The queen’s icy gaze swung to encompass him once again and Darshan was immediately thrown back to a time when his five-year-old self, still enamoured with his new abilities, had set the bed curtains alight with an errant magical flame. His father had pinned him to the spot with a similar look.
“That is to say I—”
“You wanted to confirm our fiscal state for yourself?” Queen Fiona finished for him, her tone scarcely thawing. “I assure you, ambassador, everything is as stated. We dinnae make a practise of lying in Tirglas.”
“Leave it be, lass,” Duncan said, his soft voice rumbling much like a distant thunderstorm. Even seated, he was a large man. He laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
A glance around the table was all it took to see how Queen Fiona stood out amongst her own family, her tan skin practically ashen in comparison to everyone else’s.
Much of the children’s features seemed to take after their father. Duncan’s sons shared a heavy similarity in bone structure if not hair colouration—even if Hamish’s was a touch brighter than his brother or father’s greying auburn coils. And where only the elder two children had Duncan’s rather startling green eyes, all three royal siblings were close enough in skin tone to each other, if not as dark a brown as their father.
Queen Fiona opened her mouth.
Her husband got there first. “You cannae stem curiosity.”
Darshan took the only empty seat left at the table as his face warmed, glad that it was the farthest from the head table. Yes, he probably could’ve arranged the whole trip a little better, but he hadn’t exactly been thinking straight at the time. “I did not mean to imply that—”
“Mum?” Hamish piped up. He glanced at Darshan, a not-so-subtle request for him to remain silent. Was the man hoping to spare him another icy glare? “I was thinking of travelling to the cloister tomorrow?”
Darshan sat a little straighter in his chair. “You actually visit the cloisters?” He’d heard about the Tirglasian custom of locking away their spellsters, most of the Udynean court had. But he had thought the people inside were imprisoned much like the Demarn kingdom did with her spellsters and that ghastly tower. “I would very much like to see one up close. Providing that is acceptable, of course.”
Queen Fiona’s brows shot to their highest. “You want to enter one willingly?” She was silent for a moment, chewing thoughtfully at a piece of pork crackling. “Tomorrow willnae be ideal. It’s a fortnight journey to the nearest cloister.”
“I understand,” Darshan murmured. Whilst most nations often lavished foreign royalty, he did comprehend her desire to see an uncloistered spellster shown the way out of her kingdom as swiftly as possible. Hammering out the negotiations immediately would serve that purpose.
“Actually, ‘Mish?” The prince consort swung to his son. “If you can hold off a few days, the ambassador could accompany you, along with a full escort.”
Hamish stiffened, then bowed his head in acquiescence. The man seemed altogether uncomfortable with the idea. Was it the waiting? The prospect of an escort slowing him down? Or had he been looking to distance himself from Darshan’s presence?
He ran a considering eye over the man. Hamish had shown little sign of unease whilst riding through the city. Not even shirking from laying a friendly hand on him. And if he was willing to travel to the cloister, then it couldn’t be Darshan’s spellster status. “I would not wish to intrude or put anyone out,” he insisted.
One side of Hamish’s mouth lifted, raising the hair on his cheek. His gaze rose from his plate to Darshan. “I can wait. The cloister isnae going anywhere.”
The rest of their dinner continued amicably. On the edge of his vision, he spied Hamish glancing at him every so often, a slight furrow twitching between his brows. Quite likely due to the way Darshan picked at his food.
He could identify quite a number of the dishes spread out on the table, at least in part. Surprisingly, he spied very little in the way of vegetables, mostly mashed turnips and potatoes. Of meat, there was plenty. A leg of pork—that he respectfully turned down—another of what the small hoof told him was venison, and a pale lump with a honeycomb texture that was buried in creamy sauce.
The eels were a little more familiar and he didn’t mind them, but back home they were usually served heavily spiced and lightly grilled. Certainly not in a pie. Fortunately, there was grilled fish to be had and he’d eaten a few mouthfuls of the flaky, white flesh before growing tired of the blandness. There was bread, too, in moderate abundance. Not as fanciful as back home, but serviceable.
What he couldn’t identify was the crumbly brown mass currently adorning his plate alongside the mashed vegetables. It had a vague meaty scent with the pungent aroma of clove alongside other spices he couldn’t quite put a finger on.
“You going to eat that?”
Darshan lifted his gaze from the plate, seeking the speaker from those sitting across the table.
There were four children sharing the long table alongside the queen’s adult children, three boys and a young lady. The girl seemed intent on her food, her auburn curls obscuring her face. She would reach over her shoulder to stroke the near-bald head of a large bearskin draped over her chair every so often, but as far as she was concerned, his presence was of no interest.
The boys were another matter. They appeared to be different ages—although he would hazard a guess at there being a scant few years between them—but they all had the same flame-red hair. Darshan had caught them eyeing him through much of the meal, each face
