by Jill Myles
Thinking of the three dru depressed her. To come so close to the coin and not walk away with it? Briefly she entertained the idea of seeing this mad scheme of Lady Mila’s through. It’d be humiliating, without a doubt. She’d have to endure the women’s haughty sniffs and whispers about her savagery and endure the men’s leers at her half-clad body. But at the end of the night, she’d have her money and she’d be free.
“Shall I put the wreath in your hair?” One of the timid women asked.
Damn the gods, but she was going to take the money after all. Seri exhaled her pent-up breath, steeling herself for the evening. “Might as well. I’m not leaving until I get paid.”
~~* * * ~~
Lady Mila was a vision in her golden dress, and she had artfully arranged a few long, golden plumes in her dark hair, tying her dress’s theme to Seri’s garish costume. She didn’t seem surprised to see Seri return, just nodded acknowledgment of her costume and eyed her. “Her skin doesn’t stand out enough,” she complained to Winna. “Dust her with the gold powder and let us see if that improves her tone.”
Determined not to say anything more, Seri allowed the two women to fuss over her appearance until she was artfully covered in gold dust and met their approval. Her hair was fluffed and coaxed until it floated around her head like a golden nimbus, emphasizing the green of her eyes. “Very nice,” Lady Mila approved. “Very savage and wild. I shall be the talk of the betrothal ceremony.”
And I shall be free soon, Seri thought with relief.
Winna shook a pouch in Seri’s face. “Your three dru, just as promised.” When Seri reached for it, she held it away from her. “You will receive it after the ceremony. At that time, your services will no longer be needed and you shall be free to return to your people. See that you do not trouble Lady Mila again.”
So that was how she was to be treated, then. Like a stray dog that was no longer wanted once it was found rabid. It suited her just fine, even if it meant walking home in the middle of the night, alone and dressed like a fool. Perhaps she’d see Rilen lurking near the castle gates and he’d be able to walk her home. He’d chide her—angry, she’d imagine—for letting them make a spectacle out of her, but he didn’t have to worry about what his family would eat the next day.
He’d be terribly upset that she hadn’t managed to learn anything much about the Athoni plans. Lady Mila had kept her so busy she hadn’t had time to skulk around the castle and eavesdrop on conversations.
And then the golden cords were wrapped about her fingers, digging into her flesh, and Lady Mila’s retinue was ready to leave.
Their small party made their way through the palace halls, well lit despite the late-night hour, but deserted, which seemed odd to Seri. “Lady Mila wishes to make a fashionable entrance,” Winna explained at Seri’s questioning look. “We are arriving late, but just in time for the ceremony.”
Seri nodded, her concentration on keeping her hands steady and the skirts flowing like a beautiful waterfall. “Is there anything I need to do for the ceremony?”
Lady Mila lazily waved a feathered hand fan. “Just continue to hold my skirts, stay out of the way, and look as wild and uncouth as possible.” She swept down the grand staircase on quick feet, leaving Seri racing to keep up with her.
“Shall I snarl at them, my lady?” Seri teased, wanting to laugh at the ludicrousness of the entire evening. Surely the woman couldn’t be serious.
“If you feel it appropriate,” Lady Mila said, her voice distracted as the hum of voices in the distance increased.
Seri’s eyes were drawn to the floor they descended to. She remembered this—the grand hallway floors were covered with delicate blue tiles, blue tiles that could hardly be seen beyond the crush of people. Fear choked Seri and she forgot all the teasing she meant to needle Lady Mila with as the sea of faces turned toward them and she found herself the focus of attention.
Part of her longed to draw in her shoulders, to hunch down behind Mila’s voluminous skirts and hope nobody noticed her in her flimsy, skin-baring outfit. She forced herself to stand tall, a thin sneer pinned to her frightened lips.
She’d show them that her people were proud, no matter how they tried to humiliate her.
The whispers began as soon as Lady Mila crossed the threshold of the ballroom. Savage, she could hear them whisper. Wild girl. Vidari, but on fewer tongues. And Lady Mila was right—all eyes were on her.
She ignored the faces that swam before her, her eyes focused on the crush in the ballroom. She’d seen the room once in passing while running errands for Winna. Then it had been empty, a silent, grand testament to the new culture that was invading the Vidari lands. Moonlight-glazed windows trailed across the walls and fluted high to the ceiling, all covered with a heavy red fabric that had been pulled back to reveal the stars. Candles blazed overhead in ornate candelabras.
Flooded in this pale, golden candlelight was the prince himself. Seri squinted to get a better look at him, curiosity getting the better of her. If they were going to gawk at her, she’d gawk right back.
It was him—the arrogant, beautiful nobleman.
He was like a marble statue in the flickering shadows. Fine, chiseled features stared down at the packed, rainbow-hued crowd without a hint of emotion. His dark hair was impeccably brushed—and cut, she noticed—and he nodded every now and then to the nobles who approached him, but said nothing.
He looked, Seri thought, rather ill-at-ease and uncomfortable with all the pomp before him. Sad. Alone in a sea of people. Not that it made her like him any more than before. The man was still a callous boor.
But, how was this arrogant, lonely man the prince? “Lady Mila,” she began.
The woman turned to look back at her with a vicious glance. “Do not speak unless I have commanded you to, girl.” She jerked on her skirts, the wire cords ripping into Seri’s hands. “Understand?”
Seri bit back the angry retort, thinking of the money that Winna had withheld from her. She nodded instead, swallowing her questions and turning back to the dais. Perhaps she’d simply misunderstood Idalla’s explanation. The man on the dais couldn’t be but a year or two older than herself.
Behind him on the dais stood several people dressed in long, flowing yellow robes edged with green. Their faces were serene, and they were devoid of any of the pompous trappings that Lady Mila and the other nobles adorned themselves with. Seri wondered who they were and what importance they held.
The ballroom was packed, and to her amusement, Seri noticed more women scattering the floor than men—almost double. Each woman was intricately done up in her finest garb, and hairstyles were elegant upsweeps. Lady Mila stood out in her gown of gold and her feathers, and she knew it. The smile on her face was gracious, a smile that Seri hadn’t seen in the past few days.
The room was so crowded that Seri was having a difficult time keeping her hands flexed and extended to carry Lady Mila’s skirts properly. When a young lord cut her off by accident, she gave him a fierce glare. To her surprise, he backed away from her and into a covey of nearby ladies. Her lips twitched into a satisfied smile.
A flash of red skirt passed them, and Seri craned her head, desperate to get a good look at Lady Mila’s hated rival, the fabled Lady Aynee. The woman in the red dress was beautiful, Seri admitted grudgingly. Her face was a sweet oval framed by long, dark lashes and perfect features, and her moon-pale hair was done in a flattering cascade of curls over her bare shoulder. Her red dress was vivid, the collar chokingly high and modest. Seri’s lips twisted. No wonder the prince was in love with the woman. As she watched, the lady turned toward the dais at the far end of the crowded ballroom and a possessive smile curved her mouth.
She must not be too worried about Lady Mila’s claim tonight, Seri thought to herself with satisfaction and guided the skirts in her hands past a throng of young noblemen. A hand reached out to brush at her bare back and Seri jumped in alarm, turning to glance behind her. As she watched, one nobleman made a lasciv
ious gesture at her.
They were no better than the common soldiers in the yard. Furious at being treated like a whore, she was tempted to drop Lady Mila’s fine skirts and confront the man.
A hush fell over the crowd, and Seri forgot everything she was about to do. Even the music stopped playing. Her eyes focused again on the dais at the far end of the room where the prince stood, now flanked by the two mysterious people in the yellow robes.
As she watched, the crowd parted and swept to the sides of the hall. Confused, she looked to Lady Mila, and when the woman motioned that they should follow, she obeyed. It made the crush at the sides of the room that much worse, and Seri found her bare skin pressed up against another woman rather uncomfortably.
An intricately carved seat was moved to the front of the dais, and the prince sat there, looking out over the crowd that jostled before him, his face stern and rigid.
“Let the ladies of the kingdom be presented for the betrothal ceremony,” the two priests intoned as one. “May His Grace be blessed by the might and wisdom of the High One this day.”
So, the ceremony was about to start. Seri heard the woman behind her squeal with excitement. “The prince will be free to choose his bride after this final ceremony. Do you think he will select Lady Aynee or someone else?”
“Aynee looks old tonight,” one of the other women muttered. “She’s pushing three score years. Mark my words, he’ll get himself a younger bride than that.”
“What if someone is chosen to be his betrothed tonight,” a young voice behind her asked. “You know, like the old stories say? What happens then? How will we tell?”
One of the women gave an unladylike snort. “It won’t happen. It didn’t happen for Prince Velair and he’s far more handsome than Prince Graeme. He’s too proud for his own good, especially considering that he is nothing but a younger son.”
He did look overly proud, Seri thought with a prejudiced smile. At least these silly women were right about something.
“And the ceremony?”
“I heard that if the gods choose a bride for him, the lights of the heavens will shine down. That’s all I know.”
Seri would have loved to hear more from the silly babble of the women, but the crowd surged forward and Lady Mila gave Seri an irritated look when she bumped into her. “Not so close, wild girl. Keep your distance. And remember, look unapproachable. We want to create a mysterious image.”
She bared her teeth at the noblewoman and was rewarded with a startled flip of Lady Mila’s fan. “That is better,” the noblewoman agreed, eyeing Seri. “Now watch closely and see how he reacts to all the women. Last year he showed no preference at all, but that was before Lady Aynee got her hooks into him.” She flipped her fan neatly and rapped Seri under the chin. “We’re going to try to go up as late as possible so as to make the best impression. Understand me?”
Seri gave a curt nod, trying not to let her disappointment show. Every moment at this affair felt like torture. At least her gown was a flimsy one—the packed room was stifling hot, and she watched a nearby woman pat her forehead with a square of white linen, blotting beads of sweat.
The first woman approached the dais where Prince Graeme was seated. He nodded at the woman and did not speak. The woman—dressed in silver ruffles and flounces that made her look more like a tumbleweed than an elegant lady of the court—bowed deeply and remained kneeling. To the side of the prince, both priests raised their hands in the air and said a brief prayer.
Nothing happened.
A long moment passed and one could scarcely hear anything but the sound of harsh breathing. Then, the two priests dropped their arms, and it was over.
He gave her a curt nod again, this one of dismissal. The girl in front of the prince broke out in loud sobs, and an elder woman—no doubt her mother—rushed to her side and took her away.
“Well, that was ill-bred of her,” Lady Mila crowed, fanning herself. “No surprise there.”
Seri said nothing, simply watching as the next woman lined up and the ceremony was repeated. The prince nodded acknowledgment, his face as cold and expressionless as ever. The priests raised their arms and chanted. Nothing happened. After a moment, the priests ended their prayer and the woman walked away, albeit with more dignity than the first girl.
Was this ridiculous show supposed to go on all night, Seri wondered? Her spirits plummeted at the thought, and she scanned the crowded ballroom. There were more women crowded in here than existed in her own small village. If the prince had to meet each individual one, it would indeed take quite some time to winnow through them.
And all for a Ceremony that had produced no fruit in over a thousand years.
These people were fools. To put such trust and hope in a ceremony with so little results. The cords of Lady Mila’s dress cut into her palms, and Seri bit back her sigh of irritation. It was going to be a very, very long night, she thought as the crowd surged forward once more, cycling a fresh crop of eager ladies before the prince.
Minutes dragged past as Seri and Lady Mila waited in place for their turn. At the back of the room, over the slow passage of time, they wound their way to the front of the hall. Hours had passed, Seri was certain. Lady Mila’s jaunty feathers were starting to droop, and even her flimsy costume was starting to stick to her moist skin.
And still nothing happened. The prince greeted each woman with the same bored yet polite expression and the priests chanted, all in vain. Seri began to have a hint of sympathy for the prince.
Time wore on slowly, and she began to think of all the things she could do with her princely sum of three dru. There was the new cow, but if she sweet-talked Rilen, he’d let her bring it to his farm and impregnate it. Then they’d have a calf as well as fresh milk, all within a year’s time. She’d have to buy some grain, but maybe if Josdi made a few more of her charming pillows, they could forge ahead with that. Maybe she’d spare a couple of pence and buy some pretty fabric for her handfasting with Rilen. Something in green, to match her eyes—
The cords in her hand jerked and Seri looked up to see that the last woman before them had exited the central area and now Lady Mila was making her grand entrance. Her breath caught in her throat—so close to being done!
Hands spread like she had been taught, Seri matched her steps to Lady Mila’s gliding ones, and she carried the excessive train of skirts out with aplomb to the center of the floor. Prince Graeme’s eyes focused in on her, his eyes flicking to Seri’s savage appearance and then back to the lady before him. He gave her a curt nod, the same as all the others.
Lady Mila stood before the prince. She touched her hand to her forehead and then sank down into a deep curtsy. Behind her, hands entangled in the noblewoman’s skirts, Seri hesitated. Everyone was staring at her with expectant eyes, waiting to see if she’d bow… or hoping that she wouldn’t so she’d be punished.
Biting her lip, Seri closed her eyes and bent her head, the closest approximation to deference that she could give without blasphemy.
With her head bent, she was unable to see the priests as they raised their arms, but she knew the ceremony had begun when their liquid chanting reached her ears. The words flowed together in the old language, the language that all had shared long before the kingdoms had sundered and there had been Vidari or Athoni. She kept her head bent and her figure relaxed in repose, wondering how long it she would have to wait for Lady Mila to get up and move.
Moments passed and Seri began to grow nervous. There was no familiar tug on the painful cords in her hands to let her know that it was time to get up. Was she in trouble because she had not bowed? Were the guards approaching even now to come and take her away? Was this what Mila had planned, knowing full well that Seri wouldn’t bow?
A voice gasped to the side of her and then a low murmur began in the room. Curious, Seri opened her eyes and looked up.
A white glow of light had descended on the center of the floor, and Lady Mila looked up with a radiant face. The two pri
ests continued to chant in the fluid language, their voices no longer bored, but exultant. Whispers flew around the room as the prince stood and stepped down from the dais, approaching the two of them.
A tiny, evil part of Seri was disappointed. As the prince’s chosen bride—the first in a thousand years—Lady Mila would be even more insufferable than before. Poor Lady Aynee had looked to be a more suitable, more amenable bride for the prince, but it was not to be.
But then the prince walked past Lady Mila, and his eyes were on Seri. That strangely compelling scent filled her nostrils. Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, her gaze flitting to Lady Mila. Was there a mistake? The noblewoman stood, trying to jerk her skirts away from the delicate cords that held them to Seri’s hands. Mila’s face was pinched and bright red with ill-concealed rage.
Seri realized that the white light that had descended upon the midst of the floor was centered firmly on herself.
Not Lady Mila.
The cords dropped from hands gone suddenly numb. The prince stood by her side, his impassive face with the cold, dark eyes looking down at her. He took her by the elbow, turning Seri slowly so that she would face the crowd, the spicy scent of him nearly overwhelming her. Behind them, the priests continued their chants, in a new verse of the prayer that she had never heard before—an exultant, glorious one.
The prince took her hand and raised it high. “The High One has granted me a betrothed,” he called out in cultured, cold tones that carried across the still ballroom floor.
The room erupted into wild cheers.
Seri’s heart sank.
Chapter Four
Seri didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when the prince grabbed her gold-smeared arm in a tight grip and tucked her hand in his elbow like she was a real lady. He leaned in and she could smell his breath, minty and warm. “Smile to everyone, please, and follow my lead.”