Chapter 348: High Priest Ormund

He was tall, and thin, and silver-haired, in a robe of plain white wool with a black sash across the chest. His face was long and narrow and smooth. It was a kind face. It had a faint, patient, scholarly line between the brows, and wide, thoughtful, pale blue eyes, like a man who has spent his life among books and has never once been cruel to a child. He might have been a village priest. He might have been somebody’s favorite uncle.

He smiled.

"My lady," said High Priest Ormund.

His voice was warm.

It was the warmest voice she had ever heard. It rolled across the room like the glow of a hearth, soft and low and utterly sincere. It made her want, absurdly, to trust him. It made her want to sit down in the nearest chair and tell him all her troubles.

She stayed where she was.

"Your Majesties," said Ormund.

He moved from behind the table. He did it with a kind of old-fashioned grace, unhurried and stooped. He came across the floor with his long white sleeves swinging, and he stopped three paces from the kings, and bowed. It was a perfect bow. It was exactly as deep as one king deserved from a stranger, and not a hair more.

"I must beg your pardon," he said.

Nobody spoke.

"For the liberty of the invitation." His smile was rueful, and gentle, and self-deprecating. "I am conscious that it was presumptuous. One does not summon a king to supper like a tradesman. It was thoughtless of me, and I am heartily ashamed." He pressed one hand to his chest. "But I confess I was so eager to meet the lady. And so afraid, if I asked in the proper way, that you would refuse."

"We might have," said Draeven.

"Indeed. And I should not have blamed you." The pale eyes did not flicker. "I assure you that I intended no discourtesy. I am an old man, and old men grow impatient. I hope you will forgive me."

It was beautifully done.

She watched it, with a kind of cold fascination. It was a flawless performance. Every line of it was courteous, and humble, and exactly right. Every word was polished like a stone. And not one syllable of it was true.

He isn’t sorry, she thought. He isn’t even pretending to be. He was only showing them what a sorry man would look like, the way a conjuror shows you an empty hand. He did not care in the slightest whether they believed it. He wanted them to understand that he could.

"Your apology is noted," said Draeven.

His voice was perfectly pleasant, and it was cold as a blade.

"I am gratified."

"I hope," said Draeven, "that you will extend the same courtesy to the lady’s mother. It would be a pity if the liberty of the invitation were the least of your offenses."

A faint, dry silence.

Ormund’s smile did not move.

"Your Majesty is perceptive," he said.

"I try to be."

"It is a quality I admire."

"I am sure it is."

"Perhaps," said Ormund, "we might sit?"

They sat.

It was a very long table. Ormund took the head. Draeven took the right, and Kaelen the left, with Morgana between them at the foot, so that she faced the High Priest down a gleaming white length of cloth and silver. A servant in a grey livery poured wine. She did not touch hers. Neither did the kings.

Carrick Greythorne stood by the hearth.

She had seen him as they came in. He leaned against the mantel with one boot crossed over the other, in his dark coat and his heavy silver ring, with a glass of wine held loosely in his hand. He had not spoken. He had not moved. But his pale grey eyes had followed her from the door, and now rested on her face with an expression of mild and pleasant interest.

She looked back.

She did not smile. She did not look away.

"Lord Carrick," she said.

"Lady Morgana."

"You left the palace in a hurry."

"I had a good deal to attend to."

"I see you did."

"I am gratified by your interest."

"I’m not interested," said Morgana. "I’m only noticing."

A flicker passed across his face. It might have been amusement.

"Child," said Ormund.

She turned.

He had folded his hands on the cloth. He was looking at her down the length of the table, with his head a little to one side, in an attitude of fond and patient attention. The candlelight shone in his eyes. It made them very blue, and very clear, and very still.

"I have wanted to see you for a very long time," he said.

"Have you?"

"Eighteen years." His smile was warm. "Longer, in a sense. I have been waiting for you since before you were born."

"That’s an odd thing to say."

"It is a true thing."

"It’s creepy."

Beside her, Kaelen made a small noise like a muffled laugh.

Ormund’s smile broadened.

"You are very like your mother," he said.

"Don’t talk about my mother."

"Why not?"

"Because you’re the reason she’s ill."

The room went silent.

It was a quick, vivid, absolute silence. Carrick’s glass paused halfway to his mouth. The servant at the sideboard stopped breathing. At her left, Kaelen went very still. At her right, she felt Draeven’s hand, under the table, close warm and firm around her knee.

Careful, it said.

She did not look at him.

"I’m sorry?" said Ormund, mildly.

"You heard me."

"I did. I am only astonished."

"At what?"

"That you should say it so plainly." He sounded delighted. "I had been prepared for a good deal of elegant circling. I had a speech ready. Several, in fact. And you have simply put your hand on the table and said it."

"I don’t have time for speeches."

"No. I can see that." He leaned back. His pale eyes were shining. "It is a trait I have admired in the old fire. It does not waste words."