The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

by Cordelia K Castel

  He pauses at the corner, turns back and waves.

  I raise a hand, hoping things won’t be different between us when he takes the throne. At the end of the Princess Trials, he’ll probably work full time on matters of the state. I hope that this isn’t the start of a new distance between us.

  The intensity of the sun shining through the tall windows of my room tells me it’s between two and three in the afternoon. Georgette sits on the velvet sofa with a computer tablet, the ends of her mahogany hair turning red in the light. Her usual waistcoat and pencil skirt is white.

  As soon as our gazes meet, she tosses the tablet on the low table and rises to her feet.

  “Have you heard?” Georgette rounds the table, rushes across the room, and grabs me by the hands.

  “About the king?” I ask.

  “The funeral is tonight.” She sweeps her gaze down my borrowed uniform and purses her lips. “I’m going to dress you in something so dignified that they’ll forget about that hideous outfit that’s streaming all over NetFace.”

  “This one?” I unbutton my jacket.

  Georgette winces. “Where did you get something so anti-Harvester?”

  My cheeks flush. I’m about to tell her it wasn’t my choice of outfit when the door behind us slams open with a bang. My heart leapfrogs out of its resting-place, and I spin around.

  The queen wears an ivory jumpsuit with a fitted, one-button jacket. Her golden hair does nothing to hide the hatred seething under those pretty features.

  “I thought the outfit was appropriate payment for her temporary dalliance with my son,” she says.

  The memory of Mom and Dad huddled together in their nightclothes, each clutching a twin, races to the front of my mind. Anger simmers in my belly, dissolving all notions of fear. There are no words to describe the depth of my hatred of this woman.

  Georgette dips into a low curtsey. “Your Majesty, I am sorry for—”

  “Leave us,” the queen snaps.

  Georgette walks a wide circle around the monster in white, scurries out of the room, and closes the door.

  Queen Damascena advances toward me with her hands clenched into fists. “I ought to beat you bloody for not completing your speech.”

  “It’s hard to read with cepa gas in my eyes.” I mirror her movement.

  “It’s hard to believe that you can read at all,” she drawls.

  “What do you want?” I snap.

  She rears back. “Is this the way you speak to the Queen Regent of Phangloria? I could have you executed for treason.”

  Her bluff drifts over me like a dandelion seed in the breeze, and I glance at my imaginary watch. “Do you think you could organize my trial and sentencing before moonrise?”

  She bares her perfect teeth and flares her nostrils. Queen Damascena might have intimidated me before, but her reign of threats and terror ends the moment Prince Kevon becomes the regent. She steps forward until the heat of her anger warms my skin and the scent of her mandragon perfume stings my nostrils.

  “Tell Kevon he must announce his Noble of choice during the eulogy.” Her face tightens. “Anyone but Ingrid Strab.”

  “But the Chamber of Ministers—”

  “That group of fossils will not control the throne,” she snaps. “Choose another Noble girl or—”

  “What if Prince Kevon chooses me?” I raise my chin and meet her hateful eyes. They’re bloodshot, more magenta than violet, and probably as fake as her perfect nose.

  “Then you’ll be Phangloria’s shortest-lived orphan.” She prods my shoulder with a sharp finger. “I know Harvester girls are only good for picking produce, but even you know I could have your entire family exterminated before Kevon slips a ring on that scrawny finger.”

  The fury in my belly roils. It fizzles and crackles and pops until it burns the back of my throat with its bitterness. How I long to shove my knowledge in her arrogant face. If Prince Kevon chooses me tonight, I will become the second-highest-ranking person in Phangloria with the power to squash her like a ripe tomato.

  Her eyes narrow. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Why do you think I can persuade Prince Kevon into choosing a girl he doesn’t want?”

  “Your father should be supervising cornfield nineteen around this time.” Queen Damascena walks across to the low table and picks up the tablet Georgette discarded. With a few commands, she makes it ring, and a voice on the other side greets her.

  “Bring the father,” she says.

  My stomach drops. “What are you doing?”

  “Demonstrating on your father what I will do to your mother if you don’t fall in line.”

  Panic explodes across my chest. I rush across the room to the door and fling it open. Prince Kevon couldn’t have gotten far—his mother won’t give the order if I’m not there to watch. I escape into the hallway. Two hard-faced women in black jumpsuits step out from the wall into my path.

  “Move aside.” I dart to the left.

  Fingers thread into my hair. They pull back with a ferocity that burns my scalp. The cloying scent of mandragon fills my nostrils.

  “You’re going nowhere.” Queen Damascena drags me back into the room.

  “Let go of me!” I thrash at her with my fists and hit her nose. The queen’s head snaps back, and she clutches her face.

  One of the women’s arms encircles my neck. My head jerks back into her chest. Before I can twist away, she grabs her other bicep and pushes my head forward. My throat closes. I can’t breathe. I elbow, throw back my head, and kick at the woman, but she grunts and bears the force of my attacks.

  “How dare you?” Queen Damascena’s violet eyes bulge, her face turns scarlet, and her features twist into a rictus of rage. “I should execute you right now!”

  The woman holding me tightens her grip, turning the edges of my vision black.

  My insides are a lightning storm of thundering heartbeats and white-hot fear. Loud, rasping breaths struggle through my collapsed throat. I’ve got to stay calm. I’ve got to endure this to get her attention on me and off Dad.

  Queen Damascena only threatens me because she thinks I can influence Prince Kevon. She might order her henchmen to beat me up, but she won’t let me die. Not until he has agreed to take a Noble bride.

  I kick out at her shin. “Dowager queen,” I rasp. “You’ll go out to pasture with the other cows.”

  The queen throws the tablet down on the table and unbuckles her belt. “Lie her flat on the bed.”

  As the woman holding me loosens her choke-hold, I sneer, “Why, because you can’t fight me like a woman? You’re nothing without your guards.”

  Her second henchwoman, a round-faced woman with a brown ponytail, punches me hard in the gut. She knocks the air out of my lungs, and it gets trapped in my throat. The one holding me retightens her grip until I see stars.

  I leap up, hit the second woman in the gut, use our downward momentum to flip her to the side. My former captor hits her head, but her larger body breaks the fall.

  As I scramble to my feet, Queen Damascena kicks me in the belly.

  I grab her by the calves and pull her off her feet. She falls onto her back with a satisfying shriek. A little voice in the back of my head tells me to stop, to run for help. I’ve done enough. I’ve proven my point, but the fury roaring in my veins urges me to smash my fist in her arrogant little face.

  Before I can land a blow, a large hand grabs my hair and pulls me off the queen.

  “Filthy mongrel.” Queen Damascena picks up a vase and hurls it at my head.

  I twist, letting it smash against the marble floor.

  “Stop this at once!” bellows a voice.

  Everybody freezes. Heavy, angry footsteps crush the broken glass, and someone slaps the woman’s hand out of my hair. I raise my head and stare into the stricken eyes of Prince Kevon.

  “Kevon,” the queen says from between panting breaths. “Your Harvester harlot tried to—”

  “Silence,” he roars.r />
  Everyone, including me, flinches.

  Prince Kevon helps me to my feet, his gaze flicking down my form. He cups my face and stares into my eyes with an urgency I haven’t seen since our last kiss. “Are you alright?”

  Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my limbs tremble. He might not have been so sympathetic if he had caught me pummeling the queen’s face.

  “I think so.”

  He places a hand under my elbow. “Do you need to see Doctor Palatine?”

  “For a pregnancy test?” snaps the queen.

  Prince Kevon turns to her, his face a mask of hatred. “I will deal with you after the funeral.”

  The queen’s eyes widen, and her face blanches. She steps back and claps a hand over her chest.

  He wraps his arm around my waist and guides me out of the room, but I grab his arm. “Please, call off the guards around my father.”

  His eyes soften. “Of course. After tonight, you will never fear for the safety of your family.”

  I exhale but relief doesn’t come to me immediately. My family won’t be safe any time between now and the time Prince Kevon appoints me as his consort.

  “Your Majesty?” asks a tinny voice at the end of the tablet computer.

  Prince Kevon walks around the low table and picks up the device. “King Arias has died, and I will soon become his regent.”

  “Your Highness,” the male voice says. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. Escort Mr. Calico home to his family and ensure they come to no harm. I have already spoken to Colonel Snath about the protection of this household but I will ensure that anyone who so much as harms that family will face execution.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Kevon,” Queen Damascena rasps.

  The prince’s eyes turn cold. “After the funeral, you will retire from the royal court and live out your days with General Provins.”

  Her face slackens. “But my father—”

  “Made you heartless and unfit to rule,” Prince Kevon snaps. “It is a fitting ending for the woman who caused my father and me so much misery.”

  Queen Damascena inclines her head and walks to the door with her shoulders slumped. Her henchwomen drop into low curtseys and follow her out of the room.

  As soon as it shuts, the prince pulls me into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair. “I should have guessed she would threaten you on the eve that I become the regent.”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t your fault. I should have told you earlier.”

  He slips his knuckles against the side of my face. “Do you need to see the doctor?”

  “No.” I gaze into his glistening eyes.

  “I must leave immediately to mobilize people to protect your family.”

  My throat dries as the queen’s mocking voice reminds me that she is still the regent and can move against my home faster than Prince Kevon can protect it. “Alright.”

  He presses a kiss on my forehead and strides out of the room, leaving me wondering if standing up to Queen Damascena will lead to their salvation or their deaths.

  Chapter 18

  I drop to my knees on the floor and place my palms on the sun-warmed marble. What on earth just happened? In all my time in Rugosa, I’ve never gotten into a fight, not even those times I shot guards attacking Harvester girls. I’ve been in the Oasis less than three weeks, and I’ve been involved in countless brawls and murder attempts.

  The door opens, and my head snaps up. A frantic Georgette scurries inside with a pair of servants. Behind them are two female guards dressed in white armor. She helps me off the floor, murmuring words of comfort, while the servants clear up the broken glass.

  Together, we cross the bedroom, then into the walk-in wardrobe. The mirror lights are too bright, the closet doors seem to close in on us, and I feel trapped like a corn snake in a snare.

  “Where’s Forelle?” I whisper.

  “She stayed overnight with Garrett’s family.” Georgette pulls out a padded seat and guides me down with a firm hand on my shoulder. “I guess when they heard the news about King Arias, she must have gotten caught up in funeral arrangements.”

  “Right.”

  I brace my forearms on the white counter and stare at my reflection. Red blotches still mar my cheeks, my left eye socket swells, and my hair looks like I’m caught in a sandstorm. Behind me hangs a garment bag that reminds me of what the Toxic Disposal Guardians used to wrap up Rafaela’s body.

  “Are you hurt?” she asks.

  “I…” I have to pause to answer that question because adrenaline still courses through my veins and numbs everything except for my stinging eyes.

  My throat feels like I’ve swallowed mouthfuls of grit. As I force deep breaths in and out of my lungs, the burning of my scalp intensifies, along with a sharp ache in my gut. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Let's get you out of that uniform,” Georgette says.

  I nod and fumble with the buttons of my borrowed shirt. What’s going to happen to Mom and Dad? My mind races at how I allowed the situation with the queen to escalate. What on earth was I thinking to get into a fight with three women?

  Queen Damascena asked for the impossible. There’s no way I could tell Prince Kevon to marry someone else and have him listen. It was hard enough to dissuade him from pursuing me. She must have been frustrated about her impending loss of power and came to my room to work out her resentment.

  As Georgette eases my hands away from the buttons and unfastens the jacket, she explains that she called Prince Kevon to return to my room the moment Queen Damascena arrived. I squeeze her hand and croak my thanks.

  Someone knocks on the door, making us both stiffen.

  “Let the guards answer.” Georgette throws me a bathrobe and walks ahead of me through the bedroom and to the door. “But let’s be prepared in case she returns.”

  I let the jacket fall away and shoulder on the robe. The toweling fabric feels like clouds against my irritated skin, and I creep past the closets and poke my head out into the room.

  The servants have already straightened up and left. One of the guards in white uniform stands at the far wall facing the door, while the other speaks to whoever knocked.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper.

  “It’s another girl from the Trials, Ma’am,” replies the guard.

  “Oh.” I tie the front of my robe and walk across the room, wondering if Emmera ever made it to Rugosa.

  The guard at the door moves aside, revealing Ingrid Strab, still wearing her khaki shirt and pants from the Barrens. One side of her face is still a little swollen from when she got stomped on her head, but there’s no sign of the bruising. For once, she has lost the haughty self-assurance and stands with her hands clasped.

  “Zea-Mays?” Ingrid steps forward. “May I come in?”

  “No. I’m busy.”

  She bows her head. “I came to apologize.”

  Distrust quivers through my gut. I clench my fists and get ready to jump aside when she finally reveals what she’s hiding in her hands.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Everything.” Ingrid raises her head and fixes her eyes on mine. They’re as green as a pickle with brown centers that remind me of an avocado left out in the sun. She exhales a long sigh. “The other girls have hated me since I returned from captivity, and it’s made me realize how you must have felt this entire time in the Princess Trials.”

  I want to roll my eyes and remind her that she led the worst of the animosity, but two skirmishes a day are my absolute limit, and I still don’t know if Mom and Dad are safe.

  “You’re comparing petty backbiting with your attempts to hunt me with guns?” I glance at Georgette, who beckons me toward the walk-in wardrobe. “If that’s all you came to say—”

  “Please, don’t go.” Ingrid raises both palms.

  I place my hands on my hips. “What is it, now?”

  “Since Prince Kevon will choose you t
o be his queen, I want to give you some advice.”

  My brows rise, but I don’t encourage or discourage her to continue.

  Ingrid gulps. “Be careful when you set up your royal court. Everybody from the Chamber of Ministers to your ladies-in-waiting will want you dead and replaced by a Noble.”

  I suppress a ripple of anxiety. This isn’t exactly anything new, and I don’t want Ingrid thinking that she’s breached my defenses. “And I expect you’re about to tell me how to circumvent this?”

  She shakes her head. “There’s a reason why girls from other Echelons never rule Phangloria. At least not for long enough to make the history books unless they ally with a Noble.”

  It sounds like a threat, but there’s a truth in her words that twists my insides into painful knots. I smooth out my features, turn around, and walk back to the mirror. Whatever game Ingrid is playing, I’m not interested.

  “Think about it,” Ingrid says to my back. “If you let me marry the prince, you can have him as much as you want. I’ll even grant you the honor of birthing the royal heir.”

  A scuffle breaks out behind me. I don’t flinch, I don’t turn. The door slams, followed by Ingrid’s outraged squeak. The corner of my lips curl into a smile. Even Ingrid recognizes me as a person of influence.

  I continue to the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. It washes away the salt and sand and sweat still clinging to my skin from the previous challenge. The apricot-scented soap fills my nostrils and relaxes my muscles.

  Maybe now that Prince Kevon has threatened to banish her from court, Queen Damascena won’t strike out against Mom and Dad. Besides, none of those guards would want to be executed for following the orders of a soon-to-be dowager queen.

  After washing my hair with a peach shampoo and honeysuckle rinse, I dry off and return to the walk-in wardrobe, where Forelle leans against a closet, chatting with Georgette. She wears an emerald-green jumpsuit that shimmers like silk and compliments her red hair.