Daxon had been dressed in a long, archaic robe of black, a garment that evoked the vestments of a forgotten priesthood.
It fell from his throat to his ankles like a shadow given fabric, high-collared and close at the neck but flowing at the hem, its sleeves etched with faint sigils stitched in silver. The weight of it whispered of ancient rites and cloisters; it was a male's ceremonial attire.
The queen's "eating house" lay only a short passage from her chamber, past the perfumed kitchens whose heat and aromas drifted like ghosts through the stone corridors. And her chamber itself was only a short corridor from the guest-room Daxon had been given.
Within moments he reached the place.
When he stepped inside, his senses were struck by a riot of fragrance: roasting spices, honeyed smoke, and wines older than kingdoms. Along a massive table of polished blackwood, lit by the gold tremor of candles in iron sconces, stood dishes fit for ritual.
