by H. L. Burke
Kay grimaced. Near Arynne. Well, it was a large palace. He should be able to avoid her, and it didn’t look as if Olyn was giving up easily.
“I’ll come home, at least for the dimming.”
Chapter Twenty
As soon as Olyn left, Arynne began to explore her new quarters. Through one of the doors was a sleeping chamber with a canopied bed covered in thick blankets and plush looking pillows. This room likewise had a fireplace, a starshard lamp that could be shuttered to keep in the light, and a wardrobe filled with dresses similar to the ones gifted to her in Solea, though these were finer and looked more suited for court dinners than journeys in the wild.
Passing through the sitting room again, she pulled open the other door. The room was primarily of polished stone with starshards embedded in the walls and ceilings. On one wall there hung a mirror over a table covered in toiletry items: hair brushes and combs, jeweled pins, and jars that probably contained perfumes and cosmetics. In the center of the floor was a basin large enough for her to lie in—a bathing tub? She knelt beside it. The stone was dry but warm to the touch and at the top were silver protrusions, a spout and a pair of knobs. Perplexed she twisted one of the knobs and nearly fell in when water spurted forth.
She quickly turned the knob back into its original position. Running water? She hadn’t expected such a luxury in a remote land such as Frorheim. A bath would do her wonders though. The very thought of relaxing in a pool of warm water made her muscles ache with weariness. Still, there were things to be seen to first.
Arynne sat on the stone bench in front of the mirror and stared at her own reflection. Her once carefully plaited braids now appeared frizzy and unkempt. The originally silky red wool that Elfrida had braided into her hair to lengthen the strands was now snarled, the color faded to a sickly orange.
Her cheeks warmed. It was a wonder Prince Olyn had accepted that she was a princess with such poor grooming. She reached up and touched her hair only to cringe at how brittle it felt. Constant exposure to freezing winds, to say nothing of sleeping upon the ground, hadn’t been kind to it. Worse, she’d never braided her own hair. It simply wasn’t required of a princess. Would the Frorians have someone who could help her with it? Elfrida had learned, but the maid’s own hair hadn’t required such careful tending. Well, at the very least, Arynne could comb it out, detangle it, and perhaps find some oil to treat the damage.
As she took one of her braids between her fingers, trying to figure out where her own hair started and the wool ended. Grief squeezed at her heart. This was also something Elfrida usually did for Arynne—and while Arynne knew that she needed to be independent if she were going to survive in this new land, she missed her companion and helper. She blinked, sending tears welling from her eyes down her cheeks.
“For shame, Arynne!” she snapped at the weepy face in the mirror. “Crying over having to do your own hair! How spoiled are you?”
It wasn’t really why she was crying, of course, but pretending it was that, rather than the loss of Elfrida, made it easier to push aside. Angry and impatient she yanked at the place where the wool and hair connected rather than gently tease at it as Elfrida usually would have. It pulled at her scalp as it came apart, seeming to re-tangle as she fussed with it. Grunting in displeasure, she somehow managed to get the first one loose, though it took far longer than she expected and the end result looked frizzy and wild.
Three braids in, she lost patience. At this rate she would never finish. How did Elfrida manage to make this seem so easy? Her gaze fell on the selection of combs and brushes, lined up like a surgeon’s tools on the vanity table. The broad-toothed comb seemed to call to her. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to use that to untangle multiple strands at once rather than pick through it. Maybe it would hurt a little more, but it would be over faster and that would be worth it.
Not giving herself time to rethink it, she inserted the comb an inch or so from the bottom of one of her braids, then gave a great tug.
For a triumphant moment the comb ripped through the strands, parting them. Pulling the wool free, she inserted it again, tugged again, and gasped in horror as a chunk of dark hair felt onto the floor beside her. She gulped, staring at it. Well, it was only one braid. She’d be more careful with the rest. Her fingers tensed as she selected another frangible braid. She inserted the comb and with more care started to tease the braid apart. This time she got almost to the top before the strands broke beneath the teeth of the comb.
Panic surged through her. She should stop. Wait for help, but no, a section of her head stood up in wild, unkempt coils of differing lengths. She already looked a mess, and there was no going back. She needed to find a way to fix this.
Comb it out, smooth it down. She took a deep breath, and continued.
Partway through, she turned her back to the mirror, unable to look at the unregal mess she’d created on her own head. Severed braids lay strewn about her, more than she cared to consider. She reached up, running her fingers through her curls. They felt dry, knotted. Her heart cracked. Slowly turning, she faced the mirror. Hopelessly tangled, her hair stuck out from her scalp at uneven lengths. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to try and run a comb through the mess. The teeth of the comb locked into her hair like mice trapped in the coils of a hungry snake. Ignoring the pain, she continued to tug angrily at the snarls. A knot of hair broke off and fell to the vanity table. She dropped the comb. It clattered against the floor, loud in the silence of the room.
Head in her hands she collapsed forward, weeping. Why had she agreed to leave Solea? Here she was, alone, with no friends or family. Kay had to hate her after she’d thrust herself upon him like that, and no one else here knew or cared for her ... and now she wasn’t even pretty. If Olyn saw her like this, would he even want her? He’d sent for a princess not an ill-groomed street urchin. What would Vanya say if he saw what she’d been reduced to?
She sobbed until her eyes ached, hating her own weakness, how she was crying over her appearance—though even she knew it was more than that. The disastrous state of her hair was the last thread in a spider’s web of foul occurrences. She closed her eyes and longed to be back in that snowy wasteland, with Kay, with Elfrida, with anyone who might treat her like a friend instead of a stranger.
“Arynne?”
The voice at the doorway froze Arynne’s blood. It was Olyn.
“Princess Arynne, are you in there?”
“Yes.” Her voice came out as a rasp.
There was a pause.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes ... no.” Gritting her teeth, she walked over and opened the door.
Olyn blinked at her. She hung her head.
“I tried to do my own hair,” she whispered. “It didn’t go well.”
“So it’s not usually like that?” a feminine voice rose from behind Olyn.
Arynne started.
A petite, green-eyed girl of perhaps twenty with brown hair roped around her head in an impossibly thick braid peered out from behind the prince.
“Arynne, this is Sigid. She’s a lady’s maid who has served my female cousins.” Olyn eased forward. “I admit, I know nothing about women’s grooming, but maybe Sigid can help you.” He nudged the maid closer.
Sigid pushed forward, squinting at Arynne like a swaying rat-serpent considering a strike. “May I?” She extended a hand towards Arynne’s head.
Arynne gave a hesitant nod.
“Ah, it’s dry, damaged. I imagine your ordeal didn’t allow you a chance to wash it?” Sigid tilted her head.
“Not at all.” Arynne’s shoulders slumped.
“A good warm bath and shampoo then—what is your usual routine? Do you use anything on it?”
“Palm nut oil so it doesn’t get too dry.”
“Oh—” Sigid screwed up her mouth. “I have no idea what that is, but oil is oil. I will figure something out.” She batted at Olyn’s arm. “Away with you. I need to get to work.”
He
chuckled. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”
“Wait!” Arynne gasped.
Everyone stared at her.
She swallowed. “Did you find Kay?”
Olyn’s smile faded. “I did. He’s tucked away for the dimming—probably will have a hangover in the morning, but otherwise fine.”
Relief spread through Arynne. She wasn’t sure what she’d feared for Kay, but knowing he was safe quieted her nerves. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. It’s good to have someone else in the palace looking out for him.” He scratched at his beard. “Maybe it’ll give him the kick in the trousers he needs to keep himself together.”
Arynne bit her bottom lip, still unable to reconcile her brave, competent friend with the wastrel everyone in Frorheim seemed to think he was. She’d have to find out more about how this place fit together.
“And Arynne.” Olyn eased closer, his blue eyes intent upon her. Instinctively she shied back, and he paused his pursuit, though he did not look away. “Whatever happens with your hair, you’re still beautiful, and I’m grateful that you ... well, I hope we can make this work out.” He offered her his hand.
Flinching inwardly, she accepted it. A quiver went through her as he stooped over her fingers and lightly kissed them. Arynne’s instinct screamed at her to jerk away, to petulantly demand to be brought to Kay ... but Olyn was so kind. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t his brother, or that after agreeing to marry him, she’d fallen for the wrong prince. No, that was all her fault.
Still, playing along with Olyn, as if she didn’t long for Kay with every fiber of her being, felt so wrong.
What a mess she’d gotten herself into.
Chapter Twenty-One
“First off, let’s get you into a bath.” Sigid bustled past Arynne and knelt beside the sunken tub. She spun one of the silver knobs, and water rushed from the spout, steam rising from it. Sigid grinned. “Do you have this in ... Sal-eh-ya?” She took great pains trying to sound out the unfamiliar word.
“Solea, but no. We have water fountains but not heated.” Arynne sat down to remove her stockings. She groaned. The wool had several tears and just generally looked like it had come straight off an unwashed sheep. Certain they’d never be worn again, she tossed them to the side.
Sigid examined the jars on the vanity table, sniffing each in turn, before finding one that seemed to please her and dumping most of its contents into the hot water. A floral fragrance now rose with the steam. “If you’re modest, you can get in while I fetch a few things.”
Arynne, who had been bathed, dressed, and groomed often by servants, laughed but waited until Sigid had scampered out of the room to finish undressing. This accomplished, she hazarded a toe into the water. It was hot to the point of hurting, but that was exactly what she wanted. She had a journey’s worth of grime to scald from her body, to say nothing of the knots in her muscles from sleeping on hard, cold stone and literal ice. For a moment her skin screamed as she settled beneath the steaming water, then the heat seeped into her body, and she lay back. She breathed in the perfume of whatever Sigid had added to the water and savored the heat.
She was just nodding off when Sigid returned, carrying a basket. After setting this down on the vanity table, she brought out a jar and knelt behind Arynne’s head. The smells drifting from it were familiar to Arynne: milk and honey.
“My gram used to swear by this recipe to make hair sleek and shiny again—she had curls. Not quite like yours, but still, closer than mine. It might be a little cold, but basically I will work it through your hair and let it soak in for a while.” Sigid began to massage the sticky but not unpleasant mixture into Arynne’s curls.
“Milk and honey?” Arynne asked.
“And a bit of egg—also, sheep milk specifically. Moss-elk milk is too watery.” Sigid finished and brushed at Arynne’s cheek. “Your skin is a little dry as well. I have something for that. Close your eyes.” She smeared something cool over Arynne’s cheeks and forehead. “More honey but mixed with salt and a little greennut oil.”
“It smells nice,” Arynne murmured. She’d missed being pampered. “Thank you.”
“So ...” Sigid cleared her throat. “There was a lot of secrecy behind bringing you to the palace. I don’t think anyone outside of the king and prince expected you to show up, but with you being here, a princess from Solea, well—one doesn’t have to have the eyes of a cat-owl to see what’s going on. We all know the prophecy. Are you here to marry Prince Olyn?”
Arynne blushed. “That was the idea.” And would be unless she could figure out how to negotiate her way into matrimony with her preferred brother. “The prophecy is common knowledge, then?”
“Oh, yes. Every Frorian child was put to bed with warnings that if they weren’t quiet and well-behaved the dark sorcerer Athan would crawl from the Lingering Dark and eat their souls.” Sigid gave a “brrr” sound as if she were chilled. “I think most of the populace has been holding their breath waiting for a princess to arrive to marry our prince so if Athan does show up somehow, he’ll be sent away whimpering again, overcome by the forces of magic and true love.” She sighed dreamily. “Prince Olyn is a handsome young buck, you lucky thing.” She pinched Arynne’s cheek. “Every girl in the kingdom will be jealous, having to see him off the market, so to speak.”
Arynne shifted in the water. “Yes, he is attractive.” So was Kay, of course. “I hope your people are right to put your faith in me. After all, my understanding of the prophecy is that it’s not Princess Arynne and Prince Olyn must marry. It’s any Solean princess and any Frorian prince.” Her fingers clenched and unclenched under the water. “What if I’m the wrong princess ... or Olyn is the wrong prince?” What if it was Kay? He was a Frorian prince after all. She didn’t dare say that outright, not just yet.
“Well, for one thing, you’re the only Solean princess we have.” Sigid giggled. “And it’s not just any Frorian prince. The prophecy says specifically the Star Prince.”
Arynne’s brow furrowed, though the stiffness of the honey and oil on her skin made this awkward. “What is the difference between a Star Prince and any other prince?”
Sigid let out a breath, as if carefully considering her words. “The simplest way to explain it is the Star Prince is specifically the heir to the throne.”
“So the crown prince, that would be what we call it in Solea.” Arynne’s heart twisted. Kay wouldn’t be the heir unless something happened to Olyn, which would be unacceptable—to Kay especially, but even knowing Olyn for less than a waking-time, Arynne didn’t wish harm to come to the sincere, caring young man.
“Yes, but in Frorheim it’s a little more than that. You see, our king maintains the Starspire. He’s bound to it via a special magical artifact only the king can control. You’ve met him?”
“Yes.” Arynne wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t afraid to let the kingdom know what she thought of that horrible old man.
“He’s rather scary, even from a distance.” Sigid laughed uncomfortably. “If you have seen him, perhaps you noticed the ring on his finger?”
Arynne nodded. “And the matching one Olyn wears?”
“Yes. That is so if anything happens to King Evyd, an accident or illness or whatever fells a mortal man, the magic immediately will transfer to Olyn and our kingdom will never be without the Starspire’s protection.”
“I see.” So the prophecy didn’t allow for an easy out where she could just swap in the brother of her choice. Stupid, specific prophecy. Wondering if the general populace carried the bad opinion of Kay or if it was just confined to his family and those directly in his father’s influence, Arynne suggested, “But the good news for the maidens of Frorheim is there are two princes.”
“Yes, but King Evyd will never let Prince Kajik marry.”
“Oh. Yes, I think Kay mentioned something about that.” The ridiculous restrictions regarding the starcaster bloodline.
“Yes, I feel sorry for him, knowing he’ll never
have his own wife, his own children,” Sigid continued. “It’s not really surprising that he’s a bit of a rogue. I mean, if you don’t have a hope of settling down, why behave yourself?”
Arynne pried an eye open, even though it risked getting honey and salt in her eye. “What sort of a rogue?”
Sigid snorted before crossing to the vanity table to come away with a hair comb. “I think this has been in your hair long enough to be rinsed out.”
Wondering if she’d accidentally stepped on a sensitive subject, Arynne slid lower in the tub and allowed Sigid to wash the honey mixture from her hair.
When she emerged from the water, Sigid dried her hair with a soft towel. “Frorheim is a small kingdom. Two taverns throughout the whole of it, and if there’s a drunken brawl at either of those taverns, you can bet a starshard that Prince Kajik is at the center of it. Don’t get me wrong. He’s an excellent warden. The wardens don’t just meritoriously promote anyone, no matter who their father is—though everyone in the kingdom knows King Evyd wouldn’t bat an eye to help his son, let alone manipulate his superiors to get him promoted. The story is Prince Kajik saved his entire troop from a grimbear attack, and when the king refused to honor his son’s heroism, Commander Ivak took it upon himself to make the prince a starwarden, even though he’d only been in the wardens four starcycles rather than the required fifteen.” She shook her head. “That said, he’s still a drunkard and a brawler and a hopeless flirt even though he knows he has no hope of taking a girl in the respectable manner.”
“He wasn’t like that on the journey here.” Well, hopeless flirt, perhaps, considering how he’d interacted with her in spite of his knowledge that she was meant for his brother.
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Sigid fished in her basket and brought out a larger version of the towel which she helped Arynne wrap arounder her body after she emerged, dripping, from the tub. “I’ve been working for the last several starcycles for Lady Vondra and her daughters—Lady Vondra is the younger sister of our late queen, the princes’ mother. She is out of favor with King Evyd, bad blood over the death of Queen Brenna which she blames on his ill-handling of her after Prince Kajik’s birth. She will tell anyone who listens that if he’d been a better husband he wouldn’t have ended up a widower—” Sigid cast a nervous glance around the room as if they might not be the only ones listening. “She always says, the further Kajik is from his father, the better man he is. You met him when he was further away from King Evyd than he had ever been before, so at his best.”
