Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 11: Shed your skin

The mist-kissed Gerrathean carriages arrived at Cereas bringing with them the coolness of the snowy mountains, and the ruggedness of its coast. A string of massive carriages, dark as a swath of night, pulled by enormous stallions, their sleek obsidian frames shimmering like silk. It was a harsh sight amongst the lush, verdant countryside of Cereas.

Ella descended from the first convoy, a gloved hand delicately resting on Ser Gawain's waiting grasp, like the gentle first fall of snow. Cool, unblemished grace, a radiant sight next to Callan's stern, looming presence.

She knew they made an odd sight. Valren, Blaise, Aedion and Callan, in their dark hues, towering over her, radiating a palpable menace, as the uniformed guards formed behind them. Ella, in her grey, fur-trimmed overgown, with her gloved hands primly folded in front of her, was a study in serenity.

Creamy hair spilt down her back, an elaborate silver circlet on her brow, head tilted just so. A slight smile curved on her lips. She was the perfect foible to ruthless King Callan and his entourage, a soft elegance to their harsh, violent lines. Ella knew who she was expected to be, and she was prepared to play her role.

A stretching line of uniformed guards and courtiers paved the way to the front entrance of the palace. Gliding through the ranks, the King and Queen of Cereas, followed closely behind by Gidden, their High Chancellor, and high-ranking members of their council.

King Fraser was the first to speak, addressing Callan with a cordial smile. "Welcome to the Kingdom of Cereas. I hope your travels have been pleasant."

"They have," Callan agreed. "Thank you for extending an invitation, Your Majesty, we are pleased to be here."

He then addressed the Queen with a formal smile, taking her gloved hand and placing a kiss there. "Your Majesty."

When it was Ella's turn, she dipped into a polite curtsy and bestowed them with a demure lilt of her lips. "Your Majesties. Thank you for having us in your lovely home."

She had met them a handful of times, but this time was different. It was official. She was not here as Ella, a friend of their children. She was Elowen, Princess of Gerrathea. A member of a controversial House.

When Gidden stepped forward, her pulse quickened, despite the serene facade she kept. He was not her friend, here. He was the Prince and Commander. The cordial expression on his face and the slight tip of his head was indicative of their roles. They were players on their family's teams, and they acted as such.

"Your Highness," she acknowledged lightly.

"Lady Elowen," he returned, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss on her suede-covered knuckles.

"It's Her Highness, now. Elowen is a Princess," Aedion corrected, tersely bowing his head at Gidden. "Greetings, Your Highness."

Gidden's brows raised minimally, but he didn't comment, he only greeted him in kind, as if there was no bad blood between them at all. They all continued their protocolar ritual of greetings in expectant quiet. Despite the meeting being amicable, the tension was palpable.

The procession fell into ranked lines, as their hosts led the way through the cheery halls of Cereas, making polite and surface small talk. Ella even complimented the well-kept scenery and gardens of the palace to Queen Marigold, as if she hadn't walked the rooms a hundred times before. It was a well-rehearsed act on all their parts, and Ella understood why common folk thought the aristocrats so contrived in their ways. Truly, it was a mind-bogglingly complex dance.

The meeting was held in a sun-warmed room, full of glass-less windows through which passed a gentle breeze, carrying the sweet scent of honeysuckle and orange blossom. Lean pillars flanked the round table at the centre, dripping in fat blooms of wisteria and creamy magnolias. It was a room where Ella could imagine herself lazing in with a good book, gently lulled to sleep by the balmy breeze.