An Affinity For Fire

38. Tarragon

The Mouth of Dormis perched atop the peak of one of the smaller Northern Mountains. Much like everything Dormisian, it appeared far more extravagant than necessary or, probably, practical.

The castle consisted of half a dozen black towers, each a different height, which gradually became narrower and narrower as they clawed their way towards the sky, ending in sharply pointed rooves. Tarragon felt nauseous just thinking about the amount of stairs it would take to reach the top of the tallest one. He silently prayed to the Fates that the guest rooms were in a different one. The bulbous bases were joined by a ring of curved, domed tunnels, while a complex web of stone cross-bridges connected the higher, narrower sections. At the centre of it all was the vast courtyard, filled with frozen fountains and meticulously trimmed evergreen shrubs, where Tarragon stood, craning his neck to examine the monstrous structure.

"And you live here?" He asked Leo.

"Sometimes," he said, "But my father owns a house in one of the wealthier towns. My family usually stays there."

The Ocassans, a servant had revealed, had been the first of the foreign royal parties to arrive. Somehow, that relieved him. She wasn't here yet. He didn't have to face her yet.

With a final glance at the towers, Tarragon scooped up his bags in aching arms, only to have a serving boy rush over and insist upon carrying them for him. Too exhausted to argue, he conceded, following the young boy into the castle and out of the cold.

The rooms reserved for the Ortusian guests were, thankfully, only three flights of stairs up. Tarragon's room was three down from Clover's on the same corridor. It was relatively small, but comfortably furnished and heavily decorated, with golden embroidered curtains across the window and dangling from the ornately carved bedposts. He unloaded his things into one of the heavy wooden chests as quickly as he could and hurried off to find a servant to direct him to the baths. He planned on getting in and out sooner rather than later, since every single guest probably planned on using them, and shared baths with strangers were never going to be something he enjoyed.

It was another few hours before the Ortusian travelling party arrived, bringing with them a crateful of Tarragon's formal attire, which his mother had apparently asked them to take for him. Clover, he discovered while checking in on her, had received a similar crate from her father.

The official celebrations wouldn't begin until the next day, but there would be a feast that first evening, preceded by a procession of the four royal families, which all would be expected to attend. Tarragon picked through his selection of shirts, coats, doublets and jackets. He settled on a long, dark green jacket, decorated with gold thread and buttons, which he wore with brown trousers and boots.

When a servant knocked on his door to inform him that the procession was about to begin, he thought he might be sick.

He walked with Clover and the rest of the Ortusian guests to the throne room, where they stood in a huddle beside the Dormisians, facing the Ocassans and Aestasans. The two groups, separated by a yellow rug spanning from the doors to the dais, murmured and gossiped amongst themselves until an announcer called for quiet.

Tarragon swallowed, wrestling against his nerves as the room fell silent and the doors swung open.

As the hosts, it was the Dormisian royal family, the Toritrels, who began the royal succession. The king led, with his wife at his side. The pair were trailed by their elder daughter, Leo's maternal aunt, and her three daughters, the eldest of whom carried her infant son. The flock of blond nobles were all clad in extravagant yellow attire, with wide skirts, puffed sleeves and every inch of bare skin dripping with gold and amber jewellery.

The previous hosts, the Ocassans, followed. The widowed Queen Demeeria led, flanked by her three children and seven grandchildren, Bryn and Jassiba amongst them. The Ocassan's, ever adherent of a more reserved, dignified style, had opted for much more understated attire. The family were no less magnificent, however. The fitted blue garments, modest sapphire jewellery and exquisitely neat hair perfectly complemented the chillingly flawless grace and elegance for which the Ocassans were notorious.

The Ortusian royals, as the soonest future hosts, entered next. Only three nobles presented themselves for the procession - King Thorn Glarryd, Queen Verbena and their eldest grandson, Prince Bay. Where Dormisians were exuberant and Ocassans polished, Ortusians exuded warmth and welcome. Indeed, the Glarryds, in their modest but comfortable green garb, were the only family to smile as they crossed the length of the hall. Young Bay even greeted the crouds with shy but friendly waves.

Tarragon applauded each family with the rest of the guests, plastering on the most convincing awed smile he could manage. But his heart raced faster each time the great oak doors to the hall swung open.

He knew who would be entering fourth.

When the announcer called for the guests to welcome the Serassi family of Aestas, Tarragon couldn't decide what was stronger - the urge to run for his life or to hurl up his guts.

Queen Romira was draped in dark red silk, her skirt embroidered with black and gold swirls which rippled like flickering flames as she walked. Her husband, King Consort Fynier Roxeth, strode beside her dressed in leather trousers and a jacket fashioned to match her gown.

Behind Fynier was Prince Innis, his outfit as black as his long, curly hair. Hair which it was now clear he had got from his mother, along with her arching cheekbones and frighteningly white complexion.

And beside Innis, three paces behind Romira, was Calio.

Her burning red hair was pinned back from her face, revealing eyes heavily pigmented with powder, black do match her dress. She wore no gloves, instead covering her wrists with long sleeves and leaving her fire-wielding hands free. Aside from her hair, the only colours she bore came from the rubies embedded in her black tiara and the paint coating her lips and nails, both the red of drying blood.

The four strutted the length of the hall, only turning to survey the crowd when they reached the steps of the dais, where they took their places beside the other royal families. Tarragon rubbed sweating palms on his trousers. the brown leather was completely unabsorbant, which would have annoyed him, had he not been so consumed by dread. He watched Calio's storm blue eyes flit across the room.

Then they settled on him.

She flinched, and so did he.

The Dormisian King declared the official commencement of the feast, an announcement which met riotous applause. Absently clapping, Tarragon tried to tear his eyes away from Calio, but he couldn't. A bolt of lightning could have struck clean through the ceiling, and Tarragon didn't think he would have been able to move his terrified eyes from her unyielding, simmering, loathing glare.

It was only when Leo grabbed his shoulder and wheeled him round that he was able to break free from the all-consuming terror that look induced.

"We have a problem," Leo called over the deafening orchestra that had begun playing.

"Do we ever not?" Tarragon replied. "What could possibly have gone wrong now?"

"The assassins must have caught onto our Merith plan," Leo said.

A whole new spike of fear shot up his spine. "Why, what's happened?"

Leo chewed his lip, eyes stricken with a level of despair Tarragon had never seen in them.

"Merith's owl. Nepheline. She's been killed."