Stormshadow (Storms in Amethir Book 2)

by Stephanie A. Cain

  "My thanks, Handmaiden Sundarel."

  Azmei liked the general's voice. It was self-assured and calm with no hint of arrogance. This man, general though he was, understood gentleness, she thought.

  "My lord prince approaches, desirous of meeting the honored lady to whom he has pledged his troth." Algot was still carefully addressing Guira. It was maddeningly fussy and correct of him. Azmei longed to urge him to get on with it. She looked over at Guira.

  "He is most welcome to approach and share wine and food with my lady princess." Guira's shoulders, straight and tense, spoke volumes; Azmei should exhibit patience and decorum. Azmei held in a sigh.

  Algot bowed again and turned on his heel as he rose. Several long strides carried him to the door. As soon as he disappeared through it, Azmei hissed at Guira.

  "Will it all be so drawn out? I shall fall asleep before I even meet the prince." She was careful to keep her voice low enough that the Diplomats wouldn't hear her. She wouldn't want them to think her ungrateful.

  "Yes," Guira said. "Now hush."

  Azmei sighed silently but straightened her posture and clasped her hands in her lap.

  The doors opened again. This time several people entered. Algot and the woman Azmei had seen in the hall yesterday morning strode in, each of them flanking a man in the front. Azmei looked at him, expecting the prince, and had to stifle a gasp.

  It was Lo, her companion in the courtyard last evening. He was dressed in purple and gray finery, and his hair was tidier, but he was unmistakably the plump young man who had introduced himself to her using what she now realized must be a diminutive of his general's name.

  His gaze, fixed on hers, was apprehensive. Well, good. He should not have lied to her.

  "To Princess Azmei Corrone, daughter of the royal house of Tamnen, I present Prince Vistaren Doth'Mara, son of the royal house of Amethir and heir to that throne." Algot was fortunate, Azmei decided. He had a script with little room for deviation. Azmei had no idea what to say to the man who had lied to her only the night before. Very well, let the rules of decorum be of use to her for once.

  Guira extended the Princess' welcome for her and introduced her as Azmei cast around for some reason he might have lied. She could think of none.

  "We are pleased to greet our royal cousin the prince," she intoned, "who has traveled across seas and under skies to meet with us here." She was unable to tear her gaze from Vistaren's. She truly was pleased to see a blush creep up his dusky olive skin. She hoped she wasn't glaring daggers at him, but it was too late to worry about that now.

  "We welcome also the noble sea captain Arama Dzornaea, of whom we have heard so much." Noble sea captain, or pirate? The Storm Petrel had captured or sunk many ships, both Tamnese and Strid. Barely in her thirties, the Storm Petrel was younger than Azmei had expected, and prettier. She bowed like a man, though, one hand on her hip where her sword belt might usually be.

  Azmei glanced at Destar to see if he had noticed, but his gaze was polite, if wary. "Let us present our honored friend, Lord-Captain Destar Thorne, Commander of our father's Royal Tamnese Navy." Destar bowed to the Amethirians. "Lord-Captain Thorne has our full confidence and is tasked with securing our safety on this voyage." There. She had gotten through the protocol without any mistakes, and they were all free to sit.

  The Diplomat who had been seated next to her at her welcoming dinner stood then, holding up a scroll before his face. In weighty tones, he read out the terms of the treaty between Amethir and Tamnen, complete with a surfeit of whereases and therefores. Azmei didn't listen; in the past three months, she had more than memorized the text of the treaty.

  Instead she used the time to observe the way the general, the pirate, and the prince sat. There was an air of togetherness to the three of them, for all that their chairs were carefully placed and they sat with straight posture. Perhaps it was the way the general's gaze rested on the prince, or the glances the pirate darted every so often between the general and the prince. Their expressions betrayed nothing, yet Azmei felt almost excluded by this trio.

  Oddly, it made her think better of them all. Angered though she was about the lie, she suspected Arama or Lozarr would understand at once why Vistaren had done so. And if they would understand his reasons, there was hope that Azmei might one day understand as well.

  The Diplomat wound down and intoned, "Thus come Azmei of Tamnen and Vistaren of Amethir to discuss the final terms of this hard-forged peace. Welcome, and may the spirit of peace inspire your words." He bowed and sat down.

  This was the moment one of them would have to speak. Protocol would dictate that the bride speak first, except that Vistaren was younger than she. As a result, either could speak first without giving insult. Yet Azmei was uncertain what she wanted to say, so she remained silent and waited for Vistaren to speak.

  The silence drew out. Someone coughed. A breeze carried the scent of jasmine and goldenseed through the open windows. Azmei folded her hands more tightly on her translation of Rona and Fann. Her eyes grazed Vistaren's. She had lied to him, too, she scolded herself. And they had shared a cup of wine already. Very well. She would relent.

  As she opened her mouth to speak, however, Vistaren stood.

  "Princess, cousin. Betrothed. Well met, and a hundred times well met." His voice was husky but carried well enough. Azmei sighed minutely; she suddenly regretted not being the first to speak.

  "My heart knows your face already, my prince," she said. "It is as if we were meeting not for this first time."

  She felt ashamed of the barb as soon as it left her lips. There was no recalling it, but perhaps she could mitigate it. Standing, she held out the blue leather tome she had made for him. "I bring you a token of my esteem." She switched to Amethirian as she said it, though they had been speaking the Common Tongue until then.

  Vistaren stepped forward, a tentative smile touching the corners of his mouth. "You are most generous," he said, and held out a wooden case. "I, too, wished to bring my betrothed a gift." Must he keep using that word? It was technically correct, but it unsettled her every time it left his lips.

  Azmei traded burdens with him and held the box level, staring down at the rich sheen of the wood. It was a polished burgundy-gold color and reminded her of a sunrise. The color looked to be a natural one; the lacquer on the box was clear. There were no visible tool marks, but the grain of the wood was visible around a pearlescent inlay of green, blue, and white. Azmei found herself smiling though she hadn't meant to; it was beautiful.

  "The box is only part of the gift," Vistaren murmured. "Pray open it."

  Azmei's cheeks burned. She had forgotten they had an audience until Destar chuckled. "Of course," she whispered. She slipped her fingernail under the catch and lifted the lid. As soon as she glimpsed the box's contents, she knew her relationship with Vistaren could at least be built on mutual respect.

  He had given her a knife.

  Not that the gift was at all warlike or threatening. On the contrary, it seemed innocuous enough. The box held not only a knife, but also a crystal inkwell, several colored sticks of ink pigment to be ground and mixed as needed, and a lovely pen carved of the same burgundy-gold wood, adorned with a gold nib and more of the pearlescent inlay. It was the perfect gift for someone with whom one had been corresponding and was now expected to marry.

  But the knife!

  It was meant to look like a letter opener made of the same wood as the box and pen, but a cursory inspection told her that was artistry. The blade was beautifully crafted of steel; the hilt alone was carved of the sunrise wood. There was no inlay, but the hilt was wrapped in leather dyed the same colors as the inlay on the box. That was what told her this was no decorative piece. That, and the obvious keenness of the blade's edge.

  She could not test it, not in front of so many people, even trusted as they were, but she was confident it would part the finest silk with nary a whisper. It would do the same for paper, certainly, but this knife had been designed for t
he princess to act in her own defense, if necessary.

  She didn't know what she looked like when she turned her gaze up to meet the prince's again, but she heard Arama inhale and then cough in what sounded like startlement.

  "Thank you, Prince Vistaren," Azmei breathed. "Your gift is most insightful and beautiful."

  His lips were full and well-suited to a smile, which he bestowed upon her now. "A beautiful gift to honor a beautiful lady," he said, and bowed.

  Azmei hesitated. "I fear my own gift is pale in comparison to this," she admitted. Especially, she added to herself, since she had never quite figured out what those few tricky words meant about Rona's relationship with Fann.

  "I doubt that greatly, lady," he said, and unwrapped the bound papers. Azmei watched his face, forcing herself to breath evenly.

  Would he see it? Would he understand? Azmei sucked the inside of her lower lip, her fingers tightening on the box he'd given her. What if he didn't enjoy literature as much as he'd implied in his letters?

  She had finished copying her translation into the fine navy leather and stitched with gold thread. She tried to forget about why she had ended up with the navy instead of the red. Perhaps one day she would tell him that tale, but not today. She hoped he would overlook the plainness of her handwriting and see instead the personal intent behind her gesture.

  "Rona e Fann ha Non Marro," he read aloud, tracing his fingers over the golden inscription. His brows furrowed and he switched back to the Common Tongue. "I confess, my Tamnese is rustic at best, my lady. Does this say 'Rona and Fann...' er, 'The Exploits of Rona and Fann'?" He opened the makeshift book and studied it. His expression smoothed and his lips curved up just slightly.

  "I wished to acquaint myself better with the legends of your country," Azmei said. She looked at his hands, holding the book almost tenderly. "I thought it would be a worthy task to translate the stories of your most famous heroes into my language."

  Vistaren looked up at her. "A worthy task indeed," he said, his smile taking over his face. "I shall enjoy improving my skill with your language while I read this. What did you think of the stories?"

  "They were so exciting," she said, forgetting about their audience. "My favorite was when the fisher lord Goula insulted Rona by stealing Aevver, and Fann swore to help Rona rescue her, only to discover Aevver had poisoned Goula and escaped herself!"

  Vistaren laughed. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me," he said. His eyes sparkled when he laughed, reminding her of their conversation in the courtyard the evening before. She found herself wishing to overlook the way he had lied. It was pleasant just to talk like this, as if they were simply two people who happened to share interests, rather than two royal heirs who were pledged to marry.

  Of course, their companions couldn't allow them to forget for long. Someone cleared his throat, and when Azmei looked over, she saw the Diplomat was standing.

  "It is proper for the witnesses to stand out of earshot while the prince and princess withdraw to speak privately." He held out both of his hands, indicating the balcony that opened out from the audience room.

  Azmei sighed, but she heard Vistaren sigh at the same time, and it startled a laugh from her. He looked at her and chuckled, too. "Very well," he said, and bowed, extending an arm. "Princess, will you join me on the balcony? The view is sure to be fine."

  Azmei managed not to giggle as she placed her free hand on his arm. "Thank you, Prince Vistaren, I am sure it shall." She clutched the box close to her with her other hand as they walked out to stand in the sunshine.

  When they reached the half wall surrounding the balcony, Vistaren sighed again. She felt his shoulders slump as she drew her hand from his arm. Azmei looked at him, a question forming on her lips, but she decided he was just relaxing. That was reassuring.

  "I'm sorry I lied to you yesterday," he said quietly. "I didn't realize who you were until it was too late, and…well, I rather liked the idea of talking to someone who had no idea who I was." He gave her a rueful smile. "Perhaps you understand how tiresome it can be, having everyone remind you what an important person you are, when you don't truly feel like you're all that special. Er, not that you aren't special. I mean, I think you're special--but I don't feel as if I'm all that special." He paused. "Oh, damn."

  Charmed, Azmei laughed aloud. "Vistaren, I know exactly what you mean, and honestly, I'd just as soon someone think I am special because of who I am, not what I am." She looked up at him; he was about four inches taller than she, which was a pleasant distance. She was used to men being a great deal taller than she.

  Vistaren looked relieved. "Oh, good. It's just--ah, hells. We both know neither of us would marry like this if it weren't needed by our kingdoms. I feel all wrong-footed. I'd never even thought much about marriage until my father brought it up, and...well..." He shrugged.

  "While we're being completely honest with one another," Azmei said, "I'd never thought to marry an Amethirian. I always expected to marry someone of my own country. But I find the idea isn't unappealing." She smiled wryly. "Or, at least, no more unappealing than the idea of marriage in general. Which also isn't exactly unappealing, but..."

  Vistaren laughed. "Very well, we are both of the same mind, I think." He tilted his head, light gray eyes studying her. "But are we both willing to move forward with what our fathers have arranged for us?"

  Azmei lifted her chin in determination. "I am. I would not have traveled to Ranarr if I were unwilling."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Even if I'd turned out to be an ogre?"

  Azmei snorted. "You would have had to be quite offensive indeed for me to prefer war over marriage," she said. "But I find you not offensive at all." She didn't feel any particular attraction to him, it was true, but that wasn't grounds for refusal. And perhaps she would grow to feel attracted to him once they had known each other for longer than a day.

  His smile twisted in amusement. "Thank you, I think." He wet his lips, a thoughtful expression coming into his eyes. They were very expressive eyes, Azmei thought. He seemed a pensive man, which she liked. What was it he was considering now? "Princess--"

  "Call me Azmei," she interrupted. "It's ridiculous of us to stand on ceremony when we're discussing whether or not to marry."

  He nodded, his gaze solemn. "Azmei, then. I am willing to move forward with this courtship. But I would ask that we take our time. I would have no secrets between us when we wed, but it takes time to establish trust."

  Azmei swallowed, her heart beating faster. What he asked showed how seriously he took this. And it was good--this was serious, after all--but it was daunting as well. "Yes," she whispered. "I agree. We should move forward carefully and honestly."

  Vistaren's expression lightened and he clasped his hand on hers. "Thank you." He lifted her hand to his lips. It felt right, but sent no shivers down her spine. "I like your gift very much," he added.

  She smiled despite a sudden tightness in her throat. "And I yours." Very well. Their future would be bound together. She would just have to get used to it. "Let's go tell our people what we have decided."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Orya didn't have to pretend to be pleased when the princess announced her acceptance of Prince Vistaren's courtship. The Perslyn family might have amassed their fabulous wealth through assassinations, but one branch of the family was dedicated to their legitimate business. Every assassin trained for six intensive months to be able to discuss cloth intelligently. Wenda had taken on the trade responsibilities, but the betrothal and subsequent set of parties would provide the family plenty of cover once Orya struck.

  "Fortunate Prince Vistaren!" Orya squealed, beaming at Azmei. "Oh, my lady, you shall be a hero to your people when they learn of it."

  Azmei's smile seemed tremulous, but her response was good-natured. "I'm only a potential hero until Vistaren and I have had our blessings spoken and contract signed and witnessed." She took a long sip of wine. "Sit down, Orya. I've no desire to dine alone tonight. Tell me what you
've been doing since we arrived."

  "Oh, it will bore you," Orya protested, but she launched into a long, unfocused discussion of unpacking her wares, securing warehouse space, seeking out buyers, and trying to find an appropriate property to serve as office and housing for the Ranarr branch of Perslyn Textiles. She could almost see Azmei's eyes glazing over as the princess nibbled on rice cakes and fish rolls, flatbread, herbed fish steaks, and figs.

  "What dressmakers have you secured to purchase your cloth?" Azmei interrupted at one point.

  Orya paused. Had they secured any dressmakers? She'd ordered her cousin to do just that, of course, and Wenda would not have disobeyed her. But she could think of no reports regarding that order. "I will write you a list," she offered, stalling.

  "Mmm, no. Tell me which one you don't have but want. Who is the most famous dressmaker on the island?" Azmei smiled wryly. "I might as well be useful to you."

  To her great consternation, Orya felt a flash of liking for the younger woman. It didn't make any difference in the long run, but by the seven hells, it was uncomfortable.

  "Ah, that would be Eustra, I think," she stammered. "She's quite skilled, and famous for her vision, but she is vocal about her adherence to Ranarri cuts and fabrics."

  Azmei finished her glass of wine and lifted a hand for a refill. "Let us correct that, then," she said, as Guira moved forward to serve them. "I like the way Ranarri women dress. That hooded sleeveless dress seems eminently practical for the heat and sun." She glanced over her shoulder at Guira. "That will be proper enough, will it not? If I dress in the clothing of local custom?"

  "Indeed, my lady."

  "There, good. Ranarri cut and style, but only Tamnese silk will do. I have such sensitive skin." Azmei grinned at Orya, who grinned back.

  "I hope your highness will not be offended," Orya said, "when I say you would excel in my trade."

  Azmei laughed. "Indeed, I take it as a compliment." She pointed at a bowl containing a blend of diced fruit. "I believe this would taste better with sweetbread, but Eustra the Dressmaker would likely disapprove--I find I like Ranarri cuisine so well she would probably have to let my dresses out after only a week."