by Jill M Beene
Samiris blinked at Aster’s reflection in the mirror. Then Artem was aware of the situation beyond Teymara’s borders. He did care. Samiris chewed on her lip.
“Do you not like it?” Aster said, frowning.
“What?”
“Your hair,” she said, her hands on her hips. “What I’ve been working on for the past hour.”
Samiris looked in the mirror. Aster had braided sections of her hair back and incorporated them into a longer, larger braid. It was possibly the loveliest Samiris’ hair had ever looked. She touched it gingerly.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Aster looked satisfied. “Let’s get you dressed.”
Luncheon that day was sheer torture. Samiris would have rather been strapped to a rack in the dungeon that she knew must be lurking beneath the castle somewhere. She could handle the tittering laughter that crested in her wake, the small arrows of knowing smirks shot her way, even the whispering, like a wind through the forest back home, was bearable. It was the pity, the false friendship, that burned like a brand against her skin.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Narcise said in a lilting voice that still managed to carry up and down the lavishly set table. Samiris saw every head angle toward them for better viewing and listening. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of culture and society eventually. After all, none of us could expect for you to grasp all the social niceties, with you being raised by just a man. And hardly more than a peasant at that! Tell me, Samiris... is it true that your father is a... farmer?”
Samiris lifted her eyes slowly to meet Narcise’s piercing blue ones. “My father is a nobleman, the same as yours. But even if he were a farmer, or a butcher, or a beggar, or anyone else you consider beneath you, I still wouldn’t trade my father for yours.”
Narcise put her thin white hand on Samiris’ shoulder and gave a squeeze that was a touch too sharp to be considered anything but a warning. “Of course you wouldn’t,” she said, her eyes full of affected sorrow. “I’m sure you love your farmer father very much indeed.”
A hiss of snickers erupted down the length of the white linen clad table and Samiris frowned. She couldn’t quite grasp the insult... as if loving her father no matter his station was a bad thing?
“I do,” Samiris confirmed with a decisive nod.
Narcise gave her a sad smile. “Just so. But then, you hardly can deny that he didn’t do a very good job in educating his daughter, well...” here she paused and added a snake-like smile, “...daughters... in the appropriate social graces.”
“My father taught me the things that matter, like honesty, loyalty, and how to tell the difference between a false friend and a real one.” Samiris batted her eyelashes up at Narcise. “Perhaps he can write your father a letter, to tell him how that’s done?”
Narcise’s fake smile drooped slightly, a balloon losing air, and she began to move away. “My father is too busy managing his extensive properties and wealth to accept letters from farmers.” Over her shoulder, she added, “Especially when said missive would most likely be so riddled with grammatical errors and misspellings that it would be nigh on unreadable.”
Samiris fumed, another retort hot and fresh on her lips, but a voice called, “Ladies, ladies!” It was Lady Elise at the head of the table. Samiris watched Narcise take her seat between Lady Evanora and Ladonna, watched the latter pat Narcise’s arm as if she were the one who needed support after that exchange.
“Last night was a splendid start to the Choosing season,” Lady Elise announced, then her eyes flitted to Samiris, and her mouth drooped into a frown as she added, “with a few glaring exceptions...”
Samiris looked down at her plate. The bite of buttery scone in her mouth turned as dry and tasteless as sand, and she struggled to swallow.
“We have a week full of celebration and merry-making to commemorate this, the fifteenth season of the Choosing!”
Here, there was a smattering of applause, and Samiris’ eyebrows shot up in response. These morons were applauding the fifteenth anniversary of a brutal curse? One that had claimed fifteen Chosen lives and countless others due to famine? One that would claim another, one of the very girls at this table?
Samiris searched the faces of the girls closest to her. She read serene acceptance on a few of them, excitement on several more, and blissful ignorance most everywhere else. Only Cyra, a few seats down from Samiris, looked truly nervous, and Ladonna looked happily confused. But Ladonna always looked like that.
Samiris directed her glare back down, toward the gold-rimmed crystal goblet that held fresh-squeezed orange juice in front of her. There was no pulp, which meant that someone had taken the time to repeatedly strain the liquid for her enjoyment. Samiris found bile rising in her throat. How could all of these ladies forget the cost of their frippery? Samiris knew of five families in Faro who would have gratefully accepted that orange pulp as an addition to their meal. And here in Teymara, they were straining it out.
“Of course, the culmination of this month of celebration is the Opening Ball. Mind that you put your best foot forward, for this dance is also the start of the Courting Season.” Lady Elise’s eyes again rested on Samiris, who tried to act unaffected by the condescending gaze. “There will be remedial dance and etiquette lessons this week, for those of you who are... less prepared.”
Against her will, a flush again rose in her cheeks, like an unstoppable, traitorous rising of the tide. Samiris could hear fresh snickering up and down the table, saw the lily-white, uncalloused hands of many rise to cover their uncharitable smiles. Samiris forced herself to sit there, forced herself to remain in her seat, when she wished nothing more than to push back with a violent screech, flip the overloaded table, and scream at their stupidity and heartlessness.
But she thought of Marla, who thought Samiris could make a difference. She remembered Tamrah’s words, remembered that she was here to try and make things better. She thought of her father, cooped up in his daughters’ former nursery next to the fire that kept him alive. She thought of Kalan and the rest of Faro, of the dead wasteland of the Chaikine Valley, which had once fed the nation. Even if she couldn’t lift the curse, maybe she could alleviate suffering. And so she remained in her seat.
“Your schedules will be delivered to your chambers by the end of breakfast. Be sure to take special care with your appearance for these events, for one of you might be lucky enough to capture the Crown Prince’s heart and become Empress...” Lady Elise trilled, a saccharine smile on her lips.
At these words, there was a ripple of excitement down the length of the table. Several ladies gave smiles full of private hope and false demureness as they glanced down at their plates. A few of them nudged their neighbor and grinned in excitement, and several groupings fell into breathless laughter once again. Only Cyra looked solemn. Samiris felt sick. In that instant, she hated the lot of them. Idiotic sycophants, all of them.
“You are excused,” Lady Elise finished.
Samiris caught up with Cyra in the hall. When Cyra saw her from the corner of her eye, Samiris could have sworn she increased her pace.
“Can you believe them?” Samiris hissed. “Clapping about this season of the Choosing, like this is some sort of honor? What is wrong with these people?”
Cyra stopped and turned so suddenly that Samiris almost ran into her. They were in the hall outside their chambers. Two bright spots of color appeared in Cyra’s cheeks.
“I think that we should branch out,” Cyra said, her words so rushed they were nearly on top of one another. “I’m not sure that we should spend as much time together as we did while we were travelling.”
“What?” Samiris said, her mouth agape. “What do you mean?”
Cyra wouldn’t meet her eye. “I’m sorry, Samiris. But for what I need to do here, I have to fit in, be accepted.”
Samiris blinked, numbly, her eyes wide. Cyra
was embarrassed of her, didn’t want to be seen with her. Samiris should have seen it coming, she realized. Cyra, with her wide, crystalline blue eyes, fashionably jutting collarbones, and skin the color of moonlight could give even Narcise a run for the title of the most beautiful Chosen. She had no problem wearing the dresses, smiling when appropriate, and playing the part of the demure, hopeful Empress-to-be.
And everyone knew that it was the Empress Dowager and Lady Evanora who would be setting up the private audiences between members of the Chosen and the Crown Prince. Despite what anyone said, those ladies were the ones with the real power in the kingdom. In order to have access to the Crown Prince, you had to be selected, chosen once more by the Empress and her lady in waiting.
But until that point, Samiris had thought that Cyra scorned the process as much as she herself did. She never would have thought that Cyra would be the type to drop Samiris like the sharp end of a knife if Samiris wasn’t popular enough. Did all those shared, monotonous days and long nights of talking about everything on their journey here mean anything? Samiris blinked again. Apparently not.
Then again, could she fault Cyra for it? Cyra came from a situation far more desperate than Samiris did. Her family, from everything Samiris could garner even through Cyra’s tight-lipped, nebulous admissions, was not nearly as loving as Samiris’ was. And judging by her figure, those scars... Cyra needed to get out of her homeland far more than Samiris did. Could Samiris really be angry at her for doing everything possible to get out from such a situation? It would be like being angry at a beautiful songbird for trying to escape a thorny cage.
“I... understand,” Samiris said, her fingers twisting together in front of her like the brambles of a rosebush. “Just know... if you need anything, anything at all... I am still your friend, even if you cannot admit it to the others.”
Cyra’s face drew up in surprise and another strong emotion, there and gone so quickly that Samiris couldn’t read it. Cyra heaved a deep breath and stared at Samiris, her face now the emotionless, polite mask that she often wore.
“Thank you,” Cyra said, grasping Samiris’ hands with one of her own, tightly, just for an instant.
Then Cyra swept away, her back elegant and straight, her head high but tilted slightly down at the chin as the others did. Without Samiris, Cyra could fit in perfectly, assimilate easily. Samiris staggered into her apartment, and leaned against the heavy door. She was embarrassed. She should have realized that her company, her friendship was unwanted. Above the embarrassment, overriding it, was a sense of emptiness, like she was an earthen jar that had been emptied onto the ground.
Later that day, Aster led Samiris to the sitting room where the Empress Dowager and her ladies were waiting. Samiris was wearing a grey satin day dress, whose skirts were tied up and bustled at her lower back. Although the design was the same as the other Chosen, the color was drab.
At least her hair was beautifully done, her slippers fit, and she wore simple earrings that went nicely with the dress. She could walk and was in no imminent danger of tipping over. All things considered, it was as good as she had felt about her appearance since arriving in Teymara.
Aster left her at the door and motioned her in. Samiris stepped over the carpeted threshold and glanced around. The sitting room was smaller than any she had seen in the castle, save those of her own chambers. The Empress Dowager sat next to Lady Evanora on a silk settee embroidered with flowers. They were flanked by velvet armchairs in a pale pink where Lady Elise and Lady Hendria primly sat. A sparkling silver tea service was laid out on the delicately carved table before them.
There was no chair for Samiris to sit in, so she stood in front of the grouping.
Lady Evanora leaned over and whispered in the Empress Dowager’s ear.
“Oh, you’re something new,” the Empress Dowager said, setting forward in her seat. “How exciting. It’s been a long while since we had any nobles from the Southernmost provinces in the castle. Tell me, Lady Samiris, what do you think of our city?”
Samiris was tempted to tell the Empress Dowager exactly what she thought, but the woman’s smile was too open, her face too earnest, her eyes as twinkling and engaging as two stars. Samiris got the impression that if she weren’t careful, she could actually like the Empress Dowager.
“It’s very...big. And very lovely, Your Excellency,” she added quickly.
“I think so,” the Empress replied.
Samiris stood, fidgeting, as the Ladies and the Empress Dowager studied her.
“What do you think of the Crown Prince?” the Empress asked.
Samiris’ eyebrows shot up her forehead. Of all the questions she had expected, this was not one of them.
“Well, I don’t know him, Your Excellency,” Samiris replied, bluntly.
Samiris noticed Lady Elise’s frown and Lady Evanora’s smirk.
“That’s true. You don’t.” At Samiris’ admission, the Empress smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “We will have to fix that. You’re a pretty thing. I think that my son might really take a liking to you.”
The Empress had turned to Lady Elise as she spoke, and Lady Hendria’s eyes had never left the Empress’ face, so none of them saw Samiris’ lip curl involuntarily at the thought that the Crown Prince might like her. But Lady Evanora saw, and her smirk deepened.
Samiris fixed her expression and took a deep breath.
“Do you ride horses, Lady Samiris?” Evanora said, her voice a lilting melody. “I heard somewhere that you ride quite well.”
A blush crept up Samiris’ cheeks as the memory of stealing Artem’s horse came to mind. She wondered what, exactly, Lady Evanora had heard. “I do ride, yes.”
“Wonderful,” the Empress Dowager said. “There is an outing tomorrow that you shall take part in. A picnic, which is one of my son’s favorite activities.”
Samiris fought to keep her face clear of expression. The Crown Prince enjoyed eating... who’d have thought it? Lady Evanora smirked at her again like she had heard Samiris’ thoughts. Samiris kept her face bland.
“You will be joining Lady Cyra, Lady Ladonna and Lady Narcise on this outing.”
At the mention of Lady Narcise, Samiris’ nose wrinkled, but she smoothed her face once more and said, “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next day, when the sun was beaming directly down, Samiris was smoothing down the tan skirts of her riding outfit self-consciously in the stable courtyard. She should have known better than to be early; it seemed as if no one in this city cared about being punctual. They only cared about making an entrance, about being seen.
Samiris looked down and sighed. Cloris seemed to think that if she dressed Samiris in dull colors that she would fade into the background. Especially after the embarrassing scene at dinner the first night, Cloris thought that it would be best if everyone forgot about Samiris altogether.
Samiris wouldn’t have been surprised if her dresses slowly morphed into downright disguises. Maybe she could attend dinner dressed as an empty dining chair, or perhaps she would attend an assembly in the throne room dressed as one of those huge potted plants that stood randomly around the room. Then no one would even notice her, and the chances of her embarrassing herself, and by proxy embarrassing Cloris, would be minimal.
Samiris was trying to keep her promise to her father of trying to enjoy herself. She was trying to keep her promise to Tamrah to try. She was trying to find a way to make a difference. But hour by hour, it became more difficult. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the positive. The courtyard she waited in was beautiful. Larger than the one where Lady Elise had hustled her and Cyra into the castle, the space was bright and paved with tightly fit square stones of different colors that had been arranged and cut to form the royal family crest.
Four huge pots, each the size of a carriage, were positioned in the f
our corners of the space. Flowering trees were planted in the center of each, and a riot of colorful flowers crowded each other around the trees, while a drapery of ivy cascaded over the edge onto the stone floor. The sky was a bright, unblemished blue. Birds winged overhead. A cool breeze tickled the rebellious strands of hair that had absconded from Samiris’ updo.
She wrinkled her nose at the perfection.
The heavy click of hooves against stone and a snort from massive nostrils behind her made her turn. Artem was leading Behemoth from the stables. They both were decked out in finery. Artem was on duty; he wore his impeccable guard uniform of spotless black breeches and a red riding coat embellished with gold cording on the lapels. Behemoth’s leather saddle was so dark that it nearly blended with his black coat. A gold breastplate hung over his meaty chest, and as Samiris watched, Behemoth tossed his head almost arrogantly, as if he sensed her gaze and wanted to draw more attention to his majestic appearance.
Artem led Behemoth right up to Samiris, until she was forced to meet his gaze.
“Good morning,” Artem said, giving a polite bow.
Samiris nodded back and stepped forward to pat Behemoth’s nose.
“You’re early,” Artem said, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. He seemed nervous, and Samiris frowned.
“I’m on time,” she said, now rubbing the soft coat of Behemoth’s neck. He snuffled her as if checking for carrots. “Everyone else is late.”
“Typically, ladies don’t arrive at an event until the men are all present. And the men typically aren’t all present until about thirty minutes after an event starts.”
Samiris snorted. “It’s a wonder you people get anything done at all with all these ridiculous rules.”
“It’s the way things are here,” he said, shaking his head.
Samiris stepped closer, her eyes wide and unapologetically fixated on his face. “Why?”