Before my father and I left for Kronga, my mother told me that I was the key in the negotiation and that my betrothal would bring peace to both lands.
“Thousands of people,” she had said, adjusting my red wimple, “have counted down to this moment since the day you were born, my little Gisela. So be brave, and on your fourteenth birthday, in exactly seven more years, I will travel with you to witness your wedding.”
Could my parents not find a better way to celebrate my birthdays? But back then, I was naïve enough to be thrilled. I had even looked forward to the summers I was to spend in Kronga until my wedding to Prince Jerrik, when the mountainous northern kingdom would become my permanent home.
But memories are strange, bizarre even. Some disappear while others survive in perfect clarity. Distorted and biased, twisted and blurred, memories weave a colorful tapestry that is often fiction as much as fact.
I remember how the peasants pushed their noses between the bars of the iron gate to get a glimpse of the foreign princess with her father, the mighty king of Steinland, and the long line of Red guards behind us. I even remember how the trumpets swelled in a final welcome before the cathedral doors swung open, and a man announced us in a loud voice.
“King Arnold the Red and Princess Gisela of Steinland!”
Even now, I can recall how he exaggerated each “s” in my name, like a snake.
That should have been my first warning.
The inside of the cathedral loomed large and so ominously dark compared to the bright outdoors. My eyes, weak since birth, struggled to adjust. I could not see young Jerrik. I could not find his parents nor the archbishop. All I could make out were blurs and shapes. The altar—or what I hoped was the altar—seemed like an eternity away.
My governess, Mistress Maram, had warned me no less than a thousand times that if I squinted even once during the betrothal ceremony, she would have me flogged. But how could I perform my duty if I could not see?
“Do not stop,” my father hissed. “Move!”
As practiced, I began the march toward the altar, my red train trailing behind me three paces. People on both sides of the aisle bowed low. The men wore odd-looking puffy blue trousers, and the women wore dome-like headdresses split in the middle. I wonder now how we looked to them, a trail of red in a sea of blue. Did they secretly hate us? Did they know what was coming? Yet I was to be their future queen.
Hands stiffly at my sides, I remember practicing the Krongon phrases my language tutor had taught me, the equivalent of “Your Majesties” and “I do.” Master Nefin promised I would not have to say anything beyond that. Turns out, I did not have to say anything at all.
As I drew near, I could finally see King Frederik and Queen Celicia in front of the altar.
King Frederik smiled. “King Arnold, Princess Gisela, welcome to Kronga.”
I am still proud that I could understand every word he spoke. In contrast, an interpreter stepped forward to translate for my father.
While the two kings discussed how, after years of animosity, it was wonderful for our two kingdoms to finally unite, I grew curious about my soon-to-be fiancé. Prince Jerrik stood a couple paces away, facing the archbishop.
At eleven, Jerrik seemed so much taller and more mature than me—even more than the portrait they had sent of him. Like the others, he wore puffy satin trousers in deep, royal blue. Upon his long, blue robe was embroidered the Krongon coat of arms: two fierce lions rearing up, looking ready to tear each other’s throats out.
That should have been my second warning.
Yet, I really only cared about one thing: Jerrik’s hair was light blond as if kissed by the sun itself. His skin was tanner than proper for a royal, so in that way we were the opposite. But his hair was almost as light as mine. I wanted to rip off my long, red headdress and show him my snowy-white ringlets. but Mistress Maram had threatened me about that as well.
“Do not let a single strand of your hair show during the entire trip,” she had scolded. “Not one.”
Even at a young age, I was taught to be ashamed of my appearance. Mistress Maram kept me well covered, trying to hide what I was.
Why then, did Jerrik refuse to look at me? The entire time the kings conversed, I remember how Jerrik stared straight ahead at the altar. So, I did what any excited seven-year-old birthday girl would do.
I waved.
Jerrik’s eyes flickered to me, but he faced front again. So . . . I waved harder. I cringe now in memory, but back and forth my hand wagged like a lunatic in front of a cathedral full of Krongon nobles at a ceremony between less-than-friendly nations. People in the pews behind us chuckled. Jerrik’s cheeks reddened, but he still refused to look at me, the birthday girl—his future wife. I will never forget how that stung my tender, little heart.
No matter how hard I try, I recall little of the ceremony itself other than the archbishop instructing Jerrik to place the betrothal diadem—a beautiful silver crown—atop my red headdress. The crown shook in his hands, as if he was nervous. Being the compassionate child that I was, I wanted to stomp on his foot.
But that is where things turn hazy.
One moment Jerrik was placing the crown upon my head, and the next, King Frederik was shouting a single word over and over, a Krongon word I did not know yet. I looked up in time to see the northern king draw a sword from inside his blue robe and lunge.
Toward me.
My father was faster. Unsheathing his own sword, he leapt forward and parried. Their swords clashed, swung again, and locked.
“Skaba! Skaba!” King Frederik shouted in my father’s face, a word I have since learned means “Attack!”
The interior of the cathedral erupted into chaos. People screamed. Guards from both kingdoms ran forward.
I have always known my father to be a master swordsman, but knowing and seeing are two different things. The kings’ swords locked for the space of two heartbeats before my father shoved back and slashed King Frederik across the neck.
Blood splattered.
King Frederik collapsed, dead.
I had no time to react. An oncoming guard charged me. My father spun, slashed the guard, and, in a move so swift it was blurred to my weak eyes, he ran his sword through Prince Jerrik’s abdomen next.
Just that fast.
Just that effortlessly.
I cannot remember screaming or anything beyond the way young Jerrik fell to his knees, staring down at the dark spot staining the blue satin deep purple.
The blood.
How I wish I could forget the blood.
Or the way Jerrik looked up at me, so betrayed. As if I had killed him. As if we had attacked first.
I know now that the entire ceremony had been a ruse, a trap to lure us to Kronga under the guise of peace. But Jerrik had not anticipated his father’s treachery any more than we had. Had my own father not reacted so quickly, I would not be alive today.
But what I cannot fathom is that King Frederik had attacked us in a church before the altar of God—at the betrothal of children, no less. What savagery! What wicked cruelty of the northern king. But not his son. Just because Jerrik had snubbed me did not make him a barbarian like his father. After all, what boy wants to be aligned with a stupid, grinning girl from enemy lands? To this day, I hold Jerrik blameless. Not that it matters. The innocent often fall with the guilty.
My last memory is watching Prince Jerrik of Kronga tumble face-first onto the stone cathedral floor, light hair spilling around him.
They tell me the Red guards whisked me away.
They tell me I was the first out of the cathedral.
Did I kick? Did I scream as they carried me to safety? I cannot even remember the long journey home.
It took a week before I knew my father had survived, and three months for his injuries to heal. By then, he had shipped me away into hiding, and we were in a full-scale war.
For ten long years, Queen Celicia has fought to finish the war her husband started.
&n
bsp; For ten years, she has hunted me.
Because I lived.
And her son did not.
end of sample
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SADIE DAWSON THINKS SHE HAS the perfect life until misunderstandings and accusations throw her life into turmoil. Terrified, she flees her boyfriend's wrath and is taken in by four quirky, goofy guys on their annual holiday ski vacation. As wounds heal, Sadie wonders if she will ever be able to escape the clutches of her wealthy and determined boyfriend. But just when her heart settles, she finds herself abandoned for a religion she doesn't understand. She must discover who has her best interests at heart and who she can trust…before it's too late.
"Keeps readers on the edge of their seats until the very last word." - Deseret News
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REBECCA LUND BELLISTON loves to write. Sometimes she writes novels: clean romances with heart-pounding suspense. Sometimes she writes music: religious and classical style. When she’s not writing or chasing her five kids, she likes to curl up with a good book, play tennis, and make sarcastic comments—usually not at the same time. She and her family live in the beautiful state of Michigan which she loves for eight months of the year (she’s a baby about cold weather). Visit her website for characters, maps, music, and other fun freebies: www.rebeccabelliston.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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