by Jill M Beene
This was... this was... amazing. This was... everything... This was too much.
Samiris pulled back with a sudden gasp. Artem’s eyes were hooded as he looked into her face, and she wished she knew what he saw there, because his lips curled up in a lazy smile.
“That’s good to know,” he said.
“We cannot... I cannot....” she bumbled, blushing. “You have been drinking! This doesn’t...”
Artem was grinning openly at her now.
“Good day to you, sir!” she barked, and shot up from the bench.
His booming laughter followed her as she strode from the garden.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
At breakfast, Samiris was muddled. Her thoughts were as tangled as forest vines. Why had Artem kissed her? What did it mean? Did she want to do it again? Did he?
Samiris could tell that Lady Evanora hadn’t told anyone about their conversation the night before. Or perhaps she had, but no one believed it. The remaining Chosen were as cold as winter in the Southern Wastes to Samiris. Not one of them would look at her, not one of them would acknowledge her presence. Narcise went so far as to bump into Samiris while she was in the buffet line, spattering Samiris’ ivory dress with the vibrant hue of orange juice.
“Oops,” Narcise said, her tone like venom. “I didn’t leave enough room for Lady Clumsy.”
Samiris ignored them all, sitting solitary at the far end of the table. There were only a few seats between her and Ladonna, but it might as well have been a mountain range. She ate quickly and kept her head down. Samiris knew that the morning was going to be extra painful. She wouldn’t have come to the breakfast at all, except for the agreement she had made with Artem. He was holding up his end of their bargain, working at least as many hours in the garden as she did. She wouldn’t let him see her falter on her end now, when the lines between them had become even more blurred.
Artem had once warned her that not much occurred in the castle without him knowing, that he would know if she failed to attend an event. Sure as day, when Samiris looked around the room, she noticed two of the guards craning their necks to look at her, curiosity written plain on their faces. Their heads snapped back forward when she made eye contact. Gossip travelled in the castle faster than a grass fire in Chaikine. She scowled and shoveled her porridge in even faster.
“Goodness sakes,” Narcise said, and by the volume, Samiris knew that she was meant to hear it. “Why are they still serving peasant food at breakfast?”
Samiris didn’t answer, just glanced at the exit on the far end of the room, where one of the guards was hurrying out.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, peasant,” Narcise said, smiling viciously at Samiris, “what you had to do to earn all those pelts.”
The girls surrounding Narcise tittered nervously, their eyes moving back and forth amongst themselves to assure themselves that they were all in agreement about how to react. Having drawn a nonverbal consensus, they laughed harder.
“I had to kill a bunch of Northern wolves, you moron,” Samiris’ words were clear, clipped.
The girls gasped and looked at each other with disgust.
“Name-calling is a sure sign of low intelligence.” Narcise sniffed delicately. “I should know better than to engage in conversation with a peasant.”
“I don’t know, Narcise,” Samiris drawled. “Rumor has it my blood is purer nobility than yours.”
Narcise’s face blanched, her hands clenched into fists as she shot to standing from her chair. Samiris cocked her head in surprise like a bird. She hadn’t heard anything of the sort about Narcise, had just made something up to attack what the girl was most proud of. Apparently, she had struck some sort of nerve. Narcise opened her mouth to reply, her eyes blazing with hatred.
“Hello, ladies,” Artem drawled, strolling in.
The guard who had left the room was taking his place again at one of the pillars, and Samiris narrowed her eyes at him. If she didn’t know better, she would think that he had retrieved Artem from somewhere. But why?
“Lady Samiris,” Artem said with a flourished bow at her side. “May I walk you through the gardens this morning?”
If possible, Narcise looked even more enraged, her nostrils flaring, her color high. Samiris was torn. She wished nothing more than to avoid Artem after their terrible whatever that had occurred in the garden last night. However, she loved to anger Narcise, and here was a ripe opportunity to do so.
So she gazed up into Artem’s face insipidly, batting her eyelashes, and crooned, “I’d love to.”
Samiris couldn’t tell if it was her imagination, but she could have sworn that Narcise actually stamped her tiny, satin-clad foot. So as Artem guided Samiris toward the archway leading out to the gardens, she simpered up at him, imitating the mindless, pretty smile that the other Chosen affixed whenever they looked at a wealthy man, threaded her arm tightly in his, and pressed closer to his side. She wished that she could see Narcise’s face as they left.
Out of view, she shook out of his grasp and snapped, “What do you want?”
“You know you look awful when you try and flirt with me,” Artem said. “Like you’ve got terrible indigestion, but you’re also happy about it for some reason.”
“Shut up,” she said, smacking his bicep. “That wasn’t for you.”
“Thank goodness,” he said. “That look would scare me away.”
“On second thought...” Samiris said, and Artem laughed.
They were headed along the stone path into the gardens, the dappled sunlight on the velvet grass shifting as the breeze ruffled the tree branches overhead.
“About last night,” Artem began, his voice thick with awkwardness.
“No apology needed,” Samiris said, her voice clipped, increasing her stride. “We both were drinking and very tired.”
Artem grinned at her. “I was actually going to ask you for an apology.”
“Me?” Samiris demanded, jerking to a stop.
“Yes,” he said. “You practically mauled the Captain of the Crown Prince’s Guard. I could throw you in the dungeons for attacking me like that.”
“I mauled you? Attacked you?” Samiris nearly shrieked. “You... you... insufferable pig!”
It was then Samiris noticed that Artem’s shoulders were shaking. His mouth cracked into a wide grin and he laughed, a loud, rich sound that filled the space between them like music.
She smacked him again, this time in the chest. “You really are an ass, do you know that?”
“I’ve been told. By you a few times, if I’m not mistaken.” He resumed walking. “But really, about last night...”
“It’s fine,” Samiris said quickly. “No need to rehash what we both already know. It was a mistake, won’t happen again, and we never have to discuss it.”
Artem stared at her, his eyes roaming her face until he smiled at something he saw there, and nodded briskly. “Alright, then. If that’s the way you want it.”
“Yes,” Samiris said, nearly feeling dizzy with relief that he wasn’t going to make her talk about it. “Yes, that’s what I want.”
“But what do you think Lord Kinsley will say when he finds out he and I are both kissing the same lady?”
“Oh, he and I haven’t...” Samiris began mindlessly, then stopped at Artem’s grin.
“Like I said, good to know.” He looked smug.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll flay you alive,” she blustered, jabbing her finger in his direction. “I don’t want this to change anything. I want things to be as they were.”
“Very well,” Artem said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “Things will be as they were.”
And they were. Life soon sunk into a peaceful rhythm that Samiris had never known before in Teymara. Letters from Faro told of her father and sister’s health and happiness, though the
y assured Samiris that they missed her. There was no sign of a relapse in Tamrah. Her father’s symptoms were eased by regular doses of the tonic, but he was too far along to be cured by anything other than the lifting of the curse.
Artem and Samiris worked side by side in the garden, with others, but more often alone. They were comfortable together, talking of anything and everything, and no more indiscretions occurred between them.
Samiris continued attending the Chosen events, ignoring Narcise’s ever-present jabs and sarcasm. Gia kept dressing Samiris in increasingly-fabulous designs. Samiris hardly noticed the Chosen’s dwindling numbers. So many of the ladies lived in or near the capital that just because they had been dropped from the Choosing didn’t mean they went away. They just removed their Chosen rings and kept attending the teas, dinners and balls anyway. It was Courting Season, after all.
Samiris did notice that as the Chosen’s numbers decreased, Narcise and Ladonna spent more and more time at the Crown Prince’s side. Through the gossip that Aster and Gia brought to Samiris every evening like a nightcap, she learned that the court was of the opinion that Narcise and Ladonna were the front-runners to “win” the Choosing. And no one could understand why Samiris was still around, but the popular opinion was that the Crown Prince was keeping her there because her family was so poor they didn’t want her back. It was one less mouth to feed.
Samiris rolled her eyes and shrugged off the rumors. She didn’t care what the court had to say anymore. According to them, she was already the Southern temptress who had beguiled two of the most eligible bachelors in the Empire. She was the wanton hussy who was willing to crush anyone and do anything to secure her own future. Samiris chuckled. If people only knew the truth, that she was working her hands to callus to feed the nation’s poor, and she had been kissed properly only once in her life...
Samiris shook her head to clear it of thoughts. She didn’t think about that, if she could help it. Even if it did pop into her head a few hundred times a day. The memory of Artem’s soft lips on hers, his calloused fingers on her skin, made her feel things that were unpredictable, things she couldn’t neatly categorize. No.
Her focus was solely on the one thing in her future that she could control. The last event of the Championship was coming up. Artem had come to tell her in person, surprising her with a knock on the door a few days ago, even before the official announcement was made and the schedules came out.
“A sword-fight?” Samiris had repeated, eyes wide.
“Between you and Lord Kinsley,” he had confirmed, his face serious.
“But I don’t...” she trailed off, gripping the door.
“I don’t think Lord Kinsley is the type to feel the need to beat you, just because you are a woman,” he said with a smile. “In fact, I think he might find it amusing to let you win.”
A smile spread on her lips. Artem was right. Kinsley was exactly the type of person who would find it hilarious to be beaten by a lady, especially if that lady was rumored to be his. He would most likely laugh it off and complain that her appearance had distracted him, somehow. It was actually quite perfect.
She grinned. “Thanks.”
Artem smiled and gave a little bow. “Good luck, Samiris.”
Samiris met Kinsley the evening before the Championship event in the courtyard near the stables. He had been gone days, and seemed genuinely happy to see her, if a bit tired. His hair was wind-swept, he had dark circles beneath his eyes, but he swung out of his saddle with his usual energy and gripped her hands.
“Samiris, darling,” he said, kissing her cheek. “How long have you been waiting?”
“A few hours,” she admitted. “I have incredible news. The next Championship event is tomorrow, and I feel certain that with your cooperation, I will win.”
His face broke into a dimpled grin. “Is that so? Tell me what I have to do.”
“All you have to do is let me win. We’re sword-fighting. You and me, that is.”
Kinsley tipped his head back and laughed. “Can you imagine their faces when a lady wins the Crown Prince’s Championship? They’ll be shocked! Horrified!”
Samiris nodded.
Kinsley leaned forward conspiratorially. “We should really rub their noses in it. What do you think? How about we use wooden training swords? Or maybe I should pretend to be mortally wounded and make them carry me out on a stretcher?”
He had tucked her hand into the warm crook of his arm.
“As long as I win and get to ask the Crown Prince for something, I don’t care how we do it, exactly.”
“What dastardly thing are you going to ask for? Think the Crown Prince will streak naked through the gardens if you asked him to?”
Samiris winced. “Why would I ask for that? No, I’m going to ask for the inheritance law to be changed so that I can inherit my father’s estate without having to marry. Although, now that you mention it... asking if I could throw cream pies at Narcise’s face is a close option for second.”
He gave a tight smile. “I think that’s a great idea. It’s a great mental image, too.”
“Or jam-filled tarts,” she said. “Or honey-soaked peaches. Or mini-eclairs!”
Lord Kinsley let Samiris wax eloquent on the numerous kinds of projectiles she would love to throw at Narcise’s face, and if he was a little quiet, Samiris didn’t notice.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The morning of the last Championship event dawned cool and clear. Samiris dressed in a crisp white shirt and black trousers tucked into buttery leather boots. Aster braided her hair back out of her eyes while Gia watched silently. Things hadn’t quite gone back to normal between Samiris and Gia yet. Even so, Samiris felt flutters of excitement in her belly and she couldn’t keep from smiling. This was the day she secured her future. She was going to have to do better with her facial expressions, or everyone would know that Kinsley was throwing the fight.
The padded bleachers were full by the time Artem made the announcement. Apparently, there were many people who thought it would be great fun to watch a lord and a lady sword-fight for the Championship, especially when said lord was courting said lady. And when the lady’s other beau was going to be present. Samiris heard several noblemen quietly taking bets on the side.
“She’s going to win,” one man said. “Lord Kinsley won’t risk embarrassing his lady.”
“No, he’s going to try hard to win. He knows no lady will respect a lord who cannot beat her in a sword fight.”
“Rumor has it they sword fight all the time, if you get my meaning...”
Samiris rolled her eyes and stepped forward. Kinsley and Artem were waiting in the courtyard. They stood side by side, watching her, and Samiris felt how surreal the situation was. As Artem announced the final event in the Championship, Samiris studied them. Two men, so very different from each other, but both rumored to be her love interest. One tall and broad, the other built like the thin wooden sword he held loose at his side. One dark, with a serious expression, the other sandy-haired wearing a smile that didn’t quite seem to meet his eyes.
The whole court considered her one of the luckiest ladies in the entire country because these men were courting her. How surprised the crowd would be, she thought, to know that she was fighting for the option of marrying no one. She chuckled to herself.
“Lord Kinsley, Lady Samiris, are you ready?” Artem asked. “First person to be disarmed or knocked down loses.”
Lord Kinsley handed her another wooden sword, a replica of the one he held, and squared off against her in a fighting stance. Samiris swung her sword experimentally back and forth, testing the weight and feel of it. When she was confident that she had the hang of it, she mimicked Kinsley’s stance.
“Begin,” Artem said, from the edge of the crowd.
Kinsley wasted no time, swinging his sword down to gently tap against Samiris’ several time
s. She blocked him easily, merriment dancing in her eyes. He was doing a great job of looking serious and she tried to smooth the smile from her face. Her grin kept trying to escape, like a wild bird that had been thrust into a cage.
Kinsley swung again, this time with far more weight behind his attack. Samiris’ block was slow and clumsy, and the resulting meeting of their swords sent shock waves up Samiris’ arms. She scowled; she knew that Kinsley wanted to make the fight look real, but that had actually hurt a little. She redoubled her efforts as he struck harder and faster, again and again and again.
Samiris was sweating now, and her frown mirrored the one on Kinsley’s face. Then, in a series of moves too practiced and swift for her to block, he knocked the sword from her hands. She watched, open-mouthed, as it flew end over end and then skidded in the dirt, stopping merely a foot from Artem.
Kinsley wouldn’t meet her incredulous gaze as applause filled the space between them. Artem cleared his throat and gravely announced Lord Kinsley the winner, and still Kinsley would not meet Samiris’ eyes. Finally, she turned on her heel and stalked out, tears pricking her eyes.
It wasn’t until she was nearly to her chambers that she heard him behind her.
“Samiris, wait!” Kinsley called.
She increased her stride, but Kinsley was running.
“Give me a chance to explain,” he said.
They weren’t alone; Samiris saw two maids slow down as they passed, shamelessly eavesdropping. She gestured him toward her door impatiently and closed it hard behind them.
“I know you’re upset...”
“I told you why I wanted to win,” she interrupted, tears pricking at her eyes.
“And so you should understand why I couldn’t let you,” he said, his face solemn.
His words forced the breath from her lungs. “You won so that...so that the law wouldn’t be changed?”
He sighed. “I won because I wanted to win. I won so that I could ask permission to court you, just as I planned on doing since I met you. And while I understand that you are angry with me, you still need a husband. I still need a wife. Nothing has changed, Samiris.”