‘Perhaps the foundling will grow pretty with time . . .’
‘After she’s been given a good scrubbing? They say princesses from the north seldom wash—’
‘Heed your words. You may be speaking about the imperator’s spouse!’
‘She is still a child. She is no more than fourteen.’
‘I say again, it would be a political union . . . Purely formal . . .’
‘Were that the case, the golden-haired Dervla would remain at court. The foundling from Cintra would politically and formally ascend the throne beside Emhyr . . . But in the evening Emhyr would give her a tiara and the crown jewels to play with and would visit Dervla’s bedchamber . . . At least until the chit attained an age when she could safely bear him a child.’
‘Hmm . . . Yes, you may have something there. What is the name of the . . . princess?’
‘Xerella, or something of the kind.’
‘Not a bit of it. She is called . . . Zirilla. Yes, I think it’s Zirilla.’
‘A barbarous name.’
‘Be quiet, damn it . . .’
‘And show a little dignity. You’re squabbling like unruly children!’
‘Heed your words! Be careful that I do not treat them as an affront!’
‘If you’re demanding satisfaction, you know where to find me, Margrave!’
‘Silence! Be quiet! The imperator . . .’
The herald did not have to make a special effort. One blow of his staff on the floor was sufficient for the black-bereted heads of the aristocrats and knights to bow down like ears of corn blown in the wind. The silence in the throne room was so complete that the herald did not have to raise his voice especially, either.
‘Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Monrudd!’
The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Foes. He marched down the double file of noblemen with his usual brisk step, vigorously waving his right hand. His black costume was identical to that of the courtiers, aside from the lack of a ruff. The imperator’s dark hair – largely unkempt as usual – was kept reasonably neat by a narrow gold band, and the imperial chain of office glistened on his neck.
The Emhyr sat down on the throne quite carelessly, placing an elbow on the armrest and his chin in his hand. He did not throw a leg over the other armrest, signifying that etiquette still applied. None of the bowed heads rose by even an inch.
The imperator cleared his throat loudly without changing his position. The courtiers breathed again and straightened up. The herald struck his staff on the floor once again.
‘Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Queen of Cintra, the Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heiress of Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, and suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra!’
All eyes turned towards the doors, where the tall and dignified Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, was standing. Alongside the countess walked the holder of all those impressive titles. Skinny, fair-haired, extremely pale, somewhat stooped, in a long, blue dress. A dress in which she very clearly felt awkward and uncomfortable.
Emhyr Deithwen sat up on his throne, and the courtiers immediately bowed low again. Stella Congreve nudged the fair-haired girl very gently, and the two of them filed between the double row of bowing aristocrats, all members of the leading houses of Nilfgaard. The girl walked stiffly and hesitantly. She’ll stumble, thought the countess.
Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon stumbled.
Ugly, scrawny little thing, thought the countess, as she neared the throne. Clumsy and, what’s more, rather bovine. But I shall make her a beauty. I shall make her a queen, Emhyr, just as you ordered.
The White Flame of Nilfgaard watched them from his position on the throne. As usual, his eyes were somewhat narrowed and the hint of a sneer played on his lips.
The Queen of Cintra stumbled a second time. The imperator placed an elbow on the armrest of the throne and touched his cheek with his hand. He was smiling. Stella Congreve was close enough to recognise that smile. She froze in horror. Something is not right, she thought, something is not right. Heads will fall. By the Great Sun, heads will fall . . .
She regained her presence of mind and curtseyed, making the girl follow suit.
Emhyr var Emreis did not rise from the throne. But he bowed his head slightly. The courtiers held their breath.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Emhyr. The girl cowered. The imperator was not looking at her. He was looking at the noblemen gathered in the hall.
‘Your Majesty,’ he repeated. ‘I’m glad to be able to welcome you to my palace and my country. I give you my imperial word that the day is close when all the titles belonging to you will return to you, along with the lands which are your legal inheritance, which legally and incontrovertibly belong to you. The usurpers, who lord it over your estates, have declared war on me. They attacked me, stating that they were defending your just rights. May the entire world know that you are turning to me – not to them – for help. May the entire world know that here, in my land, you enjoy the reverence and royal name deserving of a queen, while among my enemies you were merely an outcast. May the entire world know that in my country you are safe, while my enemies not only denied you your crown, but even made attempts on your life.’