Page 38 of The Sun King's Noon

Vikram regarded the three of them with a slow blink, then pressed a hand to his chest. “Forgive me, Princesses, that I cannot call you beautiful. My daughters are jealous creatures, and word travels faster than the monsoon wind. If even a rumour reached them that their father had praised foreign princesses, I would return home to find my breakfast poisoned.”

Elara laughed, and Briony clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Would they kill you?” she whispered to Vikram.

“They would,” he replied gravely. “Or they may line up to brand me with a hot iron. It is a fate not all fathers are fortunate to face.” He nodded to Corwin. “And you, young prince, have the bearing of a fighter. Good. The world has too many princes who cannot throw a punch.”

Corwin preened. “I can throw more than a punch. Should any of your generals wish to duel, I shall accept their challenge.”

Richard subtly stepped on Corwin’s foot. “Pay him no mind, Your Majesty. He speaks too often and thinks too rarely.”

“Such is the privilege of younger sons,” Vikram said calmly.

“I hope the journey was not too arduous.”

“No. I have long contemplated travelling across the western sea. One grows weary of the same horizon.” Vikram glanced skyward, squinting against the sunlight. “My astronomers calculated this an auspicious season to venture forth. The third stars of goddess Vayani aligned favourably, a conjunction that has not occurred in forty-three years. When timing presents itself, only a fool ignores it.” He chuckled. “I must also thank you for sending your delegation. Your ambassador, Lady Agnes, proved most persuasive, especially after she befriended my mother. By the end, the two were taking tea together every morning and riding the elephants in the evening.”

Richard’s eyes widened as a hunched figure emerged from the royal chariot. Lady Agnes descended the steps. A long drape of pretty, blue cloth wound around her bony frame. Her grey hair had been combed back with oil and threaded with the same white buds the Naradeshi women wore.

She shuffled straight for Richard, jabbing her walking stick against the flagstones.

“Your Majesty,” she droned, eyelids drooping half closed. “Tried to feed me to the fish and sea monsters, you did, and yet, here I am. Perhaps the library dust shall be what devours me after all.”

Richard smiled. “Did you enjoy yourself, my lady?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. “Almost died, I did, from the spice in the dishes. Would that the food had burned a hole in my stomach, and I choked to death on my blood. Then, I would not have had to endure another trip in that accursed ship.”

“We would be quite bereft, Lady Agnes, if any harm were to befall you,” Richard said. “You will find your apprentices have kept the library in good care.”

Agnes scoffed, making a phlegmy sound. “I doubt that, Your Majesty. Not a brain to share between them. No, I shall have to wade through their mess and set it all to rights. Oh, what is to become of me? I ought to torch the place to cinders and myself with it.”

She hobbled away, muttering under her breath.

Vikram chuckled as he watched the old woman’s retreating figure. “You are fortunate, Sun King. In Naradesh, we say that a household without a difficult elder is a household the gods have forgotten.”

Richard stifled the urge to roll his eyes, especially on catching sight of a sour-faced Malgrin. “The gods certainly remember us well, Your Majesty. Shall we move inside? I would not have you think Ardenia incapable of shade.”

“Lead on.” Vikram clapped his hands. “Though your heat is a gentle thing. In Naradesh, the sun does not shine. It bakes.”

The procession bustled into motion. Vikram’s generals fell in behind their king, and attendants, dressed in a riot of colours, emerged from the chariots, carrying chests, scrolls and clothes. Byrom appeared by Richard’s elbow, clutching his notes and babbling introductions to Vikram.

Richard glanced over his shoulder, expecting to meet Kaelen’s always attentive gaze.

But the knight’s eyes were on the dancer instead.

CHAPTER 17

The Great Hall glowed. Garlanded vines hung from the rafters, twined with red ribbons, white frost-lilies from Frostheim, and silver bells from Naradesh. Hundreds of candles burned in the chandeliers overhead, and musicians played harps and flutes. Tables groaned beneath dinner. Roast meats, bowls of rice, curried fish, wheels of cheese, and platters of spiced dishes.

The high table was set upon the raised platform. Richard sat at its centre, sandwiched between Dain and Malgrin. Opposite him sat Vikram and his general Lakshmi—a woman with black paint lining her eyes. To their left were Seola and her advisor Ragnar. At the table’s farthest end sat Orric, wolfing down a roasted lamb leg, and Lady Myrafrond, who simply gazed around with a smile.

Richard nodded at the herald by the doors. The old man struck his staff, and the clamour—mostly from already drunk Frostheimers—ebbed.

Penelope stepped in between the tables. She’d changed into a pale blue gown and wore long lace gloves.

“My lords and my ladies. I was asked to serve as the Estaran delegate and open this feast with a poem of mine.” She curtsied. “And so I begin, and I beg you listen.

There once was a man of exceeding good heart,