The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  The foreign delegation’s arrival shifted the mood of the room, conversations dropping to a hush. Ambassadors and diplomats stepped forward to fill the gap, greeting the newcomers with bows and introductions. Jaoven’s attention briefly flicked to the corner where Iona stood, but he moved further into the crowd.

  Her sister, when they met, was all graciousness, truly a beauty fit for a crown. She held her hand aloft for the prince of Capria to kiss, and dazzled his entourage with a winning smile. Iona shifted her attention elsewhere, unable to stomach the congenial exchange.

  “There must be fifty people here,” Aedan said, scanning the room. “With any luck, they’ll have you and your sister at opposite ends of the table and you can pass the night in peace.”

  “If they’re going by rank, not likely.” The scant few times she had attended such functions, her father sat at the head of the table with Lisenn to his right and Queen Marget to his left. Iona either ended up beside her sister or her mother, depending on the rank of the visiting heads of state. In this instance, Crown Prince Jaoven shared Lisenn’s rank and would likely receive the seat beside her. And what better means to orchestrate a marriage than to seat the two parties together?

  The arrival of King Gawen and Queen Marget put this speculation to rest. Her father’s sweeping glance found her in her obscure corner, and he tipped his head for her to join them. Her anxiety spiked as she fell in step beside Lisenn, but her sister always behaved where an audience might observe.

  A bell signaled the procession into the dining hall. The double doors opened, and the ruling family led the way. Her mother and father wore complementary clothing, the red coat and gold sash of her father’s suit reflected in the gold dress and red sash of her mother’s ensemble. Lisenn’s gown matched them to a shade. Only Iona looked out of place, a misfit among them like always. Still, she walked with poise and grace, and when she found her place at the table beside her mother rather than her sister, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Until she looked directly across from her, where Prince Jaoven sat.

  He noticed her as well, but immediately turned his attention to Lisenn, who was all demure smiles and light touches.

  The queen ate in silence, and the nobleman to Iona’s left engaged in conversation with the Caprian, Elouan, on his other side. From further down the opposite side of the table—as a mere marquess until his father the duke passed that higher title—Aedan lifted his soup spoon in wry salute to Iona when their eyes met, but the conversation around him soon drew him in.

  Jaoven’s voice stirred her from her introspection. “You’re very well versed in Capria’s history, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Lisenn, please,” her sister said, brushing her fingers feather-light against his wrist.

  He shifted his attention to the king as though to ask permission to use her given name, and Gawen made no sign of objection. Jaoven smiled, a hint of a dimple appearing in his cheek. “Princess Lisenn, then. You have studied our country?”

  “Your history is intertwined with our own,” Lisenn replied. “As crown princess of Wessett, it is my honor to learn of our neighboring lands.”

  “You’ll find my daughter well-versed in geography and history,” said King Gawen. “She has studied politics and lawmaking, strategy, alliances and treaties, resources and commodities. The future of Wessett lies in good hands.” He smiled fondly at his eldest, who batted her eyelashes and feigned shyness at his praise.

  Iona dropped her attention to her lap, crumpling her napkin in her hands beneath the table.

  “And your younger daughter? Does she study these subjects as well?”

  Her attention jerked up, but Jaoven carefully wasn’t looking at her.

  Lisenn’s tinkling laugh split the air. “Iona? And politics? She doesn’t have the temperament for it. Forgive me, sister,” she added with a glance across the table, in the voice of an indulgent owner speaking to a favored pet.

  “Iona’s talents lie in the arts,” King Gawen said, his baritone voice smooth. “She studies the humanities: music, literature, painting.”

  “Beautiful hobbies, albeit frivolous in the grand scheme of the world,” Lisenn added, as though to apologize. “After the calamities you’ve seen in Capria, battles and terrible struggles to survive, art and music must seem like trivial, unnecessary pursuits.”

  She slid a speaking look toward her younger sister, and her message could not be clearer: Iona herself was trivial and unnecessary.

  “On the contrary,” Jaoven said. An electric shock rippled down Iona’s spine at the quiet, fervent timbre of his voice. “In our darkest hours, in the worst of our conflicts, we looked to the artists and musicians for hope. Forgive me for contradicting you, Princess Lisenn, but disdain for the arts comes easily to those who have such things in abundance. When the world is soaked in blood and beauty is trampled to dust, those who can create it anew become the most valuable commodity of all.” He glanced across the table, awkwardly cleared his throat, and focused again on the king. “Or such has been my experience.”

  “And very well spoken,” said Queen Marget, lifting her glass in toast. “If we wish to surround ourselves with beauty, it behooves us to honor those who can create it.”

  Lisenn looked as though she had swallowed a bug. King Gawen, more guarded in his reactions, murmured an agreement and lifted his glass as well.

  “And Iona is accomplished in her arts,” he said, much to his younger child’s horror. “She paints portraits and landscapes. She’s working now on a commission of the Duke of Gleddistane’s son, seated there.” He gestured to Aedan several places to Jaoven’s right. “They have sessions every morning in her studio, so the lighting can be just right.”

  Iona, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears, contemplated how gracefully she might slide down her chair and out of sight beneath the table.

  “And of course she plays beautifully: the lute and the pipe, and the keyed instruments: the clavichord, the virginals, the harpsichord. She is exceptional upon the harpsichord.”

  Never in her life had her father heaped such praise on her. She didn’t even realize he knew how she spent her time, let alone which specific instruments she practiced.

  And Lisenn’s glittering eyes communicated future retribution for this dire offense.

  “I’m not that accomplished,” Iona said, averting her gaze.

  “I’ve heard nothing sweeter than your voice,” her father said. “You must play for us tonight, and sing, after dinner.”

  She stiffened. “No, please—”

  He ignored her protest, saying to the Caprian prince, “We have an excellent harpsichord in the greater drawing room. You’re in for a treat, if such a concert would please you.”

  “My countrymen and I would be delighted,” Jaoven said, while Lisenn silently seethed beside him.

  When he looked to her for a supporting vote, she faked a brilliant smile and said, “Oh, yes. Iona must play. She is a wonder to hear.”

  The situation was fast spinning beyond Iona’s control. “Please, I don’t—”

  “I insist,” said King Gawen, and though his voice held its customary velvet warmth, his eyes glinted hard and cold. He would not accept a refusal, and if she continued to resist, she would dearly regret it.

  So, she capitulated. “Of course, Father, if you so desire.”

  The rest of the meal passed in a blur, plates exchanged, courses that she never ate more than two or three bites of. She didn’t hear any further conversation, and her only awareness centered on Lisenn’s brittle, pleasant façade, a sugar-coated veneer that hid simmering wrath beneath.

  And sure enough, when they rose to leave the table and the royal family fell in step together, her older sister leaned close to her ear and whispered, “If you so much as touch those keys, I will break every single one of your fingers.”

  Iona stopped short. Lisenn smiled and continued onward, her skirts rustling. Several guests passed the younger princess in their trek up the wide
hall that led to their destination. The Caprians, clustered together once more, spared her an odd sideways glance. Aedan, coming on their heels, caught her by the arm and pulled her to one side.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, and he glanced further up the hall. The company was congregating at the drawing room door while, within, her father ordered servants to rearrange the furniture for the impromptu concert.

  “He’s making me play,” Iona said, short of breath.

  “So? You play beautifully. You practiced for a solid hour this afternoon.”

  She searched his face for understanding, pitching her voice low. “Lisenn says if I do, she’ll break my fingers afterward.”

  Aedan cursed under his breath, but he quickly regrouped. “Pretend you’re sick, whatever you need to do. Stick your finger down your throat. There’s a vase over here you can use to catch whatever comes up.”

  “And embarrass my father?” Iona replied, tears stinging her eyes. “You didn’t see his expression. If I don’t perform, he’ll take it as a personal offense.”

  “Would his punishment be worse than your sister’s?”

  She opened her mouth and shut it again. Her father’s punishments usually involved acting as if she didn’t exist, and when she didn’t exist in his eyes, Lisenn had free rein to deal with Iona as she pleased. The scant protection the younger sister had from the elder’s machinations came only if she remained in her parents’ good graces.

  The crowd around the drawing room doorway parted, and King Gawen strode back into sight, one arm raised in invitation. “Iona, come.”

  She spared Aedan a terrified look and started forward on trembling legs. Dignitaries and statesmen stared, some neutral and others encouraging. She crossed the threshold into the drawing room and more bodies there, with furniture arranged around an exquisite harpsichord opened and ready for a concert. Among the sea of faces, she registered only Lisenn’s glower and the confused furrow between Jaoven’s brows. Fleetingly she looked to her father in hopes of a last minute reprieve, but he guided her without so much as glancing her direction.

  The harpsichord loomed, its bench holding all the appeal of an executioner’s block. King Gawen paused beside the instrument and motioned her to sit. Her hands had gone numb, her fingers in a cold sweat.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

  A hush fell across the room. Everyone’s attention swiveled to Prince Jaoven, Iona the most startled of them all. He stepped forward, a sheepish expression on his face.

  “I am ashamed to admit, but I and my party are more fatigued than anticipated from our travels. We are in no condition to give justice to your daughter’s performance tonight. We must beg your forgiveness and ask for permission to retire.”

  A ray of hope shot into the shadows that enveloped Iona’s mind.

  Her father, ever the diplomat, left her side to join the foreign prince. “Of course. How thoughtless of me. Retire to your chambers with my blessing, and we will save such entertainment for another night.”

  The foreign delegation moved toward the exit without a backward glance, the prince professing his apologies to his host the whole way. King Gawen saw them to the door and beyond. Lisenn followed in their wake along with her mother. The Wessettan diplomats trickled behind, their evening at an unmistakable end.

  Iona sank onto the harpsichord bench, her legs like jelly beneath her. Tears spilled from her eyes, an overflow of stress and bewildered relief. Aedan knelt at her feet, catching her hands and peering up into her face.

  “What just happened?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He glanced back over his shoulder as the last of the crown’s guests vacated the room. “Well, you look like the very picture of devastation, so that’ll make your sister happy, at the very least.”

  She swiped quickly at her cheeks. “I’m not devastated! I’m—!”

  “Shh, shh.” Aedan straightened on his knees and pulled her in a hug. “I know you’re not, but it’s fine if you look that way, for now. Let’s get you back to your room where you can celebrate a night without broken fingers.”

  She laughed and allowed him to help her stand. “I can get there on my own. You have an important tryst awaiting, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Even so, he escorted her all the way back to her room. When they parted ways at the door, she said, “Give Besseta my thanks for loaning you. Sing it to her, if you like.”

  He squeezed her hand and left her to the care of her maid.

  Chapter 5

  Clouds hung low in the sky the next morning, swathing the countryside in hazy grayness. Iona woke at first light, a renewed sense of dread pressing upon her. Yesterday’s battles had ended mostly in her favor. Today held untold calamities, and whether she would triumph remained to be seen.

  Almost sick from anticipation of the unknown, she arose and dressed. She pinned her hair in a simple knot at the base of her neck and left Bina never the wiser, still asleep in the servant’s room attached to Iona’s own.

  Her footsteps carried her through the silent castle to her studio, where she checked every small corner for evidence of her sister’s malice. Lisenn had once emptied all of her paint pigments together into a bin, and she had squashed any half-formed sculptures until Iona abandoned clay as a medium altogether. She usually restrained herself to minor acts of destruction, but always seemed to home in on the works her younger sister loved the most.

  The studio and its contents appeared untouched, however. Iona breathed a sigh of relief and settled for an early hour of practice on the worn clavichord in the corner of the room. The instrument, soft in its cadence, filled the quiet air. She closed her eyes as she played and could almost imagine herself in a world free of worry. The music filled her soul and buoyed her spirit.

  But when she opened her eyes again, the scars on the inside of the clavichord’s folding lid anchored her back in reality. Lisenn had carved her own name into the wood when she was ten, and the jagged, unsightly marks, amid other slashes and scrapes, stared at the younger princess every time she practiced.

  Clothing rustled in the open doorway behind her, a body shifting in its stance. Iona whirled, her heart lurching to her throat.

  Jaoven of Capria took an uncertain step backward, and for a ghastly moment they locked gazes.

  Her panic melted into indignation, but he spoke before she could. “I’m sorry I startled you. I heard music and followed the sound.”

  Iona snapped her mouth shut, her cheeks blazing. No one but Lisenn ever bothered her in her studio. The rooms along this end of the castle mostly housed extra furniture and outdated records. She, like an unwanted sofa or chipped credenza, occupied a similar space.

  Oblivious to the deep degree of his intrusion—or perhaps to make light of it—he chattered on. “So you can play after all. It seemed last night like you were unprepared for your father’s sudden request, but I suppose you simply didn’t want those of us from Capria in your audience.”

  Then his party’s removal last night was, what, an act of pity? Or a strategy whose goal she had yet to discover?

  “You were as white as a sheet,” he added when she said nothing.

  Iona, far from wishing to dwell on the spectacle she had posed, hinged the lid of her instrument shut. “I participated in concerts at the Royal College, as did all the other musicians. If the lot of us hadn’t been beneath your contempt, you’d already know that I can play.”

  She stood, then, her back to him. Her fingers traced a gouge across the clavichord’s top, Lisenn’s handiwork with a palette knife, which had ruined both the art tool and the decorative scene painted on the instrument’s lid.

  “I have apologized,” Jaoven said in the doorway.

  A soft chuckle broke from her lips. “You have. So why do you keep pestering me? If you had left me out of the conversation last night, my father would never have proposed that I play.”

  “Capria needs this alliance.”

  She glanced over her shoulde
r and met his steady gaze. “And I’ve already told you it has nothing to do with me.”

  “But you could scuttle our efforts with a single word. For whatever reason, you’ve chosen not to reveal your past—with me or with any of my entourage—to even your own parents. Or so it seems. Why? Are you planning to string us along and then cut us loose when the treaty is all but forged? Perhaps your father already knows and he’s planning the same.” He raked one hand through his dark hair, his gaze lifting ceiling-ward. “I knew this was going too smoothly. We should cut loose ourselves and form a better plan.”

  “A better plan?” she echoed, turning to face him fully. She crossed her arms. “What even is your purpose in requesting a treaty?”

  His brows furrowed, and a hard edge entered his voice—an edge she recalled too well. “Strength and stability. I realize now that your parents would have pulled you to safety when the war broke out—and wisely so—but you have no concept what we’ve experienced since then. Even so, you lived in Capria once, and though that time obviously wasn’t—” He floundered for the proper word, and a frustrated breath escaped him when he came up short. “It obviously wasn’t ideal, but surely you can’t believe that the kingdom itself deserves to be overrun and destroyed. If we must absorb into a foreign power, at least let us choose which one and bargain for our rights to exist.”

  Almost she could pity him. Reports of the war had been scant, and her history with the Royal College left her unwilling to hear them, lest she devolve too deeply into petty vindication, but she knew enough. Traitors had attacked the royal family itself, and the nobles had split allegiances in the conflict that ensued. Those loyal to the crown ultimately prevailed, but not before the former king and his direct descendants had been cut down like a fruitless tree branch.

  A handful of teenaged bullies didn’t merit the whole country descending into bloodshed, even if they did represent the ruling class.