Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 565: A Delay

The reception did not begin until dusk.

Prince Deegan Moya’s staff had arranged the hall with the thoroughness of people who understood that grandeur was a diplomatic language. Candles and oil lamps burned in quantities that made the space blaze at midday brightness, and each chandelier had a skylight cut into the ceiling above it to draw the heat away, leaving the air almost cool. White-draped tables rose in a gentle staircase arrangement, crowded with glassware, and the red wines caught the candlelight and held it like captured rubies. Silver mirrors doubled the room’s extravagance back on itself.

But what arrested Yorko’s attention was the women.

They moved between the clusters of noble gentlemen with the ease of people who knew they were the most interesting thing in any room they entered. Young and ingenuous; older and elaborate; every variety between. Each one, regardless of age, had a strand of hair highlighted differently from the rest — Yorko thought of Denise and understood it was a fashion that had spread through the entire noble class of the Kingdom of Dawn. Their dresses were silk, cut close, off-shoulder and above the knee in a style that would have caused a minor scandal at court in Graycastle. Here it was simply the standard of taste.

“It was absolutely the right decision to come,” Yorko said to no one in particular.

The ladies of the Kingdom of Dawn were considerably warmer in manner than their Graycastle counterparts, he observed — though they directed that warmth almost exclusively at handsome young men and distinguished knights. For a man of Yorko’s unremarkable appearance, the usual routes were blocked. He had never found this a meaningful obstacle. He did not rely on appearance.

A young man approached through the crowd — pale, somewhat drawn, trailing an escort of considerable size. He read the introduction letter from Roland Wimbledon, Yorko noted, and received the official document, and said: “So he has truly unified all of Graycastle?”

This, then, was Prince Appen Moya. The host.

Yorko placed his hand on his chest and bowed — as ambassador, he was not required to kneel, but the bow was genuine. He was surprised: it was somewhat unusual for a king to have his eldest son conduct a first reception rather than attending himself. Not necessarily offensive, but worth noting. Worth noting also that the prince had read the letter directly, without intermediary. A minor diplomatic roughness that could be filed away.

He answered Appen’s question and then, with the carefully deployed reluctance of someone asking what they must ask: “And your father, the king — how does he fare?”

“Ill.” The prince’s expression closed slightly. “Very ill. He collapsed at a banquet one and a half months ago. He is conscious for perhaps two or three hours each day.”

One and a half months. Roughly the time Yorko had been traveling.

“I am certain His Majesty will recover,” Yorko said. Diplomatic filler, but offered with genuine warmth.

“Thank you.” Appen assembled a smile from parts that didn’t quite fit together. “Enjoy the evening. My ceremonial officer will arrange your accommodations.”

He was about to move away when Yorko produced the question he had actually come to ask. “Your Highness — the matter of the alliance between Graycastle and the Kingdom of Dawn?”

The smile cooled by a precise degree. “I am aware of the proposal. But with my father’s illness — it would be inappropriate to proceed with major political decisions while he remains unwell. Let us wait until he recovers.”

Appen moved away with his entourage.

Yorko exhaled slowly. His first diplomatic conversation with a member of the royal family of the Kingdom of Dawn: no visible error, no door slammed, no clear progress. An inconclusive result was not a failure. Moya IV could not remain bedridden for years. He would have time.

In the meantime, there was an entire ballroom to attend to.

“We have met again, Mr. Ambassador.”

He turned. Denise Payton stood behind him with a glass of red wine raised, her purple-streaked hair piled above a silk dress that made the most of the lamplight. Her expression was the expression of someone who has arranged a pleasant coincidence and is enjoying the fact that you know it.

“I did say sooner than you expected.” She touched her glass to an imaginary partner. “Shall we?”

Yorko glanced around once — a quick, professional sweep of the room — and found no hovering husbands.

“Your husband?” he asked delicately.

“Not entitled to attend this reception.” Denise dismissed the concern with the ease of someone dismissing weather. “I manage the Payton Family. He does not.” A small pause. “He has housemaids. He requires my permission to seek pleasure elsewhere. The arrangement functions well for everyone.”

The heir of the family — with a husband who took her name. Yorko filed the topology of power away in the same quick mental drawer where he kept everything useful. “You should have told me,” he said with an expression of elaborate relief. “I had no desire to complicate a devoted marriage.”

“Devoted,” she repeated, amused. “No. Come — I know a place after the banquet.”

“All yours to decide,” Yorko said, and offered his arm.

After the reception, Otto pulled Prince Appen into a quiet corner, keeping his voice under the noise of the departing guests.

“I don’t understand, Your Highness. Your father intends this alliance — and even without him, you have the authority to proceed. The Church is pressing us from one side. Standing alone against them would be—”

“You were sent to meet with Timothy Wimbledon,” Appen said. “Not Roland.”

“We are allying with the King of Graycastle. The ambassador has confirmed Roland holds the title.”

“You did good work on that mission.” Appen’s voice was even, practiced, the voice of someone who has been rehearsing authority for weeks. “But the alliance is my matter now. Leave it to me.”

“Your Highness—”

“I said leave it.” The evenness cracked, just slightly, before he recovered it. “I am acting for the Kingdom of Dawn’s benefit. You simply don’t understand.”

Otto said nothing further. When the prince’s back was turned, he stood in the thinning hall and considered the shape of what had just happened. Appen had not been this way before the king fell ill — or at least not in the same way. There was something different underneath the surface now. Something that Otto could not name yet but recognized the way you recognize a change in the weather before the clouds arrive.

He was halfway to the door when Appen stopped him.

“We are still friends, are we not? You, Andrea, Belinda, Oro?”

The question was asked with the careful lightness of someone who is afraid of the answer.

“Yes,” Otto said. “All of us.”

Appen’s expression did not quite relax. “If my father does not recover — you will help me to the throne?”

The corridor was cool. Somewhere behind them, the last guests were making their farewells. Otto looked at his prince and answered with the only answer a loyal man could give.

“Yes.”

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