For a terrified moment, Clare froze. But she’d trained for this. For weeks, she’d studied to walk like Serene, talk like her. She couldn’t let fear cripple her now. She set her chin forward and swallowed back panic as they stepped into the ballroom.
Many nobles waved to her, offering their congratulations on her upcoming marriage or trying to engage her in conversation, but Bennick steered her through them, leading her to the dais where the king waited on his throne. Grandeur sat on a slightly shorter throne on the king’s right, his guards around him. The throne on the king’s left was empty. Seeing it made Clare’s heart stumble.
Bennick paused at the base of the dais and bowed to the royals already seated. Clare dipped into a slight curtsy, just as Mistress Henley had taught her, and the king nodded for them to rise. Clare didn’t ease her grip on Bennick’s arm as he helped her up the few short steps. She lowered herself onto the princess’s throne, shifting uncomfortably in it. Bennick slid into position behind her and she saw Venn and Dirk at the front corner of the dais, scanning the colorful assemblage, mirroring the other royal bodyguards.
Clare caught sight of Ser Havim and Amil near the dais. The emissary’s son shot her a grin, raising his wineglass in a wordless salute. She gave him a tight nod, trying to force her smile into a relaxed curve.
King Newlan stood. The musicians cut off and talking ceased. Newlan spread his hands. “Noblest of Devendra, I welcome you tonight. I won’t bore you with long speeches. Many of you were in court today and have no doubt heard enough from me.” Polite chuckles and headshakes rippled through the crowd. Newlan smiled, the torchlight catching his white teeth. “Tonight’s celebration is, from the outside, a celebration of my birth. But that’s an unfair reason to celebrate in such spectacular style. No, I think of this day as a celebration of Devendra. Our nation is strong and will become stronger still when Princess Serene becomes Princess of Mortise. As royals, our lives are dedicated to you and the service of our kingdom. That’s why tonight isn’t about me, but about us all.”
The crowd cheered, and as Clare glanced over their faces, she wondered how many smiles were fake.
Newlan raised his hand, calming the room. “This historic alliance with Mortise will benefit us all, and bring new prosperity to our kingdom. My daughter will pave the way to a glorious future for Devendra. Those who were once enemies will become family. We will be stronger than before. Devendra will never fall!”
Applause rang sharply in Clare’s ears and her stomach pitched as she thought of the dangerous journey ahead of her. She wondered if the alarm she felt was an echo of what Serene felt at the thought of marrying Serjah Desfan. A stranger. An enemy.
“A round!” Newlan called.
Grandeur came to his feet and took Clare’s hand, pulling her up. His rich brown skin gleamed in the torchlight as they descended to the dancefloor, the entire room watching them.
Grandeur squeezed her hand and his white teeth flashed with his smile. She returned the gesture a little shakily and took her place in the traditional circle across from him
The musicians began to play and Clare watched from the corner of her eye for the lady beside her to sweep into a curtsy. She followed at once, and then stepped back as Grandeur stepped forward, sliding into the practiced dance.
As they moved together, Grandeur leaned in and whispered. “You’re doing well.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled, watching her as they circled each other. When the dance brought them back together, he tipped his mouth toward her ear. “Captain Markam can’t take his eyes off you.”
Heat infused her cheeks but she darted a look toward Bennick. Their eyes collided and her heartbeat quickened. She glanced back at the prince. “He’s my bodyguard. He’s supposed to watch me.”
Grandeur’s mouth twitched. “Ah.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
He took her hand as the dance dictated and spun her, first away from his body and then back to his side. He leaned in, his words lower than before. “When you admit it to yourself, please feel free to tell me.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolled his eyes and Clare fought a smile. The more time that passed since their conversation over tea, the more Clare thought less about her flash of unease when he’d asked her to spy on Serene. Grandeur was her friend among the royals, and he was only worried about Devendra. She couldn’t fault him for that, even if the thought of spying on Serene made her uncomfortable.
Grandeur was a graceful dancer, his hands strong as he guided her through the practiced steps. When it was time to switch partners, he spun her smoothly into the next man’s arms and the round continued unbroken.
The heat in the room increased as the night dragged on. The music was loud and a drum pounded incessantly in the corner. The spinning of the dancing didn’t help Clare’s growing headache. She was pulled from one circle to another, the dancing never-ending. Occasionally she spotted Venn, Dirk, or Bennick watching from the sidelines, only to lose them in the next turn.
Clare managed to beg her way out of the next dance and she drifted to the crowd’s edge for a brief reprieve. She caught sight of Bennick and some of the tightness in her chest loosened. He mirrored her steps, keeping close without actually joining her.
She wished he’d join her. If he were to dance with her, she would happily ignore her aching feet. She wondered what it would be like to have his hands around her on a dancefloor instead of a training field. Imagination sparked, quickening her pulse.
Behind her, sliding in between the music, laughter, and boom of conversation, Clare heard a low voice, thickly accented and speaking the rounded Mortisian language. The heat in his voice made her angle her head, straining to make out the conversation without drawing attention to herself.
“. . . doubt his logic,” Ser Havim growled.
“You should hold off on the wine,” Amil said, his voice stiff.
“Bah! You’ve been pulled in by her beauty, but she’s Devendran.”
“Father,” Amil hissed. “You forget yourself.”
“No. But Desfan does. The Cassian line has been pure for hundreds of years. Mortisian, through and through. If I hadn’t been manipulated into brokering this peace, I wouldn’t have come.”
“Enough!” A glass slammed against a side table. “Father, you should retire for the night.”
Emissary Havim let out a growl. “Fine. I’ll go. Only because it wounds me to have my son disrespect me.”
Clare tensed as the emissary marched past, his guards following. She glanced toward Bennick, but she knew he’d been too far away to hear the heated exchange. He eyed her, though, one eyebrow lifted in question.
She sensed someone draw up behind her and she turned. Amil stood close, wearing a red tunic that complimented his olive skin. He was undeniably handsome, but when he smiled, she couldn’t help but feel a lack of sincerity. “Princess, could I trouble you for a dance?”
Clare swallowed. “Of course.” They took their places across from each other, their palms pressed together in a newer Devendran dance, not as complicated as the round.
Amil’s voice was soft. “You overheard.”
There was no point denying it, if she wanted to learn more. “I didn’t realize your father thought so little of me.”
Amil grimaced. “He’s traditionally-minded.”
“He’s quite vocal about his opinions.”
“He’s overworked and indulged in too much wine tonight. Please, forgive him.”
She didn’t think she could.
Ever since the Ogai spider incident, Wilf had been her primary suspect. She hadn’t shared her thoughts with anyone outside of Vera, but after the conversation she’d just overheard, she knew she couldn’t dismiss Amil’s father as a suspect. If Ser Havim hated the idea of Serene entering the Cassian family, it was possible he could be the one trying to kill her. The emissary had access in the castle that many did not and he
had loyal bodyguards to do his bidding. True, he’d been working to build the alliance, but it was clear he didn’t want peace, and now that the alliance was falling into place, he might want to sabotage it.
“The necklace suits you,” Amil said, breaking into her thoughts. “Breathtaking, just as you are.”
The weight of the necklace—knowing it had come from the emissary who despised Devendrans—nearly strangled her. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”
His fingertips pressed more firmly against hers. “I sent for it after our first meeting. I knew it would be perfect for you.”
Her chest tightened uncomfortably. “Ser Amil—”
“Serene!” Venn barely acknowledged Amil as he stepped up to Clare. “Princess, your attention is needed.”
Amil shot an irritated look at Venn, but the expression tamed by the time he inclined his head toward her. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company, Princess. I hope we can share another dance before the night is over.”
Clare offered a vague response and took Venn’s offered arm, allowing him to lead her off the floor.
Once they were away from Amil, she murmured, “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “You looked uncomfortable. As your bodyguard, it’s my job to keep you from discomfort.”
Her mouth twitched. “Somehow I don’t think saving me from social distress really fits.”
“Oh, it does. There’s a whole training segment that covers tea parties.”
Clare grinned. “You’re even more qualified than I realized.”
Venn winked. When they reached one of the many refreshment tables lining the vast room, he lifted a glass for her. While she sipped the red wine, she glanced around. “Where’s Bennick?”
“The king wanted a word.”
Uneasiness skittered down her spine and she lowered her glass. “He’s not in trouble?”
Venn sighed, tugging her away from the table and walking slowly toward the shadowed side of the room where empty chairs waited for tired dancers. “The king is still upset about the Ogai spiders.”
“So am I,” Clare muttered.
Venn’s mouth twitched. “Yes, well, the king’s been angry with Bennick since the Night Sigh. Concerns about his competency have been raised.”
She sucked in a breath. “That’s unfair.”
Venn’s jaw tightened. “We’re all blaming ourselves, but . . . well, the king isn’t impressed with Bennick right now.” His eyes narrowed suddenly, fixed on a point behind her. “Fates,” he cursed.
Clare twisted to follow his gaze.
A thin woman sagged in a chair nearby, though out of earshot—especially with the music and laughter filling the room. The woman gripped a glass in skeletal hands, staring into the sea of dancers and swirling colors, but clearly not seeing anything. Her hair was dark blonde and worn in a loose braid that disappeared down her back. No one was seated beside her—not even near her.
“Who is that?” Clare asked.
A muscle ticked in Venn’s jaw. “Lady Markam. Bennick’s mother.”
Those words pressed against Clare’s chest, and other words echoed in her mind. Insane. Ill. Abused.
“The commander shouldn’t have made her come,” Venn muttered. “She’s been ill. Bennick’s going to be furious.”
Clare tightened her hold on the wineglass. “Would Serene sit with Lady Markam?”
Venn arched a brow. “Serene does whatever she wants.”
Clare almost smiled as she stepped forward. Venn hung back, offering privacy, though she could feel his eyes trailing her. She stopped in front of Lady Markam and the woman slowly lifted her head, blinking light green eyes that appeared glassy in the torchlight. She had silver hair at her temples and her cheeks were hollow. Her neck was so slender, Clare wasn’t sure how it held up her head. “Your Highness,” Lady Markam murmured, her voice as soft and thin as a thread of silk. “I’m sorry, I’m quite tired and don’t think I can rise.”
“Please don’t.” Clare settled in the wooden chair beside her. “It’s good to see you out of bed, Lady Markam. Are you sure you’re well enough, though?”
“I’ll manage.” She took a sip from her goblet.
Clare could smell the bitterness of medicine mixed in with the wine, and she inwardly cringed.
“I’m afraid I’m poor company,” Lady Markam said.
“I disagree.”
A fleeting smile lifted the older woman’s pale lips. “You’re the only one. Dennith left me as soon as we arrived.”
Dennith. Clare assumed that was the commander. “I’ll gladly sit with you.”
There was a slight pause, with Lady Markam viewing the dance floor and Clare fingering her temple. The ache there was building.
“You should enjoy the dancing,” Lady Markam said.
Clare’s lips curved up. “I’ve enjoyed it so much I fear my feet will fall off.”
Lady Markam chuckled, then fought against an ensuing cough. It was deep and guttural, shaking her frail body. She grabbed for a handkerchief and tried to smother the choking fit. Clare set a hand on the woman’s back, but was useless to help.
Finally, the coughing eased and Lady Markam gave her a watery smile. “It always passes.”
“Would you like to return to your room?”
“That would upset Dennith.” She rocked a little in her chair, her expression shifting into something softer, almost lost. “Is Ben here? I miss him.” Her eyes teared up and her fingers curled around her handkerchief. “He blames me, I think. For all that happened. Everything his father did.”
Catching a glimpse into Bennick’s past without him there brought Clare a stirring of discomfort, but she couldn’t leave the poor woman alone.
Lady Markam dabbed the corners of her eyes with her wrinkled handkerchief. “He doesn’t care for me like he used to. He doesn’t love me. A woman’s heart should only be able to break once. But we’re never beyond more breaking; each shattered piece can break again.”
“Bennick loves you,” Clare assured her softly. “I know it.”
Lady Markam blinked, confusion pulling at her gaunt features. “Yes. Of course. But Dennith doesn’t.” Her chin dropped, lower lip trembling. Sweat slicked her forehead. “Perhaps he never did.”
Clare touched her arm. “Lady Markam, I think you should be in bed. I can ask one of my guards to escort you.”
Lady Markam seemed oblivious to the offer. Tears slipped down her pale cheeks. “I’ll be dead before the year is done. I feel it.” Her heavy exhale rattled out. “It will be a blessed relief, though I hate to leave Ben.”
Clare glanced around her shoulder, finding Venn. He must have caught her worry, because in an instant he knelt before Bennick’s mother. “Lady Markam?”
Her watery gaze lifted and recognition swept her face. “Venn.”
Venn gripped her hand. “Let me help you to your room.”
Lady Markam stared at him, mouth quavering for a moment. When she nodded, Clare took her glass and set it aside along with her own. Venn pulled Lady Markam to her feet, and when she swayed, Clare set a steadying hand on the woman’s back.
“Gweneth.”
Lady Markam froze, every muscle tensing as her face went white.
Clare twisted to see the commander standing over them, anger flashing in his blue eyes.
Chapter 25
Clare
Commander Markam’s smile was tight, his jaw hard and his teeth clenched to hold the false expression. The tenseness strained his words, but steel still lived in them. “Sit down, Gweneth.”
Lady Markam shuddered and Clare’s hand tightened against the woman’s back. “Can’t you see she’s ill?” Clare all but snapped.
The commander’s intense gaze centered on her, but she wouldn’t be intimidated. Defending this fragile woman gave her all the backbone she needed, but being the princess in the public’s eye was an advantage; she knew the commander couldn’t hurt her in this crowded room, dressed as she was.
“She’s al
ways ill,” the commander said, voice low and clipped. “That can’t excuse her from the most important ball of the year.” He eyed Venn. “Help her to her seat, Grannard.”
Venn’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak Clare stepped forward, clearly shifting into a more defensive position in front of Lady Markam. Her expression hardened as she glared at the man towering over her. “I’ve given her my permission to leave.”
The commander’s nostrils flared. His tone lowered dangerously as he grit out, “She’s my wife.”
“Please,” Lady Markam shuddered, clinging to Venn. “Don’t fight. I can’t stand it.”
Venn wrapped a supporting arm around her thin back, his tone sharp. “Sir, I think we should do as the princess suggests.” His eyes flared with meaning as he spoke Clare’s false title, a reminder that they were in a public setting.
The commander’s expression tightened. “Set her down, Grannard.” His eyes darted around them. “We don’t want a scene.”
“Then I suggest you give up,” Clare said, not bothering to keep her voice as low as his.
The commander’s lip curled. His words were barely audible. “You have no right.”
“Neither do you. She’s ill and needs rest.”
His face darkened. “You self-important, manipulative—”
“What’s going on?” Bennick slid beside Clare and the commander retreated a step as if on instinct. Bennick shot a glance to his mother and his jaw firmed. The look he cut to his father burned with undeniable hatred.
“Ben,” Lady Markam gasped. “I don’t think I can stay.”
Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1) Page 20