by Emily Inskip
No one. She would bow to no one else but the Queen before her. A power radiating off the woman like a second skin. Amara didn’t want to question it.
“I’m sure you’re aware of my husband’s absence. I’m afraid he’s still severely ill at present,” there was a lingering sadness in the Queen’s eyes as she spoke.
Of course. Amara remembered the rumours from a few years ago. Stories about the King falling ill, and hadn’t been seen in public since.
Amara wasn’t sure how to reply, so instead bowed again, her eyes catching on the large stained-glass window behind the throne. It almost took up the whole space of the wall, a great circular pane of glass.
“I hope you enjoy your stay here. Your Isles have always been such good allies of this country. If you want for anything. Anything at all. Just ask and it is yours.” The Queen twirled an idle finger through her silver hair, her blush lips spreading into a smile.
Deep down, Amara was somewhat impressed by the dark beauty of the room. In fact, she almost felt inclined to comment, but Amara remembered her role. The part she had to play. A Lady from the south. Lady Lynessa Scarlett.
So she trained her lips into a sweet smile, her eyes gleaming with innocence as she nervously played with the sleeves of her dress. That’ll do.
But it was the male sat beside the Queen who drew her attention now. He was clad in weapons, a sword hung at his waist as he lounged in the throne as though he owned every inch of it. She swallowed.
His eyes were near-black—like her own. But they were in such stark contrast to the bright gold of his hair.
It wasn’t fair. Amara hadn’t ever seen hair that looked so effortless, cropped to his shoulders in untamed locks. She didn’t fail to note his unbuttoned tunic, exposing the top of his chest, the ridges of tan skin—
He must have noticed her gaze as he offered her a lazy smirk. His dark eyes roamed her face. Assessing. Scheming. She looked away.
“This is my son, Prince Aedric,” the Queen began, hooking one knee over the other in a precise, graceful motion. “And this is Princess Enid.”
Amara had barely noticed the little girl sat on the Queen’s right, her hair like liquid flame, curled into tight ringlets. She couldn’t have been older than ten. Her pale round face beamed at Amara, bringing out the generous amount of freckles sprinkled along the bridge of her nose.
Amara narrowed her eyes at the girl. She’d never been fond of children. Too bubbly and full of life. Something she lacked. Significantly. But Enid just continued to smile, sat upon what looked like a giants throne in comparison to her small frame.
“Hello,” she chirped.
Amara’s jaw tightened. “Hello.”
It was an effort to return the young princess’ grin, but Amara forced her lips to curve upwards. How much longer she would be able to hold this up for, Amara didn’t know.
“Lady Lynessa, I hope you will join us for dinner tonight? Maybe even gift us with a performance. We are all aware of your angelic playing and would love to hear it for ourselves,” the Queen said hopefully, her silver hair shining in the candlelight of the great hall.
Shit. Amara considered her options, chewing down on her lip. The last time she had played the harp was…well, it was a long time ago. Even if she could throw together a performance, it would only be the basics. Nothing compared to what the real Lady of Breensbrae could play.
The Prince must have caught the hesitation in her features as his smirk only grew. A wicked delight played in his eyes.
But Amara only blew out a breath, straightening her shoulders before she dipped her chin. “It would be a pleasure, Your Majesty.”
She could have sworn she heard the prince snigger but Amara ignored the male on the throne. Even if it was harder than she’d like to admit.
The Queen smiled. “Wonderful.”
Beside her, Enid quietly slipped off the throne, going to whisper something in her mother’s ear. Amara could have listened if she had been bothered, but frankly, she didn’t really care what the Princess had to say.
But whatever it was, the Queen merely nodded, eyes fixed on Amara at the foot of the dais. Enid seemed satisfied with her mother’s answer as she beamed. That girl honestly knew nothing but happiness.
“If you wouldn’t mind, Enid would love to show you to your chambers.” The Queen’s gaze searched Amara, a silent plea.
Amara had to fight to roll her eyes but nodded nonetheless. “That would be nice. Thank you, Princess.”
If only Fenn could see her now. He would be beside himself with laughter. He almost had been when she first appeared in the gown he made her wear, her dark hair curled into fine ringlets, swept back and adorned with pearls. She growled at the memory.
The Queen’s smile widened, her dark red lips matching the marble of the dais. Enid was already by Amara’s side, fidgeting with her blush pink dress as she looked up at her nervously. Gods, this really was going to be a long week.
“This way,” Enid said, her small voice like a flutter of sound.
Amara turned to leave, Enid already a few paces ahead, skipping towards the crystal doors flanked by guards. Silently, they made their way down the long stretch of the throne room. Even with her back to him, Amara could feel the weight of the Prince’s gaze on her. She clamped her lips to keep from smirking.
At least there was one good thing about staying at the palace.
Just as she passed over the threshold, the Queen’s clear, steady voice cleaved through the silence.
“Welcome to Winvaris, Lady Lynessa. I hope you enjoy your time here.”
9
Princess Enid left Amara outside her room after guiding her through the winding halls of Winvaris.
Since the moment they left the throne room, the Princess had babbled on about the different rooms, her favourite foods the cook would make and other things Amara made a point to ignore. As soon as Enid skipped away down the corridor, flanked by several guards, Amara practically sagged.
Her patience was running thin. After a morning of interaction, gowns and lords, Amara knew there wasn’t much more she could take. And now, with the performance after dinner . . .
She didn’t want to think of that. Not when she was on the brink of snapping any second.
Amara waited a moment outside the door, a hand to her temple. The servants and guards were a busy stream around her, hurrying along the hallway, not bothering to bat an eye in her direction.
As she finally loosed a breath, Amara pushed the door open and walked inside. An extravagant foyer greeted her, bedecked with fat, silken pillows and plush carpets. In the centre sat two velvet loveseats, a silver tea service gleamed on the low-lying table between them.
Amara quietly closed the door behind her, only satisfied she was alone when she heard it click shut.
Leading off to the right, a second chamber branched off in what was to be her bedroom. She gulped at the size of her canopy bed, gauzy crimson curtains draped down like a waterfall of silk.
Amara quickly studied the rest of her rooms, finding only a small bathroom and glass doors leading out to her own private balcony.
It was nothing like her riverside windmill, whose familiar wooden walls she already missed. Yet, Amara supposed this would do.
But it was as though the thought of her old room sunk something in her chest. Fenn . . .
Moments later, Amara found herself leaning against the railing of the marble balcony, mountain-pale wisteria twining around her, crawling up the gilded castle.
She savoured the warmth of the sun on her face, still not fully used to the sensation. But as she gazed out over the sprawling city of Valmont, the mountain edge falling away into chalky stone, Amara couldn’t help but think about her brother.
She had made the wrong choice in coming here. It was a mistake.
Amara fought to keep from clenching her jaw in frustration.
Fenn was out there, somewhere. Alone.
Her mind was already racing through all the possib
ilities. His options. He would probably wait till sundown before he fled the city, or maybe he had already taken the network of sewers beneath, the passageways she knew would lead him towards the foothills.
It would be a death wish if he chose to remain in Valmont, when the Valkrane were no doubt already prowling the streets, sniffing him out. Her activities in the sailor’s tavern probably didn’t help his cause. She had been reckless that night, had taken risks. She’d left a trail practically begging the Valkrane to follow.
Amara gripped the railings, anything to keep from tearing her own hair out.
A spring-kissed wind brushed past her face, causing her dress to flutter wildly. She allowed the air to rush into her dormant lungs, savouring its cool calming strokes.
Below, against the drop of the mountain face, clusters of roses grew, hues of pinks and reds and whites, gilded by the midday sun.
There was no use dwelling on what she should have done. Fenn had said it himself; he was better off knowing she was safe. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
Amara sucked in the breeze again.
She had come this far, there was no going back now. So Amara ran her hands over the smooth stone of the balcony, casting one last gaze over the city before strolling inside.
After all, she had a performance to prepare for.
∞∞∞
The banquet hall was almost as extravagant as the throne room. A chamber carved of pure ebony.
Amara had taken up a place at the long mahogany table, opposite a lord she had yet to learn the name of.
She didn’t say much as the servants brought out platters of cured meats and steamed vegetables, along with baskets of glazed breads, and a variety of condiments in tiny silver bowls. Amara cringed as more and more food was piled upon plates.
No one could consume this much. Not even the twelve of them now gathered around the table, the Queen and Prince positioned at either end. Amara was half tempted to shovel the food in a sack and take it to those she knew suffered in the slums. Those that would sacrifice so much for even one sliver of the feast now laid out before her.
She wasn’t too sure who was sat around the table with her, crammed with lords and ladies from all over Esteria. Amara only recognised the red face of Lord Bastion who beside the Prince, already shoving his face full of chicken and roasted beans. It was an effort not to sneer.
But the Prince, to no surprise, carefully piled food onto his plate, offering to serve some of the swooning ladies around him before eating, himself.
Amara rolled her eyes. Stupid, courtly business.
Looking around, Princess Enid was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps this banquet was no place for a child. Either way, Amara was glad.
Slowly, she began to sip from her pearl-encrusted glass. The sparkling wine tingled in her throat as she gladly gulped it down. It was all she could do to get through the evening. Especially with the performance drawing ever closer . . .
She took another sip.
Amara carefully watched as people began to eat, levelling a flat, bored stare at Lord Bastion, who gawked at her from across the room.
It only became apparent that Amara hadn’t moved to serve herself when the Queen gave her a pointed cough.
“Is the food not to your liking, Lady Lynessa?” There was no harshness in her voice, no edge. Instead, it was concern that lit the Queen’s eyes as she gazed at Amara, at the empty plate sitting before her.
“I—no, it’s wonderful,” Amara stumbled over her words, quickly reaching to spoon a few herbed potatoes onto her dish, all too aware of the eyes upon her.
Of course, she would have to try to be normal. Even if it meant eating mortal food.
She grimaced at the thought of it entering her mouth, nothing but the taste of ash and cinders on her tongue. A carcass of dust.
Oh, how she wished for the warm metallic liquid that was already dominating her every thought. A thirst so consuming it made her vision swim.
But Amara was too absorbed in the lust for blood that as she went to grab the small jug of gravy, it slipped from her grasp, clattering to the table.
The clash of metal seemed to wake her from her haze as she blinked; taking in the pools of brown that now stained the pale tablecloth. And the lords and ladies gaping at her, wide-eyed.
Amara looked around desperately. She had made a mistake. Too soon. It was too soon to draw this much attention.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, pushing away from the table. Quickly, Amara whisked the satin napkin from her lap and began soaking up the splodges of gravy.
The lady beside her sneered, inspecting her fine gown for any specs of brown that may have hit her.
“I didn’t mean to, I’ll clean this all—”
Before Amara could finish, the Queen stopped her, waving an idle hand. “Nonsense,” was all she said, before two servant girls swooped in, pushing Amara out of the way. “There is no harm done, Lynessa. You’ve had a long day of travel, I’m surprised you’ve not had more accidents. Whenever Aedric returns from his long journeys, he can barely stand up straight.”
The Queen laughed, a controlled, light sound that seemed to relax the surrounding royals as they quickly returned to their meals.
“I’ll remind you, mother, that when you came back from your time in Yryn, I had to personally carry you back to your rooms, you were that tired,” the Prince mused from the other end of the table. He swirled the wine glass in his hand before sipping from it casually.
The Queen just waved him away. “I’m afraid that wine may have gone to your head, boy.”
“No more than our guest here,” Aedric grinned as he gazed at Amara over the rim of his glass. “Hopefully you can hold your drink better than you could hold that gravy pitcher.”
His dark eyes sparkled as they met hers but Amara paid him no heed, only angled her head. On anyone else, that movement would look questioning. On her, it was a predator sizing up its prey.
“You’d be surprised, Prince.” She returned his smirk before making a point to drain her glass.
He huffed a laugh, his stare lingering on her as she returned to her meal. Well, resumed poking it about her plate with a fork.
Amara knew that the Queen had watched their interaction very carefully from the head of the table. Knew that many of the ladies now glared at her, too. Busybodies.
“Lady Lynessa, you are to perform to us tonight, am I right?” one of the ladies opposite her asked, her eyes a crushing blue as they met Amara’s.
But Amara merely shrugged, forcing a tiny piece of steak down her throat and swallowed. “You are right.”
The other lady narrowed her brows, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger, then smiled. It looked about as fake as Amara’s. “I played the harp myself when I was younger, even performed in the royal hall at just the age of sixteen. Impressive, I know. But I’m interested to hear how a professional sounds.”
Oh, this lady was clearly looking for a fight.
Amara squared her shoulders before carefully pouring herself some more wine. She’d be damned if she spilt anything else.
“A professional doesn’t need to boast about their achievements in order for people to find them impressive,” Amara only smiled sweetly. “But I’ll make sure to give you one hell of a show.”
She could have sworn Aedric choked on his wine from the other end of the table.
The Queen shot her son an incredulous look before turning to Amara. “Well, we are all very excited indeed. It is such a pleasure to have you play for us.”
A shared nod passed around the royals, save for the golden-haired Lady who now stared daggers at Amara. Her cold blue eyes like ice chips hewn from a glacier.
“And how of you, Lady Myria? I hope your charity scheme is going well,” the Queen’s warm words seemed to melt the simmering rage in the Lady’s eyes.
“It is indeed. I have already granted fifty care packages to the families in the slums, filled with my most valued jewels,” Lady Myria beame
d smugly, whisking a lock of gold hair behind her shoulder.
Amara snorted, earning a silent warning look from the Queen.
She fell quiet.
If Lady Myria had noticed or cared, she didn’t let on. “I find it is really important for them to feel proud, to wear jewellery and not feel inferior to say, people like you or I.”
This time, Amara didn’t stop herself as she said, “You clearly haven’t been to the slums, have you, Lady?”
Myria opened her mouth to answer but Amara only continued. “Because if you had, you would realise that they don’t give a damn about wearing your jewels. They would have flogged your silver the second they had the chance to.”
Motionless, the courtiers stared at her, practically gaping as she offered them a wry smile. Screw the act. She was getting bored. And it seemed she wasn’t a big fan of royals, anyway.
But Myria bared her teeth a little as she said, “And I suppose you would know so much about the slums yourself, Lynessa?”
“Suppose I do. And I know that, out there,” she said, waving a hand towards the window and the gleaming city that peeked out from behind the foothills, “you are constantly fighting for your next meal. You would sacrifice even the shirt off you back for just a scrap of food for your family.”
Amara remembered the desperate faces of children she used to live amongst. The mothers who struggled alone, not knowing what the next day would bring . . .
She wasn’t sure why she was getting so riled by this human or why Myria’s privileged expression made her want to claw her eyes out. But Amara willed a chilling calm into her veins as she said mildly, “If you really cared about the slums, you would bring them food. Because believe me, there is enough here to feed a hundred of them out there.”
As a human, she had known starvation all too well. The way her stomach would claw at itself, ache and cave in. Working for Fassar had done that to her, reduced her to nothing but skin stretched over bone.
Amara took pleasure in the heat that stained Myria’s cheeks. She ignored the eyes on her. Instead, she watched as her finger drew idle circles on the armrest of her chair.
