Chapter
1
“Try not to embarrass us,” my brother says. “If you can.”
I look out at the empty courtyard and pretend not to notice Lord Daerilin smirking to my left. He has always enjoyed my brother’s barbs, especially so these past three years. The other nobles around us shift, though I can’t tell if they’re amused or impatient. Mother frowns, gaze trained on the gates. Perhaps she’s preparing herself for the king’s visit, or perhaps she’s only thinking that there’s little hope I won’t embarrass her.
The thud of approaching hooves grows louder. It sounds like a storm drawing near, a steady, dull rumble that warns of heavy rains and lashing winds. I clasp my hands together tightly and wish this moment over.
The party trots through the open gates, the wooden walls echoing back the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the jingle of tack. The first riders pull to the side, allowing those behind through. And through. I glance worriedly toward Mother, then back at the riders. I count a score of men, all in light armor, before I realize there must be at least double that. At their center ride five men, all dressed in similar finery.
With no audible command, the whole crowd of horses and men resolves into formation, the mounted guards lining up two deep to form an aisle between us and the five men at their center. The noblemen dismount in fluid leaps, as if they have no use for hands or stirrups. I catch a glimpse of our stable master waiting to arrange for the horses, his brows shooting up, eyes bright with admiration.
“His Majesty, the king of Menaiya,” one of his men announces as the nobleman who must be their king steps forward from their midst and bows slightly. I ignore the rest of his introduction, long lists of titles, and genealogy. Instead, I study the king. Though he must be older than my mother, the years have treated him well. He is tall and slim. He wears the traditional summer cloak of his people: a flowing, unhooded affair with arms and an open front, silver embroidery cascading along the edges and accenting the midnight-blue cloth. Beneath, he wears a knee-length tunic lightly embroidered with silver and stones, and the curious loose pants of his people. His hair falls free to his shoulders, black laced with silver, setting off the gentle brown of his face and softening an otherwise hawklike countenance. A fine tracery of wrinkles gathers at the corners of his eyes. He glances over our little crowd of nobles and smiles and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in that smile.
“Her Majesty, queen dowager and regent of the kingdom of Adania,” Steward Jerash announces in turn. Mother offers her own curtsy to the king, and we follow her lead. Even though she wears her finest brocade dress—too warm for this early in the fall—she still possesses barely half the majesty the king projects. But then, our kingdom is nothing compared with theirs, a patch of forest fortuitously protected by encircling mountains. Menaiya is a land of sweeping plains, southern farms, and northern forests. And soldiers. I swallow hard, training my eyes on the ground. We only have fifty men in our whole hall. The king has brought enough seasoned warriors to take our hall and add our kingdom to his as easily as a spare coin to his purse.
Although, if the kitchen rumors are true, he isn’t here for that at all. Or if he is, it’s a longer game he’s playing.
Jerash introduces my brother next, who bows a little lower than the king did. And then it is my turn. I curtsy, aware of the king’s scrutiny, the way the whole of his entourage has turned their gaze on me. I keep my eyes lowered and my breathing steady. Let him be kind and gentle, as my father was—and let him have taught his son to be the same.
“Princess Alyrra,” the king says. I rise and lift my eyes to his. He studies me as if I were a prize goat, his gaze sliding over me before returning to my face, as cold and calculating as a butcher. “We have heard tell of you before.”
“My lord?” My voice is steady and calm, as I’ve learned to make it when I’m only half frightened. For all my prayers, there’s no sign of softer traits in the man before me.
“It is said you are honest. An unusual trait, it would seem.”
Dread curls tight in my belly. I force some semblance of a smile to my lips. There is no other answer I can give that my family will not despise me for. My brother has gone rigid, his hands pressed flat against his thighs.
“You are most kind,” my mother says, stepping forward.
The king watches me a moment longer, leaving my mother waiting. Just when I thought I might finally escape my history, how my family sees me, I find I am mistaken. There is no better future to hope for now. The king has come for me, knowing full well I am nothing to my family.
He turns to my mother, offering her a courtly smile. At her invitation, he accompanies her up the three stairs and through the great wooden doors of our hall. My brother and I trail behind him, a mix of our nobles and the king’s entourage on our heels.
“Honest Alyrra,” my brother mocks, his voice loud enough for those nearest us to hear. “What a very clever, sophisticated princess you must be.”
I continue on as if I did not hear. It is going to be a long week, watching my back and hiding around corners. With so many guests, the wine and ale will flow freely, which will only make things worse. Even so, it is not my brother’s ire that fills my thoughts as I walk, but what the king intends in his visit, and why.
I manage to slip away when the king retires to his rooms to refresh himself after the ceremonial welcome gifts have been exchanged and light refreshments consumed. He will meet with my mother, brother, and their Council of Lords before dinner. Even though it’s unlikely my brother will come after me at once, I take no chances, seeking out one of the few places he would never stoop to check.
The kitchen is caught firmly in the throes of preparation for tonight’s feast. Cook shouts orders as she spices a pot. Dara, Ketsy, and three other serving girls hustle to keep up with the chopping, slicing, and gutting. A soldier attempts to knead dough by squishing it between his fingers, and poor little Ano, who only gets pulled into the kitchen in dire emergencies, struggles valiantly to tie the roast to a spit.
“Give me that,” I tell the soldier, rescuing the dough from him. “You help Ano with the goat.”
He throws me a grateful glance and joins Ano by the fire. Ketsy perches on a bench beside me, peeling carrots.
“What are they like?” I ask, glancing at her.
She may be just barely out of her childhood, but she understands at once. “Polite. They aren’t making trouble and haven’t bothered the older serving girls as yet—not like some men who chase them whether they like it or not. But they’ve only been here a few hours. We’ll see.”
So we will. It’s hard to say how far the Menaiyans’ manners will stretch over the week. We’ll get a full sense of them yet.
“Dara?” I ask, glancing at the older girl across the table from us.
“Oh, I’ll be serving them dinner,” she says with a half smile, her eyes on the peas she’s shelling. “I’ll tell you what I think after that. Anything in particular you want me to pay attention to?”
“How many speak our language,” I say, flipping the dough over and starting to knead again. “If they say anything about their prince. What kind of man he is.” If he is as shrewd and ruthless as his father, I add silently.