Bolt’s shoulders, still thick with muscle after three score plus years, shifted, shedding my concerns. “We exert the privilege to make them wait until the next day or the one after that or next week or month.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “What did you think, Willet? Cynestol boasts a ponderous history. Nothing here moves quickly.”
Strains of music drifted to us from the musicians stationed at each of the corners of the throne room. Somehow through all the tumult they had managed to stay in time with each other, and their music reflected the mood of the court, their chords ascending first into augmented mystery before dropping into a cascade of notes that reflected the diminished hopes of the crowd. I wondered if they were mocking us. Was it possible to make a mandolin sound sarcastic?
A woman stepped from the crowd, her dress so filmy it could have doubled as a scarf. A deep red, it shifted and floated behind her as she moved. Somehow it managed to stay in place, and I wondered what sort of craft or sorcery managed the task. She approached the dais as if we were her subjects, wisps of her blond hair mimicking the dress she wore.
“I know this one,” Gael murmured looking at Bolt, “at least by reputation. Duchess Lyllian Hungor. Does Willet have to delve her?”
He nodded. “If she claims to hold the gift of kings, he must.”
She turned to me, shaking her head. “If even half the talk about the duchess is true, you’re probably going to want to put her memories away as quickly as you can.”
Closer, Hungor appeared to hold about two score years. Fine lines showed around her eyes and the beginning of smile lines lay on the sides of her mouth. Yet, age had managed to enhance her beauty instead of diminishing it, though most men would consider her features strong rather than comely.
“Errant Consto”—she curtsied—“allow me to welcome you back to the court of your homeland.”
He inclined his head with enough grace to make any monarch or dancer envious. “Duchess Hungor, I thank you for your welcome, though anyone looking at me would know my birth lies elsewhere.”
She nodded, smiling indulgently. “But Cynestol is your home, and you’ve earned the right to call it such.”
“Do you wish to make a claim for the gulled throne?”
She dipped her head. “I do. The burden of our people rests heavily upon me, and I believe the gift of Aer does as well.” A thread of uncertainty marred the serenity of those green eyes. “Naturally, I would reward all those who have served Aille so well in the past.” Her glance darted to Gael, then me. “Or would do so in the future.”
Bolt matched her gesture, his head lowering slightly. “Allow me to introduce my friends and advisors, Lady Gael Alainn and her betrothed, Lord Willet Dura.”
The duchess extended her right hand, palm forward, which Gael matched with her left, each finger and thumb placed to touch their opposite. After a brief moment in which Gael’s eyes widened visibly, they parted and the duchess turned to me, this time extending her left hand in the same manner.
I’d stripped off my gloves and raised my right hand to match hers. I knew what to expect, but in the instant before I fell into the delve, the heat of her touch still surprised me. The river of her memories flowed past me in a swirl of colored recollections. But where the colors of most people I’d met showed hues of startling clarity denoting both pleasure and pain, most of hers were muted.
I let them wash over me until I became Duchess Lyllian Hungor, a major power in the kingdom of Aille and as lost a soul as humanity or circumstance could contrive. I spent my days in quests for influence and pleasure, trying to fill a hole the death of my first husband had put in my soul. But each fleeting moment of pleasure carved out a bit more of my insides, until the hole became a cavern. At the last, nothing of pleasure remained in my liaisons, only a hunger that refused to be filled.
I blinked, finding myself in the throne room with my right hand a whisper away from her left and my face flaming. I jerked as if I’d been burned and tried to turn the motion into a bow that would hide my embarrassment. The duchess eyed me, suspicion engraved in her expression.
“Thank you, Duchess Hungor,” Bolt said from his seat. “Your dedication to Aille is noted.” At the tone of dismissal, Lyllian Hungor curtsied once more and withdrew, her dress and hair trailing after in the breeze of her departure.
“Willet?” Gael asked.
I swallowed, working to put the fresh set of memories away, but try as I might, there were vivid images that remained. “Well . . . that was an education.”
Bolt laughed, his bark of amusement drawing the stares of court.
For a moment, I saw Gael’s sculpted features flash a look I’d seen on other women, but never on her until that moment. Jealousy. I would have told her that the duchess was more to be pitied than censured, but the other chief nobles, emboldened by the encounter, queued up to present themselves as contenders for the throne.
An eternity of formality and half a dozen sets of memories later, Bolt withdrew from court, allowing me to trail in his wake. Not one of the nobles I had delved possessed the gift of kings or, more correctly, none of them were aware of having such a gift. The only monarch I’d ever delved was King Laidir, and that had been in the earliest days of my gift, before I even knew I had or understood it.
“Are you sure the one who has the gift will know?” I asked Bolt in the privacy of our rooms.
He nodded as if the
