A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

Monroe shook his head. “No, let’s be on with it.” He turned to Patricia. “Will you allow me the honor of escorting you this evening, Madame Delacroix.”

“Delighted,” she purred, taking Monroe’s arm as she had done mine. He placed his hand over hers as he led her towards the door. Crylwin shared a brief exchange with Richard then fell in line behind his father. I watched them walk away, took in a deep breath, and fell in line behind them.

Chapter Twenty and Five

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

Judging by the path of the sun, it was a few hours past midday. I wiped the sweat from my brow and wished I wasn’t wearing a coat. I looked down from my perch at the top of the hill. There was a slow-moving procession of carriages making their way up the cobblestone pathway. It was like watching a line of ants marching from one set of walls to the next.

I turned to where the others chatted in the shade of the elder tree. Monroe was seated behind a long table; Patricia sat to his right, Crylwin to his left. Richard was there too, nodding and smiling at all the appropriate times as his lord regaled the Lady Delcroix with adventurous tales of his youth.

Crylwin rolled his eyes and excused himself. “I hope you washed your ass,” he said as he approached. “It’s about to be kissed by every noble in Belen.” He gestured to the line of carriages. “Hopefully, she’s in one of them.”

I rubbed at the wound concealed beneath my gloved hand.

“You nervous?” He asked. “You look nervous.”

I shrugged. “Not really sure what I am supposed to do.”

“These leeches love nothing more than to put you under their heel. They will flatter you with insincerity and mock you with their indifference.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Stay close to Richard. He will keep you out of trouble.”

A broken-note carried on the wind, courtesy of a group of musicians practicing below. I turned towards the inner courtyard where the many-colored pavilions of the Seveli caravan dotted the landscape. Shops and stalls lined underneath, their wares displayed on collapsible wooden counters.

Crylwin followed my gaze. “It’s been a long time since we had something worth celebrating. Father has called in a lot of favors to make this happen on short notice.”

I felt compelled to say something in response; some words of gratitude, but no words came to mind. I didn’t ask for this—for any of this.

I watched as a pair of jugglers worked on an upraised stage, tossing wooden dowels back and forth. They stepped back with each throw, increasing their distance until they were at the opposite edges of the stage. A man dressed in long purple robes was seated at the center between them. He paid no attention as the dowels spun past, doing little more than fan himself with his open book.

“It’s going to be quite a night,” I said, turning back to the line of carriages. I hoped he was right. Hope was the operative term; I couldn’t expect her to be there among the mass of well-wishers and sycophants that grew ever nearer—but I could hope. No matter the spectacle, the music, the feasting, tonight would not be the same without her by my side.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Crylwin said. “You want anything?”

I shook my head. “Better to keep a level head tonight.”

I spoke on my own behalf, but the message carried more than one meaning.

“You worry about yourself, princess,” Crylwin said with a wink. “Decia is coming. I’d better get a head start before she arrives.”

Tall circular tables scattered beneath the shade of the tree. Silver pitchers of wine and clear glass jars of juice squeezed from the oranges that grew on the estate sat atop them. Experience taught me that the orange juice was anything but innocent. Crylwin had a habit of fermenting the liquid into a strong liquor that he spiced with clove and honey. I had lost my cups more than once on his aptly named orange punch.

I sucked in a deep breath as the first of the carriages rolled to a stop. The driver hopped down from his bench, opened the door, and held a gloved hand out to his passenger. An unfamiliar face greeted me with a smile as wide as the moon.

“Lordson Faerin Monroe!” the woman called out. “My, aren’t you something?”

I felt a presence behind me, confirmed with a light hand on my shoulder. “Lady Eugina Sesely of Tolemound,” Richard whispered into my ear. “Heiress of house Sesely, inheriting from her late husband, Lord Belth Sesely.”

“Lady Sesely,” I said with a bow. “How kind of you to come.”

“Oh, how marvelous,” she said, clapping excitedly. “Richard, dear, you have outdone yourself. Such manners for a—”

“Lady Sesely,” Old Monroe cut in, taking his place at my side. “It has been too long. I see introductions have already begun. Allow me to introduce the Lady Patricia Delacroix, eldest daughter of Duchess Cynthia Delacroix di Sevel.”

Patricia glided forward, her hips rocking not so subtly from side to side.

Eugina’s face was unflinching, but I could see the strain behind her copper eyes. Her smile stole wider. “Charmed,” she said, leaning forward and embracing Patricia with a gentle kiss on either cheek.

“And of course you know my eldest son,” Monroe continued, gesturing to Crylwin behind him.

Crylwin raised his glass to her but said nothing. She nodded curtly, then gestured to her driver. On cue, the man reached inside the coach and produced a small wooden box. He extended the box to Richard, who accepted it with a formal bow before placing it on the long table behind.

“Richard, dear,” Eugina continued, “this northern heat has me withering like a petunia in Quince. Come, take me to some refreshment.”

Richard held out his arm. “Right this way.”

“I recommend the punch,” Crylwin said, prompting a glare from Old Monroe.

That charade carried on for the better part of an hour as the carriages deposited