Waiting for You

by Megan Derr

  After handing the cup to Tikki, Shanna ruffled his hair and sent him off. As much as she would love to linger, maybe spend more time with the sick red dragon, she needed to return to the keep to dress for dinner. But she couldn’t resist going to see the green dragon one more time, laughing when he flicked his tongue out to taste again and caught a bit of her hair that he could get loose.

  She’d just managed to free it and tuck the errant strand safely away when someone said, “Pardon me.”

  The voice slid down her spine like good whiskey down the throat. It was familiar, sorely missed, and too good to be true. Shanna turned and drew a sharp breath through her nostrils at the handsome men standing with their horses just inside the stable. A greeting formed on Shanna’s lips, but was completely forgotten as she noticed for the first time that the men, Kallaar and Ahmla, were not in their usual travel clothes—rather, Kallaar was notably dressed as Morentian royalty, and Ahmla bore the marks of a servant or bodyguard of some sort. What in the world…

  Kallaar stood on the left, handsome and slightly bratty as ever, with that playful smile on his lips and a mischievous gleam in his eye. He was short and lean, with yellow-brown skin and thick, black hair pulled into a short braid. The stables were dark, but she still caught his familiar blue eyes and a hint of the freckles across his nose and cheeks. He barely reached her chin, but what he lacked in height he certainly made up for in presence—especially that devastating, come get into trouble with me smile. “Aw, and here I hoped we could save our surprise for tonight. I might have known you’d be in your precious stables rather than in the castle.” He winked. “Hello again, my princess.”

  Shanna refused to be mollified by his teasing tone or pleased by the way he always said “my princess,” like she really was his and he was thrilled about it. The little flirt. “What is going on?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Did you accost Morentian royalty and are up to some mischief, Kallaar?”

  Ahmla chuckled, and only laughed harder at the look Kallaar cast him. Ahmla was as tall and broad and dark as Kallaar was short and thin and light.

  Kallaar pouted. “Do you really find it so hard to believe that I could be a prince?”

  “We have known each other for five years.” Shanna folded her arms across her chest. “I see you for a handful of days three or four times a year. You’ve always said you’re traders. Peddlers. Now you show up a prince? What is he, then? A duke?”

  Ahmla snorted. “I’m his…bodyguard, for lack of a better word in your language. We are sorry for the deception.”

  Shanna’s fingers dug into her arms, nails biting through her thin, damp shirt. “Why did you lie?” They were supposed to be her friends—infrequently seen, perhaps, and they always kept to formality and a certain distance, but she had still considered them friends. More importantly, they were friends from a kingdom her mother had loved, had wanted to build a relationship with even as the rest of the world called her a fool for wasting time and effort on a place so self-contained and isolated most people forgot it was there at all.

  Kallaar’s levity faded. “For your safety and ours, my princess, surely you must realize that. My father promised your mother that you would be looked after as best we could, and so Ahmla and I have done that all these years. But now that you are seeking a consort, I can be here as myself, with no more need for lies.”

  “What?” Shanna swallowed, hard, anger vanishing beneath a wave of disbelief and painfully happy surprise. She’d been the slightest bit smitten with Kallaar—and Ahmla, if she was going to be honest—since meeting them, but they’d always firmly kept a divide. She was royalty; they were not.

  Except Kallaar was royalty, apparently. His name was such a common one in Morentia she’d never given it a thought. There were hundreds of children across her kingdom who had her name, because naming a newborn after a royal born around the same time was a practice nearly as old as the sun.

  He was royalty, and he’d come to compete to be her consort.

  “I don’t recall my stepfather sending an invitation to Morentia.” She had requested he do so, as a courtesy to her mother, and he’d refused on the grounds of it being a waste of time and better not to give an impression of false hope.

  Kallaar’s sly grin returned. “Your stepfather? No. But your mother did six years ago, when she asked us to protect you.”

  Shanna’s eyes stung, but she blinked the tears away. “I see. I also think this is best discussed later, as I am already running late.” She needed a moment to sit down. Sort her thoughts. Decide if she wanted to scream or laugh or cry. “Come, we’ll tend your horses; then, I’ll escort you to the castle.”

  “That’s most gracious of you, Highness,” Ahmla said and gave Kallaar a shove before following him farther into the stables.

  They led the horses along as she showed them where to put them—a portion of the stable used almost exclusively by servants and less wealthy guests, since no noble or royal would be caught dead traveling anywhere save by dragon.

  She tried not to stare while they worked, but it was difficult. It was always difficult, how fluidly they moved, their familiarity with the work they did, how well they worked together. Shanna had once worked that well with her mother, and with Astira before she’d been ordered to Cormiana as assistant to the ambassador, essentially banished until Mercen had recalled her.

  Ahmla’s hair—cut to his chin and strung with wooden beads carved to resemble various birds, beasts, and insects—clacked as he worked. More than once he was forced to stop because his mare nibbled at the beads.

  When the horses were finally settled and happily eating, Shanna led the way out the rear entrance and along the servants’ path to the back of the keep, through the enormous, always busy, and hot kitchens. Coming to a stop in the large servant hallway, which was a connection point to the rest of the enormous royal castle, she gestured to a large wooden door at the far end. “If you go through there, you’ll find your way to the great hall. Look for Steward Graiss. I’m sure you remember him, and he will tend you properly.”

  “Thank you, Highness. We will see you at dinner.”

  She nodded, watched them depart—trying not to stare at the way their leather breeches fit entirely too well—and then finally headed up the stairs to her own room, a large suite that included one of the eight turrets.

  Her maids and best friend, Penli, awaited her. Shanna had originally met him in one of the royal gardens—she, a lonely princess, crying her eyes out, and he, a soldier many years older, crying quietly in a place he hadn’t thought he’d be found. They were a strange pair to have become best friends, but she would not trade Penli for the world.

  He threw his arms up when he saw her. “You! I am going to commit regicide! Why do you look like that now of all times?”

  Shanna rolled her eyes and stripped off her clothes before striding to the steaming bath waiting for her. She scrubbed and washed quickly, grateful for the assistance two maids provided in washing her long, red-brown hair.

  After climbing out, she dried off and stood still, save to move as bid, as all three maids got her dressed in the many layers required of a queen-in-waiting. The gown was purple, with an underlayer and sleeves of red. Adding her mother’s rubies, she made an impressive sight, or so she was thoroughly told by Penli, who loved fashion more than fish loved water. If anyone else tried to wear his pink-and-green ensemble, they would appear garish and foolish, but Penli looked like a storybook hero—he could have been a Queen’s Champion, had that practice not fallen away more than a century ago.

  He waited impatiently as the maids finished twisting and twining Shanna’s hair into braids and swoops and curls pinned in place with glittering rubies and diamonds. “Dinner started ten minutes ago.”

  “Dinner starts when I arrive,” Shanna replied. “What has you so restless and fussy today?”

  “I’m restless and fussy? I’m not the one who picked a fight with the Evil Overlord this afternoon, Sweetpea, and we all kno
w you only go and muck stables when you’re feeling miserable, murderous, or both.”

  “Nobody asked you.” Shanna managed the barest flicker of a smile as she took the arm he offered and swept out of the suite. Guards fell into place in front of and behind her, men who served more as spies for her stepfather than as bodyguards, but there was little she could do about them. Their presence meant she couldn’t tell Penli about Kallaar and Ahmla, so it would just have to wait until later.

  The hall fell silent as she entered, and only Penli knew how nervous such things made her. When everyone else in the castle was afraid to get too close for fear of making an enemy of her stepfather, Penli had become her friend. He’d faithfully served her mother as an elite soldier, and though he was long-retired from military life, he had sworn that same fealty to her. Every bit of mischief and heartache was shared between them—including his loathing for his looming wedding and general mistrust of marriage, and the fact she was petrified of having only two weeks to pick someone to marry who could stand with her against Mercen.

  Her eyes wandered the hall, lingering nowhere—except perhaps a breath too long on Kallaar, who kept his head bowed respectfully the whole time, whereas others glanced up, likely in the hope of catching her eye and coaxing some reaction that would allow them to boast of favor.

  Finally reaching the royal table, Shanna bowed her head to her stepfather, and they took their seats. The rest of the hall resumed their places, and the servants at last served dinner. The first course was a fragrant, spicy fish soup—one of Mercen’s favorites, of course. Shanna would have preferred a heartier chowder, something warm and filling to help ward off the chill of the enormous hall, but she was long used to the kitchens deferring to Mercen’s desires.

  “You should have been here some time ago, not mucking about in the stables all day. You’re as bad as your mother.”

  Shanna took several judicious sips of dark, dry wine as her food was set before her, smiling in thanks at the young woman who served as she finished. “It’s good for clearing the head and settling nerves and reminds me that nobody is too good to do even the simplest of jobs. Mother believed the same.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mercen said with a sigh.

  Mercen was the youngest son of an old family two steps away from being history. But he was smart, good with numbers, and had been a widower himself. Shanna’s mother had said those qualities made him a suitable match to become a second husband. The woman either hadn’t known, or hadn’t considered it a problem, that he was also an ambitious bastard not terribly upset his second wife was as dead as the first. As consort, he was meant to rule until Shanna came of age and then act as her advisor.

  Instead, he and his council cronies found reason after reason to lock Shanna out of everything she should be doing as queen-in-waiting. First, she’d been forced to take the full six months of mourning. Then she should concentrate on her private studies. Then one too many arguments with Mercen had let him declare her unstable still and therefore unfit. She couldn’t attend council meetings and court sessions; she rarely even got to attend visitors unless Mercen couldn’t contrive a believable excuse. And he certainly did not let her leave the castle to attend all the fairs and festivals and ceremonies her mother had insisted on. So far, they’d had no cause to remove her entirely, and murder was out of the question, given the suspicions already surrounding her mother’s death, but it was only a matter of time before they figured out something.

  Though they’d have to figure it out quickly, since once she married, her consort would outrank Mercen.

  Shanna had no desire to find out what Mercen would do when pushed to desperate measures, but she would soon all the same. There was no avoiding it. She had to pick a consort, and could only hope she’d pick a good one. Someone smart, and more importantly clever—even crafty. Someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by Mercen and had the ability to stand against him. Definitely someone who was not going to turn into another Mercen and try to keep her off the throne or relegate her to a ceremonial position. But she also had no desire to rule alone, or be alone when the ruling was done for the day.

  A servant refreshed her wineglass as another took away the soup and a third set out the second course: civet of hare, a whole roe deer bedecked with greens and sugar plums to give the impression of a deer sleeping in a glade. Behind its magnificent presentation came still more food: ten chickens, the same in pigeons, each filled with a stuffing of minced loin of veal, hardboiled eggs, and fat, seasoned with saffron and cloves.

  New wines were poured, and the feasting began in earnest. The chatter through the hall picked up as the wine began to take effect. From time to time, the various suitors would look her way, some smiling, some nodding, some looking hastily or shyly away again. Shanna acknowledged all of them, but paid no one special favor—or tried not to, at least, but she’d never been very good at resisting Kallaar’s smiles.

  The third course brought even more food. Stacked on tables were enormous pies filled with rabbit, capons, gosling, the heavy crusts silvered around the edges.

  The fourth course was wine, preserves, and pastries, and the music came to an end as the herald took up his position at the far edge of the dais to formally present all the suitors.

  Most of them, Shanna nodded and spoke to briefly but politely. Her primary interests, she did converse with for a few extra minutes. Princess Hanna was promising because she came from a strong kingdom and large family. The chance to be a consort, rather than lost amongst her many older siblings, was a strong motivation to stand with Shanna—and she was used to the sorts of tactics and methods Mercen employed, so she wouldn’t be intimidated by them.

  Prince Berryn was from a kingdom currently torn by inner strife and on the brink of civil war. The alliance would do much to help his homeland, and like Hanna, he was used to the likes of Mercen.

  The other three—Korth, Tuluna, and Cerrithi—were from smaller kingdoms, but all came from politically strong families and had good relations with the rest of the world. Angering any of them wouldn’t be smart, as they had plenty of weight to bring to bear.

  If she could choose any one of them without Mercen somehow preventing it, she would finally have an ally with power, someone who could help her face Mercen and last long enough to claim her throne.

  But as logical as all those suitors were, her heart—the traitorous bastard—sped up as the last suitor was presented: Prince Kallaar.

  Beside her, Mercen swore, soft and sharp and full of venomous anger.

  Sweeping into a beautiful bow, Kallaar remained so until Shanna bid him rise and then smiled that sweet, endearing smile of his. A few paces behind him, handsome and mysterious, was Ahmla, who saw her look and gave a small, wispy smile of his own before he lowered his head.

  “An honor to make your acquaintance, Your Highness,” Kallaar said. “We were most pleasantly surprised to receive the invitation to court you; it has been many years since Remnien has sent such a note to our humble deserts. I was not certain if the custom of a gift upon presenting was still practiced, so I took the precaution and pleasure of bringing one.”

  Ahmla stepped forward and handed Kallaar a box he’d taken from behind his back. Kallaar bowed again and handed the gift to a servant, who delivered it to Shanna.

  “Thank you, Highness, that is most gracious and considerate.” The box was about long as Shanna’s hand, and the same in height, covered in dark blue velvet. After untying the silver ribbon around it, acutely aware of the way every eye in the hall watched to see what the little upstart from a tiny, forgettable desert had done to make himself less forgettable, Shanna removed the top of the box and set it aside.

  She gasped softly at the contents and lifted out the delicate statuette. Carved from beautiful, translucent yellow glass was the royal queenfish, down even to the stripes that marked it from similar-looking fish. “It’s beautiful.”

  But she was vastly more interested in the sealed letter she’d found tucked beneath the bas
e of the statuette.

  “That is desert glass,” Kallaar said. “There is a place back home the size of a large lake that is made entirely of that glass. Countless legends pose how it came to be. Most often pieces of it are carved into jewelry, charms, and other such things, but every now and then we use a large piece for grander creations. I am sorry if I have broken any customs, but I am glad you like it.”

  “I very much do. Thank you.” She nodded, he bowed and returned to his seat, and the fifth course was brought out as the entertainers began to perform.

  By the time dinner was over and she’d spent nearly another two hours afterward bombarded by suitors and other guests, Shanna was exhausted and cranky. Finally back in her room, she endured the maids undressing her and giving her a light bath before they slipped her into a heavy dressing robe, and then dismissed them.

  A nightcap of liquor and cream was sitting on the table by her chair, along with her current book—a collection of folktales that reminded her of the stories her nurse had told her growing up. Some of those were in the book, versions slightly different but still so painfully, sweetly familiar.

  Ignoring both nightcap and book, she went to the velvet box on the table by the door and retrieved the letter, still sealed and sitting beneath the statuette. She broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper as she sat.

  Dear Princess Shanna,

  I want to apologize once more for our deception of these past few years. Under the circumstances, for our safety and yours, we dare not reveal our true identities. Your mother came to have many fears regarding your stepfather, though she hoped they were unfounded and that she had not, in fact, chosen so poorly for a second spouse. But she begged my father, should she die and matters seem amiss, to protect you. To that end, she left an open invitation to attend your courtship as this would, of course, be a most dangerous time for you, and the only time we could enter the country as ourselves. In the meantime, we have come as often as we dared under guise of peddlers. But I am sorry all of this required lying to you, and for so long.