Koldo reached them and before she even dismounted, the princess registered tear tracks on her dusty cheeks. Amarande’s heart began to fail before the words were even out, breath seeping out of her lungs, until all of her had evaporated into the mountain air. She watched the words fall from Koldo’s lips outside of herself, above, shattered.
“The king is dead.”
CHAPTER
2
IN a single breath, everything had changed.
One moment King Sendoa was sipping from his ancient waterskin, the next a gruff cough, and death. The whole of it so quick, he fell from his horse’s saddle in a royal heap, no one fast enough to realize he needed saving, let alone catch him.
It was the king’s heart, some said, drumming to a stop. Maybe his blood, gone haywire in his brain. Or his lungs, an old illness creeping up in the altitude.
Amarande didn’t believe any of it.
When the dust and chaos of that day settled and the next came, General Koldo stood in the too-bright light of midafternoon in the sitting room of the princess’s chambers. Amarande was curled up, barefoot on the golden cushions of a long divan, still in the clothing she was wearing when it all crumbled. Only her chest plate and boots were missing, ripped off the second she’d thrown herself into her quarters.
She’d begged Luca to stay, and he did, with her at every moment, only leaving to tend to the horses. He greeted Koldo with a nod from his spot on the other end of the divan.
“The Royal Council requests your presence, Ama.” Koldo’s voice wasn’t what one would call soft or gentle. It was battle tested and measured. But just the drop of her nickname at the end of the sentence made the princess want to run into Koldo’s arms and stain her full garnet-and-gold regalia with tears. The word “Ama” on the general’s lips would forever sound different, no matter how many times she’d said it before. “If you do not feel well enough, I can propose a time tomorrow.”
The princess swallowed, willing her parched tongue to work. She wasn’t accustomed to the way so many tears could leave a person with nothing left.
“No, no, I’ll go.”
Koldo had met with the council only an hour after returning to the castle with the news of Sendoa’s death on her lips. In many ways she was closer to the king than even Amarande herself—if she could discuss castle business after such a shock, so could Amarande.
It was what leaders did.
Though Amarande wanted Luca to come with them, it was not allowed, and so he departed to ready the stable for the hordes of equine funeral guests. When he was gone, the maids appeared, and the princess shrugged on a clean dress: shiny black with a lace bodice and long sleeves, as was the style. Rather than dainty slippers, she strapped on her boots, the knife she kept there pressed into her skin in a way that grounded her. The scuffed toes of each boot peeked out from the dress’s hem, but comfort and preparation trumped fashion.
The Royal Council of Ardenia met in the North Tower of the Itspi, the whole northern wing set aside for matters of state. The glittering sandstone walls of her home pressed in on Amarande as she walked shoulder to shoulder with Koldo. The familiar corners and edges felt like both too much and not enough. She could relish the Itspi’s embrace or be crushed under the weight of the walls—either was possible. Nothing felt right without her father here.
The great garnet-studded doors of the council room were thrown open. As the princess and the general entered, they were greeted by Councilor Satordi, de facto leader of the council and the Warrior King’s top advisor.
“Princess Amarande, General Koldo, welcome,” Satordi said from his seat. Amarande had always seen all members of the council stand when her father entered the room. Yet Satordi and the other two councilors, silver-haired Garbine and rosy-cheeked Joseba, stayed seated at the table that dominated the room. The three of them were the image of melted candle tapers at the great table, with their gold-and-white silken robes weeping from their shoulders. Behind them, tapestries of kings past covered the walls in dark-woven judgment. The only illumination was backlight from windows, ringing the council in the halo of late afternoon.
The councilor gestured before him. “Please, sit, and we shall begin.”
There were chairs carved with the thick tracing of a tiger’s head—Ardenia’s sigil—meant for guests, but they were apart from the table, not pulled up as for equals to the council. Amarande’s stomach dropped at the implications. Still, she didn’t make a statement by pulling a chair close to the table, nor did she stride over to the chair reserved for her father, on the north curve of the oval.
In her estimation, no man would ever be worthy of sitting there.
Though deprived of sleep and sustenance, Amarande willed herself to stand before them, rather than sit apart as a guest. Koldo stayed pin straight by her side but slightly behind, much like she did when accompanying Sendoa into any lion’s den.
When Satordi realized they weren’t going to sit, he folded his fingers and continued. “We have much to discuss.”
Yes, they did.
First and foremost: succession.
The laws had it that in the Kingdom of Ardenia, succession fell along the male line, but that possibility had ended with her father. There was no male heir of which to speak—no uncles, cousins, nephews. Only the sixteen-year-old girl King Sendoa had raised in his image in the years since Amarande’s mother gained the nickname the Runaway Queen.
Because of it, with Sendoa’s last breath, Amarande had not only lost her father; she’d also lost her independence.
The laws were clear: To rule, she must be wed.
Meaning her title and Ardenia itself were now items to be bought, bartered, stolen.
For the good of her people.
For the gain of valuable pastures and stunning mountains, for diamonds mined for trade and gold pieces, for armored men and women whose only peer was death itself.
And no king in the Sand and Sky could let such a prize go to another.
On the great table that sat between the council and its princess lay a scroll, its wax seal crumbling, freshly opened but as recognizable as it was predictable. A marriage contract, likely from their closest neighbor, Pyrenee.
Soon there would be three, the other kingdoms of the union—Basilica and Myrcell—sending riders ahead of their royal funeral processions, jockeying to gain the council’s attention. Stars, she nearly expected a contract from the mysterious Warlord who ran the Torrent, because the windfall was too delicious—no kingdom on the continent of the Sand and Sky had left a sole female heir in a thousand years.
The king had not invited her to the council room for much of her childhood, but he’d made it a point to bring her along in the past year, extending her leadership training beyond the sparring arena and weapons armory and into the political landscape. Therefore, the council knew her better now than ever, and she them. Still, Satordi’s demeanor, though respectful, had the quality of a mentor who wished for his student to listen, not participate. That, combined with the certitude that the council had purposefully not stood or placed a chair at the table for her, set a particular tone.
And so, despite her exhaustion, Princess Amarande decided to set her own.
The princess’s eyes swept from the marriage contract to Satordi’s face. “Before we discuss matters of succession, I believe we first must address the formation of an investigation into King Sendoa’s murder.”