by Tara West
“I’m sorry, miss.” Phoebe paled. “You must wear cotton tonight. Our lady says you are to dine with the zetas.”
“Me?” Jade gasped. “There must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake.” Phoebe frowned. “She was very specific.”
“This is an outrage.” Jade turned deep crimson. “My father is a senator.”
Kyria was so angry, she was seeing red. She seethed, digging her nails into the silk sheets. Melandris had stripped Jade’s rank to punish Kyria, knowing that punishing her friend would hurt her more. “I’ll go in Jade’s place,” she said with clenched teeth. “She will take mine.”
Phoebe twisted the frayed hem of her wool belt, poorly stitched with dull brown fibers. “Our lady has placed guards outside your door to make sure you follow her orders.”
Kyria’s heart slammed against her ribcage. The bitch had gone too far.
Jade clutched Kyria’s wrist in a panic. “I will send for my father. He won’t stand for this.”
“Our lady has sent all couriers away,” Phoebe said so faintly, Kyria had to strain to hear her.
Jade obviously heard her; she crossed her arms, letting out an indignant snort. “Then I will stay in my room. They will not force me to attend the zeta banquet.”
Phoebe bowed to Jade. “As you wish.” At the armoire, she rummaged through Kyria’s silks until she found the lavender gown with the sheer sleeves. “My lady, your gown.”
Kyria slipped her hand in Jade’s, refusing to get out of bed. “I’m staying, too.”
Phoebe frowned. “She said if you refuse to go, I must bring the guards.”
“What are they going to do?” She shared a look with Jade. “Wrap me in silks? Braid my hair?”
“No,” Phoebe said, twisting her belt until the ends unraveled. “But they will hold you down while I do.”
Melandris had to be bluffing. Guards weren’t allowed in a priestess’s bedchambers. Melandris risked the standing of the temple and a lawsuit from Kyria’s parents by allowing them inside. Should a guard tarnish her reputation, calling into question her virginity, her bride price would plummet and her rank stripped. Was Melandris willing to go that far over a grudge?
“Please, miss.” Phoebe’s eyes welled with tears. “If you disobey her orders, I will receive the beating.”
She flinched. She hated slavery, denying any man or woman their free will, and the notion of her actions causing harm to a slave made her physically ill.
Jade squeezed her hand. “Go to the banquet, Kyria.”
She feathered a kiss across her smooth forehead. “I will,” she whispered, “and when I’m there, I’ll give that old witch a piece of my mind.”
KYRIA STORMED INTO the banquet room, nearly running into a slave who rushed past her with a jug of wine, sweat dripping down her brow as she tried not to slosh the crimson liquid on the floor.
“Beg pardon, miss.” The slave set the jug on a long table and then raced back to the kitchen. Temple slaves scuttled about like headless dragons, sweeping slate floors, shining candlesticks, scrubbing the hearths, and shaking dust off drapes.
Melandris stood in the center of it all, barking orders, her thick eyeliner forming black teardrops under her eyes as she wiped sweat off her forehead.
“Melandris.” Kyria pulled back her shoulders and walked up to her nemesis. “I need to have a word with you.”
“Not now, child. I must prepare for the banquet.” The head priestess dismissed her, sidestepping her while barking orders.
Refusing to be deterred, she followed at her heels. “Jade’s father is a senator. You will catch hell for demoting her.”
Melandris turned, her ruby-red upper lip pulled back in a sneer. “Play nice with the prince tonight, and I will reinstate her.”
“The prince?” Kyria was momentarily dumbstruck. He never left the palace.
Her painted cheeks flushed a darker crimson. “I was just made aware he will be in attendance.”
There was something Melandris wasn’t telling her.
“Is he looking for a bride?” That was the purpose of these banquets, for men to seek out mates among the nation’s most eligible young women from the influential families in their spheres. Was the reclusive prince finally ready to marry?
“He wishes to speak with the priestess who battled the dragon.” There was no mistaking the venom in Melandris’s tone, which was as caustic as a sea serpent’s spit.
“Oh.” A thought struck her. If she could have a moment alone with him, she might convince him to pardon the slave child.
Melandris grabbed her arm, digging sharp nails into Kyria’s skin. “If you have brought disgrace to our temple over your foolish attempt at bravery, by the goddess, I will make you pay.”
Seeing the hate in Melandris’s eyes left her speechless. Why would the prince leave the safety of the palace to see her? Why not invite her to the palace instead?
She was barely aware of the stabbing pain of Melandris’s sharp fingernails before the priestess released her and stomped away in a huff.
A familiar squeal in her ear made her flinch. Albina and Flavia, two priestesses whose fathers were wealthy winery owners, looked her over as if she was a prized sow. “Did you hear the prince is coming?”
Albina’s gaze was direct, though with her bulging eyes, she couldn’t help it. Tall and lanky, her pronounced chin stuck out almost as far as her long nose, making her gaunt profile resemble a crescent moon. Flavia was as short as Albina was tall, her face and bottom round from years of stealing tea cakes from the kitchen. Distant cousins, they had hair the color of wheat and eyes to match, and they were approaching matronly status as the oldest priestesses in the temple.
Kyria bore no ill will toward the pair, though their incessant giggling and gossiping was annoying. “I heard,” she said dryly, bracing herself for an interrogation.
Albina rocked on her heels. “We hear he’s coming specifically to see you.”
Feigning disinterest, Kyria picked grime from under her fingernails, alarmed when she saw the polish had worn off after a night scrubbing shit pots. “So our head priestess has said.”
“Aren’t you excited?” Flavia shrieked.
She arched a brow. Perhaps the temple gossips knew something she didn’t. “Should I be?”
“Yes!” Albina’s large eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. “He’s never left the palace before.”
“His father keeps him secluded.” Flavia nodded enthusiastically, her head bobbing so hard, Kyria feared her neck would snap.
Albina waggled thin brows. “But he’s venturing out just to see you.”
Kyria knew this. She forced a smile. “Do we even know what he looks like?”
“My father said he’s identical to the king but with less gray hair,” Albina said.
“And he has the Milas eyes,” Flavia said, “black like his father and his father before him.”
“Black eyes?” Kyria snorted. “Surely you are mistaken. Nobody has black eyes.”
“She’s not.” Albina looked over her shoulder before turning to her with a hiss. “My father says it’s genetic.”
Kyria narrowed her eyes at the pair. They were known as the temple gossips. This had to be another one of their wild tales.
“My father thinks they were darkened by his mage’s magic,” Flavia said.
Now they had to be lying. “What kind of magic?” she asked, deciding to play along.
Flavia shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Is his mage good or bad?” She pressed.
The pair shared puzzled looks.
“We don’t know,” Albina answered. “Our fathers have never met her.”
Flavia fanned her face with a lacy pink monstrosity. “I hope the prince is not mad like the king, too.”
“Hush.” Albina elbowed her cousin. “Before you get in trouble.” She latched onto her arm, hissing in her ear while dragging her away. She cast a furtive glance at Kyria before disappearin
g into the garden through heavy curtains.
As Kyria stood in the center of the hall, the buzz of servants and light from the flickering sconces dimming, a heavy ache settled in her chest. Other than the time she’d heard her brother’s terrified cries, followed by a deafening silence, she was more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. That’s when she realized Melandris had separated her from Jade for more than spite. She wanted Kyria to be alone when she faced the prince. The ache in her chest fell to her stomach like a bag of bricks and she wondered if this meeting would forever alter the course of her life.
Chapter Four
AFTER KYRIA WAS FORCED to endure face painting and finger and toenail scrubbing from Melandris’s servants, she scowled at her reflection in the tall mirror beside the wine server. She wore far too much makeup, with eyeliner so thick, she resembled a raccoon, but her nails were trimmed and polished a bright pink to match her silk gown. Melandris had made her change from her lavender silks, saying she was too understated. She felt like a court jester in the bright gown that almost matched the drapes, and she wondered if Melandris had dressed her in such obnoxious attire to flatter her or to shame her.
She stood in the shadows of an alcove by the kitchen, hiding from the temple’s noble guests, thankful for the pleasing melody of the lyre in the distance which drowned out the boorish chatter and incessant giggling coming from the banquet room. She tried to stay out of the way and remain inconspicuous, a difficult task when frantic slaves rushed in and out through the curtains, carrying platters of fruit and jugs of wine. Melandris said Kyria wasn’t to make herself known until the prince made his appearance. She had no desire to meet the noblemen attending the banquet anyway. Most were twice her age, with portly wine bellies, grabby hands, and leering eyes. She shuddered to think what sharing a marriage bed with one of them would be like.
She heard a familiar whistle, and a pale hand waved to her from behind a curtain.
She deftly slipped behind it and took Jade’s hand in hers to pull her into a fierce hug. She’d missed her badly. “My dear friend, how did you escape?”
There was no mistaking the scent of sweet wine on Jade’s breath. Her friend had been sneaking drinks more often lately, and Kyria was starting to worry.
“I climbed down the tree,” Jade said, a tremor in her voice.
Kyria ran her hands over Jade, swearing when she felt a long, bloody welt on her left arm. “Without me to help you?” She picked grass from Jade’s hair. “You could’ve been killed.” Did the girl have a death wish?
“I heard my guards talking,” she said on a hiss, her words like flaming arrows searing the air between them. “They say the prince is coming.”
She shrugged, pretending a visit from the prince was no big deal and her world wasn’t about to turn on its axis. “That is what Melandris said.”
Jade’s brows were pinched. “Stay away from him.”
How was she supposed to avoid the future king, and why would she want to? Did Jade truly care about Kyria’s welfare, or did she simply want to keep her for herself?
“He’s dangerous.” Jade squeezed Kyria’s shoulders so hard, her bones ached. “You heard his guards last night, threatening to rape us and snap our necks.”
“Those were the king’s guards, and the prince is coming specifically to see me. I can hardly avoid him.”
“Kyria,” Jade cried shrilly, “every queen for the past sixty years has died prematurely.”
She arched a brow. “How many queens was that?”
“Three,” Jade said, desperately searching Kyria’s face, “but there is a rumor the kings murdered their queens after they gave birth to sons.”
She knew all too well that false rumors spread faster than a plague in a Sawran prison. Pulling free of Jade, she crossed her arms, eyes narrowing on her friend. “I heard they died in childbirth.”
“Just as you heard Fae Fever was brought by the Fae.”
Jade struck a prayer pose. “Please keep your distance.”
Kyria would not succumb to her friend’s hysterics. “He has the power to save the child.”
“What?”
“The slave girl,” she snapped, cross with her for forgetting. “He has the power to stop her execution.”
“Oh, goddess,” Jade cried. “You play with fire.”
A trumpet blared so loudly, Kyria flinched and Jade backed into the window, shielding her ears.
“Announcing His Royal Highness, Prince Ahri Milas!” The words rang out, echoing through Kyria’s secluded alcove.
She planted a quick kiss on Jade’s brow, surprised when she tasted perspiration. “I have to go, dear friend. Wish me luck.”
“You will need more than luck,” Jade moaned, her voice watery with tears.
Unlatching the window, Kyria nudged it open and pushed her friend outside. “Go. I will be fine.”
Jade slipped out and stood against a trellis covered in hanging ivy, illuminated by the bright moon. Her forlorn look reminded Kyria of a mourner at a funeral, casting one last wistful glance at a shrouded corpse before setting flame to the pyre. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at her theatrics, she closed the window. Heaving a shaky breath, she purposefully marched into the grand banquet room.
She recognized the prince right away. He was dressed in navy and gold silk with a simple crown on his head. Of average height, with alabaster skin and hair the color of the inky black pools below Mt. Olion, he was by far the most handsome man in the room, and he was looking right at her.
Melandris, standing beside him, waved her over impatiently, giving her a hot glare.
“Your Highness,” Melandris said in a tone thicker and sweeter than unrefined honey. “Allow me to introduce Lady Kyria Faustus, daughter of Lord Faustus of Thiva.”
“I know who she is,” he said with an impish smile. “Now leave us.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” She bowed, her painted cheeks turning brighter, and scurried away.
The prince bridged the distance between them in in two long strides and bowed low to Kyria. “My lady.” He held out his hand.
She sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes were indeed black as Albina and Flavia had said.
“Your Highness.” Feeling ten shades of embarrassed as the soft hum of the lyre abruptly stopped and all eyes in the room turned to them, she held out her hand, fighting the urge to pull back when he kissed the tips of her fingers. Such a familiar gesture, and she didn’t even know him. Was this how a prince was supposed to act when meeting a subject? When he straightened, she realized they were the same height.
Holding out his elbow, he winked at her, the dimples in his smile becoming more pronounced. “Will you take a stroll with me?”
She forced the nervousness from her voice. “Of course.” Slipping her hand in the crook of his arm, she strode with him out into the courtyard with a mixed feeling of relief and apprehension when nobody followed them.
They reached a raised tile fountain with a stone-carved depiction of a sea leviathan in the center, blowing a stream of water into the air. Though the carving was accurate and eerily beautiful, the royal blue stone polished to perfection, she’d never understood why anyone would think it was appropriate after too many Dragon Defenders had lost their limbs and lives to the beasts. Then again the people of Sawran rarely stopped to appreciate the sacrifices the Defenders made for them.
He sat on the rim, and she did likewise, putting enough space between them to maintain decency.
He cast a cursory glance at the dragon statue. “You are sister to our national hero?”
She searched for any hint as to why he would request a private meeting. “I am.”
“He holds the record for the most dragon kills, slaying more in three years than most defenders have in a lifetime.” He blinked, his words sounding rehearsed, spoken without inflection. “Then he took on Fanfir by himself, driving the dragon back into the sea before sacrificing himself to save his brothers.”
A knot of apprehension tig
htened her throat. “Yes.”
“You must be very proud of him.”
When he slid smoothly toward her and settled a hand on hers, she fought the urge to pull away. “I am.” She didn’t want to tell the prince how many nights she’d cursed Alexi for abandoning her to this cruel world.
“You’re the priestess who bravely fought the dragon that breached our city walls. I can tell by the way you hold yourself. You’re different from the other girls here.” He gave her a smile that could have been a snarl. “You’re no simpering virgin.”
Well, he certainly got to the point. A proper priestess would’ve been offended by his bluntness, and though she’d never considered herself proper, a dark seed in her gut began to sprout shriveled black leaves. “I didn’t do much.”
“You’re being modest.” He squeezed her hand. “You took great risk.”
She looked down at his hand, not big like Theron’s, whose fingers wrapped firmly around the thick hilt of his curved sword. And not callused like Titus’s and Quin’s, which were covered in cuts and scars from years of hard work. The prince’s hands were those of a man who’d spent years hiding behind a castle wall with many servants to attend him. She prayed his years of luxury hadn’t made him impervious to the suffering of Delfi’s slaves.
“And yet my risk was all for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
He moved so close to her, she thought she caught the faint trace of cotulla flowers on his breath. “The child I saved will be executed.”
One brow lifted as he squeezed her hand even tighter. “Why?”
His grip was bruising, and she fought the urge to jerk her hand away. Did he realize he squeezed her aching fingers too tight? “Because she didn’t defend her master against the dragon, even though she’s no older than ten.”
She heaved a sigh of relief when he released her and shot to his feet. “When is her execution?”
“I’m not sure.” She shook out a cramp. “Possibly this week.”
