Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

39

Uachi did not know whether Uarria could understand him now that she had taken the form of a shadowcat, but when he told her to wait with the horses tethered in the courtyard, she fixed him with a look that seemed to consent. He did not like to leave her behind; he considered improvising a collar and a leash from the cords he had in his saddlebags, but restraining her was out of the question. If there was some unexpected danger, she needed to be able to run. Besides, he did not think the guards would permit him to bring a shadowcat into the court, juvenile or not.

He reassured himself that Farra would defend him with her life. He trusted she would do the same for the disguised princess, whether or not she knew her for who she was.

The halls of the palace were hung with rich tapestries in jewel tones and carpeted with thick rugs woven with patterns Uachi had never seen before. They were guided toward the chamber where the court would convene by the bored head-nods of liveried soldiers standing at intervals along the halls. Uachi and Diarmán were not the only people coming to pay court or to air grievances. The palace was veritably swarming with strangers.

"Perhaps I should have thought a bit further ahead," Diarmán mused as he stood at the entrance to the grand audience chamber. He was staring at a lady in a sumptuous red gown. The glance he cast to his own filthy, travel-worn tunic was uncharacteristically self-conscious.

Inside the audience chamber, fluted pillars soared up to a high ceiling; round windows gleamed in multicolored facets around the top of the chamber, permitting shafts of light from the sunny sky. There were crowds of courtiers within, all of them in finery. Diarmán frowned at Uachi's clothes, too, tapping a dirt-crusted boot against the carpet.

"Choose your words wisely, and what you wear will not matter," Uachi muttered. "To judge a man based on his clothes—it's folly and arrogance."

"Mm. Well. You can tell her that," said Diarmán, nodding toward the front of the chamber.

A plump, middle-aged woman had swept into the room from an antechamber at the far end. Her dark hair was plaited and coiled around her head, and the style was surmounted by a golden crown. It was her only ornament aside from a large golden pendant brooch hanging at her breast, but her gown rivaled the jewels for splendor. It was gold and green, with a long train sweeping the floor behind her. At the hem walked two ladies-in-waiting.

"Her Royal Highness the High Queen of Narr will now hear petitions from the court and the public," called a steward standing by. And so it began.

Uachi might have been thankful for the sense of unease that kept him on edge throughout the audience; if he had not been aware of how much he risked by being here, he might have fallen asleep on his feet as Queen Coratse's subjects begged her indulgence. There was a lord who had come to present his heir, a babe in swaddling clothes who wouldn't stop wailing. There was a lady, a merchant's widow, who had come to argue her case in some matter of inheritance or another. There were others with grievances related to property, land holdings, and the finer points of taxes.

It was bloody boring.

There was no way to judge the passing of time objectively, and for Uachi, whose hawk-like attention to their surroundings yielded nothing more threatening than a lady switching a ring from one hand to another, it seemed that the audiences lasted for hours.

At last, Diarmán was recognized. He stepped up into the center of the room. Goddess above, but he looked out of place, that travel-worn Faelán man with his fiery curls a-blazing, his clothing dirty and dusty from the road.

"The Crown recognizes Diarmán of the House Eldran," said a tired page who stood just before Coratse's throne. He bowed to the queen before turning on his heel and stepping back, opening the line of sight between Coratse and Diarmán where he stood in the audience hall with Uachi.