Gwyn clasped it prayerlike in both hands, curling his fingers around the cup. He had changed from his traveling clothes. The light from the lanterns bounced crazily off the coronet that now rested on his head, a delicately worked crown of white gold studded with jewels representative of every foreign land he had visited as part of the diplomatic corps, and incorporated into the Empire. Protocol demanded that the crown be smaller than Her Majesty's, and it was, barely. No fool though, he wore a second, much smaller and more modest coronet when traveling to Calahr, or on the rare occasions the Queen ventured forth to survey Her lands. The light also highlighted his exceptionally pale skin, stretched taut across a delicate bone structure that bespoke his pure heritage, something many in the High Court were sadly lacking. That was the problem with empires—the bloodlines of the conquered lands mixed with that of their masters, polluting everything. In time, he would deal with them. For now, though, he focused his thoughts on his immediate situation.
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