Chapter 7 The Court of Masks

The throne hall of Ebonhold was a place of illusion-an echo of former glory wrapped in lacquer and shadow. The columns, once quarried from the silver marbles of the Kellan Reach, now bore long cracks veiled by ivy. The stained-glass ceiling had been patched with dull panes of leaded smoke-glass. Even the throne itself had changed: the old highback oak gone, replaced by a cold, elegant thing of silver filigree shaped like thorned branches, curling around Queen Isolde's shoulders like a crown she couldn't remove.

Caelen entered alone, announced in a voice that rang false with courtesy.

"Lord Caelen Vaelric of the Eastern Reach."

The room barely stirred. Just the rustle of silks and the sharpening of glances. Courtiers stood in clusters like chess pieces-each brightly dressed, none facing the queen directly. Their masks weren't literal, but worn nonetheless: smiles too fixed, laughter too sharp, eyes too careful.

Caelen bowed just deeply enough to be polite.

Across the hall, Lord Theryn Vael watched him like a hawk with a broken beak.

The spymaster stood near the dais, cloaked in gray trimmed with plum-a color that declared neither loyalty nor rebellion. He raised a jeweled goblet to Caelen in greeting, then drank without blinking.

Caelen moved forward into the swirl of dancers, petitioners, and power-holders. Each noble he passed gave him the same glance: weighing his value, searching for a family resemblance, silently asking why don't I know you?

He gave them nothing.

A flutist played something intricate near the east wall. Laughter echoed by the wine tables. A duel of words played out between a baroness and a scholar over the finer points of salt tax law-masking deeper implications about trade alliances.

And then he felt it-that weight on his neck.

He turned.

Queen Isolde Thorne watched him from her throne.

She wore no crown, only a tight circlet of black iron laced with onyx. Her gown was dark forest green, sleeves laced with embroidery in the shape of twisting thorns. Her posture was still as marble, her chin slightly tilted-not arrogance, but analysis.

Her eyes met his.

For a moment, everything else faded.

There was no flicker of recognition-of course not. She didn't know what blood she looked at. But something moved in her gaze, almost imperceptibly: curiosity. Amusement. Maybe even challenge.

Then she looked away, and the court resumed.

Caelen exhaled. His hands hadn't moved, but his fingers were clenched.

"My lord Vaelric."

The voice at his side was smooth and warm-too warm. Lord Theryn.

Caelen turned. The man was smiling in that way vipers do before they bite themselves out of boredom.

"An honor," Theryn said. "The Eastern Reach sends few sons these days. One forgets it even exists."

"It exists," Caelen said, voice flat. "Quietly."

"How quaint. And how did you earn such a well-timed invitation, if I may pry?"

"You may," Caelen said. "I have no intention of answering."

Theryn's smile twitched. "Wit. The Reach must be flourishing if it can export irony."

Caelen sipped from a wine glass handed to him by a passing steward. It was sweet, heavy with clove. "I've found courts appreciate novelty."

Theryn leaned closer. "Careful, novelty burns quickly here. The queen likes her fires slow and her courtiers slower."

Caelen looked back at the throne.

Isolde hadn't stopped watching him.