Queen of Blood

by Jill Myles

  Just beyond the dance floor was a dais, where the prince himself sat in a gilded throne. Behind him stood two men dressed in long, flowing yellow robes edged with green. They looked to be priests, though there was nothing to indicate their rank or importance other than their proximity to the prince. Seri squinted to get a better look at the prince, curiosity getting the better of her.

  It was him, she realized with a start. The arrogant, beautiful nobleman from the study.

  He looked like a marble statue in the flickering shadows. Fine chiseled features stared down at the packed, rainbow-hued crowd. His dark hair was brushed back, and he nodded every now and then to the nobles who approached him but said nothing. He looked, Seri thought, rather uncomfortable with all the pomp before him.

  An unsettled feeling fell over her. How was this arrogant young man the prince? She thought of what Idalla had told her—that this was the prince’s sixth Betrothal Ceremony, and that there was one ceremony every ten years.

  “Lady Mila,” she began.

  The woman turned to look back at her with a vicious glance. “Do not speak unless I have commanded you to, girl. Understand?”

  Seri bit back an angry retort and adjusted her grip. She nodded, swallowing her questions, and turned back to the dais. Perhaps she’d simply misunderstood Idalla’s explanation. The man on the dais couldn’t be but a year or two older than herself.

  Lady Mila jerked on her skirts, and the cords ripped into Seri’s hands, tugging her forward as Lady Mila swept around the room, fluttering her fan and greeting people. Seri trotted behind her like a silent fool, her skin already sticky from the heat. Soon Lady Mila stopped to talk to two women, one in a peacock-blue gown that rippled like water, the other wearing burnt-orange silk.

  “The prince will be free to choose his bride after this final failed ceremony,” the woman in blue said, after kissing Lady Mila on both cheeks. “Do you think he will select Lady Aynee or someone else?”

  “Aynee looks old tonight,” Mila whispered. “Mark my words, he’ll get himself a younger bride than that.”

  “What if someone is chosen to be his Betrothed tonight, like the old stories say,” the other woman asked. “What happens then?”

  The woman in blue gave an unladylike snort. “It won’t happen. It didn’t happen for Prince Velair, and he’s far more handsome than Prince Graeme. That one’s too proud for his own good, especially considering that he is nothing but a younger son.”

  He did look overly proud, Seri thought. At least these silly women were right about something.

  After kissing both women on the cheeks, Mila moved onto another group of courtiers, and like a dutiful servant, Seri remained two paces behind her “mistress.” When a young lord cut her off by accident, she gave him a fierce glare. To her surprise, he backed away from her and into a covey of nearby ladies. Her lips twitched into a satisfied smile.

  A flash of red skirt passed by, and Seri craned her head, desperate to get a good look at Lady Mila’s hated rival, the fabled Lady Aynee. Though Seri had gone around the castle many times and knew the prince kept his mistress in an apartment next to his quarters, she had yet to encounter the lady, and her servants were notoriously tight-lipped.

  Lady Aynee was beautiful. Her face was a sweet oval, her eyelashes long and dark. Her moon-pale hair fell in a flattering cascade of curls over her bare shoulder, and her red dress was vivid, the collar chokingly high and modest. She turned toward the prince, and a possessive smile curved her mouth.

  She must not be too worried about Lady Mila, Seri thought, and felt an odd twinge of sympathy for her employer, who became a little more animated at the sight of her rival. A loud, teasing laugh erupted from Lady Mila, catching the attention of several nearby nobles.

  But not, Seri noticed, the prince’s attention. Nor did he seem to be particularly interested in Lady Aynee, who stood out like a bloodstain amidst jewels. Instead, he seemed to be searching the crowd, and she could sense a bubbling sort of impatience and frustration within him despite his impassive features. She wondered what he could possibly be upset about. This was his party, after all.

  Just then, the low music stopped, and a hush fell over the crowded room. Seri stood in place and the swish of fabric died away. All faces turned toward the dais, where the prince now stood, flanked by the two men in yellow robes. One of them gestured for the crowd to part, and instantly everyone swept to the sides of the hall.

  “Go to the right,” Lady Mila hissed, dragging Seri through the crush of people. A servant moved the velvet-cushioned throne to the front of the stage, and the prince sat once more, looking out over the crowd, his face stern and rigid.

  “Let the ladies of the kingdom be presented for the Betrothal Ceremony,” the two priests intoned as one. “May his grace be blessed by the might and wisdom of the Goddess this evening.”

  The crowd surged forward, and Seri found herself pressed between a woman in a purple gown and Lady Mila. Lady Mila frowned at her. “Not so close, wild girl. Keep your distance. And remember, look unapproachable. We want to create a mysterious image.”

  Seri bared her teeth at Lady Mila and was rewarded with a startled flip of the noblewoman’s fan. “Better,” Lady Mila allowed. “Now watch closely and see how he reacts to all the women. Last time he showed no preference at all, but that was before Lady Aynee got her hooks into him.” She spun her fan and rapped Seri under the chin.

  Seri held her tongue and moved away with a nod. The crowd continued to push against the edges of the room, leaving the center of the floor open. Lady Mila managed to wiggle her way to the front, affording them an unobstructed view of the proceedings.

  One of the priests cleared his throat and stepped forward, unrolling a parchment. He studied it, then lifted his head. “Lady Penella Si Emolle.”

  Lady Penella approached, passing over the empty ballroom floor. She visibly trembled as she moved toward the Prince, a tight smile on her round face. Seri had talked to Penella’s servants this week and heard that their lady was young, flighty, and impulsive, but she had “good blood.” Whatever that meant.

  The lady bowed deeply as she moved to the center of the floor, the silver ruffles and flounces of her dress making her look like a tumbleweed. The prince nodded at the woman and did not speak. To the side of the prince, both priests raised their hands in the air.

  Lady Mila inhaled sharply.

  “Goddess,” the priests intoned. “Protector of people. Lady of grace. Grant your blessing upon this prince. Remove the curse upon the Blood and give him leniency. Allow him an Eterna and rest from his endless torment.”

  Endless torment? Seri’s brow wrinkled. They made it sound as if being a prince was torture and not luck of birth.

  When the priest finished his invocation, no one moved. Even Prince Graeme’s face was tense. Everyone seemed to be waiting for . . . something. Lady Aynee’s fan was gripped tightly, and Lady Mila’s lips were a thin slash of red. A woman who looked to be Lady Penella’s mother kept a hand pressed over her heart.

  Finally the two priests dropped their arms, and, it seemed, all was over. A whoosh of breath swept over the room, and Lady Mila exhaled with relief.

  “No, please,” Lady Penella begged. “Try again. I know it’s me. I know it!”

  The prince simply stared at her, as if he could wither her with his gaze.

  Penella crumpled, slumping in her corset and layered skirts. She broke into loud sobs, and her mother rushed to her side. With a quick apologetic look at the throne, the elder woman escorted her weeping daughter away.

  “Well, that was ill-bred of her,” Lady Mila said, fanning herself.

  Seri said nothing, simply watched as the floor was cleared. The priest lifted the scroll and read another name. “Lady Jinda Ia Santor.”

  The next woman approached. She had a thick rope of dark hair braided around her crown and a small, pointy
face. She bowed before the prince and waited as the priests raised their arms again. “Goddess . . .”

  The prayer to the Athonite goddess was repeated. The prince remained still, his face as cold and expressionless as ever. After a moment, the priests ended their prayer and waved the woman away. A hot flush covered her pale cheeks and she swept off, albeit with more dignity than the first girl.

  Seri stifled an irritated sigh as the cords of Lady Mila’s dress cut into her palms. These people were fools. To put such trust and hope in a ceremony that had failed for centuries.

  Time seemed to slow as one by one, ladies in their grand, stuffy gowns approached the dais. The priests grew hoarse from repeating their prayer to the Goddess. And one by one, each lady of the court was dismissed. Whatever the Goddess’s mystical criteria was, no one met it. Not even Lady Aynee, who kept a sweet smile on her face and blew a kiss to the prince.

  “Lady Mila de Vray,” the priest called.

  Finally.

  Seri braced herself, readying the cords. Ahead of her, the lady swept into the center of the room, making her grand entrance with small flicks of her fan. Hands spread like she had been taught, Seri matched her steps to Lady Mila’s gliding ones as she carried the excessive train of skirts to the center of the floor. Prince Graeme’s eyes flickered over Seri’s appearance and then back to the lady before him. If he recognized either of them, he gave no indication.

  Lady Mila sank down into a deep curtsy, skirts pooling around her.

  Behind her, hands tangled in the noblewoman’s train, Seri hesitated. Lady Mila’s deep bow just emphasized the fact that Seri was still standing behind her. Was this all part of the game, then? To force her hand and have her insult the court? Someone coughed, a sound that felt out of place in the stillness, and she could feel the heat of every eye in the room on her.

  They can string me up next to Kasmar, she thought. I will not yield to this.

  Biting her lip, Seri closed her eyes and bent her head, the closest approximation to deference that she could give.

  And she waited. Waited for a signal from Lady Mila, or a jerk of the cords. Waited for the priests to indicate that they would move on. Something.

  Then, someone gave a surprised shout and then a low murmur rippled through the crowd. Seri looked up, and gasped. A white glow of light had formed in the center of the room, just above Lady Mila’s head. There was no brazier there, no candelabra, no discernible source for the glow. It had appeared suddenly and of its own volition, as if summoned by the gods . . . or the Athonite goddess herself.

  “The Betrothed!” Lady Penella breathed, all tears gone. Shock skittered through Seri. Lady Mila? Truly? The small, cruel part of her was disappointed. Lady Mila would be even more insufferable than before. Poor Lady Aynee had looked to be a more suitable—and amenable—bride for the prince.

  The two priests continued to chant the Goddess’s praises, rapt and exultant. The room hummed with whispers and Lady Mila stood bathed in the glow, a radiant smile on her face. The prince stood and stepped down from the dais, and the light continued to grow, until suddenly Seri’s skin felt as though it were on fire. Her stomached churned and she tugged at the cords, suddenly desperate to get free, to get out of this over-warm room, away from the Athonites and their goddess and their strange ways. But before she could move, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

  The prince. He had walked right past Lady Mila to Seri. . . .

  And that was when Seri realized that the white light wasn’t centered around Lady Mila, whose face was pinched and bright red with ill-concealed rage.

  It was on her.

  Seri’s body went numb. “It’s not me,” she protested. “It can’t be.”

  The prince gazed down at her for a long moment, dark eyes emotionless. But she could sense turmoil behind them . . . as if he was as upset and surprised as she was. Seri moved to turn, moved to flee. This couldn’t be happening. She wasn’t Prince Graeme’s Betrothed. She was Vidari, and she had to get home, to Josdi and father. To Rilen—

  As if sensing her panic, the prince took her by the elbow, turning her to face the crowd. His grip was tight on her arm, holding her in place. “The Goddess has granted me a Betrothed,” he called out in a flat tone that carried across the still ballroom floor. “Truly, I am blessed.”

  The room erupted into wild cheers and angry chatter.

  “It’s not me,” Seri said again. “It can’t be.”

  “You echo my thoughts exactly, madam,” Prince Graeme said in her ear. “Now smile.”

  Seri felt faint, but the Prince’s grip on her arm was tight and unyielding, his face masklike in its blankness as he led her through the stunned crowd. The priests closed in around them, a sea of swirling yellow robes, and everyone parted to make way. The once-noisy ballroom had become deathly still.

  Was this some cruel joke? Surely it could not be Seri who was to be the wife of the prince. It made no sense—she didn’t even believe in their goddess. What was she going to do? What would they say when they found out she had promised to handfast another?

  Oh, Rilen. Was he waiting for her at the farm even now?

  She followed in a daze as the priests ushered her to an opulent chamber. A large stone table took up the majority of the room with small benches pushed underneath the lip of the table. A throne sat at the head of the table, obviously meant for the prince. The doors fell shut behind them, and the sounds of the ballroom faded away.

  With a hard tug, Seri twisted away from the prince. “What is going on?”

  The prince took out a handkerchief and wiped his hand down, a distasteful expression on his face. He sat down on his throne, cold displeasure evident. “Next time we are in public together, please take it upon yourself to not coat your skin in gold dust.” He glanced over at her, his gaze traveling from her shoulder down to her bare legs. “And for that matter, please clothe yourself more appropriately.”

  “You think I chose to wear this?” Had everyone gone mad?

  “Did you not?” His said icily. “I find it difficult to believe that someone held you down and forced it upon you. You must have had some complicity.”

  An old priest with a lined face came forward and offered her a cloak. She took it and wrapped it over her shaking body.

  “Well, this is . . . unexpected,” the old priest said when the silence persisted. He glanced at his companion. The other priest was grim faced with dark brows and a displeased expression.

  “To think that the first Eterna is this . . . this . . .” he sputtered and threw up his hands.

  “Unexpected,” repeated the elderly priest, and he gave Seri a pat on the shoulder.

  The prince laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “I do not believe that this begins to qualify as ‘unexpected.’” He rubbed his forehead. “Truly, we are damned.”

  Panic fluttered in Seri’s chest. She clutched the cloak tighter around her body. “I’m not this woman. This Eterna person. There’s been a mistake.”

  The prince’s dark eyes met her own, pinning her under their hard gaze. She wondered briefly what he would look like if he showed emotion—any emotion—other than distaste. “There’s been no mistake. The Goddess has declared that you are mine.”

  “I’m not yours.” It felt like there was no air in the room. “If I belong to anyone, I belong to Lady Mila for the sevenday. She’s the one that purchased my services.”

  The priests looked appalled at Seri’s words. “You are the Betrothed of the prince, first among women. The first Betrothed in written history,” a pear-shaped adviser said, his voice wobbling as much as his chin. “Your position is like none other.”

  “And what is my position?” she asked.

  “Once we have the coronation ceremony,” the adviser said, “you will be acknowledged as the wife and Eterna of Prince Graeme of Athon, revered and beloved by all, chosen by the Goddess. When
you marry, you will become a royal princesse of the kingdom.”

  Seri stared into Prince Graeme’s coldly polite eyes and wanted to laugh. Or cry. This is a nightmare. “I am promised to another. I cannot marry you.” And he’s plotting your downfall as we speak, she wanted to add.

  Prince Graeme said nothing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the priest cut in. “He is the Athonite prince. His word is law. Even if you were already married, you would have to put your husband aside.” He gestured at the prince. “He is the man you are intended to be with. The Goddess has decided. You are linked now, connected spiritually. Don’t you feel it?”

  “All I feel is anger. I am Vidari,” she protested again, the objection sounding hollow even to her own ears. “I don’t even believe in your god.”

  “The laws of the Goddess are irrefutable, even by royalty themselves,” Prince Graeme interjected. “I am afraid that choice or belief is not an option.” His words had a ring of finality.

  Seri let out a frightened whimper. “I want to go home.”

  The prince’s stoic smile never faltered. “Go home? You are home.”

  It was like a punch in the gut.

  Her father was dying. Her sister was likely sitting in the dark, anxiously waiting for Seri’s return. Who would look after them? Who would take care of Josdi and make sure she stoked the fire? Who would bathe her father’s wounded leg? Who would watch her geese and tend to the farm? Who would do the chores and make sure everyone was fed?

  And Rilen? What of him?

  What of everything she’d ever wanted? Everything she’d planned for?

  “You can’t make me stay,” she said.

  “Can’t I? I own this land.” He drew up one dark, arching eyebrow. “That means I own you, too.”

  “You cannot own a person,” Seri argued. “You cannot own me.”