by Katy Haye
I bowed my head in a gesture Mage Redmor could take for deference if he so chose and sat down. Rannyl was on one side of me while the seat between me and Jesca was empty. Lady Claresse had not yet arrived, held up by bad weather or bad roads, or perhaps by a desire never to reach the palace. Unlike my half-brother, however, I wouldn’t write her off, not yet. No one could ignore a command from the prince. I would be very surprised if she weren’t here by morning, even if she had to walk the last miles to Muirland City.
We sat down and the servants poured wine. Queen Lelanie, the prince’s mother, sat alone at the top table, her gaze drifting around the room, the seat beside her empty. I wondered if the prince were eager to meet us, or using any excuse to delay the moment. I realised he was – almost – as trapped as we were. He had to make a choice from the girls offered, whether or not he liked us and whether or not he felt ready for marriage.
Rannyl murmured to me and my thoughts returned to the absent candidate. I was torn between anxiety for Lady Claresse – imagining my father’s rage if we had arrived so late as to miss the welcome feast – and a sense of hope that she wasn’t coming at all and the group was reduced to four from the start.
A murmur of noise snatched my attention back to the top table. Glynneth gave a gasp. “He’s coming.”
As one, the room rose to its feet. All heads turned as he entered, as though he were the sun and we barley in the field. Prince Jaran, Crown Prince of Muirland, stepped onto the dais and I got my first sight of the man my father – and I – intended to become my husband.
He walked with a confident step, giving no sign that the cares of a kingdom rested on his young, slim shoulders. Straight black hair was drawn back from his face in a queue that brushed his shoulders, and his amber eyes surveyed the room with intelligence and good humour. Energy exuded from him: strength and power and something I couldn’t define. He gave a sense of being pleased, not with us, nor even himself. More, he was pleased with life itself. I realised what it was: he held in his heart a certainty that what he wanted would always be given to him.
I envied him that confidence. Perhaps it was not much different to the arrogance that defined my half-brother, although the prince wore it far better. I wondered how it must feel to be so certain that the world would bend itself to please you. It was foolish to wonder, since it was something I would never experience. He was a beloved son and heir to a kingdom; I was an unwanted daughter. There could be no comparison.
“I bid you all welcome.” The prince’s voice rang out, commanding without shouting. His gaze danced over his guests, then settled on the table where the four candidates stood. “And welcome in particular to the daughters and sisters of my esteemed council.” If he saw the gap that seemed to burn beside me, he gave no sign. “Please, treat the palace as your home, for such it is for the next week. I know we are all aware of the intended endpoint of that time.” Marriage. A frisson of awareness swept around the room. “But I would urge you all not to focus on that. This is not a contest, more a chance for us to get to know each other better. Just be yourselves, and I will do my utmost to be myself so we might all make the best choice possible.”
Glynneth uttered a tiny noise, covering her mouth quickly as though it had been a cough. I knew exactly what she meant – as though us candidates had any choice in the matter! The prince was the only one of us with the luxury not to view this week as a contest. I watched as he took his seat, so we could all sit, too. He was surely not naïve enough to suppose we wouldn’t be competing for his favour.
A herald stood forward. “The prince would like to meet each of his new guests. Please step forward, Lady Glynneth.”
She gave a squeak of alarm. It was a little unkind to start with the youngest, although it got the nerve-wracking moment over with. Glynneth walked to the empty space in the middle of the room, advanced until she was a few steps away from the dais where the prince sat, and dipped into a beautiful curtsy. I bit back my surprise. She had seemed so young and nervous I had assumed she would stumble or fumble the move, but she was elegant; flawless. I swallowed, hoping I wouldn’t disgrace myself. The prince was important, of course, but I was more worried about my father’s reaction if I tripped.
“Welcome, Lady Glynneth. I am pleased to see you safely arrived.”
She lifted her lowered head to meet his gaze, “I am honoured to be here, your highness.”
The prince nodded and she rose, making her way back to our table with a beaming grin that showed her delight at having got the moment safely over.
Jesca went next.
My palms damped as she rose from her curtsy. My turn next.
I started to make my way to the end of the table in anticipation of my name being called. I looked up to find the prince’s gaze on me, a smile of welcome dancing around the corners of his lips. A shiver of awareness fled down my spine. Until this moment, the prince had been an idea more than a real person. But he was real enough now. Smiling, I edged past Jesca and Glynneth.
“Please step forward—”
The herald paused as a disturbance sounded to our left. All eyes turned to the doors as they were thrown open. A young woman strode confidently forward, her eyes rapidly scanning the room, then narrowing on the prince. She cast off her travelling cloak as she walked, leaving a pool of dark wool on the ground. The dress beneath was as beautiful as those the prince had given each of us, the deep red a perfect foil for her pale hair. She had been travelling for hours, and yet there was not a hair out of place in her elaborate arrangement. With regard to no one she stepped into the space in the middle of the room, the space I should have filled.
Her gaze met that of the prince and she dropped into a low curtsy, head bowed. “I am Lady Claresse. Forgive me, your highness. I apologise most sincerely for my tardy arrival. I meant no insult.”
The prince smiled as though amused – or perhaps overwhelmed by the vision of loveliness that had swept into the feast like a breath of rose-scented air. My smile stuck to my face while a sick sensation churned my stomach.
“I offer you a warm welcome, Lady Claresse. No apology is required. You can take no blame for the state of the roads. I am only glad to see you safely arrived. I give you a warm welcome. Please, sit with my other guests and relax now you are here.”
“Thank you, your highness.” She bowed her head once more, then turned and walked towards our table. She beamed a radiant smile and her skin was flushed with what might be the rush of her arrival, but which I suspected was more likely to be caused by a sense of triumph. Late, my foot. Lady Claresse had timed her arrival to perfection to ensure that she would stand out to the prince. Beautiful, clever ... and devious. The contest had just begun, and the rest of us had been left standing.
Prince Jaran
He was called to the king’s rooms, anxiety squeezing his chest as he hurried along the corridors. But the healer was all smiles when he arrived.
“He asked for you,” the healer told him.
“He’s better?”
“He grows impatient with only healers around him. It is a good sign, although I would not wish to raise your hopes yet.”
Jaran nodded briefly, knocked on the king’s door and heard the muffled call to enter.
He stepped inside and bowed. “You requested my company, sire?”
His father smiled – as much as a smile was now possible with the damage to his face. “Jarn, mu buy, st durn.” He patted the bed beside him. Jaran hid his surprise. The figure in the bed was clearly his father, but the change was so pronounced he seemed like, if not a new man, but an entirely different one. “Lut us huv a game.”
He signalled towards a cupboard beside the bed. Set on its top was a nine dragons gold board. “With pleasure, sire.” Jaran lifted the board onto his father’s lap. A strange feeling twisted in his guts. This was like old times – which was both welcome and unfortunate. He had just grown accustomed to taking the reins of rulership. Was he shortly to set them down again and sit back in his f
ather’s shadow? He chided himself for that thought. He should be – would be – glad if his father returned to health.
“Tll me wht yoo discssd in cunsl.”
As he set his first counter, he told the king of the morning’s discussions. The king grunted occasionally as they placed counters alternately, encouraging him to go on with his account. He gave no advice and Jaran wondered if he were truly listening. Perhaps he wanted only the familiarity of his son’s voice.
He formed a second row on the board and removed one of the king’s pieces. His father gave a grunt of annoyance and hunched over the board, eyes darting across the pieces to assess all the possibilities.
“If you are tired, we can stop,” Jaran offered.
The king waved an impatient hand, dismissing the suggestion. He made a move and snatched one of Jaran’s counters triumphantly – completely missing the next move Jaran had set up. He formed his next row and removed another of the king’s counters.
King Haran looked down at the board with a puzzled frown, as though he didn’t understand how matters had abruptly changed. Jaran bit his lip. The only time he’d deliberately lost to his father, the king had beaten him soundly, telling him never to flinch from exploiting an opportunity. But his sickness altered matters.
“Inslent pup!” King Haran sent the board flying and lurched forward, grabbing Jaran by his collar. Jaran pulled away, but the king’s grip was ferocious, his strength defying his frailty.
“Apologies, sire.” He pried at his father’s fingers. “I meant no disrespect,” he bit out.
King Haran’s grip tightened. Jaran coughed at the pressure on his throat. He didn’t want to strike his father. He brought down his hand on his father’s wrist, the abrupt movement enough to break his grip. Jaran staggered back. The king knelt up, trying to clamber forward, hampered by the bedclothes.
“Hu der yoo!” The king’s face was puce.
“Father, stop this.” Heart racing, Jaran shifted his weight. He didn’t want to move away in case his father fell from the bed, but nor did he dare come back into the king’s reach while the fit of rage ruled him.
The king clawed at the bedclothes and bellowed in impotent fury.
The door swung open and a healer hurried inside. “Your majesty!” Feeling in his robes, the man found a tiny phial and unstoppered it, stepping fearlessly towards the furious king. Holding the phial close to the king’s nose, the healer dodged a blow, and then the king sank back, his eyes rolling up into his head as he thudded onto the mattress.
Jaran watched his father, now sleeping peaceably, while the healer moved steadily around the bed, tucking the covers around the king.
Jaran leaned down, scooping up the discarded board and counters. “What just happened?”
“His mind wanders sometimes,” the healer said.
“I know that. He’s never attacked me because of it.”
“I should say he didn’t know it was you.”
And yet they had been speaking a moment before, his father as cogent as he’d ever been. “It’s happened before?”
The healer gave an unhappy smile. “Once. I didn’t expect the behaviour to recur.”
“He is becoming more volatile?”
“I fear that’s possible.”
“He’s getting worse?” The healer inclined his head. Not quite an agreement – more, an acknowledgement of his inability to confirm either way.
“Is this behaviour to be expected in such cases?”
“Such cases are too rare for me to say, highness.”
He wanted to snap at the healer, but the man was only doing his job. He would prefer honesty to conjecture. The caution that never left him chewed at the edges of his mind. “Has he had any visitors?”
“Besides yourself, the chief mage comes and speaks to him most days. Only briefly. I won’t allow his majesty to become over-tired.”
Jaran’s jaw tightened. “Does the mage give him anything to eat or drink?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” The healer spread his hands. “They demand privacy.”
Jaran wondered whose choice that was, but questioning the healer further would only signal concerns that he wished to keep to himself for now.
“Tell no one of the change in the king,” Jaran ordered.
“Of course, your highness.”
The captain of the guard stood at the door of the antechamber, his face impassive, although Jaran knew the man remained alert.
“The king needs peace and quiet,” he instructed. “Allow no one save the healers and myself to pass. If anyone objects, they can speak to me.”
The captain bowed his head. “As you command, your highness.”
As he walked away, Jaran rubbed his throat where his father’s hands had gripped. He hoped the skin didn’t bruise. That would get all of court conjecturing, and that was the last thing he needed.
10 – Youth and Strength
The next morning had been set aside for the exchange of gifts. The prince’s generosity extended further than a few dresses, and the families of his council were determined to demonstrate they could be equally bountiful in return.
Glynneth’s family, headed by Lord Nayre, brought wool to symbolise the foundation of their wealth in the south. A bale of fine wool for the prince’s use, and a beautiful tapestry to hang on the wall. The tapestry was unrolled so the whole court could see its finery.
“My daughter’s skill is captured in every stitch,” Lord Nayre declared, and Glynneth curtsied, blushing. A murmur ran around the court. Glynneth was small and silent and easily forgotten. She was young, but she was clearly very talented: the tapestry represented months of work.
The prince stepped forward, lifting an edge of the tapestry to see the design more clearly. “It is as exquisite as its maker,” he said, turning to Glynneth and taking her hand, pressing a kiss to the back while Glynneth blushed harder and dropped into another curtsy.
A scoffing noise sounded behind me. I suspected it came from Jesca. A good night’s sleep hadn’t improved her mood. She had returned to type as a snooty bully. I wondered what her family had brought the prince that she could be so confident everyone else was wasting their time.
“I have a gift for you, Lady Glynneth,” the prince declared as servants carried the tapestry away. Another servant stepped forward. “I understand you like to read. I hope you will enjoy these volumes.”
The servant stepped into view, three wide volumes carried in his arms. Aside from the words they held, the books were works of art in themselves. The covers were tooled leather, inset with gemstones and embossed with lines and dots of gold.
I caught the sparkle in Glynneth’s eyes before she dropped into another low curtsy, head bowed. The prince had clearly taken the time to find out about her and select a gift which would be genuinely well-received. I wondered what he would select for me. “Thank you, your highness. I will treasure them,” she said, her voice soft but clear.
She made her way back to the group of candidates while the servant melted away.
As she neared the group, a low baaing sound came. I swung around. The noise stopped, but Jesca was watching a red-faced Glynneth with an unkind smile. The girl was nasty – and a fool. I thought – hoped – the prince would not be impressed by such mean-spirited behaviour.
Jesca herself went next. Her family’s lands followed the coast of Muirland, and I worried for a moment that they would have brought the same gift we had, but Jesca – or her father – had selected something entirely different. As Jesca curtsied, Lord Firefort presented the prince with a fine sword, the light catching on the gems inset into the grip and the fine leather scabbard.
“A symbol of the victorious reign that lies before you, your highness,” Jesca said. A murmur passed around the assembled guests. The prince ruled in his father’s stead while he was ill. To talk of the prince’s reign was surely unbecomingly hasty. The prince, perhaps fortunately for Jesca, didn’t seem to register the veiled treachery. Lord Firefort drew th
e bright steel from the scabbard and pointed out something on the blade. The prince craned to look more closely, then smiled.
He straightened, addressing the court. “There is an inscription along the fuller. It reads, The Sword of a King should be Ever-Sharp, but Rarely Drawn.” He nodded at Lord Firefort. “I shall hope to keep this sheathed for many years.” Still, he gave no sign that the family had offered a prince the gifts of a king. “My thanks, and I hope you will accept my gift, Lady Jesca.”
At the smallest gesture, another servant stepped forward. He carried a carved wood case, which was beautifully wrought. It wasn’t until he flipped the lid open that I realised the case wasn’t the gift. Because it was angled towards Jesca, the rest of us candidates could also see. Inside was a necklace, links of gold and droplets of sapphire to echo the colour of her eyes. The gasp that rang out was unanimous from the court. It was a stunning gift.
Jesca dropped into another curtsy. “I will treasure it, your highness.” For once, I didn’t doubt she was in earnest.
Claresse went next. After her grand entrance I was concerned for what she might offer the prince, something to outclass us all.
“We have brought you a gift to symbolise the wealth of Muirland,” Claresse declared. Her brother, Lord Venner, stepped forward, a cloth-covered something in his arms. “An ingot of silver mined from the foothills of the Firethorn Mountains.” The lord tugged away the cloth to reveal the rectangle of metal. I tried to calculate the wealth it might hold, but I had no idea: more silver than I had ever seen in one place.
“And to demonstrate the skill of Muirland’s craftsmen, we bring a piece of worked silver for you.” Producing it from a sleeve as though by magic, Claresse presented the prince with an armlet, the precious metal shining where it caught the light.
The prince inspected it closely before lifting her hand to press a kiss to the back. “It is beautiful. Thank you. I hope you will find my gift equally beautiful.” He stepped back, the lift of his hand telling us where to look.
