by Amanda Joy
CHAPTER 13
I RESTED MY hand on Baccha’s forearm as the doors before us swung open. The crier’s magicked voice echoed through the Throne Room. “Her Highness Princess Evalina Grace Killeen, Rival Heir to the Throne of Myre.” There was a pause, just long enough for me to draw breath. “Attended by Lord Baccha, Lord of the Wild Hunt, Lord of the Hounds.”
Word of my appearance needed to spread through every inch of Myre, rooting out rumors of my death. As the Court turned to stare at our entrance, I knew bringing Baccha had been the right decision. News of his presence in Ternain for the first time in two hundred years would soon be on every lip in the capital.
I was sore and stiff from so many days in bed, but I kept my back straight as we glided forward. Though healed, the wound I’d taken when fighting Dagon throbbed steadily. I liked that it served as a reminder, never letting me forget.
Dagon is dead and you killed him.
Mirabel had dressed me in a cobalt gown, the copper coins sewn onto the hem making music of my every movement. The tight bodice narrowed my waist, and the fitted skirt made much of my hips. It was beautiful and bright and not at all me. The cobalt dagger was House Killeen’s sigil. I hoped Mother would at least notice my efforts.
The weight of the Court’s attention pressed against my skin, but I focused instead on the one member of my family in my sight.
Mother’s face was its usual emotionless mask, unlike all the courtiers floating around her, who craned their necks in order to catch a glimpse of me. She positioned a silvery fan near her mouth, but held my gaze as Baccha guided us forward. Her bottle-green eyes flickered over him and she inclined her head, the barest smile passing her lips.
The crowd parted around us, all either too low in standing to approach or too surprised. A servant, a brown-skinned bloodkin girl with blank round eyes—she must have worked hard to perfect that look—greeted us with wine. I accepted a glass and thanked her.
Baccha looked down at me with a stiff, though still adequately dazzling, smile. It took me a moment to return it. I’d tried to bury my mistrust of Baccha when Falun brought the Hunter to my rooms, hoping he wouldn’t sense it through the bond. But I wasn’t sure my efforts had been successful. I had to stop myself several times on the walk down from asking him about the coins. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet all morning. Though perhaps that could be attributed to the twenty-five soldiers who escorted us here.
Getting the truth out of Baccha would have to wait until I’d found my way out of Ternain.
He glanced toward the dais. “Her Majesty the Queen, I presume?”
I nodded. “Thoughts?”
“I see her in you,” he murmured quietly, for my ears only. “Although I hope you won’t petrify with age as she has.”
“You might amend your opinion. She may seem icy now, but she can be charming, especially to handsome fey men.”
“I shall not,” he announced. “Any woman who would greet her daughter with such a cold expression will have trouble charming me. Besides, my fearsome reputation always trumps my stunning visage—unfortunate as that may be.”
“We’ll see.”
“And what of your sister? The overwhelmingly pretty?”
I arched an eyebrow. “How do you know she’s overwhelmingly pretty?”
Baccha just smiled, all slow and filled with wicked mirth. “I gather, from the tone of your voice, I’m not allowed to bed her.”
His efforts to distract me made it difficult to maintain my Court expression—pleasant, vacant, and aloof—because I wanted to both laugh and step on his foot.
I dug my nails into his arm. “No, Baccha. You’re not allowed to bed any Killeen Princesses or Queens.”
“Oh, but what about Princes? You’re sure you don’t have an older secret brother hiding among these lovely creatures?” He cast an admiring look around the room. “I could do well with a Prince, especially—”
I pinched him and he let out an undignified yelp.
“Baccha.” I sighed. “Please, let’s just . . . see my mother.”
I tugged him forward. I hoped I wouldn’t encounter Isadore today—at least not until after I’d dealt with Mother.
I hauled him through throngs of gaping courtiers—the smiles Baccha threw their way ranging from rakish to bloodthirsty—until we reached the dais.
I let go of Baccha, threw my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and mounted the stairs of the dais.
I curled a finger and Baccha followed.
Mother’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she took us in. I stepped close to the throne, my eyes falling on my favorite carving, a woman like a lioness with flowers trailing down her body instead of clothes. I was surprised to see concern in Mother’s eyes when I reached out my hand to brush her cheek.
We put on quite a show.
A hush had fallen over the Throne Room. Now everyone watched as I looked at Baccha and nodded in Mother’s direction.
He fell to one knee. Any other Lord would have dropped to both knees before the Queen; even the Archdukes in the North did. One knee was the proper bow for a foreign dignitary—meaning he respected Mother’s authority but considered himself not bound by her rule.
And our earlier maneuvering had made it perfectly clear that Baccha fell well within mine. We had planned this, but it was no less satisfying to see Mother smother her annoyance beneath a smile.
But that was no surprise; she allowed nothing to show on her face unless it served her. At least not for long.
She gestured for Baccha to rise, while I grabbed a new glass of wine from the tray. Mother favored wines from the northern vineyards. This one was dry and bitter, a perfect pairing with trays of jellied guava, little gilt cups of pomegranate seeds, and painted paper sheaths of candied nuts.
It was a perfect representation of this place: bitterness among sweet luxury.
Mother made no effort to lower her voice when she spoke. Almost as if choreographed, the courtiers surged forward, straining their ears. “You might’ve mentioned that your fey bone-worker was the Lord of the Hunt, Eva.”
“My apologies, Mother,” I said. “As I said when we last spoke, I didn’t think you would believe me about his identity.”
“Well, I am glad to see you’ve recovered from the attack. I hope you didn’t mind the guards I left by your rooms. It . . . troubles me that you were attacked right in front of your guard,” she said, voice thick with worry. “Perhaps a change in leadership is necessary?”
“There was a spell keeping them from helping me.”
“Nevertheless, please keep my guards near you. We don’t want any more incidents.” She paused, glancing out at the Court. “Some courtiers were suggesting naming Isadore True Heir. If I hadn’t assured them you were well and safe, I might’ve had trouble putting them off.”
As if anyone could make my mother do anything. Only the Queen’s Council could force her hand and she had them all under her thumb.
“I was under the impression that a body was required to initiate the naming of the True Heir,” I said slowly. Anger hummed beneath my skin. An incident. That was what she called an attempt on my life. Like it was a mere inconvenience.
“Eh.” Mother shrugged, a minute lift of her shoulders that somehow exuded queenliness. “That is the usual custom, but these are pressing times. Your father writes often of new boldness in Dracol’s attacks on the border, and all of our eyes and ears at their King’s Court speak of new machines they believe will rival our magick. Impossible of course, but their wishful thinking nonetheless will result in death. Besides, after your . . . long absence, many in the Court still harbor concerns about your commitment to the crown.”
“The Court should be pleased, then, that my nameday approaches,” I answered, careful to smother the frustration in my voice. “We can only move ahead when I am of an age to ascend to the throne. I doubt we would
become more stable if Myreans doubted the veracity of a Rival Heir’s claim to the throne.”
She blinked at me. “Yes . . . that is true. Speaking of your nameday—it troubles me that your father seems to have pushed back his return from the North. I pray his work doesn’t keep him from your celebration, but who can know what these savage Dracolans will do?”
It took an effort not to roll my eyes at her hollow words. Savage was the insult leveled at all our enemies, even those within our own borders. Was she operating under the illusion that Myreans were tame?
Still, her mentioning my father before I could threw me. “Have his plans changed?”
“No, but they may,” Mother murmured. A smile flowed across her face, cold as Far Winter wind. “You never know what will happen in the North, sweet. Circumstances, matters of war, change not just by the day, but the hour. I would be surprised if he makes it before your nameday. At this point, even making it the day of seems a stretch.”
“That is why I’d like to visit him in Asrodei.” My face burned, but I fought to keep my expression smooth. “With your consent, of course.”
“So close to your nameday? There are less than two months left, darling.”
I mimicked her overly sweet tone. “Asrodei is only a week’s ride away, Mother. I will be gone for three or four weeks, at most. I’ll be back with time to spare.”
Mother’s eyebrows lifted mechanically, but her hands clenched the arms of the throne, blue lacquered nails like claws. To allow a glimpse of truth beneath her facade, she must have been truly surprised. “And what of your safety? If your guard can’t protect you in Ternain, how can I trust you’ll return to me unscathed?”
“That is why I planned to ask if you could spare five soldiers from your guard. Captain Anali will be glad to have the help.” I hated every cursed word. Any soldiers of hers would likely spy on me for her, but I could live with that.
“And will your guest be traveling with you?” Mother asked, in a voice like spreading frost. “What are your plans, Lord Hunter?”
Baccha, who had watched our exchange from beside me with growing discomfort, met my eyes before answering. “I plan to accompany Her Highness wherever she goes until her instruction is complete.”
I’d asked if he was willing to travel to Asrodei, or if he preferred to wait to resume our lessons when I returned. He’d agreed to join us and spoke of training on the ride there.
Mother turned her attention back to me. “Wonderful, especially that you feel so comfortable leaving Ternain at such an . . . overwhelming time. I know Isadore oversaw every detail of her coming-of-age ball.”
I took a steadying breath. “I trust Mirabel to see to all of the details that we haven’t already ironed out.”
Mother’s mouth puckered. She made no secret of her prejudice against Mirabel. For a long moment, silence lingered around us. “Very well, but you’ll bring fifteen additional soldiers.”
Relief coursed through me, though it was stymied by her demand. Fifteen soldiers, in addition to my twenty, would slow our progress. “Thank you, Mother.”
Before I could ask her to excuse us, she turned her attention to Baccha’s slender form. Baccha stood close, tension vibrating down his body.
“Lord Hunter,” Mother said, her voice adopting a husky quality. “I must admit some amazement to see you standing here, especially next to my dear Eva.”
How lovely to know I’d suddenly become her dear Eva.
“Your Majesty, I am honored that you even recognized my name. Few have seen me for who I am on this recent visit to Ternain,” Baccha answered in a broad, courtly voice. “In fact, that is why Princess Eva earned my respect and affection so quickly.”
Mother’s eyes brightened. “Eva loves her stories. I remember we once got into a heated discussion of one of the less famous tales surrounding your name. ‘The Robber Girl.’ Evalina believed you should have disobeyed the Queen and spared the girl. Where she got such a silly, romantic notion is beyond me.”
At the mention of the tale, Baccha’s face closed off, eyebrows flattening into pale, neat lines, and his lips pursed.
Although “The Robber Girl” was one of his lesser-known tales, mostly because there was no way to spin it in his favor, I had been fascinated. A girl with black hair and silver eyes had been seen stealing jewels all over Myre. She’d even snuck into the Palace and stolen from the crown. The Queen bade the Hunter to find her and demanded her punishment be worse than death. So the Hunter stole her away and kept her as a bride, just until she fell in love with him. The night she confessed her love, the Hunter returned her kiss, and then slit her throat.
Still coated in her blood, he carried the Robber Girl to Ternain and dropped her body at the base of the throne.
Or so the tale went.
I pinched the inside of my elbow, willing myself not to snap at her. “I was a child, Mother,” I said. “How heated can a discussion become at nine years old?”
“I remember you older, darling. And I remember you being quite adamant about it.”
Baccha lifted a hand to the small of my back and shook his head. “In those days, Princess,” he said, voice gone cold, “an oath taken to the Queen was set in one’s blood. It was virtually impossible to disobey.”
I looked up at Baccha, surprised to find he was smiling at me. But it wasn’t one of his usual ones, full of flirtation and guile. This was soft and terrible—and it cost him.
The river flowing between us bled wracking grief and rage. It was thick and thorny, even centuries later.
Baccha’s eyes widened as mine filled with tears.
Mother stared at us as if we’d both just sprouted an additional set of limbs. I straightened, smoothing damp palms on my dress.
I was busy thinking of some way to end this conversation, or at least steer it toward another subject, when my mother said, “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Shirea’s just come in and I must speak with her about news from the border.”
Lady Shirea was on the Queen’s Council. I opened my mouth—if she had news of the border, I wanted to hear it—but Baccha took my arm. He swept us away, dodging every courtier who drifted close enough to speak.
We ducked around a wide pillar in one of the private alcoves of the Throne Room. “Why did you do that?” I asked.
“What do you think your mother saw between us?”
“I don’t know. She saw that you were upset and that I became upset as well.”
“Think, Princess. You became . . . agitated because of me. What do you think will happen if your mother decides you’re in the thrall of a powerful fey? One as powerful as I am? If she should share that suspicion with other nobles?”
I would never see the throne. Every human noble would rebel to keep me from it. I sank back against the pillar. I started to rub my eyes, but remembered the layers of powder, kohl, and paint I’d applied this morning, and tugged at my hair instead. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I am. I shouldn’t have . . . I should have known she would find some way to manipulate me. After all, I’d just watched her do the same to you.” He massaged his temples. “Now, shall we see your sister or have you had enough of this place?”
I’d had more than enough, and as much as Baccha had returned to his usual self, I knew from the aching silence of the bond that Mother’s words had cracked open something in him.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, but as soon as we returned to the wider room, I heard familiar laughter and groaned.
“I assume that your sister is in the group of courtiers walking toward us. Shall we make a mad dash for the doors, then?”
An emotion suffused from the bond. Calm.
I wouldn’t run from Isadore again. Baccha pulled me forward and into the den we went.
She stood in the center of a large group of courtiers, each one carefully ignoring my presence until I stood
before them.
She looked lovely, in a simple gown the color of the sky, with a square neckline and long sheer sleeves. Her fingernails were lacquered white and her hair hung down to her waist in elaborate golden spirals. She, like Mother, carried a fan. Although it hid half her face, her eyes were tight with an emotion I found impossible to read.
She stood between two young fey men, Lord Katro and Lord Patric, both sons of Lady Shirea. They stared openly at Baccha, an edge of hostility puckering their lips.
I stepped forward as Isadore lowered the fan. My thumb traced the line of her jaw, while she cupped my cheek.
Isadore smiled. One of her dangerous ones—light as a petal, sharp as a knife.
Like a rabbit catching sight of a looming hawk, I went still.
Baccha cleared his throat and I remembered myself. “Lord Baccha, may I introduce my sister, Princess Isadore.”
My eyes fell to Isadore’s hands, moving beneath those long sheer sleeves. I’d been expecting it, given the show she put on last time I was at Court, so I felt the exact moment magick blew from her skin.
She cast it in a wide net; it fell over my mind like a light shroud, making the air around me shimmer and twitch.
Isadore’s hair became shot through with silver and gold, her eyes a more intense green. Her skin was flushed and luminous—near metallic, as if she were fey.
I swayed, drawn to the sweet smile on her face, the wondrous color of her hair, but I pinched my arm, the pain sharpening me until her magickally enhanced beauty faded.
Katro and Patric stared at Isadore openmouthed, eyes dull.
“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Baccha,” Isadore said. My skin crawled when Baccha bowed and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. My sister watched me, making plain the admiration in her eyes, hoping, probably, that she would see jealousy in mine.
“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness,” Baccha said. Her magick didn’t seem to affect him.
With a irritated frown, she drew back from Baccha, her magick melting away.