Ireic Theodoric, King of Anavrea couldn’t keep his eyes from the garishly patterned floor of the king of Sardmara’s main audience chamber. His gaze kept wandering back to it in morbid fascination. Gold, orange, and gray tiles marched nauseatingly across the expansive floor. Clashing with the scarlet drapes and the teal upholstery, the squares set his teeth on edge. Sardmara’s king must be color blind. It was the only possible explanation. He would ask Trahern’s opinion tomorrow when he arrived for the wedding.
“Trid the eighth, of the house of Parnan, king of Sardmara,” a herald announced. The double doors opposite the throne flung wide. A dark haired man strode through them with a slender woman on his arm. Rich robes, expensive jewels, and cosmetics couldn’t disguise the fact the king of Sardmara as a man who enjoyed his food too much. Corpulent to the edge of obesity with a face permanently flushed from excessive wine, he moved toward his throne at a snail’s gait.
“Welcome, my brother king.” Trid nodded his condescension as he passed. “My wife, Keyrain.” He jutted his double chin in the direction of the woman on his arm. “Now to business. You brought the modified treaty, I assume.” He practically dragged his wife toward the pair of thrones before she could manage more than a wan smile.
Ireic felt for her. To be married to such a man must be difficult. He only hoped the daughter took after her mother, not her father.
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