Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  King’s Guard.

  A cursory glance about the area revealed two others close at hand. My heart stumbled in excitement, eyes squinting in a futile attempt to see through the dense crowd.

  “Damien!” called the unknown man’s pleasant tone. My parents slowed to a halt before me and swept a gracious obeisance in perfect unison, my own following after a brief but awkward delay. We rose as one and there, between the figures of my parents, I glimpsed the hero of my youth.

  At first, all I could see was the gleaming gold of his hair, offset by the crisp blue doublet and trousers he wore. The buttons on his jacket were the precise color of his eyes, that impossible brassy gold that marks every child of Adulil’s line. Despite being of an age with my father, Amenon looked as though he’d stepped straight out of the stories. I could easily picture him in glittering plate armor, sword raised in defiance and a snow-white charger between his knees.

  But the longer I looked, the more I saw, thanks to my mother’s lessons. Though he smiled, it appeared forced, like an act of habit rather than genuine joy. He carried himself with a warrior’s ease, but it was faded and distant; more a memory of strength than the presence of it. He had the same haunted eyes as my parents and a shadow of sorrow that clung to his otherwise amiable countenance, darkening the quiet energy that seemed to emanate from his person.

  Still, as he grasped my father’s hand, that forced smile warmed and crept up to his eyes.

  “Damien, my old friend. It has been far too long.”

  “Many happy returns, your majesty.”

  He waved away the pleasantries with a graceful hand, turning his gaze on my mother. “Lady Lazerin,” he greeted. “Lovely as ever.”

  “You flatter me, sire.”

  “Not without cause, you can be sure.” His pleasant grin faded when those brassy eyes slipped through the cracks to settle on me. “I thought I’d heard a scandal brewing.”

  Father stepped aside to usher me forward and I couldn’t help but flush under the full scrutiny of the King. I swept another deep curtsy, deliberately unhurried to veil the bone-shaking nervousness that threatened to overwhelm my composure.

  “My heir, Elivya fen Lazerin,” Father introduced with a hint of quiet pride.

  “Her mother in miniature,” Amenon mused, taking my full measure.

  “Indeed. She promises to be a great beauty.”

  “And well-versed, I imagine.”

  “Capable in many arenas, majesty, her horsemanship not the least of which.”

  “To be expected of any Lazerin.”

  “As you say, though I’d wager she could have put me to shame at that same age.”

  Golden brows raised slightly. “Beauty, wits, and an asset on a hunt. A fine prospect for any young man, I should think.”

  “So we hope, sire.”

  I flushed further, though in indignance this time. The King, who had kept his eyes on me through the whole of the exchange, did not miss my reaction.

  “She has your temper, though,” he noted with amusement.

  “…That she does. My apologies, your majesty.”

  He repeated the gracefully dismissive gesture from before and angled his head curiously at me.

  “You take offense to compliments?”

  I wrestled my pride into submission and smoothed my face into a mask of neutrality, voice pressed flat to match. “I take offense to being discussed like a brood mare at auction, sire.”

  The cluster of nobles that had been lingering at the periphery to eavesdrop – quite conspicuously, I might add – drew a collective gasp of horror at my impertinent reply. Amenon ignored them with the ease of long practice, a smile creeping back across his lips.

  “I simply seek to endorse your merits publicly.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of representing myself, majesty.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that,” he chuckled. “But what others say about us matters quite a lot. One’s reputation often holds far more sway than one’s actions. For example,” he lilted, sparing my father a cursory glance. “What has good Damien told you of me, young Lazerin?”

  I hesitated, acutely aware of the danger of that question. By the way my father shifted, I knew he itched to intervene in an attempt to rescue me, but my mother’s fingers tightened on his arm and he remained silent.

  “Come along, now, out with it,” Amenon pressed.

  “He told me many stories, sire, mostly from the War.”

  “And?”

  “…I heard you were bold. Fearless. That you charged the field at Istra outnumbered four-to-one.” When I hesitated, he raised his brows in expectation, urging me to continue. I folded my hands neatly before me and gave myself a subtle, bracing squeeze. “They say you slept in the mud with your men and went hungry more than once to see your people fed. That no man can best you in single combat.”

  The King leaned close when I fell silent, brass eyes darting sideways as though to check for anyone listening in on our confidences.

  “All rubbish,” he murmured.

  I blinked at him a moment before opening my mouth to protest. “But-”

  “I slept in the mud because there was nowhere else to sleep,” he confessed with a quirk of his brow. “Brandon’s men had cut us off from our supply wagons, you see, and the tents with them. I gave away my rations because I’d grown so sick of salt pork by then that I would rather have eaten my boots.” His secretive grin widened at the look of shock on my face. “And I may have been handy with a blade in my youth, but no man goes undefeated. In fact,” he added, glancing sidelong at my parents, “your father gave me a fair number of thrashings himself, back in the day.”

  He straightened, then, tugging his doublet back into order. “But I’m quite certain that if the truth of my character was as widely known as the legend of it, my birthdays would be much less generously attended.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, which only seemed to brighten his face more. After that, he turned his attentions back to my parents, who informed him that a matching set of four white carriage horses had been delivered to the castle stables earlier in the day; a gift from House Lazerin in honor of his nameday. The King thanked them both warmly before we removed ourselves from the queue, well aware that we’d monopolized Amenon’s time far more than would be considered appropriate, had my parents not been in such familiar standing with him.

  I barely had a moment to catch my breath before we were swept into the swirl of the crowd. As discussed, I trailed my parents from one cluster of richly-dressed nobles to the next, suffering the same introductions over and over with a polite smile plastered to my face. I quickly began to understand the forced nature of Amenon’s expression. I was already feeling the fatigue in the small muscles around my mouth, and I’d only been about it an hour or so. I could hardly imagine a lifetime of such tedious pretense.

  Still, I performed my part capably, stretching my theoretical legs in all my mother had taught me. When addressed directly, I displayed a notable grasp of everything from politics and literature to trade agreements, and always with as much humility and grace as I could muster.

  It was altogether exhausting.

  After several hours, I excused myself to take a private moment of respite near the edge of the room. Finally free of the close press and stifling heat of too many bodies, I relaxed in the shadow of one massive marble column and let my gaze drift across the crowd. The evening was growing later and the music filling the cavernous chamber had long since turned bright and energetic. A sea of rich fabrics spun about the center of the ballroom, drawn in by the exultant melodies.

  All around the perimeter, an intricate game of courtship was being played by the younger members of society. Dressed in rich gowns cut to the curves of their bodies, the ladies’ mannerisms were delicate and feminine, their every gesture a display of sensual grace. The unattached men of the Court prowled around and through them, daring touches and smoldering looks their weapon
s of choice. Predators, one and all, men and women alike. I watched, fixated, entranced by the subtle battle taking place between them, and for the first time in my life, I yearned to join that fray.

  But I was only a woman by the most generous of definitions, still small and clumsy and glaringly young in comparison. I had two years yet before I would be allowed to participate in that hot-blooded waltz, but the concept suddenly appealed far more to me than it ever had before.

  “Good gods, what is that smell?”

  I startled, snapping out of my ruminations to find a trio of young women had approached from my right, eyeing me over their wine glasses with distaste. All three were several years my elder, dressed in elegant gowns with immaculately-pinned hair.

  “Pardon?” I blurted stupidly.

  “Look at her, poor thing,” crooned the fairest of the three, dressed in rich lavender satin. Her honey hair spilled artfully over one shoulder. “First time outside the barn? I’m astonished you managed to keep that dress clean. Quaint, with the little sleeves.” She waved one disinterested hand at the lace on my shoulders. Her own gown featured no such modesty, with a plunging neckline that showcased her flawless porcelain skin and delicate curves.

  I flushed to the roots of my hair, all those months of preparations abandoning me in an instant. My tongue, which had so tactfully discussed wine export agreements mere minutes before, seized into a block of lead inside my mouth.

  My lack of reply didn’t seem to make a shred of difference to them. The short brunette bedecked in layers of pink chiffon leaned back to peer at me with sharp scrutiny.

  “Aren’t you a bit young for a debut? Fifteen is the traditional age, you know, though if you mean to set a new trend, my baby sister will be thrilled.”

  “Desperate, I suppose,” the blonde sighed. “What with only the one to offer. Shame, really. Lord Damien is handsome for an older man. A son in his image would have been something to see.”

  This seemed to be a point of emphatic agreement between the three, and they spent a brief moment debating the qualities of said imaginary offspring before returning their pitying attentions to me.

  “Ah, well,” Lavender lamented once more. “Perhaps this one will sprout a cock and we’ll have something new to entertain us in…” She paused, looking me over as though deciphering my age. “…five or six years.”

  “Are you certain you’re a girl?” the brunette added before I could muster a response, glancing at my flat bosom with a pointed raise of her brows.

  As the two girls laughed, the third began to circle me, her sleek russet gown trailing on the marble. Sharp, dark features surveyed me from all sides, sending gooseflesh up my arms.

  Predators, indeed.

  I set my jaw and tightened my hands into fists, battling for my long-lost composure, but it remained firmly buried beneath the flood of anger that had taken up residence in my chest.

  “I saw her eyeing Remy earlier,” the darker one purred to her companions, her voice like smoke. “Nolan as well.”

  Considering the way the other two perked in alarm, this was clearly a serious transgression. Whoever the young men in question were, the mere suggestion of my interest in them turned their collective air of sharp-edged teasing into something far more vicious. As one, their shoulders tensed, heavily-kohled eyes hardening, painted lips tightening to thin lines. After a brief silence, the blonde huffed a haughty, scathing laugh and gave me another searing once-over.

  “Not to worry,” she dismissed in a smug tone that turned my already hot blood to boiling. “I’m quite certain any man of quality would rather take House Lazerin’s livestock to bed than its heir.”

  I was two breaths away from hitting her in the face when a rich, masculine voice intruded from somewhere to my left, sharp with scorn despite its warm tenor.

  “You may be surprised to find that very few share your rather unsettling proclivities, Patricia.”

  I tore my gaze from my elegant tormentors to see a bright-eyed young man with a careless smirk painted across his handsome face. A year or two my elder, his jacket matched the auburn waves of his hair, carelessly unbuttoned to reveal the fine silk shirt beneath, wholly out of sorts among such pristine company. He tilted his head in taunt, sharp amber eyes fixed on the girl in lavender.

  “Does your mother mind terribly when you borrow her stallion?” he drawled, swirling the wine in his hand. “What was his name again? Edgar?”

  Her pretty face tightened with fury, her two compatriots stiffening in tandem. Her lips parted to spit some scathing reply, but he cut her off with immaculate timing and a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Run along, little vipers. Surely you’ve more sporting game available to you this evening.”

  The look on his face all but dared them to protest. Patricia’s lips curled in something between a smirk and a snarl, but she held her tongue. As if by some unspoken consensus, the three shot me one final withering glare before disappearing back into the crowd.

  “Sorry about that,” he lilted, plucking a second glass of wine from a passing servant’s tray and offering it to me. “Even more sorry for Lilith, who will likely be their next target.”

  I accepted the proffered glass, pity stirring for whatever young woman was doomed to suffer their brutal attentions in my stead.

  “Don’t fret,” he added blithely, as though he could read my face. I realized, having been so thoroughly disarmed by the encounter, that he – and everyone else in the room – could most likely do just that. I struggled to drag my composure back into place while he continued his casual banter. “The young Miss Evitra might be soft-spoken, but she can hold her own, even against those vultures.”

  “They’re afraid of you,” I marveled aloud, reflecting on the rather satisfying way he’d sent them fleeing.

  He flashed me a wicked grin. “Everyone fears the power of the immortal verse.”

  The Royal Poet’s son. The revelation reinvigorated me, dispelling my lingering embarrassment and replacing it with my armory of unseen weapons.

  “A power you exercise freely?” I asked with a coy quirk of my brow.

  “The most effective weapons are those left to your enemy’s imagination.”

  “Agrippius.”

  “A scholar!” he gasped with delight.

  “A captive,” I corrected. “And I’m fairly certain Etracus was referring to siege weapons rather than poetry in that particular scene, but I’ll give you credit all the same.”

  “Most kind of you.”

  “I live to please.”

  He settled against the column beside me with the kind of ease usually reserved for friends of long standing, and followed my gaze out into the crowd.

  “In truth, not left entirely to their imagination,” he confessed after a moment. “I did see to the circulation of a rather unflattering limerick involving one Lady Yvonne fen Agreil.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Mm.”

  “…Ah.”

  “She beat a serving boy quite badly when he spilled a bit of velouté on her gown.” His deceptively casual tone had reclaimed its sharp edges with the words, chasing the smile from his face. “In the privacy of her own home, of course, but servants do love to gossip.”

  “So you wrote a poem to ruin her?”

  He glanced my way, and something proud and vicious gleamed in his amber eyes. “Not ruin. Erase.”

  It wasn’t for any self-aggrandizement or vindictive whim, I realized as I watched him stare into the crowd and pretend apathy. That pride was rooted in a sense of justice. He hadn’t needed to act. No insult had been giving to him or his House. He would have lost nothing, standing by and ignoring the gossip like everyone else. And yet he’d chosen to see that cruelty answered for one powerless young boy, whose name he likely didn’t even know.

  “You’re staring,” he pointed out dryly, flicking an amused smirk my way. “Still trying to puzzle out who I am?”


  “Oh I know who you are,” I dismissed. “I’m trying to guess why you’re so uncommonly crass for a Chamberlain. At first I thought perhaps you were simply arrogant, but that’s not it at all.”

  “And to think, we were getting on so well…”

  “You’re a cynic. A fatalist.”

  “A hazard of the post, I’m afraid.”

  “But somehow still a bleeding heart for the less fortunate.”

  “You, my sheltered little dove, are far more naïve than I originally thought if you think anyone at Court has anything close to resembling a heart.”

  “I take it that’s wine in your veins, then?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he answered, peering at the glass in his hand. “A good percentage of it, at least.”

  As if to confirm his theory, he drained the remainder and abandoned his post to trade the empty glass for a full one on a passing tray. Replenished, he spun to face me with a playful flourish, not spilling a drop.

  “Seeing as we’ve barreled past the pleasantries and dived straight into incessant sarcasm…” He swept a theatrical bow. “Aubrey ben Chamberlain, son of Augustus, at your service.” He straightened and pointed at me with his glass-wielding hand. “And you are the girl-heir of House Lazerin.”

  “Elivya,” I confirmed, raising my own nearly untouched wine. “Just Elivya.”

  Crystal rims met with a delicate chime.

  “Yes, please, just Aubrey.” He slumped back against the marble column beside me and followed my gaze to the carefully-coordinated trio of lavender, rose, and russet slowly circling the room. “Cynic or otherwise,” he continued conversationally, “you ought to take more care in this company. Those girls would gladly destroy your reputation just for sport.”

  “They caught me off-guard. It won’t happen again.”

  His shrewd eyes flitted my way. “Will you lead with the fists, next time, then?”

  I took a tactfully silent sip of my wine.

  “Would have paid to see that,” he added brightly. “Though I think the King’s Guard might’ve asked you to leave after.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Oh yes,” he replied solemnly. “To spill blood on the king’s birthday is a grave offense.”