The Queen of Mages by Benjamin Clayborne Page A

a chore to be tolerated, and more
like—
    A voice rang out. She lifted her eyes to see
the royal herald standing on the balcony, the better to be seen by
everyone in the ballroom. “His majesty the king awaits in the
throne room.”
    “The receiving line,” Dardan muttered, his
face falling as they came to a stop. He had been enjoying himself,
perhaps unconsciously mirroring Amira’s rapture. But now duty
intruded, and that suddenly dampened his mood. It made Amira hate
the herald.
    Everyone began to scurry for the exit. “Why
such a rush?” Amira asked.
    “The line lengthens quickly,” Dardan said,
wiping a bead of sweat from his brow and offering his arm. “Waiting
an hour just to bow before the king for five seconds is not my idea
of time well spent.”
    “Why not wait until later, when the line has
dwindled a bit?” she asked, but when Dardan frowned at her, she
suffered a moment’s chagrin. What had she said wrong?
    Dardan’s mouth worked for a moment, and he
flushed. “I apologize. I forget that you have not—that I take these
customs for granted.” He moved briskly, joining them to the stream
of nobles. Amira had to skitter along to keep up; she could not
take long strides in this gown. “I would gladly wait as you
suggest, but those who appear near the end of the line are looked
upon unfavorably.”
    The throne room was up another long
staircase and past several more halls. Amira was quite turned
around by the time they arrived. Luck was not wholly against them;
there were only a few dozen nobles ahead of them in the line by the
time they joined it.
    Elibarran’s royal throne room was far less
ornate than Amira had imagined it might be. The throne itself was a
massive chair said to have been carved as a single piece from the
bole of a great oak, polished to a high sheen. Its back was carved
to appear as woven branches, intertwining high. The rest of the
room was panelled in a similarly dark wood, with high windows all
along one wall, and painted portraits of former kings hanging along
the other. Aside from that, and a row of low-backed chairs beneath
the portraits, there was little decoration.
    Yet the room spoke of power, and iron will.
In contrast to the frivolous opulence of the ballroom, this was a
place where ruling was done. Amira could imagine the intimidation
one would feel when brought before the dais. She already felt
nervous, and she was still fifty feet back in the line.
    And there sat the king, dressed splendidly
in royal purple and blue, his surcoat showing the royal arms upon
his chest, his heavy golden crown resting atop light brown hair
flecked with gray. His Majesty, Viktor II of the Royal House of
Relindos, King of Garova, Defender of its People, Protector of the
Realm, and numerous other titles besides. His beard was still
mostly brown, his eyes lidded as he watched the nobles pass. He did
not look old, just… worn.
    The woman in a dark blue gown who sat by his
side, on a smaller throne, must be Queen Alise. She smiled gently,
kindness in her large brown eyes, nodding graciously at each lord
or lady as they bowed before the dais. A silver circlet sat atop
her golden curls. To the king’s other side stood a large young man,
of an age with Amira, with blue eyes and a thin golden circlet
resting upon his chestnut hair. His hands were clasped behind his
back and his mouth was set in a severe line. He nodded curtly at
each noble. Prince Edon, the king’s eldest son and heir apparent to
the throne of Garova.
    A willowy, very pretty young girl, wearing a
demurely cut but bright red gown, stood next to the queen. She
smiled brightly at everyone who passed, making some jest here or
there, giving some life to the whole tedious undertaking. That
must be the king’s elder daughter, Taya. Amira could see why
she was so popular.
    The other royal children, Karina and Luka,
were not of age, and so were not present. Little Prince Luka would
certainly never tolerate hours of standing and