The Defiant Heir

by Melissa Caruso

  I nodded, apprehension knotting my throat.

  My mother touched my cheek with a gentle, perfumed hand. “Be careful, Amalia. The Witch Lords play politics by different rules than we do. If you lose this game, you could lose your life.”

  Chapter Six

  You’re joking,” Zaira said.

  I’d found her sipping wine at the edge of the room, still flushed from dancing. She narrowed her eyes at me in suspicion, setting her glass down on a nearby table.

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied.

  “But the Witch Lords are all crazy as a sack of vipers.”

  I shrugged, stirring the trails of shimmering lights in my hair. “In wartime, we all must make sacrifices.”

  Zaira shook her head. “And all they want me to do is kill a few thousand people. I don’t think I’d trade.”

  “Thanks.” I wished I were as calm as I sounded. A bubble of panic was slowly growing in my chest, now that what I’d done had had time to sink in.

  Zaira glanced across the ballroom to where Marcello stood, talking business with one of the soldiers on duty. “Have you told Captain Loverboy yet?”

  My ears warmed. “It would hardly be appropriate to run and tell him directly after accepting the Crow Lord’s courtship proposal. And besides, Marcello and I aren’t … Well, he’s only a friend.”

  Zaira delivered me a witheringly skeptical look.

  “All right,” I admitted, grimacing. “I’m putting it off.”

  “He’s not going to like it.”

  “Well, we were never courting, so he doesn’t have to,” I snapped. “I told him we couldn’t court for precisely this reason. It’s not my fault if he didn’t listen.”

  Zaira’s face spread to a knowing grin. “Oh, I don’t see how he could ever have gotten the wrong idea, given how you keep giving him these long meaningful glances and staring after him like a moon-eyed maiden.”

  Now my entire face burned. “I shouldn’t be doing that.”

  “But you dooooooooo,” Zaira sang.

  At that moment, like a gift from the Graces, Terika appeared through the crowd.

  She wore a gown in all the colors of the sea, and a crown of shells and pearls sat on her honey-brown hair. Her Falconer, Lienne, escorted her, somehow resembling an indulgent aunt even in her uniform; few would guess she could best most of the Mews with a rapier. Terika’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she laughed at something Lienne said.

  Zaira stared at her as if she’d never seen her before. “Hells have mercy. We need to take her to more fancy parties.”

  “That can be arranged.” I didn’t try to rein in my smile; this was exactly why I’d gotten Terika an invitation. “You should ask her to dance.”

  Zaira glared at me. “Why would I do that?”

  I blinked. “Aren’t you courting?”

  “No,” Zaira said. “What made you think we were courting?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I tapped my chin. “You’re together all the time. You flirt shamelessly. You like each other a great deal. You were just staring at her like she was the Grace of Love incarnate …”

  “You can be friends with someone and like how they look and flirt with them and not be courting.”

  “I suppose.” It seemed best to concede the point, given what I’d just said about Marcello. “But why? I’m fairly certain she wants to court you.”

  Zaira scowled. “Because we’re Falcons, you idiot.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  Zaira threw up her hands. “Because we don’t have our own lives, or our own futures. Because I’ll be damned to the Nine Hells before I tie myself to the Mews that way. Maybe even because you might have noticed that everyone I care about tends to burn to death.”

  “Not anymore,” I said softly.

  Zaira turned her wrist; the red crystals gleamed in the golden wirework of her jess like beads of blood. “True. Not anymore. That’s the one good thing about this cursed chain you gave me.”

  “I can’t say you’re wrong about the difficulties,” I admitted. “But she cares about you.”

  Zaira groaned. “Feelings again. You know my opinion on feelings.”

  I nudged Zaira’s ribs. “She’s beautiful. And smart. And funny. And puts up with you, which has to be a rare quality.”

  “She’s too good for me,” Zaira said dourly.

  “She’s also coming up behind you.”

  Zaira spun to face Terika, her back rigid, petals fluttering as her skirts swirled.

  “Zaira!” Terika greeted her gleefully. “Did you see the Marquis of Valisia’s doublet? His entire chest is on display, down to his navel, and I swear he’s oiled it.”

  Zaira glanced around. “Oh, I can’t miss that. Where?”

  “He was dancing with Lady Brame, last I saw him.”

  Zaira cleared her throat. “If the view on the dance floor is that good, I suppose we’d better go take a closer look.”

  Terika laughed. “I thought you’d never ask. Come on!”

  She grabbed Zaira’s hand and pulled her off toward the dance floor, grinning. Zaira threw one last glare over her shoulder at me that sent a message clear as a printed page: If you say anything, I will set you on fire.

  I waved, laughing, and watched them for a moment, a smile stretching my cheeks. Zaira didn’t know any courtly dances, but she didn’t seem to care much either. Their skirts spun together in a mesmerizing swirl of colors, and with each little touch Zaira’s steely guard visibly relaxed.

  She made bawdy comments about people we saw in the street all the time, and flirted with whole crowds at once at parties; but with Terika, Zaira seemed almost shy. I accepted a glass of wine from a passing tray and lifted it in a toast, silently wishing Terika luck.

  Then the air around me seemed to go warm and soft, and I suddenly became aware of Marcello at my side.

  “They’re good for each other,” he murmured, smiling across the ballroom at the two Falcons.

  He stood close enough that in another world, where my only consideration for courtship was how much I liked a man, I could have snaked an arm around his waist.

  “They are,” I agreed. But the peace of the moment was gone. Dread of what I had to tell him sat in my stomach like a stone.

  He turned to face me, lifting wistful eyebrows. “I don’t suppose we could join them? Or have you still not gotten in your requisite number of politically mandated prior dances?”

  “Marcello,” I blurted, “I’m courting a Witch Lord.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  Grace of Love forgive me. Those eyes. “It’s political, of course. It just happened. I … I’m sorry.”

  His face hardened from bewilderment to anger. “We can’t let them do this to you. Who arranged this madness?”

  “I did.” Too many people pressed around us, skirts rustling, glasses clinking, forced laughter rising to the frescoed ceiling in the shadows above. I dropped my voice until I wasn’t sure he could hear it, between the noise of the crowd and the faint tinkling music of my shell pendant. “Marcello, I set up the courtship. To help win the war, or perhaps even avoid it. It was my decision.”

  He stared uncomprehendingly. “With a Witch Lord? But Amalia, they’re mad tyrants! Why would you do that?”

  This was going to be as hard as I’d thought. I grabbed a couple of wineglasses from a passing tray, shoved one into his hand, and steered him by the elbow to the least crowded corner I could find. No one stared openly, but I could feel eyes on us. I opened a wider space between us.

  “This is how I can fight,” I told him, my voice low and urgent. “This is a weapon in my arsenal, to protect Raverra and all the Serene Empire. I’m doing it to save lives, Marcello.”

  “But … Courtship …” He took a swallow of wine, then glowered at his glass. “I’m used to the idea I might have to kill an adversary to protect the Empire. It seems worse, somehow, to have to kiss one.”

  “It’s for show, to present a sign of alliance to
the Witch Lords preparing to invade us. I doubt there’ll be actual kissing involved.”

  But as the words left my mouth, I realized I had no idea if they were true. Good Graces, how did I feel about that? Courting a Witch Lord was one thing, but kissing him entirely another. Though Kathe was handsome, in his strange way.

  I took a long drink.

  Marcello drew in a ragged breath. “I suppose it’s none of my business. Whom you kiss, or whom you court.”

  I didn’t want to do this to him. Or to myself. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again.

  “It is your business, at least a little,” I said softly. “It’s not as if there’s nothing between us. But this is a temporary thing, a necessary thing, and not a matter of the heart. It doesn’t change anything in the long run. And now you know.”

  “Now I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, stared at his drink a moment, and then set it aside on a table. “Doesn’t it bother you, though, Amalia? Even a little?”

  “I don’t mind going through this charade of courting him.” I sighed and lifted a hand to my own cheek, since I couldn’t touch his. “But I’ll admit I wish I didn’t have to keep you at arm’s reach. I wish …”

  I trailed off. I didn’t really wish I were some commoner girl, able to court anyone I wanted. I traded freedom for power, and I could use that power to keep the people I cared about safe. To wish for both freedom and power would be selfish; there was a reason everything came with a cost.

  “I wish I were some Ostan prince, or the doge’s nephew,” Marcello said. “I hate not being good enough for you.”

  “You are good enough.” I curled my hand into a fist before it could reach for his. That was his horrid father speaking through his voice, telling him he was a failure—and now I’d made it worse. “Better than any foolish prince. Graces, Marcello, if I were courting based on personal merit, we’d be out there dancing right now. This is a move on the board, nothing more.”

  “Then I hope it’s a winning move.” He tried a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “I do feel a bit like a sacrificed pawn.”

  “Never sacrificed.” I caught his eyes. “We just have to move you across the board and crown you.”

  He managed a more natural smile. But a certain stiffness remained. “I’d best get back to work. I’m here to help with security, after all.”

  We never did dance that evening.

  The next morning Ciardha, my mother’s alarmingly competent aide, brought me a package at breakfast.

  “From your suitor, Lady.” Her face remained perfectly composed as always, but her dark eyes shone with mirth.

  The irregular bundle lay beside my half-finished roll and cup of steaming chocolate, wrapped in what appeared to be a daily gossip sheet tied with silver thread. I’d put together more convincing gift packages from random bits in my maid’s sewing basket when I was a small girl.

  With some trepidation, I picked apart the messy knot and spread open the paper. Great blocky print at the top shouted: WITCH LORD COURTING SERENE CITY’S MOST ELIGIBLE HEIR. Lovely. They must have worked all night to set the type.

  I folded back the crumpled paper to reveal a necklace, of sorts: a leather cord adorned with carved wooden beads and black claws.

  I lifted it dubiously in the air. “I have to wear this, don’t I.”

  “I fear it would be impolitic not to, Lady.”

  “There’s a card.” I laid the crude necklace back in its paper, trying not to despair over how it would look atop lace and brocade, and flipped over the rectangle of fine, creamy vellum.

  For your protection, should you visit my country, it read.

  “How wonderfully foreboding.” I set the note down and examined the gift.

  Vivomancers, such as the Witch Lords and most Vaskandran mages, used their powers to control and shape living things. In Vaskandar, they called them either Greenwitches, specializing in plants, or Furwitches, specializing in animals, but all vivomancers could affect both. They couldn’t imbue objects with magic, though, like artificers did, or call out the latent magical properties in substances, like alchemists. I doubted the necklace was magical. The claws, however, seemed entirely real.

  We do place great weight on symbols, he’d said. I sighed resignedly and lifted it over my head. Talons clattered on my chest.

  “How do I look?” I asked.

  “Your reputation as an eccentric will doubtless be enhanced, Lady.”

  “Lovely.” A terrifying thought struck me. “I need to send him a return gift, don’t I?”

  “That is the custom, Lady,” Ciardha confirmed. “You’ll want something to give him on your outing this afternoon.”

  The implications of her words cascaded onto me like cold, rattling pebbles. “My outing this afternoon?” I asked faintly.

  “With Lord Kathe.” Ciardha’s face and posture remained perfectly composed, but somehow, I knew she was silently laughing. “La Contessa pressed him to formalize terms of an alliance when they spoke at the end of the ball last night, and he said he preferred to discuss such matters with you, since you were now courting. So naturally, La Contessa arranged an outing for the two of you at once.”

  I swallowed. “What sort of an outing?”

  Ciardha inclined her head in a short bow of what I chose to interpret as sympathy. “A picnic, Lady.”

  Chapter Seven

  So I’m going on a picnic with a Witch Lord in five hours,” I finished breathlessly. “I’ve never even courted before. I need to get him a present. Help me—I have no idea what to do.”

  Zaira stood frozen on the grassy lawn of the Mews courtyard garden, one arm cocked back to throw a stick she must have ripped off a mangled-looking ornamental bush nearby. Her dog, Scoundrel, bounced impatiently at her feet, his entire back end squirming ecstatically.

  “And you’re coming to me for advice? What am I, your matchmaking granny?” Zaira hurled the stick, and Scoundrel tore after it, pink tongue trailing.

  “You’re the only person I can ask.” I spread my hands. “Venasha’s in Ardence with Aleki, visiting family.”

  “If I’m all you’ve got, you need more friends.”

  That stung more than it should have. My voice took on an edge. “I believe you are aware of the difficulties of making friends when everyone around you always wants something from you.”

  Zaira sighed and turned to face me at last. “I know.”

  “So, help me!” I spread my hands. “What do I do?”

  Scoundrel caught up to the stick, shook it vigorously, and dropped onto his belly in the grass to chew on it. Zaira shrugged. “Damned if I know. I’ve never courted anyone either.”

  “Really?” I immediately wanted to curse myself for the surprise in my tone. I spotted Terika approaching up the garden path, her brown curls disheveled by the wind and her face flushed, and modified what I’d been about to say. “I mean, you’re always so, ah, confident with your admirers at parties and such. I assumed you must have courted someone.”

  Zaira snorted. “If you don’t know the difference between flirting and courtship, you need more help than I can give you.”

  Terika joined us, tossing an amused glance at Zaira. “Yes, some people are a master of the first and hopeless at the second. Hello, Amalia.”

  “Oh, quiet, you.” But the welcoming smile Zaira gave her was more free and easy than I’d seen her with anyone else but Scoundrel.

  “I just don’t know what one does, on a picnic with a person one is courting.” I waved a vague hand.

  Terika grinned. “That depends. Will you have a chaperone? Because if not, well, all sorts of things.”

  “He’s a Witch Lord.” My voice rose nearly to a squeak.

  “Should have thought of that before you agreed to court him,” Zaira said.

  Terika tapped her lips thoughtfully. “If you want to keep him at a distance, you could try flirting with him.”

  “Wouldn’t that have the opposite effect?”
/>
  “Some people have been known to use flirting as armor.” Terika didn’t look at Zaira this time, but mischief shone in her eyes. “Some people are surprisingly skilled at not letting others get close to them, in fact.”

  Zaira rolled her eyes. “Some people are pushing their luck.”

  Terika clasped my shoulder, with an air of great seriousness. “But you have to be careful. If you seem to welcome a person’s advances, and then keep them at a distance, they might become confused and hurt.”

  Zaira snorted. “Or they might tease you incessantly. That could also happen.”

  I knew full well Terika’s remarks were directed at Zaira, but I couldn’t help but think of Marcello, with a pang. “So what would you advise?”

  Terika patted my arm with a show of sympathy. “You must be understanding. Your would-be suitor may have been through a lot and needs time to learn to trust you.” She paused, unable to repress the laughter pressing against her lips. “Like a stray dog.”

  “Like a—why, you!” Zaira burst out laughing. “A dog, am I? Like this?” And she licked Terika’s cheek.

  “Down, girl!” Terika wiped the drool off her face with her sleeve, then glanced back at me. “Have you gotten him a gift?”

  “No,” I groaned. “I have no idea what to get a Witch Lord. A bucket of bones? Some creepy, rare, flesh-eating plant?”

  “Perhaps an artifice device?” Terika suggested. “They don’t have many artificers in Vaskandar.”

  “Good idea,” I approved, relief rushing over me. “I’ll go see if Istrella has anything she might be willing to part with.”

  As I left, I heard Zaira bark teasingly at Terika, while Scoundrel came bounding back to caper around them.