The Princess Games
Cordelia K Castel
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
The Rebel: A Princess Trials Story
The Gauntlet: A New Dystopian Series
The Princess Trials
Cordelia Castel’s Books
Writing as Delia E Castel
Copyright © 2020 by Cordelia Castel.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Download a Princess Trials short story at: http://rebel.theprincesstrials.com
Preorder Cordelia’s new series:
http://gauntlet.theprincesstrials.com
Chapter 1
Applause thunders across the auditorium, making my ears ring. My eyes dart from side to side, and a sea of faces turn toward us from the lower seats. They’re all waiting for me to rise and take my place with the girls standing on the stage.
Just when I thought my troubles were over, just when I thought I could return to Rugosa to my anonymous life as a Harvester apprentice, Queen Damascena brings me back into the Princess Trials.
About five thousand Nobles sit in front of us on curved tiers that descend toward a semicircular stage. Every member of the Chamber of Ministers sits along two rows of seats at the back of the stage except two: The Minister of Justice, who lounges in front of them on a wooden throne, and Montana, who stands at the edge of the stage beside the queen.
Prince Kevon’s large hand squeezes mine. I don’t know if this is out of dread or delight or if he’s just lending me moral support, but I can’t look at him right now.
On the auditorium’s high wall, a giant screen broadcasts my shocked face. It cuts to Queen Damascena, the woman who won’t let me leave the Oasis because I killed Berta Ridgeback. Because I discovered a secret that will end water rationing and end the Nobles’ power over the Harvester Echelon.
“Zea Mays Calico,” says Montana from the stage below. “Come down and rejoin the Princess Trials.”
The cheers that fill the auditorium make me tremble to the marrow, and cold sweat forms on my brow. They’re baying for my blood.
“Come with me,” says Prince Kevon.
Where? I want to ask. With the surveillance around the country, there’s nowhere for a girl whose face has been plastered all over Phangloria to hide. Not even the Barrens are safe because Nobles like Ingrid Strab use it as their hunting grounds.
The only way I will survive the next twenty-four hours is with the help of the young man at my side. I turn to Prince Kevon and meet his concerned, dark eyes. His brow furrows, and his full lips thin with concern. I have to trust that what he said about soon becoming the King of Phangloria is true. If he takes the throne, he will outrank his mother and protect me from her wrath.
“Come with me,” I say his words back to him.
“You’re rejoining the trials?” he whispers.
“Do I have any choice?”
With one hand holding mine and his strong arm around my back, Prince Kevon rises and helps me stand. “I’ll talk to her. Maybe she can keep you on as a commentator.”
The auditorium goes wild, and the people around us stand to applause. I still don’t understand why. Everything I’ve watched of myself on the Lifestyle Channel paints me as the bucking bronco, a brat who blows up at the slightest obstacle. As I’ve never seen Amstraad television, I still can’t grasp the importance of all these side-characters who provide entertainment for their games.
As we step down toward the stage, my legs won’t stop trembling, and my hands become slick with sweat. I press one palm on the fabric of my jumpsuit, letting the material soak up the moisture, but the other remains in Prince Kevon’s grip.
If it wasn’t for his steadying presence, I’d probably have collapsed the moment Queen Damascena called out my name.
Guards at the gate leading to the stage let us through, and a huge figure seated on the front-left stands. It’s Berta’s father, General Ridgeback, and the man whose accusing eyes seem to have penetrated the lies I told the Minister of Justice about what happened to Berta.
The twelve girls who made it to the palace round of the Trials gape as Prince Kevon and I approach. My last conversation with Berta explains why. Even the girl who spent the most time with me thinks I cheated, paraded myself naked, and seduced Prince Kevon into favoring me.
We haven’t even kissed. A few dumb words I uttered about someone else made Prince Kevon think I was serious about becoming his bride. Through some harrowing events like the murder of Rafaela Van Eyck, we sort-of became close.
Ingrid Strab, the Chamber of Ministers’ favorite, scowls at me as though I’ve cheated her out of her prize. Never mind that each time she’s spoken with Prince Kevon, her abrasive personality has made him bored or annoyed.
Queen Damascena steps toward us with her arms wide. The ivory gown she wears looks like a single piece of silk draped to shape her body. The fabric gathers below her collarbones in a cowl neckline, and the only jewelry she wears is a delicate tiara that blends with the honey-blonde locks flowing down her shoulders. To me, she looks like an angel of death.
“There she is.” The queen’s voice is as sweet as the borax and powdered sugar we use to trap killer ants.
She wraps her arms around my shoulders, engulfing my senses in a cloud of mandragon blossoms. It’s no coincidence that this flower is a cousin of oleander dirus—a plant so deadly that hunters who use it to tip their arrows and darts die from eating the meat.
Her fingers close around my shoulders, squeezing them so tight that there’s no mistaking the warning or the bitter hatred in her embrace. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She’s saying this for the cameras, of course. What she really means is that I’m going to join Berta in death pretty soon, and she’s only sorry that I didn’t die the moment I discovered the dangerous secret.
My mind races for a clever response. Something that implies I’ve safeguarded my knowledge of the underground river and if I die, everyone will know of her secret water source, but the thought of her sending minions to my friends and family fills my veins with ice and traps the words in the back of my throat.
Queen Damascena releases me, and I can finally exhale. Prince Kevon stands at my side, his brows drawn. I guess he doesn’t know why his mother has recalled me to the trials—I didn’t tell him that I struck Berta with a paralyzing dart and left her to drown.
“Thank you.” My voice projects across the auditorium, and I turn to the audience rather than face the blonde viper at my side. “But I don’t deserve the honor.”
The queen shakes her head and beams. “Berta would want you to continue, and I insist on keeping you with us for a little longer.”
Anxiety ripples across the lining of my empty stomach, and I glance
at Prince Kevon, who nods. Maybe I’m safer here, where he’s close. If I left the Oasis, the queen would likely have me assassinated before I even reached Rugosa.
Montana wishes us all good luck on this exciting, new round of the Princess Trials and gestures for us to leave through a door to the right of the ministers’ seats. The applause continues as Queen Damascena leads us out with her arm looped through mine. Prince Kevon walks at my side, and to anyone watching, it looks like they’ve already decided on who will become the next Queen of Phangloria.
I glance over my shoulder at the procession of girls following us, their glares sharp enough to slice twelve daggers through my back. Far behind them in the audience, General Ridgeback remains standing.
The door opens into a wide hallway lit by spotlights that run down the ceiling and around the corner. Dozens of assistants stand at the walls, clad in the same kinds of purple uniforms I’ve seen on palace staff and on those who wait tables in Oasis restaurants. They all bow low for the queen, who doesn’t acknowledge their presence. The door behind us shuts, muffling the auditorium’s applause.
Queen Damascena releases my arm and smooths down the cowl of her silk dress.
I turn to her and inject as much sincerity as I can into my voice. “Your Majesty, I don’t know—”
“There will be plenty of time to pour out your heart during afternoon tea,” she says.
“Pardon?” My voice trails off as I remember something I saw in the previous Princess Trials’ palace round. The former queen and ladies-in-waiting would invite a girl to the queen’s parlor for mentorship meetings.
I shudder at the thought of being alone with Queen Damascena because I don’t think she’ll reprimand me on my posture or my ability to get along with the other girls.
At the end of the hallway, we turn a corner into another corridor where four guards wearing black stand at a set of heavy doors. As soon as we approach, they open it into a sun-lit courtyard containing three black vehicles: Prince Kevon’s electric car, a large bus, and a van that resembles an oversized limousine. Camerawomen stand around the courtyard, all dressed in black and shooting footage.
Byron Blake, Prunella Broadleaf’s co-host, stands among them with his arms folded across his chest. He’s a tall man with brown hair that sweeps off his forehead, sunken cheekbones, and a ridiculously deep dimple in his chin.
The smile playing on his lips tells me that he’ll have a larger role in this round of the Princess Trials now that Prunella has confessed to murdering Rafaela. I still can’t believe that Prunella threw Prince Kevon’s friend out of the window and electrocuted her with an Amstraad ear cuff. The way Byron bounces on the balls of his feet and grins indicates he’s not sorry for Prunella’s plight.
Prince Kevon leans into my side. “Are you alright?”
I raise my brows in a what-do-you-think gesture, making him grimace.
Queen Damascena is the first to step out into the sun. She walks toward the van, where a chauffeur opens its side door. Before stepping inside, she turns to us with a dazzling smile and waves. “I look forward to seeing you all soon.”
Byron Blake sweeps his arm toward the bus. “I’ll make the formal announcements in the palace, but for now, congratulations.”
Prince Kevon and I step out of the Chamber of Ministers building and walk across the courtyard to the bus. The doors hiss open, and Lady Circi steps out, still clad in the A-line combat tunic shaped by multiple holsters that each contain weapons.
She holds out her palm at Prince Kevon. “Ladies only.”
He places a hand on the small of my back and moves toward his car, when Byron Blake appears at his side with a wide grin of artificially white teeth.
“Your Highness,” he says with a chuckle. “As the only gentlemen in this procession of beauties, it looks like you and I will ride together. Perhaps you’ll tell the viewers at home about last night’s thrilling trial.”
I raise my shoulders and offer him a tight smile. With the camerawomen returned and Queen Damascena in a separate vehicle, what could possibly happen on the journey to the palace?
With a nod, Prince Kevon walks around the car with Byron Blake. Someone pushes past me to board the bus, a figure with short, indigo-black hair closely-related enough to Prince Kevon to have security clearance to use royal weapons. Ingrid Strab, the girl who promised Berta Ridgeback the position of lady-at-arms in exchange for my murder.
Constance Spryte boards next, with her blue-black ringlets bouncing as she moves. I clench my teeth, wishing I had hit the pair of murderous Nobles with two poisoned darts, which would have stopped their hearts.
One of the camerawomen taps me on the shoulder. She’s an annoying, mousy-haired woman, who once tried to film me tending to a dying Rafaela van Eyck.
“Zea, Zea…” she purrs. “We’re all dying to know if you spent the night with Prince Kevon again!”
My lips purse. Last night, Prince Kevon brought me to the palace infirmary with a bullet wound in the shoulder and a knife in my back. The only person tending to me was the royal physician, Dr. Palatine. I won’t dignify her question with a comment, even though she’ll probably insert footage of me talking about something else to make me sound like I spent a romantic night with the prince.
By the time I turn back to the bus, everyone else has boarded. Lady Circi stands at the top of the steps with her arms folded and her face twisted with annoyance. Let’s hope she remembers that Prince Kevon admitted to loving me and she doesn’t point her gun between my eyes.
I board the bus and walk down the aisle. Each of the twelve finalists raise their heads to stare. Some of their gazes are hard, some confused, and the two Harvester girls can’t even look me in the eyes. I meet the hateful gazes with a glower. If they think I’ll forget being dumped on the roadside, shot in the shoulder, and hunted like an animal, they’re deluded.
The cameras are rolling, so I don’t voice my declaration of war out loud. Instead, my hands curl into fists. If Prince Kevon can’t extract me from the Princess Trials, they’re going to meet a new Zea-Mays Calico.
Years of Red Runner training has prepared me for combat. This time, instead of running, I will stay and fight.
As I’m about to take a seat, someone places a hand on my shoulder. I spin with a right hook, but Lady Circi catches my fist.
“Nice move.” She twists me into an arm lock that sends pain exploding through my shoulder joint. “You could work on your speed.”
Bending over double, I clench my teeth. So much for kick-butt Calico. “Will you show me some moves?”
“If you survive the night, why not?” She marches me to the end of the bus, where the emergency exit hisses open.
Nervous giggles fill the bus. I want to snarl with anger, but anything that sounds pained will delight my enemies. A ring of fire burns through my shoulder, and sweat breaks out across my skin.
I hobble alongside Lady Circi because fighting back will dislocate my limb. “Where are we going?”
“Queen Damascena would like a friendly chat.” As we step out into the sun-lit courtyard, she leans into me and whispers, “Don’t drink the champagne.”
My throat spasms and I lope toward the van, still bent in that awkward angle. Was that a warning or a joke? After Prince Kevon gave Lady Circi that ultimatum—stand down or she’ll become a lady-in-waiting to a dowager queen—she has backed off.
There’s no sign of Kevon’s solar car, but then my range of vision is limited. I can’t help wondering if Lady Circi is on Prince Kevon’s side, Queen Damascena’s, or her own.
The pressure in my arm releases and Lady Circi bundles me into the van.
Spots dance before my eyes. I’m not sure if that’s because of being held at an awkward angle or because the van’s interior steals my breath. The only way I can describe it is a mobile dressing room. Seriously. It’s about twice the size of an ambulance and lined on the right with shelves of shoes and rails of jackets atop ivory chests of drawers. Next to the jackets, a
long rail stretches the rest of the vehicle, holding enough full-length dresses to clothe our entire street.
On the left is a row of tinted windows above a full-length bar stocked with trays of sliced fruit, fancy cheeses, and finger food arranged around a bucket of champagne and gold-topped glasses.
Two compact chandeliers dangle from above between a pair of light panels that stretch the entire ceiling. My mouth drops open. This is nearly as ostentatious as the fountains.
On the far-right, Queen Damascena sits on a leather armchair sipping a glass of champagne. Behind her stands a blonde-girl about my age, who looks strikingly similar to the queen. From her purple servant’s uniform, I’m guessing she isn’t a secret daughter. Queen Damascena indicates for me to sit on a leather stool by the bar, next to the champagne flutes.
Lady Circi steps in behind me and sits on the leather armchair on the queen’s left. The driver or footman slams the door shut, encasing me with two of the most dangerous women in Phangloria.
“Help yourself to the champagne,” says Queen Damascena.
“I…” My throat dries. “I don’t drink alcohol, Your Majesty.”
Her smile turns wintry. “I insist.”
My gaze darts to Lady Circi, who rolls her eyes and picks up a glass of what appears to be sparkling water. If the champagne is poisoned, I’ll just pretend to drink it.
The vehicle moves forward, and the girl in purple pulls a seam ripper from her apron. It’s a small tool with a forked head that unpicks stitches without damaging the fabric. She works on a seam behind the queen’s neck, and I gape at the waste. A talented seamstress could have installed a clasp or some other kind of fastening, but Queen Damascena needs people to sew her in and out of her clothing?
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 1
