Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book... - Chapter 40: Chapter 40

Uachi did not know whether Uarria could understand him now that she had taken the form of a shadowcat, but when he told her to wait with the horses tethered in the courtyard, she fixed him with a look that seemed to consent. He did not like to leave her behind; he considered improvising a collar and a leash from the cords he had in his saddlebags, but restraining her was out of the question. If there was some unexpected danger, she needed to be able to run. Besides, he did not think the guards would permit him to bring a shadowcat into the court, juvenile or not.
He reassured himself that Farra would defend him with her life. He trusted she would do the same for the disguised princess, whether or not she knew her for who she was.
The halls of the palace were hung with rich tapestries in jewel tones and carpeted with thick rugs woven with patterns Uachi had never seen before. They were guided toward the chamber where the court would convene by the bored head-nods of liveried soldiers standing at intervals along the halls. Uachi and Diarmán were not the only people coming to pay court or to air grievances. The palace was veritably swarming with strangers.
"Perhaps I should have thought a bit further ahead," Diarmán mused as he stood at the entrance to the grand audience chamber. He was staring at a lady in a sumptuous red gown. The glance he cast to his own filthy, travel-worn tunic was uncharacteristically self-conscious.
Inside the audience chamber, fluted pillars soared up to a high ceiling; round windows gleamed in multicolored facets around the top of the chamber, permitting shafts of light from the sunny sky. There were crowds of courtiers within, all of them in finery. Diarmán frowned at Uachi's clothes, too, tapping a dirt-crusted boot against the carpet.
"Choose your words wisely, and what you wear will not matter," Uachi muttered. "To judge a man based on his clothes—it's folly and arrogance."
"Mm. Well. You can tell her that," said Diarmán, nodding toward the front of the chamber.
A plump, middle-aged woman had swept into the room from an antechamber at the far end. Her dark hair was plaited and coiled around her head, and the style was surmounted by a golden crown. It was her only ornament aside from a large golden pendant brooch hanging at her breast, but her gown rivaled the jewels for splendor. It was gold and green, with a long train sweeping the floor behind her. At the hem walked two ladies-in-waiting.
"Her Royal Highness the High Queen of Narr will now hear petitions from the court and the public," called a steward standing by. And so it began.
Uachi might have been thankful for the sense of unease that kept him on edge throughout the audience; if he had not been aware of how much he risked by being here, he might have fallen asleep on his feet as Queen Coratse's subjects begged her indulgence. There was a lord who had come to present his heir, a babe in swaddling clothes who wouldn't stop wailing. There was a lady, a merchant's widow, who had come to argue her case in some matter of inheritance or another. There were others with grievances related to property, land holdings, and the finer points of taxes.
It was bloody boring.
There was no way to judge the passing of time objectively, and for Uachi, whose hawk-like attention to their surroundings yielded nothing more threatening than a lady switching a ring from one hand to another, it seemed that the audiences lasted for hours.
At last, Diarmán was recognized. He stepped up into the center of the room. Goddess above, but he looked out of place, that travel-worn Faelán man with his fiery curls a-blazing, his clothing dirty and dusty from the road.
"The Crown recognizes Diarmán of the House Eldran," said a tired page who stood just before Coratse's throne. He bowed to the queen before turning on his heel and stepping back, opening the line of sight between Coratse and Diarmán where he stood in the audience hall with Uachi.
Uachi was a few paces behind Diarmán. He could feel the weight of all of the people's eyes upon them; no doubt they made a curious sight, as out of place as teacups on a battlefield. Or, rather, swords at an afternoon tea.
"Your Highness," said Diarmán, sweeping a bow that looked every bit as sardonic as Uachi was certain he meant it to be. "I have come to plead my family's case before the throne, but there is a minor issue I would like to clear up before I do."
The High Queen raised a brow. She had been watching Diarmán closely since he had stepped out into the center of the audience chamber and now, she glanced to Uachi, who stood just behind him. "And what might that be?"
"Your little underling there did not address me by the appropriate title. I am Lord Diarmán. Heir to House Eldran."
A murmur swept around the audience hall. Uachi's hand twitched, instinctively seeking the hilt of a dagger and failing to find it.
"That is interesting," Queen Coratse said. "I was under the impression that there was only one remaining lord of House Eldran: Emón, who is near to seventy now, if I recall. Lorekeeper?"
A gray-haired woman stepped forward, her hands clasped behind her back, and bowed her head to Coraste.
"Refresh my memory, if you would be so kind."
"You are correct, Your Highness. Lord Emón of House Eldran has no issue aside from his daughter, the Lady Moigré, who is yet unmarried. She has sons—"
"Seven sons," Diarmán said, his tone tight. "Of whom I am the eldest. Seven sons in the line of succession to my house. My ancestors' house."
The lorekeeper cast an irritated glance Diarmán's way; she continued as if he had not interrupted her. "...who are, obviously, illegitimate."
"Mm." Coratse nodded to the lorekeeper, who stepped back again, and then turned her attention to Diarmán. "I was certain I had it right. Furthermore, my stewards inform me that the Crown stands to inherit House Eldran."
Keep your temper, Faerie Pig, or you're like to get us all thrown in prison, and I have an archmage to kill.
"My grandfather is old, Your Highness, and he isn't in his right mind. This matter of the succession—I will grant that my father was not lawfully connected—"
"Ah, then we're in agreement; you are illegitimate. A flaw that might be overlooked, should Lord Emón choose to arrange his succession to cover up the stains, but, well." Coratse had a face that revealed little, but the expression of sympathy she adopted for a slim two seconds was obviously feigned. "What was it you came to speak with me about, Diarmán? I've many matters that demand my attention."
"I came to remind Her Highness that House Eldran has been a cornerstone of the realm for centuries. I came to ask what Her Highness's intentions are regarding my family and our fortunes. My grandfather's health is not what it once was, and I wish to ensure that we will encounter no issues when he leaves this world."
"I have no intentions regarding your family and your fortunes, Diarmán. How your grandfather chooses to deal with you while he lives is his decision. Once he is gone from this world, your lands will be turned over to the Crown, as is, apparently, his will. We in Narr do not suffer the reins of power to pass from unsullied bloodlines into the hands of bastards. Such we have made clear by taking a stand against the Penruan Empire, where a bastard sits the very throne of the realm.
"Now you—a bastard—stand before me and demand rights to which you were never entitled. You've come all this way to—what? Your grandfather has decided how to disposition his holdings and you think to sway me to honor your will over his?"
A ripple of laughter went around the court. Coratse ignored it. "Had you been born a hundred years earlier, or a hundred years earlier still, you'd have been cast out of your grandfather's house. The very fact that he permits you to sleep under his roof is a blessing you and your brothers do not deserve."
"You cast me out because my father—"
"It has nothing to do with your father; I have not the slightest interest in who he is or might have been. The fact remains that he was not your mother's lawful husband. Had only your grandfather sired sons, perhaps you and your brothers would know no different, born into the sturdy arms of some peasant girl. Instead you were granted a noblewoman for a mother, and you've tasted power and fortune to which you have no claim."
Watching this exchange, Uachi's guts churned. He saw the play of emotions flicker across Diarmán's pale, freckled face. He was humiliated, and moreover, he was angry—for which Uachi could not even begin to blame him. He would have been furious, had this been happening to him. But Uachi had been fortunate enough to have been born as low as low could be, not just a peasant but an Arcborn peasant. He had been brought up ignorant of luxuries and nobility and bloodlines, unaware of what it meant to be proud of one's history or how much he lacked.
If Diarmán's story were to be believed, though, he had grown up a prince in the realm of the Faelán. What had that been like? Perhaps he'd lived in a palace with servants to command. He'd returned home to his grandfather's ire, his mother's addled wits, and society's spite.
He had nothing. Nothing but his brothers and his pride.
Diarmán's fist quivered at his side. It was obvious how much of an effort it took him to school his countenance and his tone. "Your Highness, I must beg you to reconsider—" began Diarmán.
Coratse got to her feet with a rustle of skirts. "A recess," she said. In response, her page stepped forward and waved Diarmán away.
"Your Highness, please," said Diarmán. "If you could just—"
"Her Highness has dismissed you," the page snapped. Coratse had turned away, her ladies falling into step behind her as she glided toward the private exit at the back of the chamber.
Oh, Diarmán. A public humiliation like this is terribly difficult to watch and a thousand times more difficult to suffer. Poor man.