Chapter 11: Envoy

He came through the great gate at ten the next morning.

Not the postern. The great gate, both leaves swung wide.

The red tent was gone from the moor.

The reporters stood in a cluster where it had been, and they photographed him walking in.

He wore his Council coat brushed clean and a white envoy's sash across his chest.

The oak-leaf pin shone on his collar.

Behind him came two Redoak porters with handcarts.

I watched from the annex window and didn't go down.

I didn't need to.

By noon, the whole sanctuary knew what was in the handcarts.

Crates of Kingsmere oranges, packed in straw, one for every woman of the ten.

Fur-lined boots in every size.

A box of new books for the princess's library, and a case of good brandy for the steward.

Chocolate for the kitchens.

By two o'clock, the tall clerk was wearing the boots.

By four, the Lakewood girl was telling anyone who'd listen that he had remembered her mother's name.

"He's very good," Prue said darkly, peeling an orange at the annex desk. "I hate that he's very good."

"You're eating his orange."

"I'm eating it at him. That's different."

Alaric didn't come for tea that afternoon.

I heard from the steward that he'd ridden out to the pass with his wolves at noon and wasn't expected back until supper.

I told myself I didn't care where he was.

Supper at Highmoor was eaten at one long oak table in the great hall.

The princess sat at the head, with her steward and the Eastmarch delegation down one side, and the ten down the other.

The new envoy had a place three seats from mine.

Alaric came in late with snow on his boots and sat down across from me without a word.

He had a cut on his knuckle I didn't remember.

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