Overhead, a mural depicted what she assumed were scenes of Geallian history.
There were several long, low seats with jewel-toned fabrics. Chairs with high, ornate backs stood at a long table where servants were already placing tankards and goblets, bowls of apples and pears, plates of cheese and bread.
Paintings and tapestries covered the walls while patterned rugs spread over the floor. Candles flamed in chandeliers, in tall stands, in silver candleabras.
One of the servants, a curvy one with a long spill of gold hair curtseyed in front of Moira. “My lady, we thank the gods for your return. And yours, my lord.”
There was a glint in her eye when she looked at Larkin that had Blair’s eyebrows raising.
“Isleen. I’m happy to see you.” Moira took both her hands. “Your mother is well?”
“She is, my lady. Already weeping with joy.”
“Will you tell her I’ll see her soon? And we need chambers prepared for our guests.” Moira took her aside to explain what she wanted.
Larkin was already heading for the table, and the food. He broke off a hunk of bread, hacked off a wide chunk of cheese, then mashed them together. “Ah, this tastes like home,” he said with his mouth full. “Here now, Blair, have some of this.”
Before she could object, he was stuffing some in her mouth. “Good,” she managed.
“Good? Why it’s brilliant as starshine. And what’s this?” He lifted a tankard. “Wine, it is? Glenna, you’ll have some, won’t you?”
“Boy, won’t I.”
“Little changes,” came a voice from the wide doorway. The man who stood there, tall, well built, his dark hair liberally threaded with gray, stared at Larkin. “Surrounded by food and pretty women.”
“Da.”
They met halfway across the room, and with bear hugs. Blair could see the man’s face, the emotion that held it. Then she could see Larkin in the eyes of tawny gold.
The man caught Larkin’s face in his big hands, gave his son a hard kiss on the mouth. “I didn’t wake your mother. I wanted to be sure before I lifted her hopes.”
“I’ll go to her as soon as I can. You’re well. You look well. A bit tired.”
“Sleep hasn’t come easy these past weeks. You’re injured.”
“It’s not to worry. I promise.”
“No, it’s not to worry. You’re home.” He turned, and he smiled—and again, Blair saw Larkin in him.
“Moira.”
“Sir.” Then her breath hitched and she was running to him. Her arms clamped around his neck as he lifted her off the ground.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I took him from you. I’m sorry I worried you so.”
“You’re back now, aren’t you? Safe and whole. And you bring guests.” He set Moira back on her feet. “You’re welcome here.”
“This is Larkin’s father, and the brother of my mother. Prince Riddock. Sir, I would present my friends to you, the best I’ve ever known.”
As Moira introduced them, Larkin stood behind his father’s back, signalling the others that they should bow or curtsey. Blair went with the bow, feeling foolish enough.
“There’s so much to tell you,” Moira began. “If we could sit. Larkin, the doors please? We should be private.”
Riddock listened, interrupting occasionally to ask Moira to repeat or expand. Now and then he directed a question to his son, or to one of the others.
Blair could almost see the weight of the words press down on his shoulders, and the grim determination with which he bore it.
“There have been other attacks, at least six, since—” Riddock hesitated briefly. “Since you left us. I did what I could to heed what you wrote to me, Moira, to warn the people to stay in their homes after sunset, to not welcome strangers in the dark. But habits and traditions die hard. As did those who followed them these weeks.”