Though considering the nature of their argument, perhaps it was normal, both for monarchs and parents. Not that she had any way to know about either.
Hoping to disguise the fact that she was avidly following their conversation, Leisa turned to observe her surroundings, noting almost immediately that there were an unusual number of guards in evidence. Perhaps that could be explained by the fact that the entry hall was poorly designed for defense, or perhaps simply because King Melger was hoping to overwhelm his guest with a show of wealth.
That the royal palace was far more opulent than King Soren’s she already knew, or at least guessed, but the vast difference between them was a testament to Garimore’s legendary affluence. The entry hall was tall and wide, with marble walls carved in bas-relief and a glass roof that permitted a great deal of natural light. The supporting columns were embellished at the top with gold leaf, which could very nearly be seen reflected in the polished marble of the floor. And hidden unobtrusively behind the columns, at least eight footmen hovered nearby, while perhaps a dozen guards stood silent sentry, each one outfitted in gold-chased armor that seemed more for show than actual function. Gold was too soft and too heavy to be any but a fool’s choice for protection.
None of the footmen or guards appeared to notice they were being watched, but a waiting bevy of what Leisa assumed were court officials did seem just a bit too pointed in their refusal to look in her direction.
“He must be made to bestir himself for his kingdom,” the king continued, “not force us to continually berate him for failing to meet even the simplest of his obligations!”
The queen wore a placating expression and seemed poised to protest on her son’s behalf when a new voice intruded on the conversation.
“I can hardly be blamed that the delegation from Farhall arrived several hours early,” the newcomer announced, in a cultured tenor drawl that grated on Leisa’s ears. “It seems no one could be bothered to inform me they were already here, or I would have been present to greet my bride. I don’t suppose she is…”
It seemed to be a cue of some sort—he’d been speaking far too loudly for anyone to miss—so Leisa turned and finally beheld Princess Evaraine’s potential fiancé as he strolled into the hall. Their eyes met, and a smirk lifted one corner of his lips, while the beginning of a sneer pulled at hers. His expression was quickly covered by a long-fingered hand, but she saw it, and he knew she saw it, which made it difficult to conceal her burgeoning dislike.
Prince Vaniell was—if Leisa were being entirely fair—magnificent. His dark hair was glossy and coiffed in artfully messy waves, while his coat appeared perfectly fitted. But said coat was also pure, pristine white, and encrusted with enough gold braid and gilt buttons to sink a sloop. Beneath it, the prince wore a startling yellow waistcoat embroidered in gold thread, which matched the topaz rings on every finger, and even a small golden gem that glittered from one ear.
In build, he was more like the queen, slender and graceful, though not as tall, and his skin was as fair as hers. His eyes were light and hooded, with mockery lurking in their depths, while that slight smile continued to pull at his mouth. Handsome, he certainly was, but cold, and older than Leisa had assumed. In fact, he probably had several years on her, who at twenty-three was two years older than the woman whose face she wore.
“And you must be Princess Evaraine,” Prince Vaniell said, in that same completely irritating voice. “Enchanted to meet you at last.” He stepped forward and held out a hand.
So many hands she was expected to take. Leisa had never liked touching others, especially strangers, and even more so those she didn’t trust. She had too many secrets, and some that might be exposed by magic through the mere brush of skin against skin. But this was Garimore, she reminded herself, and she was wearing gloves, so she set the fingers of her left hand carefully in Prince Vaniell’s and began to curtsy almost before she recalled which curtsy she was supposed to use. Number ten. Nearly the same as number eleven, except it was only the right hand that came up to touch the opposite shoulder.
“Your Highness,” she said, as insincerely as possible. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.”
A polite lie. Almost as polite as his.
The prince took a moment to scan her from head to toe before pressing a lifeless kiss to her gloved fingers. “You are as lovely as your portrait suggested.”
Hah. Leisa had seen that portrait. Princess Evaraine would never be called beautiful, but the painter hadn’t even tried to flatter her. He’d made her pale, narrow face look sickly and sallow, her auburn hair appear thin and brown, and her gorgeous emerald eyes he’d turned to swampy green.
Perhaps she should be grateful Prince Vaniell wasn’t bothering to lie about the princess’s looks, but he was probably just hoping she was too dim to notice.
Leisa rose from her curtsy, a growing sense of outrage enabling her to do so without a wobble this time. “I believe it unlikely that any mere painting could do you justice, Your Highness,” she responded, keeping her eyes lowered to hide her sarcasm.
His surprise jolted through his clasp on her fingers, so perhaps she hadn’t hidden it very well. “I do hope you’re wrong,” he replied smoothly, drawing her unwilling gaze to his smirking face. “You see, I’ve commissioned a terribly expensive portrait from some itinerant fellow who showed up at our court last week. Perhaps it can commemorate our engagement, eh?”
She forced her gaze to drop again, this time to hide her rage. So he thought she was that easy, did he? He thought Evaraine would simply fall at his feet? She would teach him to…
But no. She wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. However much she might want to. This was about survival. Farhall. Alliances. About what was best for the princess.
Satisfying her urge to teach Prince Vaniell a lesson was not likely to aid any of those causes, least of all her own.
So she nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak, as she couldn’t even seem to prevent her shoulders from remaining rigid with anger and dislike. That wasn’t a skill normally expected of bodyguards, so hopefully, the wretched man was as obtuse as he was vain.
“My dear Evaraine,” the queen interjected politely, “perhaps you would wish to be shown to the suite where you will be staying while you are with us?”
Leisa offered Her Majesty a grateful smile. “I would indeed,” she replied. “I assume that my maids and ladies have already been established there?” She assumed nothing, but she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to figure out why they’d been separated.
“Ah.” The queen’s smile grew pained and apologetic. “It seems perhaps your father did not tell you. I am sorry, my dear, but in Garimore, we are very strict in matters of security. Perhaps we do go beyond what is usual, but there are many who wish to destroy what we have built here, and we must be on constant guard against their jealousy.”
Forgotten? Jealousy? What had King Soren neglected to tell her? Leisa felt a brief chill—of anger as much as fear—but didn’t allow it to reach her face.
“I do apologize,” she said instead, “but I fear I don’t understand.”
“We do not permit outsiders to bring their own servants or retainers inside the palace walls,” King Melger informed her sternly, as though reading her a lecture. “With all due respect to King Soren, too many spies have wormed their way into our palace disguised as servants or retinue for us to allow unnecessary strangers to travel our halls unquestioned. You are our valued guest, so aside from your honor guard, we will provide you with everything you require while you remain in our care.”