“One would have thought waiters would be on hand to bring refreshments to the crowd.”
“Pardon, Your Majesty?” said the Duke.
“Nothing, nothing,” said the Queen, by now very distracted.
“So you will come?” continued the Duke.
The Fire Queen, by now desperate to escape, nodded, smiled and excused herself from the Duke and Duchess with as much grace as she could muster.
“At last,” muttered Malveria. “Next stop, the wine decanter.”
To the Queen’s distress, she had taken no more than a few steps when her way was blocked by Lord Stratov and his daughter, the Honorable Gloria. They bowed in greeting. The Queen mustered a week smile. Lord Stratov was another important member of the aristocracy, of which, Malveria reflected, the nation had rather a lot.
“Stratov,” said the Queen. “I haven’t seen you at court for some time.”
The Duke nodded but seemed lost for words, perhaps even a little embarrassed. If that was the case, his daughter made up for it.
“I’ve been telling Father he really must mingle more with his peers,” she cried, in a trumpeting voice that the Queen found irritating. “Instead of hanging around in that massive castle of his. One of the largest castles in the land, of course, as befits a man of my father’s importance, with his vast wealth and impeccable record of service to the nation.”
“Uh . . . of course,” said the Queen.
“After all, what is the point of being the most eligible man in the nation if you never meet anyone?” continued Gloria.
The Fire Queen was startled to hear Lord Stratov, who was no longer young, and had never been particularly good-looking, described as the nation’s most eligible man. She supposed it was forgivable on the grounds of daughterly pride.
“I was just on my way to—” began the Fire Queen.
“We hold the most fabulous balls and parties at our enormous castle,” said Gloria.
“Do we?” said the Duke.
“Our next will be the most tremendous affair.” Gloria was enthusiastic. “If the Queen would honor us with her presence I’m sure my father, the Duke, would be so full of delight he would be unable to put it fully into words.”
Malveria, with one eye on the refreshment tables, struggled to follow this tortuous sentence.
“Really, there will be no wine left if my handmaidens and Agrivex keep guzzling it in that fashion,” she snapped.
“Pardon?” said Gloria, quite puzzled.
“Eh, where were we?” said the Fire Queen.
“Our fabulous ball at the enormous castle,” said the Honorable Gloria.
The Fire Queen suppressed a sigh and mentally cursed the Duke, his daughter, the Keeper of the Minor Volcano and anyone else connected with this dreadful event, which was turning out to be far more tedious than she had anticipated.
Sarapen stood alone on the rampart of the small desert fort, staring out over the red sand and brooding about his future. He was pleased to have left the Empress’s palace, at least for a few days. The endless parade of courtiers, officials, supplicants and servants was distracting. Here in the vast wilderness of the desert, at least he had peace to think.
Sarapen had originally asked to visit the front lines where there were sporadic clashes between the Hainusta and Hiyasta over the disputed border. The Empress would not agree to that. She’d reluctantly agreed to let him visit some of her nearer military outposts but insisted that he return in a few days. She claimed that the spells that protected him from the hostile environment might not work if he remained in the desert. Sarapen suspected she just wanted him back in the palace as quickly as possible. Quite why she wanted him there, he wasn’t sure. As far as Sarapen could see, an association with an alien werewolf was not something Empress Kabachetka’s subjects would like.
Not that the Empress seems to care that much what her subjects think.
The Empress was an absolute monarch. She controlled the power of the Eternal Volcano. It rendered her untouchable. There had never been a successful rebellion in the land of the Hainusta.
Sarapen gazed over the hot sands. The Fire Elementals were not as frivolous or unpleasant as he’d once believed. He could tolerate their company. He did not, however, wish to spend the rest of his life among them. The great werewolf would have much preferred to return home to Scotland, or anywhere in his own dimension. According to the Empress, that was still not possible. The effects of the terrible wound inflicted by the Begravar knife would kill him. Sarapen had no way of knowing if that was true. Even if it wasn’t, he had no way of returning. As a werewolf, he didn’t have the power to travel through dimensions. No werewolf did.
Apart from my sister, thought Sarapen, and scowled. Sarapen despised Thrix almost as much as he despised Markus. It was bad enough that she’d learned sorcery. It was unforgivable that she’d used that sorcery against him. Without Thrix’s assistance, his mother and his brother would never have succeeded in cheating him out of his rightful position as Thane.
Sarapen’s thoughts turned to Kalix, whom he also hated. He shook his head. What a family. It did strike him that he didn’t actually hate Kalix as much as the others, even though she’d struck the blow that all but killed him. Kalix might be mad, addicted to laudanum and a disgrace to the clan, but she was fierce and brave. She wasn’t scared of him, though she should be. Sarapen admired that.
“I’ll meet you again, sister, and then we’ll see who wins, without sorcery and a magic knife to help you.”
Below him a troop of Hainusta began to assemble, on their way to the disputed region. The conflict remained at a low level and no one had gained much advantage. Neither side wanted the dispute to escalate into a full-scale war, but neither of them was prepared to back down. Sarapen wished he could join in. He felt ready to throw himself into battle. He had no concern about losing his life. There was nothing he would regret leaving behind.
Apart from Dominil, maybe. Sarapen wondered what his old lover was up to. Was she still in London, taking care of the degenerate twins? Sarapen swiftly dismissed them as not worth thinking about, but the image of Dominil lingered on for a long time.
Verasa MacRinnalch poured two glasses of red wine, one for her and one for Markus. The Great Council meeting had lasted for many hours, and the first faint streaks of dawn were visible through the large windows in Verasa’s chambers.
“I just cannot believe that Dominil is a drug addict.” The revelation had come as a terrible blow. Verasa had held Dominil in very high regard. Her success in dealing with the twins in London, and her intelligence and bravery during the great feud, had been admired by everyone. It was difficult to get close enough to Dominil to actually like her, but her reputation among the clan had certainly risen.
“How could she let the clan down like that? Poor Tupan, he must be mortified. To learn in the middle of a council meeting that his daughter has been taking laudanum!”
Markus professed to be less shocked and upset than his mother. “She might have become addicted, but she’s never gone off the rails. No one even realized she was taking laudanum.”
“I appreciate that,” said Verasa. “She hasn’t been stealing and begging. But still . . . I know you think I should be more sympathetic, Markus, but I just can’t be.”
Verasa was not the only werewolf who’d been appalled by the revelation. The three werewolf barons had plainly been disgusted, as had Dominil’s father. It was a shameful thing among the MacRinnalchs to be an addict.