Bedelth the Orange (Dragonwall Series #5)

Chapter 9 - Dining with Lord Rhal

Squall's End

Claire's eyes darted around the large meeting chamber. Its center was dominated by a table of dark wood. It was only filled with three people, presumably one of them Lord Rhal. It was easy to pick out nobility once you knew what to look for. Mostly, it was their fine clothes and the ever-present air of superiority.

Lord Rhal sat at the head, and two other men sat beside him on his right. Advisors, most likely. At her entrance, chairs scraped and the three occupants shot to their feet. Her eyes lingered over Lord Rhal. He was handsome. Younger than she'd expected, too. A brief flicker of realization. This was the lord Tamara had told her about. The one her parents had tried to marry her off to, before she'd run away.

"Your Majesty," he said, his wide eyes darting over her, lingering on the places her Sprite markings stood out. "This is an unexpected surprise!"

"She doesn't speak our tongue," the steward warned, his haughty tone lingering in the air, as if her inability to speak their language was an inconvenience. She tried not to bristle at the implication. If that were the case, and she could only speak Ednuar, it didn't make her any less because of it. There would always be people like him, people who carried underlying prejudices they didn't realize they possessed.

She almost opened her mouth to correct him. Almost. Then she thought better of it. No harm in waiting just a little longer. Besides, it was the steward's mistake for making the naive assumption.

"Gods above. Is that so?" Lord Rhal asked, blinking, taken aback. "Do any of them?"

"That one there," the steward said, pointing at Feowen. Except, everyone in her party could, but again, he didn't know that. He'd merely made an assumption based on how they looked, based on their race. That was his mistake. "Forgive me, sir," he added, looking at Feowen. "I don't believe I caught your name."

"Ah," said Feowen. Her negotiator smiled his most charming smile, but beneath it, there was a subtle threat. Feowen was a powerful being, thousands upon thousands of years old. Older, even, than the Drengr who lived today. He took a single step forward. "I am Prince Feowen. This is my cousin, Her Majesty, the Queen of the Sprites. You may address her as Your Majesty, and nothing less. You may address me as Your Highness, or...Prince Feowen. I am also the captain of her guard. And behind us, the rest of her guard."

Lord Rhal's eyes darted over them, mouth hanging slightly agape. "And..." His throat bobbed. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "You really are Sprites?"

Feowen's gaze darted to hers, a single brow lifting. "Utah aik amdah? Gaanih lit outah lamenahi?" he asked, and she didn't miss the scorn in his voice. Is he blind? Can he not see our markings?

"Sincid, Feowen. Canmah sasam sasa jiasin," she scolded, shooting him a look. Hush, Feowen. Allow them their surprise.

"We are indeed Sprites, my lord," Feowen said, his voice turning sugary sweet with politeness. "My queen says she is pleased to meet you," he added. Because that was obviously not what she'd said.

Lord Rhal bobbed his head, his eyes darting between them. He wasn't sure who to address, now. At last, he said, "Not that I am not pleased—honored even—by your visit, Your Majesty, but...things are dire here. I fear this could be dangerous for everyone, having you in our city. May I..." He hesitated, clearing his throat, as if working up the courage. "May I inquire into the reason for your visit?"

Feowen turned to her, arms casually clasped behind his back. "Ynim mi eanish eah malioh eah trighah stahka, uen aeth aya laail taventa?" he asked, straight-faced, as if he really were translating. Am I meant to pretend to translate all of that, or did you catch everything?