Shaking off her melancholy, Jahrra returned to her room and disappeared into the bathing chamber where she took her time with a bath. When she was done, she strode across her suite, a drying cloth wrapped tightly about her, and flung open the doors to her wardrobe. She shuffled through the gowns she’d worn at one occasion or another, fighting tears as each one brought forth a memory of the guardian she dearly missed. She could wear her everyday clothes to annoy the prince, or she could wear one of the dresses Jaax had commissioned for her, in his memory. In defiance of a man who had hidden himself away while others fought his battles for him.
Jahrra’s fingers traced over silk, taffeta, lace . . . until they fell upon the pale greens and creams of the dress she had worn to the dinner in Nimbronia those many months ago. The dress so resemblant of Ethoes herself with its fine stitching of bloodrose vines and flowers. This was what she would wear to dinner tonight.
With the fire of determination welling in her soul, Jahrra laid the dress out on her bed, and for the first time in weeks, she felt her old self coming to life once again.
* * *
The halls glowed with a mixture of late afternoon sunlight and the first set of candles lit to welcome evening’s approach. The usual courtiers and guests of the castle still lingered about, the servants weaving between them on their various errands. Many of them paused to lift their eyebrows at Jahrra as she strode past them, the young women drawing themselves against the walls to whisper harshly behind raised fans or hands. Jahrra knew they spoke about her, especially since she wasn’t wearing her typical, outdoor garb. The dress was the most elegant and beautiful piece of clothing she owned, and with her dragon scale pendant resting against her bodice for all to see, she wasn’t surprised at the silent stares. She didn’t care. She only tilted her chin upward, her mouth drawn tight in what she hoped was a bland expression.
As she turned a corner, however, some of the whispered words met her ears, causing her to grit her teeth as heat rose up her neck.
“I don’t understand why the prince fancies her so,” one woman managed.
Jahrra caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of her eye. Raven-haired with a pinched expression. Of course, it was the young woman who had glared at her during that long first day spent in the throne room.
“Oh, Kellerie!” another lady chirruped. “I think you’re reading into things far too seriously.”
Then a third voice replied rather blandly, “No, she’s right, Sonniette. Whenever Jahrra is in Prince Aeron’s presence, the man cannot look at anything but her. He doesn’t even try to hide it.”
Jahrra put on a new burst of speed to escape the women’s ridiculous words. Because they were utterly ridiculous. She had barely spoken two sentences to the prince since arriving, and quickly made sure to find somewhere else to be whenever she came upon him in the hallways of the fortress. If he showed any interest at all, it was purely due to the fact that she had played a large part in ridding the world of Ciarrohn and nothing else.
Clenching her fists, Jahrra took a set of stairs that would bring her into the main foyer, and then into the dining hall.
You promised Denaeh you would do this, and you will try your best to remain civil, she reminded herself.
The main entrance hall, to Jahrra’s surprise, was practically empty, but the dining room was teaming with nobles gathered for the evening meal. Jahrra froze as several of the castle’s current residents turned to assess her. Before she could seek out a place to sit, however, one of the palace guards found her.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Jahrra,” he said, giving her a slight bow, “but his majesty wishes to dine with you in the private dining room this evening.”
The murmuring voices came to a halt, and Jahrra felt herself turning pink once more. Dine with the prince? Alone? Before she could argue, the guard began moving towards the exit, leaving her no choice but to go with him. As she squeezed back through the crowd, she didn’t miss the heated glares of the young women who had been speaking about her earlier. They must have followed her. Jahrra clenched her back teeth. Wonderful. Now more rumors would be added to the ever-churning mill.
Flicking off those irritating thoughts, Jahrra trailed after the soldier as he led her to a much smaller room with a table large enough to seat a dozen or so guests. He gave her a quick bow, stated the prince would be in shortly, then closed the door with a click. As Jahrra waited, she studied the paintings on the wall and ran her fingers over the ornately carved chair backs. This room, like the grander dining hall, was situated on the southwestern corner of the building, and the wall facing the ocean was lined with several windows. Late afternoon light spilled into the space, making it seem as if Jahrra were wading through fire.
The gentle swoosh and click of a door opening and closing snapped Jahrra’s attention away from her study of the furniture. She blinked up and gazed across the expanse of the room to find the prince himself, dressed in the regal greens and golds of Oescienne, standing beside a door fashioned to blend into the wall. Jahrra’s spine stiffened when he paused to regard her.
“Lady Jahrra,” he said in a diplomatic tone, giving her a slight bow. “Thank you for joining me this evening.”
Jahrra did not return his greeting, but did offer a stiff curtsey. When she stood straight again, she let her fingers lace delicately before her. With one brow arched, she waited for the prince to dictate their next move. See, she commented to herself, I can be civil.
“Please,” Aeron said, “have a seat.”
He waved an arm, and one of the servants who had entered the room with him strode forward, sliding the chair at her end of the table free. Jahrra gave the young man a small smile and slipped into place. When she glanced back up, it was to find Prince Aeron had taken his own seat at the opposite end of the table. A strange tension emanated from him, and Jahrra found herself puzzled by it. It reminded her of that same aura she’d felt when she’d first set eyes upon him that day he used his own blood to break the curse on the castle. Her eyes narrowed. Something beyond Jahrra’s scope was going on, one more secret hidden behind a veil she couldn’t find and pull aside. Perhaps that was the root of her antagonism towards the prince. Whatever it was, the feeling grated at her.
Jahrra flicked her eyes upward to find him studying her once again, the length of the table providing a somewhat comfortable barrier.
“You may sit closer, if you wish,” he said. It almost sounded like a plea.
Jahrra arched a brow, remembering the idle prattle of the noblewomen probably lurking just outside the door with their ears pressed firmly to the keyhole.
“I prefer the distance, thank you,” she quipped.
I told Denaeh I would eat dinner with him. I did not say I’d make an effort to be overly friendly. That was unfair, Jahrra realized. She was barely being civil. But, she didn’t care.
Before either of them could speak again, the side doors of the room burst open, and servants pushing trays laden with covered dishes rushed in. One of the castle staff headed towards the prince while the other approached Jahrra.
“My lady?” the young Nesnan woman asked, presenting a silver bowl filled with ice where a bottle of golden liquid rested. Wine, Jahrra presumed.
“Please. And you can call me Jahrra,” she replied.
The young woman shot a glance towards the prince, and he nodded once. Jahrra bristled at that. Did the woman have to seek his permission to follow through with Jahrra’s request? How absurd!
Once her wine was poured, another maid offered to show her what had been prepared for the evening. Everything looked delicious and despite her nerves, Jahrra’s stomach growled in appreciation. She happily took small samples of each dish, and within ten minutes, the kitchen staff had exited, and Jahrra and the prince were once again left alone.
Jahrra reached out for her goblet and sampled the wine, only to be surprised. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at the man sitting several feet across from her.
“This isn’t wine,�
�� she stated flatly.
Aeron lifted his eyes to hers. Jahrra couldn’t discern their color from the distance between them, and she couldn’t remember if she ever bothered to notice. In fact, she had made a pointed effort not to study him too closely, but now, she felt she had no choice. His eyes were gray, maybe, or hazel, set in a sun-bronzed face.
“No,” the prince replied to her comment, his voice casual but guarded. “I’ve never really cared for wine. I much prefer a good cider, and I happen to have access to an apple orchard that produces the finest fruit I’ve ever tasted in all of Ethoes.”
Jahrra’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at his tone, but her suspicion flitted away as quickly as it had settled upon her as she took another sip of her cider, this one more generous. She had to admit, it was much better than wine.
A heavy silence fell between them, then, both Jahrra and Aeron got back to their meal. Several times, Jahrra heard the prince of Oescienne draw in a deep breath, expecting him to say something. Anything. But each time, he merely let it out as if struggling to find the right words. Halfway through dinner, he finally decided on a subject. Unfortunately, it was the one guaranteed to rattle Jahrra’s nerves.
“Denaeh and Ellyesce tell me you fought bravely against the Tyrant,” he commented.
Jahrra flashed her eyes up to his, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass of cider.
The prince had set aside his plate and was currently reclining in the tall-backed chair, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled before his face.
Irritation spiked through Jahrra. How casually he sat there, not a care in the world. Not a single friend to mourn after the war. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming urge to stab something with her fork.
With a carefully casual tone, she managed to say, “You might have witnessed my prowess first hand had you bothered to aid your allies in the fight to regain your throne.”
Jahrra lifted the crystal goblet to her lips and took a delicate sip of the cider, the sweet liquid cool but warming her as she swallowed it. The only part of the prince that moved in reaction to her clipped remark was the infinitesimal lift of one dark golden eyebrow. But then, the corner of his mouth twitched, a sure sign he was fighting a smile.
Jahrra’s irritation only blossomed. The prince of Oescienne was amused. Here she was, doing her best to keep civil, to give him the benefit of the doubt – against her better judgment – and he had the audacity to be entertained by her words.
“You think this is funny?” she challenged.
The prince only shook his head and took a sip from his own goblet. “No. I just like your spirit, Jahrra.”
“That’s too bad, because I find yours rather lacking,” she replied without thinking.
Aeron seemed to sober, sitting up more regally than before, those sharp eyes studying her. His mouth curved into a frown, and all amusement left his features. “You hate me, then.”
Jahrra gave a derisive snort, rolling her eyes and linking her arms over her chest as she fell against the backrest of her chair.
“Hatred is what got all of us into this awful mess to begin with. I know better than to hate anyone or anything. However, I will concede that I dislike you.” She leaned forward and lifted her wine glass, eyes once again narrowing onto Oescienne’s prince as she lifted the goblet in a mock salute. “Intensely.”
Prince Aeron had a much more noticeable reaction this time. He sat up, his fingers grasping the ends of the armrests of his own chair, the look of amusement wiped clean off his handsome face.
“And what, exactly, have I done to earn such disdain?”
Jahrra set her glass down carefully and considered him. She had been working hard to avoid Prince Aeron from the moment he stumbled into the edge of the Wreing Florenn looking like a travel-worn beggar. Now, as he sat at attention, his focus aimed entirely on her with no other nobles or courtiers or servants to distract them, she allowed herself a brisk perusal. Tall, regal, but not ostentatiously so, with hair like sun-burnished wheat and a natural grace that came to those born and bred along many centuries of royal bloodlines. He was beautiful, in his own, masculine way. Not fine-featured and slender like most of the elvin races, but broader, skin more bronze. More human. As she studied him more closely, for once, she could understand why the young women of the court flocked around him or sighed at his passing. Jahrra would admit to being content with appreciating his attributes, but she was not stupid enough to let it soften her heart towards him.
“I’m still waiting for an answer to my question, Jahrra,” Aeron pressed.
There it was again, that cool, collected aura of his. He picked up a knife and fork and proceeded to cut the roast pork on his plate into thin, precise pieces. Jahrra watched the knife slice into the meat, and maybe it was the reflection of candlelight against the metal, or the sound as the blade scraped against bone. Either way, Jahrra’s heart rate spiked, and without warning the memories from the war came flooding back into her mind. She drew in several deep breaths, then closed her eyes as her fingers fisted the cloth napkin in her lap. It was a mistake. The moment she shut out the soft candle-lit details of the formal dining room, the dark, dank hallways of the dungeons below Vruuthun swallowed her, sucking her into a black, swirling cloud of death and pain. The rushing crash of the waves below the Frozen Mountains, the screams of the prisoners beneath the castle, the beat of dragons’ wings overhead, the prick and sting of the traitor’s vest as she was dragged around by a chain like a dog, Ciarrohn’s cruel laughter, Keiron’s blood, hot and metallic, spilling onto her hands, Kehllor, his spine snapping like a twig beneath the dark god’s fingers. Jaax, his eyes fierce with sorrow and regret, plunging over the side of the cliff …
Jahrra stood up so fast her knees hit the bottom of the table. She gasped for breath, bracing her palms against the flat expanse of polished wood and silk fabric spread out before her, willing herself to stay upright as waves of dizziness overwhelmed her.
“Jahrra!” the prince barked, his own chair scraping against the stone floor. He strode swiftly to a door behind him and pulled it open and said, “Corson, fetch the Mystic Denaeh,” before making his way to her side of the table.
“N-no,” Jahrra wheezed, fighting against the impending panic. “No! I don’t need any help!”
She held up a shaking hand as he approached. The prince stopped in his tracks, only a half a dozen feet away from her.
“Jahrra, please. Let me get someone else, then. One of the castle’s healers.”
On the periphery of her vision, she saw him take another step.
“Don’t come any closer!” she seethed, trying to straighten but finding the act difficult.
The prince froze, and when she mustered the energy to lift her head, she discovered a look of irritation on his face. Anger, as hot and devastating as dragon flame, washed over her then, chasing away the panic.
“Stay away from me. I just want you to stay away from me! Please, go back to your seat. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back. Tears were a sign of weakness. She hated feeling weak. She would be strong, especially in front of him. Jahrra somehow managed to sink back into her chair, the darkness finally subsiding.
The prince retreated, but did not go as far away as the opposite end of the table. Instead, he strode to one of the windows, arms crossed over his chest his back to her. After a few moments, he breathed out harshly, “Why? Why are you so angry with me, Jahrra? I’ve felt it since the moment we met. Tell me where this derision is coming from.”
He turned and cast morose eyes in her direction. Jahrra could shrug and make up some lie, but as Denaeh had so baldly pointed out, lying got her nowhere. Better to be honest, then, even if it might prove to be unwise, in the end.
“Because,” she managed, voice shaking a little, “you are a coward. Hiding yourself away in some remote corner of the world while the rest of us marched on the Crimson King to fight your war. You have no honor, your
majesty. How do you expect me to respect that?”
His eyes burned into her, but she could not read the emotion in them. And, she didn’t want to. She took a rattling breath and waved a hand towards his vacated seat, and pushed on.
“You sit there across from me, with what purpose? Did you hope to charm me? Win me over? Do you have any idea what happened to me in Ghorium? What happened to all of us?”
Aeron turned fully to face her, then strode to the table and leaned against its edge, his fingers splayed over the delicate, white linen. A ring glittered on one of those fingers, Jahrra noticed, a testament to his lineage and an heirloom passed down through the royal line of Oescienne, no doubt. Just another symbol of his throne, of the sovereignty her friends had sacrificed to restore.
“I was tortured,” she bit out when Aeron’s heated silence pressed on, “forced to kill another for sport, watched friends shattered before my very eyes, yet somehow, I found the courage to forgive the most despised being in all of Ethoes. And then, my best friend in the entire world was taken from me, swept aside like garbage, giving his life so that I might keep mine, what miserable dredges that remain of it. So forgive me if I’m not ready to swoon at your mere presence.”
She clenched her fists at her side, stubborn irritation painting her cheeks scarlet, and dared the prince to reprimand her. He didn’t. He simply held himself up over the dining room table, chin dropped to his chest as if the weight of the world pressed down upon him. When he finally looked back up at her, Jahrra could have sworn she noticed something different in his expression, something almost familiar … Or maybe it had always been there, and she just hadn’t bothered to look.
Unnerved by the prince’s following silence, Jahrra settled back in her chair and tried to dampen down her anger. At least the memories had completely subsided.
She waited for the prince to react to her harsh words, to tell her to get out or banish her form the castle. No outburst came. Instead, he stood and ran his fingers through his hair, then returned to his seat.
The Legend of Oescienne--The Reckoning (Book Five) Page 48