Page 20 of Legacy of the Heirs (The Lost Kingdom Saga #2)

Larelle

“ Q ueen Larelle and Princess Zarya of Nerida,” announced the man to Larelle’s right.

She reached for her daughter’s hand and helped her slowly descend the steps into the hall.

Four of Larelle’s guards followed, though their presence was hardly necessary given the number of Garridon guards lining the glass and stone walls.

The ten long tables began to fill with at least twenty seats placed at each.

Those who had not yet taken their seat greeted one another on the ballroom floor.

“Mumma! Look!” Zarya said in an excited, not-so-quiet whisper.

Larelle followed Zarya’s pointed finger to watch snow-white butterflies sail through the air and occasionally land on the twisted vines and flowers gracing the backs of chairs planted in rows along the long tables to one end of the hall.

Larelle gripped Zarya’s hand tighter, who stumbled over the hem of her dress when they stepped onto the stone floor.

Zarya immediately let go to chase after a butterfly, and Larelle hurried to keep pace with her, slowed by her sheer blue cape trailing along the floor.

She grinned as she followed her daughter, who laughed in acknowledgement to those who greeted her.

They all smiled at the young girl frolicking through the hall, but Larelle noticed the moment people realised who she was and whispered gossip among one another behind feigned smiles.

Zarya gave up chasing the butterfly once they reached the last row of tables before it met the dance floor marked by a half moon display of candles in varying heights.

Zarya curtseyed to an approaching couple while Larelle reached for a goblet of red wine from a passing servant.

Sipping it, she admired her daughter, who twirled to show off her gown.

Larelle had allowed Zarya to pick her dress from a collection of childhood gowns Lillian found in a dusty chest. After trying on every single one, Zarya eventually settled on a seaweed-green dress and claimed it would make Princess Sadira happy because it was green, like Garridon’s sigil.

Larelle did not know where Zarya got her sense of intuition but suspected she was right. She already acted like a queen.

“You should be very proud.” Larelle jumped, not having realised Lillian had arrived. She kissed her cheek in greeting.

“As should you. You have spent as much time raising her as of late,” said Larelle, squeezing Lillian’s hand before folding it back around her own waist and sipping her wine with the other.

“The early years are the ones that matter,” said Lillian, “and that was all you.”

All her. Larelle looked into her goblet. Riyas would be proud of her—of both of them.

“Are you happy to spend some time with her? It will only be brief while I greet the others.” Lillian nodded, and as if on cue, the herald announced, “Nyzaia, Queen of Keres!”

Larelle turned to watch Nyzaia descend the steps.

The candles lining the bannisters glowed brighter as she passed.

Her dark hair hung in waves, pinned back by jewels and her golden crown.

A chain linking the gold hoop in her nose to her ear glinted beneath the candlelight.

She held her clasped hands against her stomach and watched her steps as the skirts of her lehenga pooled around her feet.

The Keres queen appeared more confident than her last royal outing.

Her Queen’s Guard filtered in from the side doors, all but one dressed in black leathers.

It was the man from before with the curious pale-blue eyes.

Something permeated his presence as though a deep trauma inhibited and tainted his aura.

Larelle watched the woman whom she had previously seen interact with Nyzaia—Tajana, Larelle believed she was called, except this time when she offered her hand to Nyzaia, the queen did not take it.

Something had happened since Larelle last saw them.

The two conversed quietly in the corner of the room.

“Lady Soren of Doltas Island,” the male voice boomed.

This time, every head in the room turned to face the staircase.

However, Soren did not descend. She remained at the top in her brown leathers and the silver breastplate of the Garridon Army.

She glared at the herald. The poor man said nothing but stared back, his face paling as low growls sounded from the hallway.

Seconds later, wolves entered the room and flanked their owner.

Several guests stepped back, muttering to each other.

Larelle glanced for Zarya and found her sitting close by, swinging her feet, and gaping at the wolves.

The pack bared their teeth at the herald, who gulped.

“Queen Soren of Doltas Island, and—” he stammered, “—heir to the Garridon throne.” The mutterings only increased as a wry smile graced Soren’s face.

Her thin braids swung behind her as she descended and dismissed her wolves, who began stalking the hall.

Larelle’s attention flitted back to Nyzaia, who spoke to Tajana yet fixed her eyes on Soren.

Nyzaia’s captain nodded before making her way over to the Doltas queen.

Nyzaia had been quick to accuse Soren of setting the explosion; it made sense to instruct Tajana to gather information.

“Queen Elisara of Vala.” When Elisara arrived, the whispers quickly morphed into gasps and gawping faces. Her entrance was punctuated by a gush of wind that nearly extinguished the flames.

“I can’t believe she came,” whispered one woman to her friend.

“You would not catch me dead at the engagement ball of a man I should have married,” giggled another.

Yet those not gossiping about the queen of Vala watched open-mouthed, and it was clear why.

Larelle was used to seeing Elisara in white and pale blue, perhaps the occasional lavender, and while the style of her dress was like the ones Larelle had seen before—billowing sleeves cuffed at the wrists, a cinched waist, and loose fabrics cascading into a waterfall at her feet—silk replaced the usual chiffon, and the pastel blues typical of Vala were exchanged with a blood-red.

The cut of her dress was deep, revealing delicate golden chain jewellery that cupped her breasts and chest; her silver crown seemed out of place amid the golds and reds.

Larelle almost approached Elisara but stopped when Commander Kazaar entered the room from a side door at the bottom of the staircase, his eyes trained on his queen.

Larelle noted how his gaze roamed Elisara’s body and how he strode instantly for her.

The last time she saw the pair was in Nerida when they appeared to have set aside their differences.

Elisara narrowed her eyes at her commander when he approached, though her body betrayed her true intentions; she shifted to mirror his every movement as though strings tied their limbs together.

Larelle could see nothing dark about the commander, and his gaze held no malice when he beheld his queen. In fact, Larelle saw something else—devotion, protection, and something more.

“Can you sense it?” spoke a quiet voice.

Larelle turned to find the Historian withdrawing a chair to sit beside her.

Noticing his unsteadiness, she offered her hand and helped him lower into the seat.

Larelle glanced around, wondering if he had a caretaker or someone to look after him.

If Olden was this frail, Larelle would want someone to support him.

“I did not expect to see you here, sir.” Larelle sipped from her wine again, avoiding his question. After speaking with Alvan, she decided she needed more evidence before drawing conclusions about the Historian’s warnings.

“I received no invitation,” he said. Larelle could not tell if a note of disdain tinged his voice.

“But it is tradition. I have attended all rulers’ engagements and weddings, so I made my own way here.

” His hand shook lightly as he drank from the water before him.

“I had to speak to you again to hear your latest thoughts. Can you sense it? The darkness?” He inclined his head towards Kazaar and Elisara, who now stood side by side, peering out of the glass walls into the castle’s gardens.

“Honestly, sir, I cannot say I do,” she said. “Are you quite certain you felt something dark about him?” The old man nodded, the wisps from his hair falling from the tie at the nape of his neck.

“It is odd, is it not?” The Historian took a sip from his goblet.

“That he was found at the steps of Tabheri palace as a baby and grew into as much power as any of you, despite not being a royal by birth.” Larelle contemplated his words.

She had heard stories about the commander over the years but had never questioned it, assuming he was either the illegitimate son of the king or a lord with connections to the royal line.

Larelle had no reason to listen to rumours suggesting otherwise; she had been subject to enough gossip to know it usually held no factual basis.

But given the rise of the prophecy, perhaps there was more to it.

She supposed someone with such a level of power and a reputation for causing pain could have an added darkness.

But something gnawed at Larelle; she was not yet convinced.

“Will you tell the others?” asked the Historian. Larelle contemplated her response, having thought about it on many occasions since informing Alvan.

“Not until I am certain of my opinion,” she responded, draining the last of her wine. The Historian hummed.

“Then let us hope you come to your opinion before it is too late.”

Larelle spun her head to the Historian and opened her mouth to scold him.

“Lord Alvan of Seley,” the herald called.

Larelle’s attention flitted to Alvan, an element of pride warming her heart to see him dressed in Nerida’s deep blue—a statement of his loyalty to her, not Garridon.

The velvet was fitted, highlighting the size of his arms; one swung at his side while he tucked the other under the breast of his jacket.

His hair was freshly trimmed to his scalp, and as he drew closer, she could make out the inkings beneath his hair.

“Look, Mumma! Mr Alvan!” Zarya said gleefully, her eyes shining as she ran over to her mother with Lillian in tow. Alvan scanned the room, and when his gaze found Larelle, he beamed.

He weaved amongst the throngs of people, who now headed to their tables for the celebratory dinner.

“Hello,” she breathed. Hello? Is that all you can manage ?

“You look beautiful,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand. His fingers lingered, reminding Larelle of his touch during their visit to Seley. She cleared her throat.

“Thank you; you look very—” But words escaped her.

“Nice!” Zarya shouted from her seat. “Mumma means to say you look nice!” Alvan laughed, and Larelle grinned. “You should ask her to dance, Mr Alvan.”

“Zarya, there is no one else dancing right now. We are about to eat,” Larelle said, and Alvan crouched to Zarya’s level, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“We need to wait until the guests of honour arrive first,” Alvan explained, taking her hand and twirling her daughter.

“The ones who are getting married?” asked Zarya. Alvan nodded enthusiastically and continued to spin her. “Mumma and Pappa are married,” she said. Alvan’s hand faltered, and Larelle knelt beside him to intervene, grasping Zarya’s waist to halt her spinning.

“Zarya, sweetie. Mumma and Pappa were never married,” she explained. Zarya fiddled with the petals on the back of a chair.

“Yes, you are.” Larelle blushed at Zarya’s boldness. “I saw it in my dream; you and a man were standing together where they put the crowns on our heads, and this lady tied something around your hands, and then you kissed.” She picked the leaves off the chair, and Larelle hung her head, laughing.

“Like in the story I read you last night?” she asked, stroking her daughter’s hair. Zarya stopped pulling at the leaves and frowned. “Perhaps it was someone else in your dream.”

“Like Mr Alvan?” She looked at the pair with curiosity .

“Maybe you saw me and Mumma dancing because you knew we would dance tonight!” Alvan said, reaching for Zarya’s hands.

“But I think I want to dance with you first!” He pulled up a giggling Zarya by the hands and swung her.

Larelle grinned. In the last few weeks, Zarya had become particularly fond of capturing Alvan’s attention.

Still, perhaps Alvan was spending too much time with them if Zarya was becoming so attached that she dreamed about him.

“King Caellum and Princess Sadira will arrive shortly. Please take your seats,” boomed the voice from the top of the stairs.

Larelle smiled as Alvan offered his hand to Larelle and balanced Zarya on his hip, who was flushed from spinning.

Larelle accepted and allowed him to guide her to their places, side by side.