East of the throne room we entered a smaller audience chamber filled with enough people to create the sensation of crowding. Bolt nodded toward the north end, toward a gray-haired man who appeared to be slowly collapsing in on himself. “That’s him. This should be interesting.”
That last comment caught my attention. I would have asked for clarification, but by that time our escort had formed up in front of the king. Boclar had the same coloring I’d noticed on his countrymen, a swarthy shade between those of Elania and Aille. When he lifted his head, his gaze had difficulty finding purchase. One eye regarded me, while the other roved over my companions. Disquiet threaded its way through my chest as my heartbeat copied the staggered rhythm of Caisel’s musicians. Boclar reminded me too much of Myle and Aellyn.
A woman of some forty years stood to his side. Her hair held hints of auburn in the light, but her eyes were a dark, almost violet, shade of blue that fit her expression. She eyed us with the air of someone prepared in advance to be offended.
I hadn’t known what to expect, and in the absence of experience I’d assumed some commonality with the only king I’d met. But the only thing Boclar had in common with Laidir was the royal guard. Eight men with drawn swords ringed the king in four groups of two, and four pages filled the gaps at the points of the compass, pointing and speaking to the guards on either side.
Herregina took a step forward, but Gael pulled her back with some whispered advice that brought the girl up short.
The king’s gaze refused to focus, and he stared around the hall in wandering patterns. “Light, Erendella,” he whispered to the woman at his side.
“Father”—she shook her head—“it’s too soon.”
For a moment his head dipped, the weight too heavy for him to sustain. Then, trembling with effort, he raised it and managed to force his gaze to serve him. “Now,” he said.
With a nod and a glare for our company, the king’s daughter snapped orders, and we were herded from the audience hall into a smaller chamber, where we waited until the king, assisted by servants, took a seat at the far end. Instead of being called forward, we were made to wait, the minutes creeping by while King Boclar struggled to make his body obey him and his daughter eyed us with unspoken imprecations.
I stepped forward to speak, but Bolt caught me by the arm. “Wait,” he whispered. “It appears Boclar’s daughter runs the citadel. If you push too hard, she’ll have us thrown out and even the king’s personal guards won’t gainsay her.”
As he finished speaking, a man and woman, each with the narrowed gaze of those who rarely looked beyond the work of their hands, entered the room. They carried a large polished metal bowl and an iron stand. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” the woman said to the king, bobbing her embarrassment. She turned to the king’s daughter. “Your Highness, I didn’t expect your summons for another three hours.”
Erendella glared at us, her eyes as hard and brittle as slate. “I didn’t expect to send it, Helioma.”
The king’s hands trembled in a way that Helioma interpreted as a command. “This will take but a moment, Your Majesty.”
After the bowl had been set on its low stand, pointing toward the king, Helioma brought forth a bag and measured a quantity of powder into it with enough care to make it seem priceless. I grabbed Bolt’s arm. “That’s—”
“I know.”
With a quick word, Helioma ordered her assistant to retrieve one of the candles that lit the room and with deft movements she touched the flame to the powder in the bowl. I turned away as light like the sun flared in the king’s audience hall, throwing the people and objects within it into painful contrast.
Limned in radiance, the king straightened in his chair, his eyes narrowed to slits against the brilliance of the alchemist’s art. But his gaze was clear. Clear. “How long?” he asked Helioma.
The alchemist looked from the king to his heir before her gaze settled on Boclar’s feet. “About fifteen minutes,” she said. “Any more than that and we’re cutting the margin too close tonight.”
“Excuse me, Your Majesty.” I stepped forward and Erendella’s gaze latched on to me. “My name is—”
“Willet Dura,” the king finished for me. I must have looked startled. “Your likeness has been given to every king and church head on the northern continent.” He smiled. “I see this is news to you.”
I took another step toward the king, trying to be subtle, but the king’s gaze, clear under the burning light shifted to my hands. With a shrug, I surrendered my pretense. “You’ll forgive me, Your Majesty, if I seem cautious at your sudden revival. I know of no disease that solas powder can cure.”
“Guards,” he ordered. “Leave us. Return in a quarter of an hour.”
After the door was barred, Boclar spared just enough time to nod. “What is it you wish, Lord Dura? Time is short, as I’m sure you heard.”
I struggled to understand what I’d seen, and a seed of fear took root in my mind. I bit my tongue and put away my suspicion. I knelt, going to one knee according to the custom in Collum. Gael, Rory, Mirren, and Bolt copied me, but Herregina remained standing. She might have nodded in Boclar’s direction.
“Rise,” Boclar instructed.
But when I stood, his gaze was still fixed upon Herregina.
“I hadn’t counted on that,” I said to Bolt.
“You have to stop saying that,” he muttered. “It makes my stomach hurt.”
“Lord Dura.” Boclar rose from his chair without difficulty, buoyed on a tide of light. “I bid
