Lupi 04 - Night Season

gawked.
    The wide street ended by making a circle around a huge building. It had to be a building, though it looked more like an enormous, sleeping beast sunk partly into the ground, or perhaps ready to rise from it…a beast its tenders had decorated lavishly.
    All their love of curves and tile and color was here. Mirrored tiles, colored tiles, and colored stones or gems were inset in the patterns that swirled and clawed and climbed everywhere. There were no right angles, no clear delineation between wall and ground—the tilework spilled from wall onto earth, reaching delicate fingers across a stone courtyard.
    The place easily covered three city blocks. Probably more. Parts of it reached higher than others, maybe three or four stories. It took Cynna a minute to notice how few windows interrupted the designs covering the structure. There were no plants. No flowers or grass or bushes in the courtyard, flanking any of the entrance, or sitting in pots on the three staircases she could see.
    The Chancellery was a stunning, even overwhelming, work of art. Ruben and Cullen made complimentary noises. Cynna couldn’t bring herself to. The place gave her the creeps.
    There were several entrances. They rode past the biggest one, where a line of people snaked out through two huge, open doors. They continued to the side of the structure, where a long, narrow porch ten feet above the ground gave access to another entrance. Bilbo’s carriage had stopped at the foot of those steps. McClosky was getting out. A small group of people were descending the steps—two gnomes and a man. A human man.
    Cynna’s heart began to pound.
    The horses stopped. Someone took her hand. “You okay?” Cullen asked softly.
    â€œI think I’m going to be sick.”
    â€œYou won’t,” he told her firmly. “But if you absolutely have to prove me wrong—and I know you like doing that—aim for Bilbo’s shoes.”
    â€œGood plan.”
    The man following the two gnomes wore the same kind of long dress Cullen had been given, only his was made of much nicer fabric—something with a sheen. It was a golden brown. Over that he wore a long, sleeveless robe or vest in a plush material the color of dirty snow. No hat. His hair was sandy brown; his complexion, fair; his features, pleasant but unremarkable.
    He wasn’t fat, wrinkled, or bald. A bit stocky, but otherwise he looked like his picture. Just like his picture.
    Cynna didn’t see what the others did. She did notice, barely, Cullen’s hand at her elbow, supporting her when she climbed out of the carriage, as if she might have forgotten how to do that. She heard voices, but they were a mere buzzing, like insects.
    The man moved up to stand in front of her. “Cynna?” His voice wobbled. He looked like he was trying to smile and couldn’t quite bring it off. “You’re my little Cynna?”
    She nodded slowly. Her head might fall off if she weren’t careful. “You’re Daniel?”
    â€œNo!” His voice went loud and gruff, and he grabbed her. “No, not Daniel—I’m Daddy! Or Da, or Father, or Dad…” His arms closed tight around her. “Don’t call me Daniel,” he said, and there was a hint of tears mixed with the touch of brogue in his voice. “To everyone else I can be Daniel. Not to you. Not to you.”
    He was her height exactly. Five-ten. He smelled strange—smoky, with some spicy cologne mixed in. He was holding on too tight. She didn’t think she could breathe. She pushed away. “Too fast,” she said, almost panting, as if he’d sucked up all the air when he grabbed her. “You’re going too fast for me. Until a couple days ago I thought you’d run out on us. Now…”
    â€œOf course. Of course.” He ran a hand over his head, smoothing back the sandy hair…hair she realized was different from her old photo, because it started farther back on his forehead. “I’m tripping over my own feet, aren’t I, now? But you look so much like her…ha.” He smiled, and mischief twinkled in eyes the color of whisky—eyes she recognized, having seen them in the mirror all her life.
    He put his hands on her shoulders, beaming at her. “Now you’re thinking, who is this man? He can’t be my dad, who would know his sweet Mary is a small, round woman with dark hair and eyes. But you’ve