“Lord?” Rory snorted. “I’m a thief.”
“So are most of the nobility,” I said. “They’re just better dressed.”
The seneschal made shooing motions that sent us into the expansive court of Cynestol. “Isn’t he going to announce Bolt?” Rory asked.
Gael nodded. “Oh yes, but he doesn’t want anything or anyone to distract from his presentation.”
“Because he’s an Errant?”
“Because he’s the last Errant,” Gael said. “Their exploits are legendary.”
Behind us, the seneschal proclaimed Bolt’s presence in a voice that I imagined could be heard in Caisel’s capital city of Vadras. “Nobility of the realm, I bring you an unexpected honor . . .”
I listened as he described Bolt in mythical terms for the next five minutes. By the time he finished, the music and entertainment had stopped and every eye was fastened expectantly on the entrance.
Bolt stepped through, dressed all in white, his face like granite.
As one, the crowd bowed to him according to their rank and station, and it was as if a wind had blown across a field of flowers. When the music and noise resumed I got my first glimpse of court in Cynestol.
Chapter 15
I made some offhand comment on the appearance of court that was out of my head as soon as it left my mouth, and Bolt shrugged with his response. “The court of kings isn’t square or even close to it. The hall and the cathedral are both built to the same ratios, nine long, six wide, and four high.”
The numbers of the Exordium. I took a deep breath. I had my own date with those numbers, a task hinted at by Ealdor that left me guessing most of the time. Gael nudged me forward into a maelstrom of color and noise and scent that left me reeling. Three times the size of Bunard’s court, it wasn’t just its extents that overwhelmed me—the walls and pillars, each four paces broad at the base, were clad in silver to a height of five paces and polished to a mirror finish. Every time someone moved, countless reflections moved with them.
“The court in Cynestol is designed to overwhelm visitors,” Gael murmured in my ear.
“It’s doing a great job,” I said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Focus on a single point and concentrate on the sound of just one of the musicians, and the rest will become manageable.”
I nodded and squinted, locking my gaze onto Bolt’s back. No one else in the room had chosen to dress in white. I would have laughed if the contrast between Bunard’s court and this one hadn’t been so stark. People clustered around Bolt, drawing near but keeping a respectful distance, waiting.
Gael gestured to Rory and me. “Stay close together and keep watch while I circulate among the crowd. It’s customary in Cynestol for visitors to greet as many of the nobility as possible.”
I took a few quick steps toward Bolt, and Rory trailed me by half a dozen paces. A number of young women took the opportunity to come forward and make his acquaintance. Charisse was among them. I could have pitied our young thief.
When I stepped in at Bolt’s side, the crowd looked at me as though I’d blasphemed and Aer might strike me dead at any moment.
“You would think that after a few decades, people would have more sense than to behave like this,” he muttered.
“They look as if they’re waiting for you to say something.”
He grunted. “They are.”
“Why?”
He sighed, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d swear that my guard was on the verge of pouting. “I saved Queen Chora’s life and they’ve built that piece of history up in their minds until they’ve turned me into some myth that has no resemblance to flesh and blood. They’re waiting for me to make a pronouncement.”
“What?”
He didn’t get the chance to explain. A woman of perhaps thirty, wearing a gown that fired the imagination without requiring much of it, stepped forward and put her fingertips on Bolt’s bare arm. “Errant Consto”—she curtsied without breaking contact—“when will you declare your regency?”
“What?!” I squawked like a bird before I could help myself.
Bolt grabbed my arm and hauled me two steps back. “This is why I didn’t want to come back here, especially now,” he whispered. “The Errants have a history in Cynestol going back twenty centuries. On those few occasions when the king or queen died without passing on their gift, one of the Errants would serve as regent until the new ruler was found.”
I shook my head. “I’ve read the history books. The last time Aille had a regent was three hundred years ago.”
He sighed. “Cynestol has been here for almost two thousand years. These people regard tradition with the same reverence as the people of Moorclaire hold the mathematicum.”
“But there aren’t any more Errants,” I muttered. “You’ve been attached to the Vigil for decades.” I searched through the memories of all my history lessons, wishing I’d paid more attention. “What happened to them? Why are you the last one?”
Something flickered across the background of his gaze, something hot. “The ones who fell with me were never replaced. The attack on Queen Chora was orchestrated by Bael Waerloga.”
I nodded. “I think I remember that part.”
“Ha!” Bolt laughed. “But likely not all of it. Bael was one of us, an Errant, but he was also cousin to the pretender.”
“Do you have to serve?”
He looked out across the crowd, and I followed his gaze. Even the people who weren’t looking at us directly had their bodies turned so they could watch us without seeming to. “No, but I’m going to have to offer them something in return.”
A shadow fell across the space between us.
“Errant Consto?” the woman in the diaphanous dress called his attention, the tips of her fingers working their way up his arm toward his neck. “Are you currently unattached?”
I admired the way he managed to keep his gaze from drifting away from her face. He bowed, and I
