Chapter 4 – Heart of the Realm

On the morning of the opening of Parliament, the Greystone townhouse had been bustling with activity since dawn. Valentina stood in her slip in front of the large mirror while two maids bustled around her, helping her get ready.

“Arms a little higher, milady,” murmured the older of the two, a wiry woman named Margaret, as she pulled the heavy court dress over Valentina’s head. The fabric was a muted blue-grey with silver embroidery and rustled like water as it draped around her body.

“Don’t lace it too tightly,” Lady Beatrice warned from the doorway. She herself was already immaculately dressed in warm amber, her honey-blonde hair artfully pinned up. “She has to be able to stand in it all day.”

Margaret nodded knowingly and loosened the lacing slightly. “Better, milady?”

Valentina took a deep breath to test it. “Perfect.”

“All those layers of fabric,” Vyxara remarked amusedly in her head. “I’m almost certain you could withstand an arrow or two, unless they were shot at close range.”

Valentina suppressed a grin.

“The jewelry is here,” announced the younger maid, a chubby-cheeked thing named Alice, presenting a small box. Inside were modest silver earrings and a narrow necklace, appropriate for a second lady-in-waiting, nothing that would attract attention.

“Excellent,” said Beatrice, stepping closer to examine the hairstyle. Valentina’s chestnut hair was braided into a knot that looked both elegant and understated. “Remember, we’re there to support the duchess, not to shine ourselves.”

“Understood,” replied Valentina as Margaret pinned in the last hairpins.

The door opened again and Duchess Rosalind entered, dressed in deep grey with silver accents, entirely in the Greystone colors. Around her neck was an impressive pearl necklace.

“Ladies,” she said with a scrutinizing look. “Are we ready for the stage?”

Beatrice sank into a perfect curtsy. “When you are, Your Grace.”

Rosalind smiled thinly. “Good. Valentina, come here.”

Valentina stepped forward, and the duchess slowly circled her, her green eyes taking in every detail. “Today you will feel more eyes on you than ever before. You are new to court, a curiosity. People will look, evaluate, judge, and of course there will be rumors. You must not let any of this get to you.”

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“Speak only when you are addressed directly,” the duchess continued. “Observe everything, remember everything, but don’t show any of it on your face. You are my shadow today, nothing more.”

Beatrice added, “Always stand two steps behind the duchess, unless she signals you to come closer. And don’t curtsey too deeply! You may be a commoner, but as the duchess’ lady-in-waiting, you cannot curtsey like a maid. Even when the royals appear…” She demonstrated a medium-depth curtsey, “…like this, no deeper.”

“And don’t forget to breathe,” Duchess Rosalind added to Beatrice’s admonitions with a touch of humor. “It would be a shame if you fainted.”

“As if you would faint,” Vyxara snorted.

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” announced the duchess. “The carriages are already waiting.”

The journey to Vanderlieu Palace took them through the main streets of Vandercourt, which were already lined with onlookers. The common people had gathered in their finest clothes, children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, and merchants sold roasted nuts and warm cider despite the early hour.

Valentina sat next to Beatrice in the carriage, while the duchess sat opposite them. Through the windows, she could see the procession of other noble carriages.

“There,” whispered Beatrice, discreetly pointing to the left. “The Devereux carriage. Do you see the golden owl on an azure background?”

Sure enough, a magnificent, blue-painted carriage bearing the Devereux coat of arms rolled alongside them. Behind it, Valentina recognized the green standard of the Whitehalls, a white castle on a green field.

Then Valentina’s breath caught. Ahead of them, perhaps fifty feet away, flew the Ashbourne standard in gold with a flaming beacon. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

“Stay calm,” Vyxara urged. “You’ll see her soon enough.”

“Are the duke and Lorenzo already in the palace?” Valentina asked.

“The gentlemen travel separately,” Rosalind explained. “The duke has already gone ahead with Lorenzo and the other male members of our household. It is tradition. The men gather first, then we ladies join them.”

“A silly tradition,” Beatrice muttered, then added louder, “But traditions are the backbone of the court.”

The crowd grew denser the closer they got to the palace. City guards in chain mail held back the masses, their halberds forming an assertive barrier.

And then, as their carriage rounded the last bend, Vanderlieu Palace rose up before them.

Valentina had thought she was prepared for the sight. She was wrong.

The palace was not merely a nice residence, but a real fortress as well, one of the strongest in the realm, designed to withstand even prolonged sieges and drawing fresh water from both the River Sunder and the River Water via underground channels. The palace towers rose into the grey morning sky, and battlements, bay windows, and some rather sophisticated Essence patterns made it clear that this fortress would not be easy to take. Red royal banners with the three white tulips of House Vanderlieu fluttered everywhere.

“Now that’s what I call a show of force,” Vyxara purred, impressed. “Those Vanderlieus know how to make an impression.”

The carriage rolled through the massive main gate, past guards in ceremonial armor whose enameled breastplates shone with astonishing color. The courtyard was already full of carriages.

“Remember ladies,” Rosalind ordered as their carriage came to a stop. “The order of precedence must be observed.”

Through the window, Valentina watched as those who had already lined up in their places. First the dukes, then the marquesses, then the earls. Everyone knew their place.

A footman in Greystone livery opened the carriage door and helped first the duchess, then Beatrice, and finally Valentina to disembark.

The courtyard was overwhelming. Hundreds of nobles in their finest attire, the rustle of silk and velvet, the clink of weapons, armor, and jewelry, the hushed murmur of polite conversation. Valentina followed the duchess at a respectable distance, forcing herself not to gawk like a bumpkin.

But she couldn’t help herself. There, near the main entrance, stood Duke Cosimo in a magnificent dark grey doublet, talking to other gentlemen. Next to him – Valentina swallowed hard – stood Lorenzo, tall and elegant in forest green, his dark hair perfectly coiffed. He looked in her direction, but his gaze slid over her as if she were air.

“Smart of him,” Vyxara commented.

And then, just for a heartbeat, she saw it, a flash of golden hair in the crowd, a familiar posture, a movement she knew from a thousand moments spent together.

Innogen.

But the crowd swallowed her up again immediately, and Valentina had to follow the duchess, who was already striding up the wide marble steps to the palace entrance.

“This is going to be a long day,” Vyxara remarked with anticipation and amusement. “So many secrets in one place. I can practically smell them, the affairs, the conspiracies, the hidden alliances. Oh, my little Weaver, this is going to be entertaining.”

Valentina straightened her back, lifted her chin slightly, and followed her duchess into the palace.

The Great Hall of Vanderlieu Palace was a veritable monument, the likes of which she had never seen before. As Valentina stepped through the massive oak doors behind the duchess, the sight almost took her breath away. Vaulted ceilings rose to dizzying heights, pierced by colorful stained-glass windows that told the story of the Martyr in vivid colors, depicting the Burning Tower and imaginative representations of the Eleven Tyrants, the Martyr’s refuge in hell, and the flaming countenance of the Martyr himself.

“Impressive,” Vyxara murmured in her mind. “This is great art. Even if it doesn’t resemble the Tyrants in the slightest. But the Martyr is well captured.”

The room was slowly filling with the nobility of Sommerland, carefully divided according to rank and privilege. The dukes took their places near the raised throne, the marquesses behind them, then the earls, and so on in concentric circles of decreasing importance. Valentina positioned herself two steps behind Duchess Rosalind, Lady Beatrice was to her right.

“Don’t stare,” Beatrice whispered, barely audibly. “But observe.”

Valentina nodded as she observed Duke Alessandro Devereux, who was slender and had sharp blue bird-of-prey eyes that never seemed to rest. He was engaged in animated conversation with a man in the robes of a Scorchpriest.

Duke Aldwin Whitehall stood out distinctly from the other attendees. He was broad-shouldered, covered in scars, and looked like a bear forced into silk in his fine court attire. His fingers drummed impatiently on his sword hilt. Even here, he was armed.

“The man would be happier on a battlefield,” Vyxara remarked dryly.

And then there was Duke Draven Darkmoore. Valentina felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up when her gaze fell on him. Tall and gaunt, with long black hair streaked with silver, he had something quite sinister about him. His grey eyes seemed to see right through people as if they were transparent shadows. When his gaze briefly swept over her, she felt as if she had been touched by icy fingers.

“This man knows secrets he shouldn’t,” Vyxara warned, sounding slightly alarmed.

“What do you mean?” Valentina asked in her mind.

“I promise I’ll explain it to you another time. But I can’t show you now,” the demon replied seriously.

“Fine. I’ll let it go for now, but don’t think I’ll forget, Vyxara,” Valentina thought as she stared ahead.

“The Marquess of Timberpine,” Beatrice murmured, following her supposed gaze.

Valentina paid attention again and saw Innogen’s father for the first time. Marquess Merrick Ashbourne was a handsome man in his mid-forties, with the same golden hair color as his daughter, albeit already slightly greying. He stood slightly apart, engaged in quiet conversation with other Marcher lords, his posture relaxed but alert.

The church representatives had gathered near the throne. The Scorchbishop of Vandercourt, a corpulent man in magnificent red and gold robes, was talking quietly with a man whose clothing made Valentina’s blood run cold – the dark red robe with the silver flame symbol of an Illuminator.

“It’s not Eastwald,” Vyxara quickly reassured her. “That must be the Grand Illuminator.”

The guild masters and wealthy merchants had taken their places at the edges of the hall, richly dressed but clearly separated from the true nobility.

A piercing fanfare shattered the hushed conversations. Like a wave, the entire assembly fell to their knees or bowed deeply as the great doors at the end of the hall swung open.

“His Majesty, King Edmund III of House Vanderlieu, by the Martyr’s Radiant Flame King of Sommerland, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faith and Flaming Sword of the West!”

King Edmund entered with measured authority, neither hurried nor hesitant. He was taller than Valentina had expected, broad-shouldered and strong despite his forty-eight years, his dark brown hair greying at the temples. The crown on his head was not the ostentatious coronation crown made of gold and jewels, but the more elegant and significantly lighter tulip crown made of polished silver with only the tulip blossoms made of gold.

The king took his place, and the assembly rose again. King Edmund let his gaze wander over the crowd, and when he spoke, his deep voice carried effortlessly throughout the entire hall.