“Oh—nothing much,” she said reluctantly. “The betrothal’s being held off until Elspeth’s finished training. Look, Kris, I’m sorry, but I’m rather short on time right now. I’ll tell you later, all right?”

And she fled before he could ask anything more.

Lunch was a few bites snatched on the run between the Palace and her room; audiences required a slightly more formal uniform than the one she’d worn to the Council session. Talia managed to wash, change, and get back in time to discuss the scheduled audiences with the Seneschal. Talia’s role here was as much bodyguard as anything else, although her duties included assessing the emotional state of those coming before the Queen and giving her any information that seemed appropriate.

The audience chamber was long and narrow; the same gray granite and dark wood as the rest of the old Palace. Selenay’s throne was on a raised platform at the far end. Behind the throne the wall had been carved into the Royal arms; there were no curtains for assassins to hide behind. The Queen’s Own spent the entire time positioned behind the throne to the Queen’s right, from which position the Queen could hear her least whisper. Petitioners had to travel the length of the chamber, giving Talia ample time to “read” their emotional state if she thought it necessary to do so.

The audiences were quite unexciting; petitioners ranged from a smallholder seeking permission to establish a Dyer’s Guildhouse on his property to two noblemen who had called challenge on each other and were now trying desperately to find a way out of the situation without either of them losing face. Not once did she deem the situation grave enough to warrant “reading” any of them.

When the audience session concluded, Talia sprinted back to her room to change into something old and worn for her weapons drill with Alberich.

Walking into the salle was like walking into the past; nothing had changed, not the worn, backless benches against the wall, not the clutter of equipment and towels on and beneath the benches, not the light coming from the windows. Not even Alberich had changed so much as a hair; he still wore the same old leathers, or clothing like enough to have been the same. His scar-seamed face still looked as incapable of humor as the walls of the Palace; his long black hair held neither more nor less gray than it had the last time Talia had seen him.