by Jill Myles
With that, he turned his politely schooled features out on the crowd and gave them a half wave of politeness. “The kingdom is very pleased at this unexpected turn of events. Truly, we are blessed by the gods.”
Blessed? She wanted to wrench her arm out of his grasp and run out of the room, to run away from the staring eyes and the shocked and disappointed stares of the women, the lecherous, sly looks of the men. No, she was not blessed.
The priests closed in around them, a sea of swirling green robes and chanting figures, blocking them from the effusive partygoers who had begun to crowd closer, wanting to see—and touch—the prince and his god-chosen betrothed. Part of Seri was grateful for the blockade of dark green robes, but the wild, Vidari part of her felt trapped. Her arm jerked in his grasp reflexively, and she twisted when he didn’t release her, trying to writhe out of his grip. “Let me go,” she whispered.
He leaned in close to her, the same schooled expression on his face. “You cannot leave except with me.” His words were as cold and neutral as ever. “Rest assured that I will be more than happy to release you when we have left the ballroom for a less public domicile.”
She swallowed the whine of distress building in her throat and clung to his arm. The surging, chattering crowd around her was even more alarming than the original one, and her nerves were shot. The glow that had surrounded her when the chanting rose was now covering both of them, and her vision was blurring from the white light that seemed to cover all. Was this some cruel joke? Surely it could not be her who was to be the wife of the prince. Not the first one chosen in—how long had Idalla mentioned? —three hundred years?
When the cheering crowd surged again and a man grabbed at her skimpy costume, Seri squeezed her eyes shut and leaned closer to the prince. For a brief flash, she was thankful his larger form nearly swallowed her own against his, and his arm covered her shoulders protectively. She wanted to hide away from these people—these hateful, horrible enemies that would not stop staring at her. Time blurred, the white light threatened to blind her, and she was cognizant of nothing save the prince’s stiff, strong form against her own.
The chorus of voices faded away, and Seri’s tightly shut eyes eased open. She had to blink hard to clear the focus of white from her eyes, but when she did, she could make out an opulent chamber, the windows set into the wall covered in more of the ornate, colored glass that the Athonites seemed so fond of. A large stone table took up the vast majority of the room with small, carved benches pushed underneath the lip of the table, and one very ornate, wooden chair at the far end.
Three guesses as to who that is for, Seri thought wryly and gave her hand an experimental tug. To her surprised relief, the prince released it, and she flung herself away from him and through the advisers.
“What is this all about?” The words tumbled forth from her mouth before she had the good sense to think them through. “Why are you taking me away?” The white aura still surrounded her, still made it difficult to see. She wanted to shut her eyes for hours, grind her fists into them like a small child.
Anything to try to abate the gnawing horror in her stomach before it turned into reality.
As she watched, the prince took out an elegant handkerchief and began to wipe his hand down, a distasteful expression on his face. Offended that he would have to wipe her touch away, Seri’s lip curled with disgust. Typical Athonite.
He tossed the handkerchief down on the table and moved toward the ornate wooden chair—his chair. The cold irritation returned to his voice. “Next time we are in public together, please take it upon yourself to not coat your skin in gold dust.” He glanced over at her, as if seeing her appearance—sweaty, too-thin garment, smeared dust all over her nearly bare skin—for the first time. “And for that matter, please clothe yourself more appropriately.”
Seri’s mouth worked in a wordless protest. She didn’t know whether to scream at him in outrage… or rush up to him and wipe more of the gold dust all over his precious clothing. “You think I chose to wear this?”
“Did you not?” His voice was icy. “I find it difficult to believe that someone held you down and forced you to put on such elaborate clothing. You must have had some complicitness.”
Mutiny must have been obvious on her face; one of the green-robed advisers came to her side and offered her a thick black cloak. “This is… unexpected,” he said when silence filled the air.
The prince laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. “I do not believe that this begins to qualify as ‘unexpected.’”
It was almost as if they’d forgotten she was in the room, the way they talked around her. A purely Athoni trait, she’d learned from her short stint in the castle. Seri tugged the cloak around her body, hiding it from view and blowing one of the ridiculous feathers off her forehead.
Silence fell again, and all eyes were on the prince, including her own. His look was inscrutable; he had a way of schooling the expression on his face into a polite, cold mien, and the mask had fallen into place once again, something that irritated her to no end. They didn’t know what to do with her; that much was plainly obvious.
Stoking up her courage, Seri stood, clutching the cape tight around her body. “May I go?”
All eyes swung from the prince’s impassive face to her own scowling one. “Go?” One of the advisers stammered, “You cannot go.”
“Why can’t I? I’ve no wish to stay, and it’s obvious you don’t want me here.”
The prince’s cool gray eyes met her own, pinning her under their hard gaze. She wondered briefly what he would look like if he showed emotion—any emotion—other than royal distaste. “You cannot leave. We have much to be done.”
“I? I have much to do?” She returned his mocking laugh with one of her own. “I am a servant purchased for the week for a few coins. I owe you nothing.” The thought of those three lovely dru that had slipped between her fingers without any say on her part rankled. “I want my coins,” she added stubbornly, thinking of her family.
“You are the betrothed of the prince, first among women. The first betrothed in three hundred years,” a fat adviser said, his voice wobbling as much as his chin. “Money is no object to one of your position.”
It wasn’t? A mixture of joy and dread swam through her veins. “And what is my position?” she asked lightly, her voice faint to even her own ears.
“Once we have the coronation ceremony,” the fat adviser said, “you will be acknowledged as the betrothed of Prince Graeme of Athoni, revered and beloved by all, chosen by the One True God. When you marry, you will become a royal princesse of the kingdom.”
Seri stared into Prince Graeme’s coldly polite eyes and wanted to laugh. Revered and beloved by all, except her cold-as-a-statue betrothed. “I am Vidari,” she protested again, the objection sounding hollow even to her own ears. “I am not Athoni. By your own laws I cannot be a citizen, much less royalty.”
“The laws of the One God are irrefutable, even by royalty themselves,” Prince Graeme interjected. “I am afraid that choice is not an option.”
His flat words sounded so final. A frightened whimper slid past her teeth. “I want to go home.”
His polite, cold smile never faltered. “You are home.”
~~* * * ~~
Seri woke up the next morning to a very different room than before.
As Lady Mila’s least-favored servant, she’d been allowed to sleep on a hard hay pallet on the floor of the room of the other servingmaids, in the same corner that the women tossed their dirty laundry. It had been meant to humiliate and degrade, and waking up from a deep sleep when a woman tossed her soiled pantaloons on her was not exactly endearing, but it had all been suffered as part of the deal. She’d wanted the three dru more than she’d wanted a good night of sleep.
But this—this was frightening. Seri sat up slowly in the bed, looking around her with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It had been too late last night to bother with a candle, and she’d been too worn—mentally and
physically—to think about where she was sleeping. That made the shock of waking up this morning that much more powerful.
The bed she slept in was arguably as large as her room in her father’s cottage. A grand silvery-blue canopy swept overhead, and the entire thing was carved from thick, heavy wood. Four spiraling, carved posters kept the canopy high overhead, and the coverlets were made of matching embroidered blankets, all richer than anything she’d ever owned. She touched one corner wonderingly, then winced when even that gentle touch left a fingerprint of gold on the expensive fabric. Underneath her thighs, a real feather mattress—and a feathered pillow for her head. She wanted to giggle with the insanity of it and wondered if she’d find one of Josdi’s silly feather pillows in this room.
Guilt surged through her at the thought of her sister and her father waiting in the tiny cottage for her return. Rilen had promised to check on them, and she had to hold fast to the promise he’d made her. They’d be safe as long as he made sure they had enough to eat and tended the chickens. Still, she should see about getting home today and taking care of them.
Seri swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet dangling inches from the tiled floor. She slid out of bed reluctantly, noticing that she still wore the slight costume from last night and that the fabric had become wrinkled and stained with gold. Her hair stuck in her face, a mess of feathers and waves, and she shoved out of the way in irritation.
The floor underneath her feet was icy, and Seri padded a few steps cautiously, wondering what she should do now. Had they brought her things to her room? Would she get her three dru now?
Light was pouring into the massive chamber, and Seri automatically turned her head toward it. A new set of the expensive windows covered one wall here—not in the colored fragments of glass like she had seen in the downstairs halls, but a clear, bubbly glass that allowed the sunlight in and made her long to be outside. Thick carpets were tossed over the beautiful tiles on the floor, and scattered throughout the room were small tables and chairs and mirrors, as if one were supposed to loiter in this massive chamber.
Was that what noble women did with their time, Seri wondered? Lie about in their bedrooms and fix their hair? She knew that Lady Mila had certainly not extended herself beyond this, but she had thought her a lazy exception to the rule, not the rule itself.
No wonder they were all so hateful, Seri thought with a wry twist of her mouth. She’d be bored silly in a sevenday and imagined she’d be just as unpleasant to be around. Still, she couldn’t help but look in the mirror and grimace at her rumpled hair and clothing.
“I see you’re awake, my lady.”
The cheerful voice made Seri spin around abruptly, dropping her hands from her gold-smeared face like a guilty child. She hadn’t realized she was not alone in this monstrous chamber. A woman stood there, dressed in the typical gray robes of the servants, a warm smile on her face. She carried a tray in her hands, and the scent of warm bread caught Seri’s nostrils. She set the tray down on one of the spindly sitting tables and gestured for Seri to sit. “Break your fast, my lady, and then we can begin our day.”
Seri dropped into the seat, cramming one of the sugared biscuits into her mouth. Delicate and fluffy, they weren’t the fare that servants were offered—honey was too expensive. The first one melted away on her tongue too fast, it seemed, and she stuffed another into her mouth, watching the woman as she puttered around the room, humming. She pulled on a cord in the corner, then turned back to Seri, smiling and waiting.
Swallowing hard to clear out her mouth, Seri reached for another biscuit despite herself. “Begin… our day?” she asked. “Is there something I’m supposed to do?”
“Goodness me, yes.” The woman looked surprised at Seri’s question. “We’ve got a lot to do. Once you’ve taken your bath, we’ll get you dressed in one of the gowns that Prince Graeme sent for you. Then we must get you fitted for the official betrothal ceremony in the next few days. Then you must have your midday feast with the Prince to go over your schedule for the rest of the week—”
Mid-bite into her third sugar-biscuit, Seri lost her appetite. The sweet stuck to the roof of her mouth like glue, and she had to use her tongue to pry it off the roof of her mouth. “Wait,” she managed around her full mouth. “When do I get my money?”
The servingwoman’s mouth puckered. “I’m afraid that I don’t deal with details like that.”
Seri crossed her arms, mulish anger taking over. This was getting ridiculous. Part of her began to dread that she wouldn’t receive the money at all, and that wouldn’t do. She hadn’t gone through all this to return home empty-handed. A deal was a deal. She focused on the woman in front of her. “Then take me to someone that does.”
The woman stared as if not believing Seri’s bad manners. “But, my lady,” she said, then stopped when the door opened. Both of them turned as servants trooped in with buckets, and one carried a beaten copper tub on his back. One of the washerwomen carried in a set of fluffy towels. “Won’t you bathe and dress properly first, at least?”
Well, she supposed she could do that. Somewhat mollified, Seri nodded and watched as they filled the copper tub. She’d never had a hot bath before.
It turned out to be a lovely, relaxing experience, marred only by the overwhelming presence of the sticky gold powder that got on everything, and the fact that she had to dress in the clothes brought for her after she was done with her bath.
Athoni clothes were a torture not to be borne, Seri thought to herself as the woman laced her into a stiff contraption that hung around her waist awkwardly. She hadn’t paid much attention to Lady Mila’s clothing, her mind assessing it as “foreign” and leaving it at that. But now this servingwoman was determined to dress her in layer after layer of clothing. First came a thin, gauzy gown made out of a fabric softer than anything she’d ever worn. Next came a pair of puffy short-pants that the servant indicated were to be worn underneath the gown to cover her privates. Seri giggled to herself as she thrust her legs through the appropriate holes and hitched the garment around her waist—silly Athonites. As if covering your body with layers hid what was truly underneath.
Next came the hideous stiff garment that she was being laced into now, and on the corner of the bed, she could see another gauzy skirt and a dress made of a thick, deep-blue material.
“Stand straight,” the woman said, and that was all the warning that Seri got. In the next moment, she tugged on the laces and the breath was sucked out of Seri’s lungs. She groaned in protest and tried to jerk away, but the woman had her trapped and continued to lace the cage of fabric around her body, tighter and tighter as Seri struggled to catch her breath. “What is this thing?”
“It’s a corset. It will keep your waist small so you can fit in the dress that Prince Graeme has provided to you.”
Seri sucked in a shallow breath—not as easy as it once was. “Is this truly necessary?”
The woman made no response other than a satisfied grunt, then finished the laces with one final jerk. “Now for the dress,” she said and tossed the thick swath of dark fabric over Seri’s head.
After a modicum of primping and fussing and more of the wretched laces, the woman released Seri with a cluck. “It’ll do. I’m afraid you’re quite a bit taller than the previous owner of this dress, but it’ll have to work until your garments are made for you.” She eyed Seri’s form critically. “Indecent, the amount of ankle it shows.”
Seri glanced down, then shrugged. It hung below her calves, which made it the longest dress she owned. She was more concerned with the corset and how it constricted the very breathing she took for granted—that, and it made her breasts rather prominent and noticeable. Odd, given the high neckline of the dress and the nearly choke-tight collar that wrapped around her neck. She felt swathed in blankets, not dressed in elegant finery. “Can I go?” She couldn’t help the impatience in her voice—if she had to stand here another moment to be poked and prodded into what Athonites considered �
��acceptable attire,” she was going to scream.
“Your hair,” the woman sniffed. “It’s wet. You’ll ruin the dress if you leave it down. Wait for it to dry.” She offered Seri a towel, which was promptly ignored.
They compromised a few minutes later; Seri’s wet hair was done up in a thick braid and knotted at the back of her head, which was irritating, but at least the servingwoman was nodding instead of frowning. “Very well,” she said. “I shall go and find the prince’s vizier and let him know your complaints.”
From the delicate stool in front of the mirror, Seri frowned at the reflection that stared back at her, noting that when she scowled, at least it still looked like herself—the rest looked like a stranger. “What do you mean, vizier? I want to see the prince—or Lady Mila. Whichever is going to pay me.”
“You cannot see the prince,” the woman snapped, giving Seri yet another look of disgust. “You will have to settle for his vizier. I am told Lady Mila has retired to her apartments and will see no one.”
No doubt in a dramatic snit over Seri’s unfortunate luck, Seri thought with a scowl. “Fine,” she said, clasping her hands on her knees and trying to look patient. “I’ll wait here and concentrate on trying to breathe.”
The servant harrumphed and turned on her heel, exiting the room in a swirl of gray skirts. Seri waited a scant minute, then stood, tiptoeing to the door. A quick check of the hallway revealed that it was empty. Good.
Now to find the prince and give him an earful.
~~* * * ~~
Seri’s bare feet slapped on the cold stone tiles, making more noise than she would have preferred. Still, for a busy castle, the massive halls were surprisingly devoid of passersby. She saw one gray-garbed servant at the far end of the hall, but when the woman noticed Seri, she turned quickly in the other direction and left. Uneasy, Seri wondered if the woman had run off to inform her waiting woman that she’d escaped.