by Gwynn White
Her suitors, come to fight each other for her hand in marriage—and for her kingdom.
Where was the tenth man? She had no idea.
All these princes and lords had to be at least six feet tall. Happily, dark hair predominated, with a smattering of light brown, and even one redhead.
There wasn’t an ugly one amongst them. She liked men with dark hair. Especially if she wasn’t taller than them.
She pulled her head back and gulped a breath.
It didn’t help. Her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to process air.
Keahr wrapped an arm around her. “You’re worrying for nothing.”
Aurora glared at her. “Am I? I’m the one who has to go in there and smile and titter like an idiot.” A dry laugh. “At least from behind my mask.”
Zandor rolled his eyes. “Please, no tittering. The last thing an intelligent man wants is a ditzy woman.”
Aurora glared at him, too. “Any other advice to give me?”
A brotherly smile. “Only to calm down. You’re smart and fun to be with. You’ll have them charmed before the night is over.”
He’d said nothing about her looks, even though she and Keahr had spent hours tweaking her hair and makeup. Not to mention the days they’d deliberated over fabrics, colors and dress styles, not just for this evening, but for the week-long trials. For tonight, they had settled on rich, emerald-green silk, trimmed with gold braid, which showed off her red hair and, hopefully, toned down her freckles, which she would have no choice but to expose when she removed her mask. She hoped the flowing fabric was enough to hide her lanky, shapeless frame.
Zandor’s smile twisted into a grimace. “At least the ones who survive will grow to like you. Until tomorrow, when you again send them to fight for their lives.”
She shivered, now even more reluctant to step into that horrible place.
Zandor draped an arm around her. He must have regretted his comment. “Every man in there knows what’s at stake. They have come knowing they may not survive. Take that as a compliment on what you’re offering them.”
Despite her misgivings, he was right, and if she were to survive this, she would do well to remember it.
Still, she dithered. Partly because she wanted to give five of them a few more minutes longer to live, and partly because of her own fear.
Little feet pattered as Niing shambled up. “Aurora! Keeping them waiting will not win hearts.” A firm hand gripped her arm. “And you will let Artemis and his cronies think your courage is failing you.”
She couldn’t argue with that, but before he could drag her into the arena to greet these men, she asked, “The lord you particularly wanted to come . . . is he one of those dark-haired beauties in there?”
A grunt from Niing. “Lord Jorah Thalyn has shoulder-length hair the color of ripe wheat.”
Golden blond. A color conspicuous by its absence amongst her suitors. He must have been the missing man.
Her stomach knotted, both at Niing’s grim tone and at her unreasonable disappointment. Despite brutal daily reprimands to herself, she had pinned her hopes on Niing’s choice. If anyone knew the kind of man who’d make her happy, it would be her tutor. That his choice hadn’t bothered to come was not only insulting; it hurt.
“Jorah’s caravel docked, but he wasn’t on it,” Niing added. “His whereabouts remain a mystery.”
Intrigued, she raised her eyebrows. “What? Is he a fish that he doesn’t need a boat to get him to shore?”
“Hardly.” Niing scowled. “Don’t you worry, my princess. I will deal with him if he shows up.” He walked with her in tow. “Now, enough delays. It’s time you honored your suitors with your presence.”
She wiped her face clean of everything but a small, plastered smile, and forced her slippered feet into the arena.
Artemis joined her. A mock bow. “Aurora. You can hardly have your tutor escort you.” When Niing relinquished her, Artemis offered her his arm. He snorted a laugh. “Right, any normal person would need stilts to reach you up there.”
His sarcasm wasn’t lost on her as he grabbed her elbow.
Only Niing’s eyes boring into her stopped her from snapping a sharp retort.
Again, he had a better grasp on the situation than she did. The last thing she needed was to get into an argument with this slug while there were a thousand pairs of eyes, including those of her possible consort, on her.
Back straight, she glided toward her fate.
Her suitors spaced themselves into a rough line as they waited for Artemis to introduce her. A few eyebrows raised at her mask, but no one said anything. Still, her confidence faltered as nerves made their names and faces blur.
She silently berated her pounding heart. Five of these men would die tonight. The least they deserved was for her to remember their names before they did so.
By the time she reached the end of the row, she had each name and at least one defining physical feature memorized.
What was not so easy was to cut through the layers of smiles, smooth bows, and sweet, flattering words to know their hearts. From all the smarm, she concluded that none of them seemed put off by her Infirmity.
A lifetime of experience dealing with the scornful Able in Ryferia made her doubt every single one of them.
Watching them joust, wrestle, and sword fight would not give her any further insight into who and what they were—or whether they would support her against her enemies. There had to be a better of way of running these trials that still respected the law and the need for bloodshed. She just had to find it.
She and Artemis reached the last suitor.
Like the others, he was tall, sun kissed, and handsome. Her face morphed into the same smile, half-hidden by her mask, that she’d offered the eight before him.
The man—Lord Raith Krall, Duke of Lorithian—swept her a flamboyant bow. And then he smiled—and her heart almost stopped beating. The only words she could use to describe the beautiful turn of his lips were alluring, compelling. Words she had never applied to anyone in her life before—and never thought she would. It was as if he wanted to know her—in every sense of the word. It made her want to smile back, to preen for him, to turn herself inside out for him—the way Peckle did when he wanted cuddles.
Only Peckle would quickly follow that up with a slash of ravaging claws that ended all affection in blood.
It would be well to keep Peckle’s example firmly in mind.
Even with that knowledge, she stared dumbly at his angular chin and high cheek bones setting off nut-brown eyes, rimmed with a darker, almost charcoal band. Those eyes seemed to absorb her, body and soul. No one had ever looked at her with such interest before. She blushed. Determined to resist the urge to drown in those depths, she tore her eyes away from his and flitted a look at the rest of him.
Lean and tall, he filled his leather armor, black breeches, and knee-high boots beautifully. She suppressed a smile of delight.
Then a thought managed to weave its way through the mush he’d turned her brain into: All her other suitors wore heavy metal plate. How would Duke Raith of Lorithian fare in a sword fight against men so better protected than him? Not being interested in sword fighting, she had no clue.
Despite the injustice of her thoughts—and the absurdity of them, considering she didn’t even know the man—she hoped that he, out of all these strangers, survived until morning.
“Princess Aurora,” he said in a smoky voice, “I was led to believe that you were not particularly pleasing to the eye. Whoever started that rumor should be flogged.”
She only just managed to stop staggering back at his bluntness. “Really? That’s your opening line?” She touched her mask. “And just which side of my face are you referring to?”
Even Artemis snorted.
Duke Raith’s alluring smile widened, showing off perfect white teeth. “I believe in being honest. And you have been misrepresented. Your face is charming. Both sides of it. Perhaps you will do me the honor
of removing your mask.”
“And you spout more nonsense than a court jester.” For all that, she couldn’t resist pulling the half-mask away. She smiled back at him—a real smile, not the fake ones that had made her face ache all evening. “Next, you’ll be telling me that you’ve always liked very tall women.”
Still smiling, Duke Raith canted his head to look at her. “I told you, I believe in telling the truth.”
Ah! So she wasn’t making his pulse race the way his fluid grace was playing havoc with her heart rhythms. The last time a man had caused her such flutters was Zandor, before she’d realized he would never return her romantic affection.
The memory of Zandor’s gentle rejection made her even more cautious.
She gave Duke Raith a pert look. “I look forward to seeing how that honesty translates in the arena.”
All humor vanished.
Duke Raith patted the rapier sheathed to his belt. “I will not fail you. I came here to win your hand and your heart, and that is what I intend to do. In a week, you will be my wife.”
Her flutters picked up speed. She tempered them by asking, “The dukedom of Lorithian is interested in importing coal?”
Duke Raith looked at her blankly. “Coal? Why would we want coal?”
Her eyes widened before she could stop them. He wasn’t here because of trade!
That meant . . . she refused to think of what it could mean. She spluttered. “Fires . . . um . . . does it get cold there in winter?”
Artemis laughed derisively. “Duke Raith, forgive Princess Aurora’s ignorance.” He waved at her. “Aurora, let’s hope the duke thinks your intellect as pleasing as he seems to find your looks. Why else would he risk his life for you?”
The blood deserted her face. To make things worse, her usually sharp wit failed her. With absolutely nothing to say, her mouth opened and closed stupidly.
“It would seem that Princess Aurora has not only been forced to contend with an Infirmity not of her making, but she has also had to cope with a bullying uncle,” Duke Raith’s low, icy voice cut through her humiliation. “It makes me want to—” His top lip curled back, baring those lovely teeth. He hesitated, then his hand drifted to his sword.
“My dear duke, you misunderstand me,” Artemis crooned. “As you will see when you get to know her, my niece is as sharp as a knife.”
That was a backhanded compliment if ever there was one.
But it didn’t matter. For no apparent reason, Raith Krall, Duke of Lorithian, had chosen to defend her against Artemis. Knowing that was worth enduring any amount of ridicule.
Her heart, which had frozen in her embarrassment, now pounded out a ditty. She bobbed Raith a curtsy to show her appreciation and then said, in a low voice, “Please call me Aurora. I hope to hand you the winner’s wreath at the end of this challenge.”
Without waiting for his reply, or for Artemis to follow, she sailed to the stairs leading to the royal box.
Peckle lay curled up on her seat. She tossed him off with a sweep of her hand. He landed on his feet, glared at her, and then hopped up onto the railing overlooking the arena.
With Zandor standing protectively at her back with his bow and arrow ready, Aurora sat and shouted out, “Let the trials begin.”
Chapter Sixteen
In his human form, Jorah paused at the spot beyond the broken Guardian, where he had met with Niing and his companions some weeks before. He glared up at the giant with loathing. Back lit against the setting sun, it leered back down at him.
To mock the Magical in their defeat, Nethric had housed his alchemy in hideous caricatures of the Magical that had once ruled this land.
Giants, just like this one, had formed the front lines of the Ryferian infantry battalions. They had kept Ryferia free from foreign invasion for almost a thousand years—
Until we were attacked by our own underbelly.
He swallowed his bitterness. It burned its way down into his gut. There was no forgetting, no forgiving what the Untalented had done to his land, to his people.
And now he was back.
The moment he stepped through that giant’s legs, he would be robbed of his magic, stripped of half his nature—the half in which he was most comfortable.
It would leave him a mere human—as weak as any one of these hapless Ryferians—albeit with enhanced senses. Those senses would help him in the upcoming trials.
Although so much time had passed since he’d last felt the effects of Nethric’s alchemy, he vividly remembered the numbing, bone-crushing power as the Guardians stripped him of his strength.
He had fought on, but it had not been enough.
A young dragon then, he had only recently taken his place on the council. It had made his family a target.
A shudder wracked him; bound and chained in Nethric’s dungeon, he had watched, helpless, as the alchemist’s scum ravaged and then slaughtered Mama and his sisters.
Dragons had long memories; the pain was as raw today as it had been then.
Lila had rescued him. And he would never stop loving her for that.
With a thousand Untalented armed with pitchforks and home-made blades on their heels, they had escaped Ryferia in a rickety boat Lila had stolen from the harbor.
The sea had fought her fire every inch of the way until they passed the line of chain-mail Guardians that warded the coast, and she’d hated it. Ever since then, he’d had an aversion to boats and the sea, too. That was why he’d sent his caravel ahead of him while he’d flown to the trials.
He had arrived later than he had intended.
Jorah loped through the giant’s legs into Ryferia.
His sure steps faltered as the combined power of thousands of Guardians sucked the life force from him. He gasped, buckling at the waist. A stagger, and he fell to his knees.
Like a man drowning in the salty deep, he forced his muscles and bones to straighten, to keep him afloat in this terrible world.
He stood, fighting the shakes quivering his frame. A few deep breaths, and his muscles stilled.
He trudged toward a stone path, fighting to find equilibrium for his gangling limbs. He had always been graceful, moving with stealth and speed. Now it seemed his legs belonged to someone else, while his mind gave them commands they had no willingness to obey.
It was exactly what the Untalented coped with each day as they stumbled through life.
He hated it.
A week. That’s all I have to endure.
The sun burnished the towers and steeples of the palazzo and glinted off the canals in the capital. Much of it was unchanged since he lived in Ryferia. He reached the path, snaking through rosemary scrub on the hillside.
He had always liked rosemary. But today, instead of filling him with its usual heady scent, the rosemary needles were muted, playing at the edge of his usually keen nose. He crushed a twig, but even the oil on his fingers smelled dull.
It’s still better than what the Untalented have. And I don’t need my nose to clobber a few Untalented princes in a sword fight.
He quickened his pace.
Niing had said that the first trial—a sword fight—was scheduled for that evening in the arena.
He grimaced; the arena had been built long before his birth. Nothing more than an elaborate execution block for the Untalented, a succession of councils had used it as a venue to entertain the Magical.
The Untalented had continued that diabolical tradition. The Ryferians loved their blood sports . . . Hence the fight to the death for their princess’s hand.
The path curved around a bend in the hill, robbing him of the view of the city.
A shuffle of feet neared.
From the gait, someone heavy headed his way.
Someone come to check on the Guardian? He hoped not. Having this escape from the city gave him comfort. It would do his psyche no good if the giant was fixed, trapping him in this hellhole.
A man loped into view, well over six feet tall. His jerkin strained, as i
f his chest had been stuffed full of boulders. Blond end-of-the-day stubble highlighted a cleft chin, while intelligent brown eyes assessed Jorah.
Whatever the man saw made him stumble and his pulse race. He caught himself. “Beautiful evening for a walk.”
With no trace of a disability, Jorah dismissed him as Untalented. “If you say so.”
Those intelligent eyes took on a speculative gleam. “I’m not from around here. Where does this path lead?”
Jorah’s skin crawled. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he knew to obey the signals his body sent him. “Walk it and you’ll find out.” He stopped when he drew next to the man. “Where you from?”
The man’s vague hand wave indicated nowhere. “Up north. I’m here for the trials.”
“Then shouldn’t you be at the trials?”
The man laughed. “Not me, exactly. My brother. I’m his second. Thought I’d get a lay of the land. You never know what they will throw at us at events like this.”
Jorah didn’t bother hiding his frown. “You think Princess Aurora will hold a jousting contest on the side of a hill above the city?”
Another laugh, only longer and louder this time. “If you’re a suitor, you’re probably thinking that my brother stands no chance with a foolish second like me.”
“Your words. Not mine.”
“Well, I won’t keep you.” The man clapped Jorah’s shoulder. The slap seemed overly hard for a friendly gesture. “I want to go and see these Guardians I’ve heard so much about.”
Jorah’s body tensed, ready to attack if the man touched him again.
Perhaps the Guardians and the loss of his magic were making him edgy. Fighting complete strangers on hillsides was not the best way of announcing his return to his old homeland. He forced himself to relax and descended the hill.
The closer he got to the palazzo, the less he could shake the terrible sense of déjà vu that beset him every time he considered the man’s face.
The turn of his nose and the line of his brow were reminiscent of Trojean. If that was her Untalented brother, then Raith had to be here, too.