I talked with them about this.

It doesn’t matter what I say, they’ll’t enter her presence with out fear that they’ll depart with unattached heads.

The empress sits, and her visitors scrape into their seats, some drawing napkins throughout their laps.

The principle platter is carried out by a server, who units the silver dome in entrance of the empress.

“Ah, gents. Our essential enticement we owe to Lord Cadwallader and his advantageous geese.” The empress dips her chin, signaling for the servant to elevate the dome.

When he does, the boys gasp. A number of of the younger girls screech with horror. One rises from her seat and almost bolts from the room, however her father pulls her into his arms as an alternative. Somebody sobs.

All for good motive. Nestled within the heart of a mattress of potatoes, carrots, and turnips is a head. Not a pleasant fats goose with pores and skin cooked to a golden-brown crisp, however somewhat the severed head of a grey wolfhound—Drago.

Lord Berwyn, on the empress’s left, pushes his chair away from the desk. His face is sickly pale. “Is that this a joke?” His daughter, virtually to the age of womanhood, grabs his hand to consolation him. Her countenance is courageous regardless of the small quantity of concern that swims inside her.

Empress Rhianu rises to her ft. Her face is difficult. Stern. She breathes steadily as she stares at what’s left of poor Drago.

I look ahead to an indication that she’s about to crumble—glistening moisture in her eye, a quiver in her lip.

There’s nothing.

She doesn’t elevate her gaze, however she assesses the scenario, maybe gauging who presumably is the offender of the souls within the room.

Whichever lord killed her wolfhound will lose his head in a lot the identical method.

After a number of moments, through which a number of younger women weep softly, the empress speaks. “I can guarantee you, Lord Berwyn, that is no joke.” With a deep breath, she gestures to the servant. “Take this away.” When the servant flinches with hesitation, she hisses. “NOW!”

Lord Berwyn shakes his head, mumbling to himself, unable to take his eyes from the spot poor Drago was unveiled, even after the servant takes the tray away. “He was one of the best of Virga’s final two litters. Who would do such a factor? Who?”

His daughter rubs his shoulder, with out remark.

“Lord Berwyn, maybe you’d like a brandy to calm your self,” I say. “Please sit.” One other server rushes ahead with a tiny goblet whereas Lord Berwyn’s ambassador coaxes Berwyn into his seat.

“Somebody deliver within the goose,” the empress says by way of gritted enamel. She eyes every face within the room, most certainly hoping to power the responsible celebration into giving one thing away.

All faces are emotionless now that the empress’s eyes are on them.

However she received’t relaxation till somebody’s punished.

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