“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about the knives, now,” Eli whispered.
“What did you expect?” Josef said, pushing his way toward the throne. “This is Osera. They didn’t call my grandfather Bloody Liechten because of his contributions to the arts.”
Eli grimaced. Parts of Josef’s personality were becoming more understandable by the second.
“I’m surprised no one’s come up to you yet,” he said, looking around. People were certainly staring but, oddly, no one had made a move to approach their long-lost prince. In Eli’s experience, a prince, even an outcast runaway like Josef, was still someone who garnered favor currying by social climbers. These people seemed almost afraid.
Josef just shrugged. “They probably don’t recognize me. I’m a lot bigger than I was when I left.”
Eli kept his mouth shut about the likelihood of that explanation and focused on following the path Josef opened through the crowd.
As it happened, they made it all the way to the railing that separated the dais from the rest of the room without being approached. This close, Eli could see the throne easily. Like everything in the castle, the throne of Osera radiated age and deep-rooted authority. It was enormous, a naked stone bench wide enough to seat two men of Josef’s size with room to spare. The stone was the smooth, dove-gray rock of the mountain the castle sat on. It was carved with undulating patterns that mimicked the crashing sea so that whoever sat on the throne looked to be floating on a stone wave. A nice trick, all told, but the thing that really caught Eli’s attention wasn’t the throne itself, but the statues flanking it. Two enormous lions cast from midnight-black iron were anchored on either side of the throne. The lions stood rampant on their hind legs with their backs to the wall and their front paws reaching out to claw whoever defied Osera’s ruler.
“Throne of iron lions, indeed,” Eli whispered, leaning in to admire the delicate metalwork of their curling manes.
“What?” Josef said, looking up from his spot leaning against a support pillar.
Eli shook his head and set about studying the court instead. He scanned the people around them, trying to pick out Josef’s relatives from the crush. It proved harder than he’d thought it would be. Tall, blond, and grumpy seemed to be the motif among Oseran nobility. He’d never seen a sourer-faced crowd in his life.
“Josef,” Eli whispered. “Wasn’t Osera founded on piracy?”
“Among other things,” Josef said dryly.
Eli waved at the scowling crowd. “I thought pirates were supposed to be jolly.”
Josef made a sound in the back of his throat that reminded Eli of a ghosthound’s growl. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, but Osera doesn’t have a lot to be jolly about at the moment.”
“I don’t see that you were ever jolly,” Eli said, glancing again at the lions.
Josef followed his gaze. “Not much room for it,” he said quietly. “Osera has always been ruled by the strong. Has to be. The sea eats the soft and the weak. The lions are there to remind people of that.”
“Point taken,” Eli said. He was about to ask another question when Josef suddenly pushed off the pillar.
“Eyes front,” Josef said, pulling his jacket straight. “The queen’s coming.”
“But there’s still half an hour before court!” Eli protested.
“Why do you think everyone gets here early?”
Eli’s answer was drowned out by a peel of trumpets as a six squad of guards in full armor marched into the throne room. People scooted out of their way, clearing a wide swath down the middle. The guards walked the full length of the hall, peeling off in pairs to stand at attention before each pillar until they had formed an armed corridor from the door to the throne. When they were in position, the trumpets sounded again, and the room filled with the sweep of cloth and the creak of leather as everyone, nobles and servants, bowed in reverence as Queen Theresa herself entered the throne room.
The queen looked very different from the night before. Her white hair was pulled up beneath a plain, masculine crown of heavy gold. She was clothed in black, a widow’s mourning dress of stiff, raw silk. Her lined face looked pale and pinched, but she stood straight, walking on her own with one hand resting on the arm of the tall, lovely woman in armor walking beside her—Princess Adela, Josef’s wife.
The princess made an impressive sight. With her dark, glossy hair and bright silver armor, she shone like a beacon beside the queen’s dour black, an effect that was not lost on the crowd. People glanced up from their bows as the princess passed. Their faces were a mix of envy and adoration. More adoration than Eli had expected. With great care, Adela helped the queen up the dais stairs to the wide throne. Beside him, Eli felt Josef stiffen, but the swordsman said nothing as his wife helped his mother down to the hard stone bench. When she was settled, Adela stepped aside, leaving Theresa to survey her court.