“You have no right to scrutinize my actions,” I said. “Not after what you did. I had no reason to leave my father’s home without you. Did you expect me to live in a place where I’m surrounded by your clan’s supporters?”
“You said this was about the land,” he said. “Not you or I.”
“I did,” I murmured. “So why are we here, Rai? Why aren’t we in bed back home, discussing the state of last season’s rice crop and the price of tea? What, by all the gods, is this all supposed to be for?”
Chapter Six
The Ikessar Heir
My words, and the ease with which I slipped to his familiar name, caused Rai’s face to assume an expression that strayed from his usual stoic demeanour. That I was able to observe the momentary flicker reminded me of how much I had tried to learn to read him over the years. I’ve known men who twisted their faces into masks in an effort to hide their true thoughts from me. Not so Rai; his thoughts often seemed to be as blank as his expression.
It sometimes gave others the impression the impression that he was a fool when I knew it was far from the truth. I knew what he was doing, which was disseminating every little fact and information in the back of his mind so he could later find a purpose for each—like gathering the pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t yet see. It was an admirable trait, especially when compared to my hotheadedness, but it still left room for me to wonder what he actually felt about things. I still found it hard to imagine that he could muster nothing more than irritation over my reactions.
I do not know how to begin talking about Rayyel aren dar Ikessar without these old frustrations rising to the surface.
He was always like this. I find it hard to believe as an older woman that my memories of Rayyel Ikessar started from when we were both still very young, because he was always like this. When most boys were concerned about playing soldier or sneaking off to town to watch horsefights, he would be in his study, a book in his hand. Any attempt to disturb him would either be met with abject impatience or a sudden litany of facts he had learned from the past hour.
The first time I met him, I was eleven years old. The entire palace had been thrown into chaos and excitement: the Ikessar heir, come to meet his bride-to-be at last. It was a story to be passed on for generations, one that people didn’t want to miss for the world. We had been betrothed since I was born, a monumental day because it was also the same day my father ended his terrible war. After so many years, people saw the chance for peace at last.
So our first meeting, months after my father’s death, was marked with a large celebration. There had never been anything like it in the palace before. Entertainers arrived from all corners of the land—singers from Kyo-orashi, fire dancers from Akki, jugglers from Kai. A tourney was held, with the best warriors from every province coming to compete at Karo-ras, an ancient form of fighting where warriors stripped down to a loincloth and fought with sticks and bare hands. Though no blades were allowed, Karo-ras battles were still bloody and sometimes deadly. My tutors did not like me attending the matches, reasoning that a young, delicate princess such as myself had no business watching men beat each other to a pulp.
My opinions did not align with my tutors’—they rarely did. The day the tourney started, I escaped through the window so I could watch the first few matches. My friend, Agos, was already waiting for me in the garden.
“Arro will be furious,” Agos told me.
“A sleeping man can’t say much,” I pointed out, grinning.
“You didn’t…”
I nodded. “Herbs in his coffee. He so dearly loves his coffee.”
Agos gave me that look that told me he didn’t quite know what to make of a princess who regularly attempted to poison her staff. I punched him on the arm. He was large and muscular, even at fifteen, but he pretended to wince.
Because the castle at Oka Shto was built on a cliff side, much of the celebrations were being held in the square at the base of Mount Oka Shto, between the barracks and the stables. I forged ahead, berating Agos for being too slow down the long, winding trail. A man dragging a wagon filled with supplies up to the palace paused to look at us, but I had taken care to dress myself in common clothes and he didn’t recognize my face.
It was easier to get lost in the crowd once we reached town. I had never seen Oren-yaro like this—filled with music and strange faces of people from every corner of Jin-Sayeng. I even caught sight of Kag tourists, which would’ve never happened in the days when my father was alive. I stopped to marvel at their fair skin, paler even than a pureblood Ikessar’s, and their long, delicate noses. My swordsmaster always talked about going for a Kag’s nose first in a fist-fight, because they break really easily.
The smell of smoke and meat was too much for me to ignore, so I went straight for the food stalls. We bought skewers of chicken intestine, dipped in a sweet sauce and roasted over hot coals. It was the sort of food Arro never allowed into the palace, which gave me all the more reason to devour them whenever I could.
We sauntered over to the tourney grounds, chewing on the rubbery meat. I could already hear the drums and the cheers. Agos whistled and pointed to the wooden platforms that served as seats. I caught sight of some of the royals in their brightly coloured, ceremonial armour. “That’s Lord Nijo, Warlord Lushai’s son,” Agos said, following my gaze. “Master Torong was just fixing up his horse’s saddle this morning.”
“And those boys in the corner…” I said.
Agos narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t recognize their banner.”
“Yu-yan, you think?” Yu-yan had not traditionally belonged to the royals until the War of the Wolves, when the Anyu clan of Kai decided to claim the surrounding land for themselves. They succeeded in making the rice merchants bend their knees, though not without shedding a lot of blood in the process. The clan was widely criticized for their actions, a stark reminder of the further disarray the land could fall into if my father’s war continued. After my birth and peace was declared, nobody dared unseat the Anyus. “Let them deal with the rice merchants by themselves,” my father had been fond of saying. “They made their bed—now they get to sleep on it.”
“The twin sons of Warlord Ojika,” Agos said. “I didn’t think I’d ever actually get to see them.”
“I thought Warlord Ojika was too scared to return to the east after what he did.”
“Maybe he still is. I don’t see him anywhere,” Agos said.
“Strange. Did their father let them go alone?”
“Maybe they escaped, like you.” I jabbed him in the ribs. He grunted, looking back at the platform. “That man beside them, that’s Warlord Basho of Darusu. The mountains on his banner…this tourney is drawing the snakes out of their den.”
“Careful with your tongue before they cut it out for you,” I murmured. I scanned the rest of the royals, noting the various colours and markings of the banners above their seats. I glanced at the far end. My eyes settled on a black flag with an embroidered soaring falcon.
“Ikessar,” Agos said, before I could open my mouth.
I pressed my lips together. “It’s too far away to see,” I said. “Let’s get closer.”
“Why?” Agos asked.
I jabbed my finger in the air. “My betrothed will be there.”
He scratched his chin. “I don’t know about this. They’ll recognize you, and then you’ll get in trouble, and then I’ll get in…”
I was already rushing through the crowd. I heard Agos groan behind me.
The match was already starting when we reached the platform. A warrior, waiting on the sidelines, shoved himself past me. He was completely naked except for a loincloth and a corded piece of rope with a wooden amulet around his neck. I scanned the platform and paused. Two seats above the Anyu brothers sat another boy, solemnly observing the match. Even though he couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, there was already a line above his brows, and the downward quirk of his lips did not seem to belong to someo
ne who was only starting to grow a moustache. Unlike the Anyus, whose faces were twisted into an expression of delight and cheer, he seemed almost unaffected by the excitement before him. For all it seemed to me, he could’ve been staring at a wall.
I breathed. The Ikessar banner and the priest of Kibouri yawning beside him made it clear enough: this was Rayyel aren dar Ikessar, my husband-to-be. I felt a lump the size of a fist in my throat.
“Hey, you! Away, girl!”
I barely glanced at the voice. I was not used to somebody speaking in that tone and didn’t even realize it was directed at me until it was too late. A man reached down from the platform, his hand on my shoulder. I reached out in shock, but my fists never reached him as he shoved me aside.
“You dare…” I started.
The man clambered over the seats to face me. He was dressed in a royal’s silks. On his breast was a pin with the falcon crest on it, marking him as an Ikessar man, likely a member of a minor royal family. “Do you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?” he hissed. “You don’t belong here. This area is for royals only. Where are the guards? Does the Oren-yaro not know the meaning of security?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Agos said behind me.
“It’s a shame to see someone from such an established clan as the Ikessars get into hysterics over a mere girl,” a voice observed. It was the warrior from earlier. He pushed himself closer to us, lean muscles gleaming under the sun.
The Ikessar lifted his chin, his eyes blazing. “The future Dragonlord is sitting right above us. That anyone could just waltz in here…”
“What’s she going to do? Spit on his shiny boots?” The warrior’s Akkian accent was strong. He glanced up, staring right at Rayyel. “You, Beloved Prince. Why don’t you come down here and fight your own battles?”
“Do not speak to the future king in such a way,” the Ikessar said.
But the warrior’s words seemed to make an impact. Rayyel got up and walked down the steps. “Beloved Prince,” the Ikessar continued, bowing. “I was just asking the girl to step away from the platform. This area is for royals and contestants only.”
Rayyel looked at me. My cheeks flushed from the attention. My future husband, I thought. I wondered if he was going to rush to my defense. Was he going to fall into a speech about harassing defenseless girls?
“There is a section for commoners right across this one,” he said. His voice was already deepening with manhood, but the flatness of his words took me aback.
I found myself stepping forward. “What if I don’t want to go?”
“Let her stay,” the warrior said. “She just wants to watch the match. The commoners’ seats are hard to see from. I’ll see to it she gets out when it is over.”
“Without rules, we are no more than animals,” Rayyel intoned.
“That’s the best you can do?” I asked. “Quote Kibouri?”
“Watch your tone, girl!” The Ikessar man wasn’t about to walk away.
I felt Agos’ hand on my shoulder. “Please,” he murmured. “Let’s go now.” He bowed to the prince. “We’re deeply sorry, Lord Rayyel—”
“See to it they are escorted out.” Rayyel didn’t even look like he wanted to hear Agos’ explanation.
The Ikessar bowed. “My lord.”
“You coward,” I hissed. I didn’t know why I said it. I think I wanted to see how he would react. He didn’t at first. He took two steps before turning back to me, his face red. A smug grin slipped into my face. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” I continued. “You’re scared of looking weak in front of them, so you’re going to do whatever’s easiest. But that’s not how you look strong. Doing what’s expected of you—that’s how you would rule?”
The warrior grunted. “Now, girl, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No, you’re right. I wouldn’t want Lord Rayyel to waste another breath on me,” I snapped. I pulled away from the Ikessar, who was reaching out to grab me again, and made an elaborate curtsy. “I leave you to your festivities, my lord,” I drawled.
Rayyel didn’t say anything. I drew back. Agos started running, and I dashed after him. We heard somebody call out to catch us, but nobody made the first move; two peasant children weren’t worth the trouble.
~~~
We spent the rest of the morning watching the matches from the rooftops while trading bites out of a meat bun. I wasn’t going to let my first meeting with Rayyel spoil the Karo-ras tournament for me. Agos didn’t talk about it, which was just as well, because I wasn’t sure what I would tell him if he did. What did I expect, anyway? That he was going to be a dashing prince like the ones in the stories instead of the usual Ikessar lord with a stick up his behind? My father had made his own opinions of the Ikessar clan clear from as far as I could remember. I should’ve figured that Rayyel wouldn’t be an exception.
But I was a young girl, then, and like all young girls found it difficult to accept that reality could be nothing close to fantasy. I hid my disappointment as best as I could. After the first break, when a warrior from Osahindo was declared victorious for nearly snapping the bone of his opponent’s left arm with two sticks, I told Agos I needed to return to the palace. Likely Arro had woken and was looking for me.
We took the back road, the one that ran along the castle walls on the edge of the cliff. I stopped to pause at the view of the city down below, nestled between the terraced hills and stretching out as far as across the river in the distance. My father’s legacy—and in exchange for keeping it, I had to give my hand to that despicable boy in marriage. It irritated me beyond measure.
Surprisingly enough, Arro was still asleep and the palace staff, thinking I was busy with my books, had not noticed me missing. I cleaned the dust from my face as best as I could and snuck back into the study to wake the old magister. He didn’t stir at first—I must’ve given him enough sleeping herb to knock out a horse—but when I screamed into his ear, his eyes snapped open. “What’s that?” he stammered.
“Shouldn’t I go? Won’t the lords be here at any moment?”
“Yes,” Arro blurted out. “You should get ready. You look—” He gave the resigned sigh of one who had been tasked to turn me into a lady and believed he had failed every step of the way. “Ask your maids to make you look presentable.”
I batted my eyelids and went through the routine of dutiful princess. I cleaned up, put on my best silks, and did not argue with the servants at all, even when they insisted I have ribbons braided into my hair, a process which took well over an hour to accomplish. They were just on the finishing touches when a boy came running in to announce that the Ikessars have arrived.
I was led to the common hall. Minor clan leaders were presented to me one by one. I didn’t pay attention—my eyes were locked on Rayyel at the far corner. It was only when that man, Lord Faro—who oversaw Shirrokaru as a regent of sorts—was brought forward that I forced my eyes back to the task at hand. The simpering fool took my hand to kiss it. I let him, noting that he was blissfully unaware that I was the same girl he had been so eager to throw to the dogs earlier. What a difference clothes could make! I resisted the urge to have him arrested on the spot and waited for Rayyel to be brought to me.
“And lastly,” Arro said, “Prince Rayyel aren dar Ikessar, son of Princess Ryia aren dar Ikessar and Lord Shan aron dar Hio, heir to the Dragonthrone.”
The hall fell silent as everybody’s heads dropped.
I stood there, staring up at him from the main platform where later—much, much later—I would be crowned without him. I wondered at the expression of awe emanating from the crowd’s faces. Rayyel aren dar Ikessar was not a direct male descendent of the Ikessars—none existed anymore. His Uncle Rysaran, the last true heir, had seen to that. Yet the people regarded him as a symbol of peace nonetheless, a ray of hope that the Ikessars could still somehow save the land from the chaos my father had plunged it into.
I knew it was unfair for me to be critical. I was the last direct Orenar myse
lf. It was one of the things that made our betrothal significant—the joining of two rival clans on the brink of extinction. A thing for stories, indeed. But at that moment, I could only regard him with contempt, the way my father must have regarded the betrothal agreement.
He looked up. Recognition flooded into his eyes.
I smiled, slowly.
Somehow, he was able to muster up the courage to pick up my hand and kiss it. I felt his lips tremble. “Beloved Princess,” he said. “It is good to meet you at last.” To his credit, his voice sounded calm.
I refrained from uttering the insults brewing in the back of my mind. “It is good to meet you too, Beloved Prince,” I replied sweetly. Emptier words have never been spoken.
A night of celebration followed, one which I was not allowed to see to the end, as Arro and the rest of my tutors insisted I stick to my schedule. Oren-yaro ways are difficult to bend, especially with almost every lord of the land up there watching us. So I woke up early, like always, ate a simple breakfast of boiled eggs in my room—away from the prying eyes of the warlords, most of whom have not seen me since my father’s funeral—and then made my way to my study for that morning’s lessons.
Rayyel was already there, his nose in a book. The first thought that came to mind was that he had been up long before I was. That made him even more irritating in my eyes. Not only had he not apologized to me about yesterday—he had not even thought to mention it, as if I could somehow forget the insults him and his man had thrown at me—he now had the audacity to act as if my home was his. It was my study. The least he could do was wait for me to be there first and then ask for my permission. The Ikessars must be the only clan who, despite lacking an army or resources to acquire such power, think they can get away with everything.
He must’ve noticed me staring at him, because he lifted his eyes from his book to regard me with an expression of curious calm. I think I could’ve forgiven him if he had apologized then, but he didn’t. So I didn’t talk. Instead, I dashed in, grabbed his book, and sprinted out.
The Wolf of Oren-yaro (Annals of the Bitch Queen Book 1) Page 9