by Jill Myles
A multitude of doors stretched out before her down the long corridor, and she knew that more waited just around the bend. The castle was absurdly large given the fact that it was designed primarily as a residence for the prince. He could be behind any of the doors, she thought with a sigh—or none of them. This was just one wing in the massive castle, and she knew Lady Mila’s apartments to be on the far end of an opposite wing.
Feeling a sense of urgency, Seri put her ear to one door. Silence. She padded down to the next door and listened, her ear brushing against the heavy wood. The murmur of a woman’s voice. Again, not what she wanted. She continued down the hall, glancing behind her to check for the nosy servant.
It didn’t take long for the woman to reappear. A quick glance over her shoulder showed that the woman was wringing her apron in her hands and nodding at Seri’s crouched form. A guard stood at her side, dressed in the somber livery that marked him as Athoni. “There she is,” the servant called in a trembling voice. “She’s escaped out of her chambers.”
When the man started toward Seri, she picked up the long, limb-tangling skirts and ran. Down the long hall, past the curve that led into another equally long hall, toward what, she didn’t know. All she knew was that the guard was running behind her, his booted feet smacking against the tile with great force, and she was running out of options if she was going to find the prince.
The hall she’d turned down was a dead end she realized about two moments before slamming into the heavy double doors that covered the far end of the hallway instead of the turn she had been hoping for. An ornate gilt handle jabbed into her stomach, and she wrapped her hands around it, jerking on the handle and opening the heavy door just enough to slip through into the room inside.
Twenty faces stared at her as she entered, flushed and breathing hard, one hand still holding her skirts bunched above her knees.
The candlelit room was a dining room, Seri realized to her dismay. Faces lined the long dining table, forks perched delicately above the tableware. One man held a fluted glass of dark wine to his lips, paused mid-drink.
Seated at the front of the room was the prince himself, his beautiful pale face stony, lips drawn into a thin, colorless line. The quiet chatter of the room fell silent; a fork clanked against a plate, echoing in the stillness.
Seri was unable to take her eyes off the prince. She froze in place by the door, wondering if she had just galloped into even more trouble than before. She’d imagined confronting the prince, of course, but never in front of a full court of nobles, all of whom were regarding her as they might a stray dog.
“Ah,” she began, uncertain what to say. Greet them? Apologize? She struck that idea as quickly as it came to her—she’d never apologize to their kind. Still, leaving seemed like another form of retreat. She glanced at the door as the silence continued, unwilling to be the first one to break.
The guard shoved his way through the door, eyes focused on Seri’s stock-still form, and abruptly halted as well when he realized what he was interrupting. He bent at the waist in a deep, albeit sketchy, bow. “A thousand pardons, good saers. A thousand pardons, Prince. I did not realize you were in here.” His gaze shot to Seri, and he grabbed her arm. “I will escort her back to her chambers—”
The prince raised one hand slowly, and all attention in the room focused on that slow, steady movement. Cool, pale eyes met Seri’s. She couldn’t read what he was thinking. “You are not to place your hand on a royal betrothed.”
The words fell cold, deadly, through the air. There was a gasp at the table, quickly muffled. She felt the guard’s rough fingers loosen, then slide away from her elbow, and she tried to hide her surprise. Why did the prince care how she was treated?
“Furthermore,” he continued, the bored, expressionless look fixed on his face, “she is allowed to go anywhere in the castle that she wishes. She is not a prisoner in her own home.” The corners of his eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her, and Seri did not lose the implication that his words were for her alone.
“I understand, Your Highness,” the guard stammered, but the prince cut him off with a quick slice of his hand.
“Does the lady wish to stay?” He lifted his wineglass.
Well. He was the first one to ask her what she wanted. Not that it was going to change her mind. He was still the enemy and still a cold, unfeeling brute who hated the Vidari. Seri’s eyes narrowed and she straightened, thrusting her chin out. “We need to talk.”
His gaze flicked to the guardsman. “You heard my betrothed. Leave us.” He stood, and as one, every man at the table bolted upright from his chair as if it were suddenly on fire, and all eyes turned to her.
Seri took a step back, distrustful of this. Why were they all rising? In her experience, it was never a good thing to be the focus of so much Athoni attention. “What do you want?” She straightened her shoulders, making her posture as imposing as possible. If they were going to jump her, they were going to get a fight.
The prince gestured at the seat beside him, quickly vacated by the noble at his side. “Do join us.”
Oh. An uncomfortable flush lit her cheeks and she took her discomfort out on the guard, still kneeling and looking as if he were about to be ill. She leaned in. “If you ever touch me again, I will gut you.” She wouldn’t, of course, but all the better for her “wild girl” reputation.
“Of course, Lady,” the man said, shooting another frightened glance at the prince.
“Go.” The simple word of command made the guard shoot up in haste, running for the door. When it closed silently behind him, the prince gestured at the seat next to him once more. “Please. Sit.”
Uncomfortable that all eyes were upon her once more, Seri moved to the head of the table and looked at the chair that the prince held out for her. So simple a thing, to sit at the table here and pretend that she wasn’t the enemy. Unwanted. Hated.
Yet she sat anyway, with a graceless thump that echoed in the flinch of a noble’s face.
As soon as she sat, all the men did as well, to Seri’s vast relief. She could think when they all did not seem to be ready to jump upon her at a moment’s notice. Her gaze skimmed the men as they relaxed into an uncomfortable silence. Most were young, approximately the same age as the prince, although there were a few that seemed to be older. All were male, of course, and she wondered briefly if his people were strict on the laws for women, or if she’d just been unlucky enough to chance into a room of men. They avoided making eye contact with her, instead focusing on their plates; their glasses of dark, thick wine; or their companions.
The half-eaten plate before her was cleared away and replaced with a new, empty one and a wineglass. To her surprise, one of the servants filled it with water, not wine, and she resisted the urge to ask why she was being treated differently. She would have liked wine—the treat was not something she could normally afford—but she would not ask. Seri grabbed the goblet and drank the water quickly; her mouth felt dry.
A servant approached with a covered dish at the same time the prince spoke to her. “I trust that you slept well last night?”
She glanced over at him, noticing that his own plate was empty and he merely drank the wine with careful, precise motions. Everything about him spoke of restraint and culture, and angry embarrassment rushed through her. What must he think of me? She touched her knot of wet hair at the base of her neck and frowned. “Well enough for someone who’s a prisoner.”
He stiffened next to her, becoming even more erect and proud than before. He looked down his nose at her. “You are not a prisoner. You are part of our court now. It is a rare privilege you have been granted.”
Seri snorted. “For one of your kind, perhaps.” One of the servers offered her a slice of bread and a small cup of butter, and she took it from him with glee. “For me, it’s rather like torture.” Unable to resist any longer, she took a large bite of bread. It was soft, delicious—not a grain of sand or grit in the texture. She closed her eyes in
momentary bliss, butter melting on her tongue.
“Indeed,” he said dryly. “You look quite tortured.”
“It’s not like I have a choice about being here,” she said around a mouthful of bread. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the nobles wince and look away, patting his mouth with his napkin. So her manners wouldn’t win her any friends. So what? “If my choice is bread and captivity or freedom and starvation, I’d gladly take starvation.” She ripped off another large wad of bread, ignoring the butter that coated her fingers. “You’ve taken that choice away from me, so I might as well eat your food.”
The lines of his mouth were hard as he watched her. “Do as you like.” He gestured for the servants to come closer. “Our guest is hungry. See to her needs.”
The servants bowed and scurried away, no doubt to retrieve more food for Seri. She settled back in her chair, chewing the hunk of bread that was determined to glue itself to the roof of her mouth and studying the men around her. She’d destroyed any hope of the men having a casual conversation and ignoring her. All eyes were on her. More specifically, the high collar of her dress. Uncomfortable, she swallowed and glanced at the prince. He seemed as cold and aloof as ever, focused on his wineglass and swirling it as they waited for her to eat.
She lost her appetite. Seri pushed away the plate of food, finding the intense concentration of the nobles too much for her to bear.
The prince glanced over at her, then handed her a napkin. “What did you wish to talk to me about?”
She hated him, with his cold, cultured voice and aloof eyes. He studied her like he would a fleck of dirt found on his shoe. Her gaze darted to the nobles nearby, not eating, simply drinking from their fine glasses and watching her with over-avid eyes.
It was like being in a room full of Lady Milas. And she’d be damned if she’d beg for them to leave.
So she looked over at the prince and picked up her wineglass, filled with the insulting water. “I want my money.”
To her side, she saw one of the nobles smile, though he hid it behind a hand. Prince Graeme did not share the man’s amusement. “That is a simple matter and one you should take up with my vizier.”
“Yes, well, I don’t know who the vizier is—” she began.
“I shall call him.” The prince lifted a hand and a servant came rushing to his side.
“You’re very quick to be rid of me,” she said with a sneer, then sipped at her drink. Gods, even the water here tasted sweeter than on her poor farm. It was sad, really.
Prince Graeme raised an eyebrow and lowered his hand. “Pray tell, lady. You wish to see my vizier, but you do not. When shall I anticipate to call him for you?”
A low chuckle carried through the room, and the nobles began to whisper amongst themselves once more.
Blasted prince. He’d gone and turned the tables on her again. Seri scuffed her bare foot along the floor, trying not to blush in embarrassment. “It’s not that,” she said, trying to gather her thoughts. Bracing herself, she forced herself to look the prince in the eye. “I want to know when I can go home.”
“You are home.”
She shook her head, the wet knot at the back of her skull heavy, like her heart. “I cannot stay here. My family needs me.” Poor Josdi and Father, sitting alone in the dark, waiting for her to come home. And Rilen—what would Rilen think once he heard the news? Fear threaded through her, and she prayed that he would not do anything foolish. Rilen was a possessive man, and he would fly into a rage if he knew the Athonites were holding Seri captive against her will.
“My vizier will take care of it.” Again, Graeme dismissed her words.
Seri’s hands curled into fists on her lap. “Perhaps I should just marry your vizier, then. He seems to do all the work around here.”
The room became deathly quiet. Seri felt the nobles in the room cease chatting, cease whispering, cease breathing. Her own breath became clogged in her throat, and she had to force herself to lift her glass and drink again, slowly, as if she had not a care in the world.
The prince’s voice was quiet but terrible. “Leave us.”
As one, the men in the room stood, and Seri stood with them, eager and suddenly anxious to be free of this chamber where she trod all over boundaries as if they were nothing but landscape, and she but a silly goosegirl.
Gray eyes pinned her in place. An imperceptible shake of the head. The prince was telling her no.
There was something inherently frightening about him in anger, Seri thought. Even though he showed not a tiny bit of emotion, she could sense that he was boiling on the inside.
Seri sat back down with the same loud, ungainly thump as before.
When the room was empty of all except the guards at the door, the prince flicked his gaze at them. “Leave.”
“My prince,” one said, bending to one knee and bowing his head. “It is the general’s request that we do not leave you alone…”
His words trailed off, but Seri knew what he meant. Leave you alone with the wild woman. Her hard, mocking laugh echoed in the room. They were terrified that she, a mere goosegirl, would do something to harm their precious prince, when he could sit there in his elegant chair and wither her with his gaze from twenty feet. It was ironic.
A wintry smile touched his cold, chiseled mouth. “The general is good to think of me; however, I shall not be needing your presence in the room. Wait outside.”
It was an obvious dismissal, however politely phrased. Even the wild goosegirl knew that.
The men hesitated only a moment more, then exited the room, closing the large double doors behind them.
Seri was alone with the prince.
He turned his cool eyes back on her, studying her as she ever-so-studiously regarded her water glass. “Well?” No amusement touched that icy cold, beautiful face. “You have my attention.”
“You realize this isn’t going to work out,” Seri blurted, turning in her chair to face him, gathering her courage.
“If I recall correctly, I was not given a choice. You were not given a choice. The gods made the choice for us.” He put his wineglass down, pursing his lips with distaste. “You have already been declared as my betrothed, and in three days, we will marry. It is done.”
It was never done. Never. Not while she had breath in her lungs to fight him. “You realize your people will hate me.”
“My people already hate you,” he said bluntly. “Your kind refuses to abide by any of the laws we set and therefore make things eminently harder on themselves in the long run. You are crude, and savage, and half-dressed, and it has already made me a mockery of the court that I shall have to marry you.” His cold eyes blazed momentarily.
“Why should my people obey you?” Seri’s voice rose in anger. “Your kind are nothing but interlopers, conquering fools who think that because you have more troops that you can rule us.”
“War is but one aspect of nature, my dear,” the prince said, ever cold. “There will always be a conqueror, and there will always be a conquered. Do not blame me for your people choosing the wrong side.”
She slapped him. Right across that cold, beautiful mouth. His head turned at the force of the blow, and he rubbed his mouth, looking at her with deadly eyes.
Once she realized what she’d done, Seri panicked. Oh, dear One Above, she’d slapped the prince. They’d burn her alive for this.
Forgetting the choking collar at her throat and the guards who waited just outside the doors, Seri bolted up from her chair and ran. She burst through the doors, knocking one of the guards over. Yells of outrage met her ears, but she didn’t stop. Seri grabbed her skirts, hiked them back up, and ran like she had death behind her.
“Stop,” she heard the prince cry, his cold, regal voice echoing in the vaulted hall. She didn’t stop, though. She wouldn’t stop for him.
The guards pursued her, but not for long. She lost them when she turned a corner into the kitchen and hid behind one of the counters, and an entire troop of t
hem ran past. At work with a lump of dough in her hands, Idalla gave her a curious look. “Is everything all right?”
Seri put a finger to her lips, but the effect was ruined by the cook coming over and hauling her up by the arm. “What do you do here?” she bellowed. “Don’t make me call the guards.”
She jerked her arm out of the woman’s grasp. “Let go of me,” she said quietly, and the kitchen became deadly silent. Her chin lifted, and she gave the cook one of Graeme’s cold, calculating looks. “I shall be princesse here in three days. And if you call those guards, I assure you that your life will be a misery.”
The woman faltered, then took a step backward, and Seri felt a giddy rush with her power. No one could touch her. They didn’t know what to do with her. She cast a quick look at Idalla. “Is there a back way out of the palace?”
Idalla nodded, dusting her hands and looking at Seri with wide eyes. She curtsied once, then twice, and Seri wanted to tell her not to bother, that she’d been her only friend, but the cook was still staring at her with frightened eyes, and she needed to keep her authority about her. So she nodded, a clipped, jerky gesture worthy of Lady Mila herself. “Show me.”
Minutes later, she hovered in the back entryway, peeking out the door to the courtyard. It was crawling with people running back and forth at their jobs, their clothing the serviceable gray of Graeme’s colors. In her dark dress and golden skin, she’d stick out and they’d be on her in an instant. Guards were everywhere.
“Is there no other way?”
Idalla peered over her, then shook her head. “All the other doors’ll be crawling with guards by now. Only one that uses this door is the scullery, ’cause it’s close to the moat.”
Seri pursed her lips, then brightened, pulling the dirty white cap off Idalla’s head and jamming it down over her own golden one. “Give me your dress.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Give me your dress,” she repeated, unbuttoning with frantic fingers the row of tiny decorative buttons on her own stifling outfit.
