Page 76

“Yes?”

“He’s–” Her voice cracked. “His lady mother requests his presence,” she finally got out in a rush. “In the Southern salon.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell–”

But she’d already bowed and gone scurrying off down the hall.

“How heartwarming,” Náli said. “Being the greatest source of terror for my household staff.” He stood and stepped into his boots. “We’ll speak again later.”

They nodded, even Mattias, though he looked grim at the prospect.

“Honestly,” Náli said as he moved toward the door, “could the prospect of magic tampering possibly he as horrifying as tea with my mother?”

That, at least, finally earned him a chuckle.

~*~

The Southern salon was not on the south-facing side of the Keep, but was named, instead, for Lady Serafina’s preferred, Southern style of decorating. Most of the Keep was done up in the heirlooms and antiques passed down to the Corpse Lord households of previous generations. But in this salon, everything from the tasseled drapes, to the pastel carpets, to the dainty-legged chairs with their floral-stitched seat cushions was imported from her homeland.

Entering was always a shock, the discordance of the granite walls, floor, and ceiling with the delicate, feminine furniture and accessories. Náli always felt awkward and out of place there, as he did now…when he entered to find that his mother wasn’t waiting for him alone.

Arranged around her on velvet sofas and fragile chairs and stools was an assortment of women sitting in pairs. Mothers and daughters, he realized. Maidens and chaperones. The highborn ladies of the Fault Lands and the coastal regions. He saw many familiar faces.

And he saw his mother, holding a delicate porcelain teacup, smiling demurely at him with cold, flashing eyes that threatened him to behave like a gentleman or else.

He longed to duck behind his Guard, but they shifted away from him to stand along an empty stretch of wall, taking up their regular posts; more than one pair of eyes followed them, the young girls with awe and worry, several of the mothers with obvious appreciation. Their lords had probably run to fat, and Náli was keenly aware of his Guard’s attractions.

“Náli,” Serafina said in a lilting, girlish voice she only used in front of company.

“Mother,” he returned, ice-cold.

Her gaze tracked down his body to the toes of his boots and back up. That’s what you’re wearing? that look said.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I wasn’t aware that we would be entertaining visitors.”

“Of course.” She laughed, a practiced chime. “You know the custom: how can we offer to host a ball without providing adequate accommodations for our esteemed guests?”

He did know that. He himself had arrived for the Yule festival days ahead of time; every lord in the North was fond of days’-long celebrations, replete with ale and whole roast hogs and sporting events in the yards of palaces and keeps.

But this party would be in no way shape or form a Northern celebration. It would involve teas, and strolls in the gardens (ha! Let a lady enjoy the magma-crusted “gardens” of Naus Keep), and endless dinners at the long dining table. Even now, he wagered a pack of musicians were rosining bows and polishing horns; he’d doubtless be forced to endure a “musicale evening.”

“Of course,” he echoed, shuddering internally.

Mother held out her limp hand to him. “Come, Náli. And reacquaint yourself with our guests.”

Wishing he faced an angry bear, or a mob of Fangs, or even the well instead, he walked forward to his doom.