Chapter 301: She Is The Mother Of Dragons

Someone in the benches laughed, once, and stifled it.

Thorne had not moved.

He stood at Morgana’s shoulder, silent and pale and watchful, and she realized that he had not once looked at Carrick. His dark eyes were moving across the room. They went from tier to tier, face to face, the way a man reads a page, and she saw them stop.

On the side aisle, near the dais steps, a man stood against the wall in a council robe.

It was a plain robe, of a pale dove grey, the kind worn by the junior ushers who showed guests to their seats. He was lean and nondescript, with thinning brown hair and a pleasant, forgettable face. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes lowered, as modest as a servant.

Thorne looked at his sleeves.

Then he looked away, casually, and his gaze moved on. If Morgana hadn’t been standing so close, she would not have felt the small stillness that settled across his shoulders. It was the stillness of a hunter who has seen a track in the snow.

Grey sleeve, she thought, and her stomach turned over. The man at the pillar.

She did not say it out loud but rather she returned her attention to the room.

"Lord Carrick," said Draeven.

His voice was calm. It was the voice of a man who had held a council chamber for two hundred years. The last of the murmurs died.

"You have made a claim. A grave one. I would like to hear the whole of it before the council forms an opinion. You say the Mother of Dragons is in this palace. You say she has been among us. You say we have been blinded." He paused. "Whom do you name?"

"I name the one I have brought to you."

Carrick turned.

He lifted a hand, and the great doors at the far end of the hall opened.

She was led in by a man in grey.

It was another usher, young and anxious, with a plain scrubbed face. He walked a pace ahead of her, holding the door, and as she passed him he bowed, awkwardly, and stepped aside. The hall fell silent as she came forward.

Morgana’s breath caught.

Astraea walked down the center aisle as though she were alone.

She wore white. It was the same plain gown as before, long and unadorned, with sleeves to the wrist, and her white-gold hair hung unbound to her waist. She did not hurry. Her bare feet whispered on the marble. The light from the tall windows seemed to bend toward her, gilding her hair, and the nobles on either side of the aisle drew back as she passed, pressing against their benches, staring.

She did not look at them.

She did not look at Carrick, either, though she passed within a few feet of him. Her pale eyes were fixed straight ahead, calm and unreadable. She walked to the foot of the dais and stopped there, and folded her hands in front of her.

The whole hall seemed to hold its breath.

Morgana felt it at once.

It was the bond. A faint, shivering tremor ran through the three presences that lived in her chest, red and blue and shadow, and she felt them all lift their heads. INFERNUS, drowsy and gold, went suddenly alert. GLACIUS, restless, turned a slow and curious circle. NOCTYS, who hung always at the edges, shifted forward, silent as a cat.

Old, said the dragons, in a low harmonic hum. Old, old, old.

Draeven’s arm was rigid under her hand.

"My lords," said Carrick. His voice rang with warm triumph. "May I present Lady Astraea."

A murmur went up.

"You have all heard of her," he said. "Many of you saw her arrive. A young woman of uncertain origin, with hair like moonlight and a presence unlike any in the realm. The kings themselves reacted to her. Their dragons turned to her." He swept a hand toward her. "I ask you, my lords, what more proof do you require?"

No one spoke.

"She has the look of it," Carrick said, softly. "She has the presence. She is the one the prophecy describes. The white-haired maiden, the bearer of old fire." His eyes gleamed. "She is the Mother of Dragons."

Silence passed across the hall again.

He turned to her with a small flourish.

"Lady Astraea," he said warmly. "Will you tell them?"

Astraea lifted her head.

She looked at him.

It was the first time that she had, and Morgana saw him falter. It was slight. A flicker at the edge of his smile, a tightening around the eyes. He had expected something. He had not expected that look. It was patient and ancient and utterly without fear, and it passed over him like the shadow of a very large bird.

"No," said Astraea.

Her voice was light and clear and carried to every corner of the hall.

The silence changed.

"I beg your pardon?" said Carrick.

"I will not tell them." She did not raise her voice. "Because it is not true."

A single sharp breath went through the benches.

"Lady Astraea," Carrick said carefully. "You are among friends. There is no need...."

"I am not among friends."

"I assure you...."

"I came to this palace as a guest of my own will. I was not brought by you. I was not presented by you. I was fetched from my chambers an hour ago by a man in a grey robe, who told me the kings had sent for me." Her eyes moved, mildly, to the usher by the door, who went white. "That was a lie."

A murmur surged.

"I have never agreed to be shown to this court," Astraea said. "I have never claimed the title. I have never said, to you or to any other, that I am the Mother of Dragons." She turned her head, and her pale gaze swept the benches. "And I say it now, plainly, before all of you. I am not."