Maia clenched her free hand into a fist, feeling the dark, terrible swirl of emotions settle in her gut. “I never cry in front of others, Chancellor. It is a sign of weakness. What will happen?”
“I have said more than I should. I wanted you to know before seeing your father. He is angry oftentimes. I know you love him. I know you will probably fear him. Stand firm, Maia. Steel your heart.”
“Thank you for warning me, Chancellor,” Maia replied, her throat thick. They mounted the steps to the solar together, moving side by side. She would have loved to run her hand over the cool stone edges of the walls; instead she clasped her stomach in an attempt to protect herself from the nausea that threatened to weaken her. Her throat was dry, but she mounted each step as if it did not take an uncommon strength of will. At the top, fragrant floor rushes awaited them, crunching under their boots with sweet scents as they trod over them toward the solar.
There was a woman in the hall ahead, pacing. As they drew closer, the woman’s head shot up to look at them. Maia recognized the woman, Lady Deorwynn of Chester Hundred. She had long golden hair, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, and a charming smile. Maia was not quite as tall as her yet, but she recognized Lady Deorwynn as one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting. She had two daughters who were close to Maia’s age. Their names were Murer and Jolecia. Maia’s memory had always been exceptional, but she did not see either daughter nearby. Instead, there was a little boy half hidden by his mother’s skirts.
“Welcome back to Comoros, Lady Marciana,” said Lady Deorwynn sweetly. Something flashed in her eyes, a look so confusing that Maia could not, in her limited experience, interpret it. It was the look of someone who hated her but did so with a sumptuous smile. The woman flicked some of her golden hair over her shoulder and approached them, looking down her nose at Maia. “You have grown taller, I should think. My girls are taller, of course, but you do look handsome. I have always adored your eyes, Marciana. My Hundred, Chester, is so near the sea, and your eyes look like they were fashioned out of seawater. I am quite envious.” She reached out and pinched Maia’s chin, tilting her head one way and then another. The possessiveness of her touch was humiliating. Maia wanted to shove her hand away, but she felt a palpable threat coming from Lady Deorwynn’s eyes.
“Thank you, Lady Deorwynn,” Maia said.
“Mama, make her go,” said the little boy. He was barely visible from around the woman’s skirts, but she could see part of his face and . . . it made her blood run with ice.
“Do not fret, Edmon,” she replied, tousling his hair. “This is Lady Marciana returned from Pry-Ree. Our Hundred borders Pry-Ree as well. Is not she pretty?”
The little boy peered at Maia, his eyes wary and distrusting. Her throat caught at the sight of his little face. It was like staring at her father as a young boy. The shape of his nose, the same shade of sandy-brown hair. Even his eyes matched her father’s—and her own.
“How . . . old are you, little Edmon?” Maia managed, her voice faltering a little. She struggled to steel herself, willing her eyes to stay dry, her voice to harden.
He scowled at her, refusing to speak.
“The duckling is almost four,” Lady Deorwynn said, playing with his hair. Her eyes were filled with an unspoken challenge when they met Maia’s, as if she were daring her to speak what was so obvious. When she did not, she leaned over and kissed the boy lightly on the head. “He has a little brother as well,” she added like a knife thrust.
“The king is expecting to see his daughter,” Chancellor Walraven said disdainfully. “I would not like to keep him waiting.”
She gazed at the chancellor, her eyes flashing. “Of course. I would not wish to detain you. Welcome home, Marciana.” The words were innocuous, but there was venom on her breath.
Chancellor Walraven escorted her to the door of the solar. The thick oaken door had a multitude of carved squares on it, many of them offset with other squares—the maston symbols. Her heart lurched as she glanced back once at the little boy and his mother, both gazing at her with persecuting eyes.
When she entered the room, Maia saw her father pacing, hands clenched behind his back. She had always thought her father the most handsome man in all the world. He was fit and trim, with the body of a hunter and sportsman. He had the reputation of being an excellent swordsman, diplomat, and ruler. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he saw her, and a genuine smile lit his face, but there were smudges above his cheekbones, shadows that had not been there before, and a subtle fringe of gray lined the edges of his hair. He wore his hair cropped close, in the southern fashion. His smile was so handsome it melted her heart, but she could see that his delight was suffused with discomfort . . . suffering.