Flight From Blithmore (10 page)
Dining with an Emperor
Isabelle
stood
in front of her mirror wearing her best evening gown. Henry had given it to her
as a gift almost a year ago (though Maggie had picked it out for him.) The gown
was resplendent, but the bedroom reflected in the glass was bare—devoid of the
possessions a typical young woman of nobility would see surrounding her. She
had a bed in one corner: a lumpy feather mattress resting on the floor with two
blankets—one almost thick enough to be called a quilt. Her only pieces of
furniture were the mirror she’d received for her twelfth birthday and an empty
wardrobe that might have once been handsome. The wood of the wardrobe was
cracked in several places, so the doors didn’t quite close, and it leaned to
the left. Henry could have fixed it for her, but Isabelle had always been too
embarrassed to tell him about it.
Her
hands shook as she finished buttoning her dress. She wished her mother were
still alive right now. About three years ago, the night of her first official
outing with Henry (her father had known nothing about it), Isabelle had stood
before the same mirror while her mother sat on a chair behind her, rocking
slowly and talking to Isabelle about the repercussions of a union between a
noblewoman and a common laborer. Isabelle had listened politely, and her mother
had known that her words would have little effect, but felt it her duty to
speak her mind. A smile would play on her mother’s mouth whenever Isabelle’s
naïveté came out in the form of a question she could never ask in front of
James or Norbin. Her mother’s answers were both witty and truthful, and they
had laughed together, helping Isabelle overcome her embarrassment.
The
dress fitted her well, accentuating her sleek, tall figure and creamy skin, and
gave her light brown hair an even blonder tint. The Emperor would be pleased,
and (hopefully) too enamored with her curves and fairness to focus on what was
happening around him. Satisfied she had done her best, she blew out the
candlestick in her window and wondered what Henry was doing at that very
moment.
She
wore no jewelry. Her few pieces had been packed away days ago, and she had no
desire to search for them. With the moon as her only light, she looked herself
over one last time. Then staring into her own eyes, she said, “Everything is
going to be fine.” Then she donned her best cloak and left the room. Norbin
waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Are
you ready, Miss Isabelle?” he croaked. Then, lowering his voice, asked. “You
are packed, aren’t you?”
“Yes,
Norbin, thank you. The bag is in my room. You’ll see it gets delivered?”
Norbin
nodded as he put on a small black cap and his gloves.
“Where
is my father?” she asked
From
the back of the house, Isabelle heard him call out. “Goodbye, Isabelle. Fare
thee well!”
The
tone of finality in his voice chilled the back of her neck, but she did not
respond. Norbin led her to the stable where Esmond, the old horse, stood
harnessed to the small covered wagon. The night air was perfect, her cloak worn
more for fashion than protection from the elements.
Richerton’s
finest inn and restaurant, The Glimmering Fountain, sat not far from Germaine
Castle. With Oslan Manor being one of the farthest of the noble houses from the
castle, the ride was lengthy. The cart was by no means elegant or comfortable,
but Norbin did his best to direct Esmond over the smoothest parts of the dirt
roads. In Isabelle’s younger years, the Oslan family rode in a wonderful cart,
but that possession, like many others, had been sold. The activity in the
streets grew as the cart traveled closer to the inn. It reminded Isabelle how
she used to long for the time when she could spend her evenings among the
city’s elite society, only to discover as a young woman that her father’s
reputation and poverty had already made her an outcast in many circles.
As
the journey wore on, the weight of the impending meeting pressed on her mind.
Norbin attempted to discuss the plans she had agreed upon with Henry and Ruther
the previous night, but she had memorized every contingency. The worry in
Norbin’s voice unsettled her even more. To distract herself, she peeked through
one of the holes in the wagon cover to search the star constellations.
The
wagon turned a corner and abruptly stopped.
“Are
we—” Isabelle asked, but another voice cut her off.
“That’ll
do right there, old man.” Only the voice of a member of the King’s Guard
carried so much authority. Isabelle knew because James was a guardsman and
spoke the same way. They must have reached a blockade. “What have you got in
your cart?”
“Only
a passenger,” Norbin responded through a dry throat.
The
guardsman laughed. “In that tiny, old thing? Sure you do. Derbin, get off your
lazy rear end and search this wagon!”
Isabelle
heard the faint sounds of a groan and a curse followed by footsteps in her
direction. Then the heavily bearded face of an unhappy soldier appeared around
the flap of the cover. The man, apparently named Derbin, held a lantern into
the cart. When he saw its cargo, his eyes got very wide.
“Aye,
sir,” he stammered, still staring straight at Isabelle. “I’ll say there is a
passenger, indeed. Looks dangerous, this one.” With greedy eyes, he added, “May
have to search her.”
The
guardsman swore. “An old woman would be dangerous for you.”
Isabelle
heard the guardsman approach, then he yanked back the flap from Derbin’s grasp
and looked inside for himself. He, too, seemed to have the need to look more
than once at Isabelle. When he was certain of what he saw, Derbin caught a
backhand to the face.
“You
filthy mongrel! Dangerous! You better pray I don’t make you a eunuch in the
next five minutes.” He looked back to Isabelle one last time, bowing his head
gallantly. “Miss, how are you this evening?”
“I’m
fine,” Isabelle answered in a rather flattered voice.
“That’s
well,” he told her. “Based on Derbin, here, you may think chivalry has left the
world, but I assure you it hasn’t.”
“Thank
you, sir.”
“What’s
your destination?”
“The
Glimmering Fountain.”
The
man’s face fell slightly. “Oh, I see. If that’s true, then you will have to be
searched. Order comes from King Germaine himself. Can’t take chances.”
Isabelle
reached into her cloak pocket and removed the invitation. “But I was invited.”
The
man picked Derbin’s lantern from off the ground and held it up. “Let me see
that.” He extended his hand and took the black paper. From the expression on
his face, Isabelle could tell he had a hard time believing the parchment was
anything more than a joke.
“If
you let the candlelight hit it just right . . . ” she suggested.
The
man did so, and then his eyes widened larger than Derbin’s had moments ago.
“Forgive me, Miss,” he hurried to say. “It’s not my place to hold you up.” He
disappeared from view, but Isabelle heard him ordering other soldiers. “Clear
the way for this one. You and you, escort her to the Fountain. No one stops her.”
Sounds
of hurrying and scurrying accompanied the commands. The blockades were dragged
away, and Norbin urged the old horse forward. As she passed through, Isabelle
saw several lantern-lit faces peering to catch a glimpse of her.
The
distance between the blockade and the entrance of The Glimmering Fountain was
measured in seconds. The wagon came to a sudden stop again, but Isabelle
maintained her balance and allowed Norbin to help her to the ground. As she
lighted, a man in a finely tailored coat and pants stood ready to receive her.
He wore a large, round hairstyle and a matching black moustache. His arms and
hands moved with quick precision as though he had been born for this exact
duty, and in a flash his arm was out to receive her.
“Welcome
to The Glimmering Fountain, beautiful Miss,” he said in a strange and smooth
accent. “I will be most happy to escort you inside, for no one walks into this
fine establishment alone.”
Isabelle
smiled warmly at Norbin as this new stranger led her away, and the old servant
returned the gesture, but with less enthusiasm. The escort opened the door and
gave Isabelle her first glimpse of the interior of The Glimmering Fountain. For
a moment Isabelle forgot her fears as she gazed at the grandeur of the inn. She
had not been in any place so fine for several years. When Henry was younger his
father had made a small fortune on the work he’d been hired to do inside this
building. Most of the ornate woodworking on the doors, frames, chairs, and
tables had been done by the late Master Vestin’s own hands, and, according to
Henry, old Master Franklin, his neighboring silversmith, had done the fine
metalwork.
“Are
you meeting someone here, beautiful Miss, or dining by yourself?”
“I
am meeting someone.”
“Do
you see your fellow diner?” her escort asked, but Isabelle didn’t hear. Her
eyes occupied so much of her thoughts that her ears had shut off. It made sense
now that Henry’s father had been paid so handsomely—every wooden surface in the
inn was carved with rich and detailed images of roses, sunsets, and, more than
anything else, water spraying up and out in myriad fountains.
In
the middle of the inn stood a great stone fountain. The bottom of the pool was
gilded in gold and silver. Isabelle had seen nothing like it and marveled at the
feat of engineering to make such a thing possible. The sound of its splashing
waters was quite merry when accompanied by the smell of exotic dishes, the
chattering of dining guests, and women dressed in lovely costumes serving food
and flirting with the men. Everywhere she looked some new sensation captured
her attention.
“Miss,
please.” Her escort gently stroked her hand to get her attention. “Have you
found your fellow guest?”
Isabelle
broke her gaze away from the fountain and searched the room. “A humble gardener
. . . ” she muttered to herself. Her eyes stopped at a table in the middle of
the room.
“Excuse
me, Miss?”
It
was not a humble gardener that caught the eye of Isabelle, rather a man wearing
a spotless white shirt with black pants and a red scarf around his neck.
“I
believe that’s him,” she said, pointing to the man’s back.
The
escort paled slightly and his accent faltered. “The Emperor?”
“Then
that’s him for certain.”
“Allow
me, if you will,” he said more graciously than ever. He took Isabelle’s cloak
and led her to the Emperor’s table, already laden with food, though nothing had
been touched.
“Your
Majesty,” the escort said at the Emperor’s side. Several men sitting at nearby
tables watched them closely. “Your guest has arrived punctually.”
“Thank
you,” Emperor Krallick said. Isabelle was surprised that his voice, though
drenched in a heavy Neverak accent, was pleasant in its unique blend of
softness and well-polished articulation. “Please seat her.”
“As
you wish, your Majesty,” the escort said as he helped Isabelle into her chair
across from the Emperor. “Is there any other way in which we may enhance your
dining experience?”
“No,
you have done wonders already.” The escort bowed himself away, leaving Isabelle
feeling very alone. “How was your journey, Miss Oslan? Or may I call you
Isabelle?”
“Isabelle
is fine, your Majesty.” Not having any prior experience around royalty, she
wasn’t certain how to behave or respond. She settled on answering in her most
proper manners. “The journey was uneventful and as short as I could ask for. I
thank you for asking.”
She
inspected him as discreetly as possible. His pupils were as black as his pants
and the outer corners of his eyes pointed at downward angles. His hair, a
mixture of black with a dash of natural reddish orange was cut short with a
widow’s peak pointing to his angular nose which aligned perfectly with his
strong chin. Even as he smiled at her, his white teeth appeared square and
angular. Isabelle could not help but wonder if the effect was done
intentionally to create a special look for him or if his mother had swallowed
something with adverse effects while carrying him in the womb. His face had
very few age lines. He couldn’t be more than ten years her senior.
“Come
now, you must have had some trouble getting here because of the blockades, for
which I apologize. I thought it would be possible to move about inconspicuously
while in Blithmore, but it has proved impossible.”
“Did
it really surprise you, your Majesty?” Even as she asked the question, it
surprised her to find that she felt no intimidation from this man—something she
had not expected.
Emperor
Krallick smiled as though he had been caught. “No. No, of course, it did not
surprise me, but one can always hope.”
He
reached into a small bag at his side which Isabelle hadn’t noticed. From within
its depths, he retrieved a large napkin, a steel knife, and a fork. After
examining each of them, he began cutting his food into uniformly sized pieces.
Isabelle didn’t comment on the strangeness of what she was witnessing. Instead,
she set her own napkin on her lap. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a
table of three men, all watching her. The food on their plates was untouched
and they hardly spoke to each other. Then she spotted two other tables with
more men doing the same thing. Other patrons at the inn seemed genuinely
enthralled by the Emperor’s presence, though a few displayed an obvious dislike
for him. Isabelle wondered if the Emperor could be in any danger.
