Page 37 of The Sun King's Noon

Briony stared at her feet with watering eyes.

“I did not mean it in a horrible manner, silly.” Corwin poked Briony’s shoulder. “Elephants are very endearing?—”

“Corwin,” Richard gritted out, tugging Briony close. “Be. Silent.”

The crowd’s roar swelled before Corwin could retort, and through the gates came a procession of brown-skinned riders. They held tall banners painted with an elephant’s head—thoughunlike the Haramont House’s sigil, this elephant bore four flinty eyes and four tusks.

The riders themselves were splendid. The men wore long coats fastened high at the neck and split at the sides. Intricate embroidery glittered as they moved. The women wore patterned lengths of cloth drawn around their torsos, falling over a shoulder in pleats. Gold bangles, necklaces, and gemmed nose rings adorned them all. White buds were plaited through most of the ladies’ black braids.

Behind them came the performers. Four men advanced with elongated drums strapped at their waists. Their palms struck the taut skins in swift, rolling patterns. Between them walked a woman who blew from a large white shell. The note that poured forth was low and mournful, raising the hairs along Richard’s arms. It sank deep into his bones, solemn and all the more magnificent in time to the drums.

Then came a dancer. A young man no older than Corwin. He was bare to the waist, his frame lithe, his bronze skin gleaming with sweat, and his braid falling almost to his knees. A beauty in all manner, with a slash of red paint marking the centre of his brow. He appeared to be brandishing ribbons of silver.

No, Richard realised on squinting closer. Those were blades. Impossibly thin and supple, coiling tight, then snapping outward, arcing around the dancer’s body in spirals. They should have sliced the dancer open, yet somehow they missed him by less than an inch as he twisted at the waist and turned beneath their arc.

Servants cheered from the balconies, and several of the High Council exclaimed their wonder. Richard clapped firmly. The control alone was staggering. One miscalculation and that limber edge would slash through the young man’s throat. Richard turned, hoping to catch his siblings’ excitement, but instead, his eyes found Kaelen.

The knight’s jaw had dropped, a blush high on his cheeks as he tracked the dancer’s movements. When the dancer performed a sinuous flourish, Kaelen licked his lips.

Something ugly and sharp coiled in Richard’s gut, and for a bewildering instant, he intended to order Kaelen back inside.

The urge fled as quickly as it came, leaving Richard blinking at the dancer. Whatever had that been? Not anger. Not even irritation. It’d felt meaner. Unkind.

How absurd. Kaelen was a man grown. He had eyes. The dancer was striking, and clearly no mere entertainer—any skilled enough to wield such blades was a fighter of terrifying discipline. Of course, Kaelen gawked so readily. Half the court was doing the same.

And yet, a bitter taste lingered on Richard’s tongue.

The drums faded, and the dancer bowed, pressing two hands together. His blades looped back into a tight spiral, and as he retreated, the chariots rolled in, their roofs and windows draped in white gauze. Once the chariots came to a halt, the mounted soldiers thrust curved swords high into the air and chanted a guttural, foreign command.

Dain and Kaelen shifted uneasily, but the soldiers resheathed their swords and turned as one to face the foremost chariot. A cry boomed around the courtyard, magnified through magic, and thickly accented.

“Behold His Radiant Majesty, Vikram of Naradesh. Lion of the Great Rivers, Keeper of the Elephant Throne, Guardian of the Monsoon Gates, Lord of the Sacred Forests.”

Steps were conjured before the chariot, and the white curtains parted for the king to descend.

Richard’s brows rose. He had expected a giant, for the kings or queens of Naradesh were not chosen through lines of succession, but rather, through impossible feats. Some twenty years ago, there’d been a grand competition to decide whoinherited the Elephant Throne. Richard’s statecraft tutor had explained it to him in detail. Naradesh’s High Priest had declared, ‘The man or woman who carries the world up the temple’s one thousand steps shall earn the Elephant Throne.’ Many had tried, lugging up the heaviest weights—either pulling them along on ropes or strapping them to their backs. All had failed, and it’d been King Vikram who’d won the challenge.

Though how he could have done so was beyond Richard. For the man was short, no taller than Richard’s shoulder. His build beneath his maroon tunic was lean, and his shoulders narrow. He was clean-shaven, his jaw sharp, his skin taut across high cheekbones. Salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, and a ruby hung from his left ear. His face was too severe to be called handsome?—

And yet, his eyes. They were dark, set beneath heavy brows, and moved across the courtyard in a slow sweep that raised goosebumps on Richard’s arms. The gaze reminded him of a snake’s, and as it settled on Richard, his mouth went dry, and the greeting he’d rehearsed flew out of his mind.

But still, Richard wondered as Vikram descended the last step, how could this man have carried the world up those stairs? Such a feat had downed even the largest behemoths.

The Naradeshi King strolled forward, at ease with the hundreds of eyes on him. He stopped before Richard with an incline of his head.

Perhaps he used magic. Perhaps his gift is in levitation?—

“Not magic, Sun King,” Vikram said, his accented words tinged with amusement. “The use of magic is forbidden in our crown trials. They are deemed a slight to our goddess of the ninth starhouse, Tarine. For she favours those who favour fairness, above all. Regardless, I am not Threadbourne.”

Heat crept up Richard’s neck. “I—forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean to?—”

“You wondered how a man of my stature carried the world up a thousand steps.” Vikram gave a half-shrug. “It is clear on your face as if you had spoken it aloud. The answer, Sun King, is that the world is not so heavy if you know how to bear it.”

“How wonderful, Your Majesty.” Richard bowed his head. “King Vikram. High Ardenia is deeply honoured by your presence. When I sent my delegation across the sea, I had not dared hope that the king himself would reply.”

“No?” Vikram scratched at his neck. “You expected, perhaps, a cousin? Or a minister wreathed in jewels. Marvel not, Sun King. This simple man who stands before you is blessed with a wife and six daughters, and has long held the least important rank in the household. I shall not be missed. My wife certainly did not weep at the docks.” He looked past Richard’s shoulder. “And these, I presume, are yours?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Richard stepped aside. Elara curtsied, and Corwin bowed. Briony bobbed so heartily that she almost tripped forward.