83 Fall, 511; eighteen bells
The walk had been long and quiet, after that.
The eastern horizon rippled with impending darkness as the white sun burned cold ahead, hovering much closer to the distant sea than it had, when Belgar first encountered Hadrian and his magic. A hesitant huff frosted out of the Kelvic’s nose as he finally halted before the great arch of the palace doors, tipping his chin up for the first time in a bell. His feet were cold; even they could not hold out forever against the moisture of the snow through which he had marched for so long. He shivered, and he thought he could feel the mark beneath his clothes itch like the djed he thought he loathed. He glanced at the human mage beside him, who was not blessed with the same immunities, but Belgar’s face was masked with a greater resolution than pity. He pushed inside.
Despite that the palace was made of ice, the smile that greeted them seemed to warm the entrance hall. Belgar offered a small bow to the Queen’s assistant, a polite smile of his own tugging awkwardly at the edges of his mouth. He stepped to the side, nodded towards the foreigner. “Hadrian Aelius,” he said to her, pulling the introduction out of his memory from between thick threads of anticipation. He adjusted the bundle of clothes beneath his arm as he glanced around to deliberate where to put them, but ultimately settled his attention instead on the threshold to the throne room.
“I seek an audience with Queen Morwen,” he explained as if there could be another reason, reverting to Vani for comfort rather than secrecy. A moment’s hesitation and he added, “Hadrian will accompany me.”