Lord Kiani’s smile strained. “Yes, quite so. His was a . . . troubling case. Of course, he is no longer Sir Cleon.”
Catherine’s face reddened. Lucian was now positive she wasn’t Cleon’s sister.
The Queen pressed on. “It is time for the Golden Vale and the Riftlands to make amends. And likewise, perhaps it is time that you . . . ameliorate . . . any tensions between yourself and your former Mage-Knight. I would be glad to have him in my personal guard. Any man who survived the Darkrift has a welcome place in the Daran Empire.”
Lord Kiani smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “If he survived the Darkrift, perhaps I underestimated him. Of course, I would doubt the loyalty of any man who abandons his post.”
“His poor sister,” the Queen said, sadly. “But I suppose some things cannot be helped.”
The Queen watched Lady Catherine, whose blue eyes were icy.
“Farewell,” she said. “Enjoy the party.”
The Queen flashed a toothy smile as she led Lucian to the next group.
Lucian couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Clearly, there was some sort of rivalry between the Queen and this Lady Catherine . . . whoever she was.
He leaned over to the Queen once they were out of earshot. “What happened to Cleon’s sister?”
To his surprise, the Queen gave him the answer. “She died in childbirth six months ago. Something of a scandal, for he was married to Lady Catherine not two months later.”
Cleon’s sister had died? Lucian’s stomach sank. Cleon couldn’t find out – at least, not tonight. If he did, this little soiree might turn into a big bloodbath.
The Queen never stayed long in any group, flitting around from one to another like a butterfly, making surface-level conversation and banter that always elicited laughter. Nothing she said was particularly witty, but the nobles laughed all the same. The fakeness made Lucian want to barf.
She made sure to talk to each party attendant. Lucian was little more than eye candy. One of the women, with her husband no less, asked the Queen where she might “get one of those,” pointing right at Lucian. He was about to mouth a response when he remembered these stupid, simpering people didn’t matter. Only the Orb of Psionics did. Let them laugh, chortle, and diminish him. All he had to do was survive this night, and the Orb could be his.
He wanted nothing more than to go back to his chambers, but that wasn’t to be. It was only a matter of time before he ran into Fergus, who was being goaded by a tall, wiry man with long, twirly mustaches.
“I don’t care what you say, Lord Fergus,” the man said, with a dumb, drunk smile on his lips. “You could not stand half a minute to a Mage-Knight in a proper Daran duel. A Rifter is no match for a man bred from the soil of the Golden Vale. Isn’t that right, my Queen?”
“I don’t know, Lord Sabine,” the Queen said. “I’m told Lord Fergus has fought fiercely, and his spear work is second to none.”
Lucian didn’t know where she had gotten that information. Again, he was worried she had the ability to sift through others’ thoughts. It was either that, or she was incredibly gifted at reading people.
Lord Sabine’s face went blank for a moment before he recovered. “We should settle it with a bet, Fergus. I know just the place to carry it out—”
“I’m afraid not,” Fergus said, coldly.
Like Lucian, Fergus wanted nothing more than to get out of here. The Sorceress-Queen left the men to their devices, wandering to a group where Serah was surrounded by the only three young men who happened to be in attendance. They were dressed dandily, all wearing superior smirks that made their faces instantly punchable. They carried canes rather than spears.
They laughed at some joke amongst themselves, but Serah’s face remained carefully neutral. Their backs straightened as the Queen approached, and they stopped talking.
“What?” the Queen asked, her face displaying mock chagrin. “Don’t stop on my account. What was the joke? I love a good joke.”
One of the young lordlings cleared his throat. “That was . . . as I was saying—”
“Yes?” Serah asked. “I believe you were asking about the physical properties of Rifter girls, and whether I was a prime example of them.”
The young man’s face reddened. “What? No, that’s not what I said at all! I mean . . .” With the Queen’s eye on him, he cleared his throat, too embarrassed to answer. “That’s not what I said, your Majesty, I can assure you. I was merely asking about her family—”
“And no, I would not like to join you at your estate tonight. I’m sure you have a wonderful wine collection, but judging from the way this conversation has gone, I’m more likely to end up locked in the cellar.”
He looked as if he might have apoplexy. “Any poor girl like you would be lucky to have any association with me, the Mage-Prince of the Three Forks. Don’t even dream you are my equal, rift rat.”
“Don’t worry,” Serah said. “I would never dream of stooping that low.”
The others chuckled nervously, afraid to have a laugh at the dandy’s expense. The young man’s eyes were murderous as he stalked off. Other nobles, hearing the exchange, were laughing.
Lucian was glad she was handling herself well. That was one of them, at least.
Cleon, however, was making no pretense of mingling. His face was one of rage, weaving in and out of the crowd like a man on a mission. Lucian had a feeling he knew who he was trying to find.
This was going to be bad.
“I think he’s trying to find Kiani.”
The words were out of his mouth before he realized what had happened.
“This should prove interesting,” the Queen said.
She followed Cleon’s trail as he made his way closer to the Butcher.
Lucian shook his head and took off after him,
