Feist, Raymond E - Riftwar Cycle 08 - Prince of the Blood by Feist Raymond E

Author:Feist, Raymond E [Feist, Raymond E]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-05-30T23:12:52+00:00

Erland marched purposefully and directly down the centre of the hall. The sound of boot heels cracking against the stone floor seemed alien, a loud and brash intrusion in this hall where the soft leather of sandals and slippers were the norm. Silence drank the noise, as no one in the hall spoke and all eyes were upon the retinue from the Kingdom of Isles.

Upon the dais, before the golden throne, a pile of cushions had been placed. Lying upon this was an old woman. Erland tried to look directly at her, yet not to stare, and found the task impossible. Here, reclining upon cushions before the mightiest throne in the known world was the single most powerful ruler in the known world. And she was a tiny, withered woman of unremarkable appearance. Her costume was similar to the customary short white kilt, though hers was long, reaching past the knees. Also her belt was studded with magnificent gems which caught the torchlight and sent sparkles dancing upon the walls and ceiling. She wore a loose vest of white fabric, clasped in front by a golden brooch set with a stunning pigeon’s-blood ruby. Upon her head a diadem of gold rested, set with sapphires and rubies equal to any the Prince had ever seen before. The ransom of a nation rested upon the body of this old woman.

Her dusky skin couldn’t hide the pallor of age. And her movements were those of a woman ten years more than her seventy-five, but it was her eyes that made Erland sense greatness, for they still had fire.

Dark eyes, with lights as brilliant as those in the sapphires and rubies upon her brow dancing in them, regarded the Prince as he walked along the aisle between the diners who shared the evening with the Empress. Around the base of the dais a dozen low tables had been placed in a semicircle, and around each round table, reclining upon cushions, were those whom the Empress deemed worthy of such honour.

Erland came to stand before the Empress and bowed his head, no more than he would do to his own uncle, the King. James, Gamina, and Locklear bent a knee, as they had been instructed by the Protocol Officer, waiting for the signal to rise.

‘How fares our young Prince of Isles?’

The woman’s voice was lightning cutting through a languid summer’s afternoon, and Erland almost jumped at the tone of it. That simple question contained nuances and meanings beyond the young man’s ability to articulate. Overcoming an unexpected attack of panic, Erland answered as calmly as possible. ‘Well, Your Majesty. My uncle, the King of Isles, sends his wishes for your continued good health and well-being.’

With a chuckle, she answered, ‘As well he should, my Prince. I am his best friend in this court, have no doubt.’ She sighed, then said, ‘When this business of Jubilee is over with, return Kesh’s fondest wishes for Isles’ continued well-being. We have much in common. Now, who is this

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