The functionary rose back up, and tried a small smile, although it trembled at the edges. “Yes, sire. Lord Arsen has been summoned—”

“And has arrived,” my fey said, striding forward and making a low bow that veered just on the right side of parody.

It allowed me to glimpse myself—or rather, Arsen—for the first time in the shiny black floor. He was handsome, broad shouldered, and silver-haired—in other words, just like all the others. Except that the feather on his helmet was red, a color that seemed entirely too cheerful for the Svarestri.

“Lord Arsen,” Aeslinn said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “How kind of you to join us. Get tired of slumming with the village girls, at last?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Arsen stood back up, smiling. “I find it quite refreshing. And you’d be surprised what gossip the tavern wenches give up, once in their cups. For example, did you know that a group of trolls has taken up residence in one of our abandoned mines? They’re over in Deepdale, by the Kalbaek. I could take a party of knights and clear them out—”

“I don’t care about trolls!” Aeslinn bellowed, striding over and grabbing our shoulder. “You’ll take him on Earth, you understand? I tire of this idiot’s excuses—”

And then it happened again. The room went swimmy, and I was suddenly seeing another, similar scene. The throne was the same; Arsen was the same; but Aeslinn… was wildly different.

This time, his robes were purple, a dark shade that was almost black, with a subtle iridescence to it. The color reminded me of black pearls, although he wore none of them. Instead, tiny jet beads made intricate patterns all over the heavy, lined satin of his robes, almost quilting it. They caught the light whenever he moved, making him appear as if he was covered in black diamonds.

The outfit was beautiful, but it didn’t flow like the lightweight silks he’d had on a minute ago. But the heavier weight was probably needed, I thought, my attention caught by what was happening outside. Where the mother of all blizzards was raging.

That was probably why the candelabras were now lit, casting puddles of golden light on the floor, which mirrored them back in dark reflections. The walls echoed them, too, which was fortunate, or I doubt anybody would have been able to see much of anything. Because there was nothing left of the beautiful view outside except for lashings of white.

Snow and ice pounded what I assumed was a ward or transparent shield, since the blizzard outside stayed that way. But frost had formed on the walls and floor beside the openings, nonetheless. It covered the king’s great chair as well, fuzzing the arms and back and spilling down the short flight of steps leading up to it.