by Jill M Beene
“Yes, you made sure of that,” she said, her tone biting, her back tall and straight as a Faro pine tree.
He ran his fingers through his hair. The lines in his face looked deeper. He looked older. “I understand you’re upset...”
“Upset? You stole my dream from me, Kinsley,” Samiris said, her voice breaking.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Your dream is for your family to be well-protected and cared for. My dream is to get my parents to leave me alone by marrying a woman I don’t despise. Is it so bad for me to think that we can both have our dream? Or was I to sacrifice my dream for yours?”
“My dream is bigger than safety and security. I dreamed of having a real choice. And you stole that from me. You lied...”
“I never lied to you,” he snapped. “Never. I simply used you the same way that you were using me.”
“Is that what you thought?” Samiris said, her forehead wrinkled in consternation. “Because I thought we were friends.”
“We are, Samiris. We are friends.” He sighed once more. “And friends think about what their actions will do to each other. I am willing to secure your future just as surely as if the inheritance law was changed. But your way? Your way might leave me disinherited. Did you ever think about that?”
“What?” Samiris said, taking a step back.
“I have an older sister, remember? An older sister that my parents love much more than me.”
Samiris shook her head, gritted her teeth. “Your parents are too old-fashioned to give an inheritance to their daughter.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.” Samiris’ chin jutted out.
“Are you willing to bet my life, my future on it?” Kinsley persisted. “Because I wasn’t.”
“You took away my future for the very slim chance that your parents, possibly two of the most stodgy, implacable individuals in the kingdom, would give your inheritance to your married sister?” Samiris was flabbergasted.
“My way of doing things ensures that we both still have secure futures,” he said, his eyes flashing. “We both win.”
Samiris was in real danger of crying. She bit her lip, raised her face to the sky, and turned her back. She didn’t want him to see what his betrayal had done to her. Even more than the disappointment of losing the Championship, Kinsley’s dishonesty had hurt her.
“I can tell you’re upset. I’ll give you some time alone. I only hope that you see that nothing has changed. I still care for you.”
“But you care about yourself much, much more,” she managed to bite out to his retreating form, her voice sounding like a growl.
His back stiffened as he walked away, but he did not turn back to her.
The next day, Samiris slid into a chair beside a pillar and next to Narcise, disappointment still a rotten pit in her center. The huge navy curtains flanking every archway in the throne room had been pulled closed and a roaring fire crackled beneath the great stone mantel. Samiris’ eyes sought Artem in his position near the throne.
Artem’s back was straight, his gaze clear and proud, but he would not meet her eyes. Samiris frowned. She was late, but that was normal. She had returned from the garden that morning with seeds dried in her hair, and it had taken Gia almost a half hour to make her presentable. It wasn’t her fault, Samiris told herself, that she had gotten caught up in canning tomatoes, the steam flushing her face as she carefully lowered the ruby-filled glass jars into boiling water.
Samiris didn’t think she would ever get used to it, the sight of a garden filled to bursting with ripe vegetables. It looked to her like a floral arrangement or a skillfully-woven tapestry: the knobby yellow of summer squash peeking out from beneath a hairy green leaf, red orbs of tomatoes held aloft by stems that sagged under their weight, the amethyst sheen of a ripe eggplant, the shy green fingers of asparagus poking from the earth... But it was more than the beauty of the garden that entranced Samiris, caused time to feel like a slippery eel when she was working.
It was the feeling she got when they fitted the jars, one by one, into crates. It was the process of harvesting, the accomplishment of setting dirty potatoes into burlap sacks, stacking them and watching as the pile became larger and more satisfying. It was the knowledge, written in Marla’s whistle, in Deem’s off-tune humming, of where all this food was going. For so long, Samiris had raged at her impotence to help anyone, to do anything. Now, she could. Now, they all could. On a morning like this, when she felt like her hopes had been stripped to the bone, she needed that feeling.
The Grand Herald was reading announcements and decrees from the scroll held aloft by a young page. His voice droned on, melodious and expressive, but tedious all the same. Samiris stared determinedly at Artem. He usually caught her eye and nodded at her, or his lip would quirk up in acknowledgment. And that one time there had been a joking, sultry wink that had sent her stomach swooping like a pelican diving for a fish. But not today. Today he stood in his regular position by the Crown Prince’s throne, looking like a statue of himself, his eyes on the assembly as a whole, but not on any one person, and certainly not on her.
Samiris didn’t know why he was in a bad mood. He wasn’t the one who’d had his hopes and dreams whisked out from beneath him like an entertainer pulling a tablecloth off a loaded table. Samiris took advantage of his distraction, of those green eyes, as sharp as any falcon’s, being turned away. She let her eyes linger on the broad shoulders and the strong arms under his crisp uniform, let her gaze slide down past the taper of his waist to the long, muscular legs encased in soft breeches and supple leather boots.
Unbidden, an image of Artem as she had last seen him relaxed sprang to mind: him, grinning at her from one row over in the kitchen garden, his soft linen shirt open well past his tanned throat and rolled past his corded forearms, a sheen of sweat on his brow, his dark hair curling at the temples.
Maybe she’d invite him to visit in Faro when she went back home. The house wasn’t in a state to admit a Duke, but he’d seen it before. Besides, they could always go to the beach, maybe bring a picnic... Tamrah wouldn’t be feeling well that day, so she would stay home. Samiris knew Artem could swim, but wondered if he’d roll his breeches up, wondered if he’d take his shirt off...
“And now, for the final announcement of the day, His Grace, Duke of Malon, Captain Artem Elysius Trego, will hand in an Honor in exchange for a boon from His Excellency, Crown Prince Fitzhumphrey Augustus Monterosso, Ruler of Leiria, forever may he reign.”
There was a collective gasp. No one, possibly ever in history, had handed in an Honor.
As Samiris watched, mouth slightly agape in confusion, Artem reached up with steady fingers and unclasped one of the gold tassels from his chest. He looked up, his eyes blazing into Samiris’ with some emotion that she couldn’t name. The glance lasted only an instant, not long enough for the crowd to discern who he had singled out.
Samiris heard Narcise gasp beside her.
“He looked right at me,” Narcise murmured, a white hand going to her throat.
The words barely registered with Samiris, who watched intently as Artem knelt and laid the tassel at Fitzhumphrey’s feet.
“Rise Captain Trego, and tell me what request you would make of me,” Fitzhumphrey said.
Artem came swiftly to his feet, took a deep breath, and in a loud, clear voice said, “I would humbly request that the law of succession be amended, to allow property owners to pass their estates to any of their children or wards, married or unmarried, male or female.”
Samiris inhaled sharply as the room went silent. Her hair stood on end as if a lightning storm was brewing within the throne room. She leaned forward, her body tense, her ears straining to catch what the Fitzhumphrey said next.
“It shall be so, upon my honor,” the Crown Prince said.
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Artem bowed.
Samiris rubbed the heel of her hand over her chest to try and dull the ache that was building there. For the second time in two days, she was in real danger of crying in public. Her eyes burned, her chin trembled, and she drew in a ragged breath. Before she could gain her composure, Artem turned and met her eyes.
Samiris nodded stupidly in acknowledgment, then quietly slipped out the way she’d come in before she lost all composure.
Samiris walked quickly, nearly blind with the tears that swelled in her eyes. When they crested and began to fall, she ducked into the nearest room, shutting the door behind her. It was the room with all the paintings of the dead Chosen, she realized. Samiris faced the wall and wiped her tears as quickly as they dropped.
She didn’t know why she was so emotional. Happiness, confusion, relief...they all battled for her attention. Samiris lifted her face to the ceiling and tried to control her breathing. The click of the door closing behind her made her turn. It was Kinsley. He studied her for many moments, then nodded.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“Didn’t know what?” Samiris sniffled.
He studied her in silence again, his eyes narrowed on her face like they were trying to read it. He came to stand beside her, in front of the portraits, and looked up at them.
“I cannot love another as I did Melody,” Kinsley said, running a finger along the base of the gilt frame holding the image of his love. He checked his finger for dust, and finding none, frowned. “I do not think it is even fair for me to try. My best chance of happiness is to marry someone I can be friends with, someone who I admire. That would be far more than what my parents have. But love? Love is no longer alive, for me.”
Samiris gazed up at the sad, beautiful face in the painting and remained silent.
Kinsley continued, “But I would never be the one to keep someone else from having what Melody and I shared. So if love is still out there for you, Samiris, chase it down.”
Samiris frowned as he kissed her damp cheek and left her to her turbulent thoughts.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The next morning, Samiris’ thoughts were little hopping birds, too flighty and restless to sit still long enough for her to properly examine them. She couldn’t correctly categorize what Artem had done for her, and she hadn’t gone down to the kitchen garden last night to see him, either. She wanted to know for sure what she felt, before she examined or faced what he felt.
The days had grown shorter, and the cold scratched against the doors and marked the windows like an insistent pet that someone forgot outside. The Chosen breakfast was served indoors, as snow now draped the garden like a layer of white fondant over cake.
Lady Elise stood and addressed the crowd of murmuring women. “As you all know, the Questioning is just a month away.”
Samiris jerked as if someone had kicked her. She looked for signs of surprise in the other faces at the table, but found none. Where had the time gone? Had she really been so focused on other things that she had forgotten that they were careening toward one of their deaths at the speed of a runaway horse?
“And there are only three Chosen remaining,” Lady Elise continued.
Samiris flinched again. When had that happened? She looked at the hands of the ladies around her and saw no Chosen rings. Then they were clapping for Narcise and Ladonna, who were standing, and Narcise was hissing out of the corner of her mouth for Samiris to stand, too.
Samiris rose on shaky legs, like a newborn foal. She was barely out of her seat before the other ladies were sitting again, so her attempt looked like an odd, interrupted lurching motion. Her seat regained, she tried to shake off her shock and pay attention to what was being said around her, for once.
“He...he’s very smart,” Ladonna was saying to the lady on her right, a blush warming her pale cheeks. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ear self-consciously. “And very kind. He always listens like what I have to say is very important.”
Samiris studied Ladonna, watched the way she smiled when the Crown Prince was mentioned, blushed when she talked about him, her genuine happiness. Samiris’ eyes went wide. Was it possible that the seemingly impossible had happened, again? That someone had fallen in love with Fitzhumphrey?
“It was love at first sight,” Narcise was saying on Samiris’ other side, her eyelashes fluttering.
“Love at first sight?” Samiris asked, incredulous. “There is no such thing. Only lust at first sight, and lust always burns away.”
“How can you accuse me of lusting after him?” Narcise’s lip curled, then she caught her error and smoothed her expression.
Samiris snorted. “Greed then. Call it love if you want, but the curse will know the difference.”
“I don’t expect that you would understand what is between us. Rumor has it that Lord Kinsley has packed up and left the capital with no plans of returning.”
Samiris smiled, though this was the first she had heard of it. “Lord Kinsley and I remain as close as we ever were.”
Samiris hoped it was true; all they’d had was friendship, and she hoped that they still had that between them.
“Maybe you should focus on your own relationships,” Narcise said, her smile like a snake’s. “I wonder how long it will take for Captain Trego and whoever else you’re... seeing to tire of you, now that there’s no competition.”
Samiris rolled her eyes and sat through the rest of the meal in silence. When the ladies had dispersed, Samiris followed Narcise until they were alone in the hall.
“Narcise,” she said. “May I talk to you?”
Narcise frowned, her eyes darting back and forth to look for a friendly face. Finding none, she took a step back from Samiris and crossed her arms over her chest.
“If you hurt me, I’ll tell the Crown Prince,” Narcise said, her chin jutting out.
Samiris stepped forward and clutched her arm. “You know you cannot fool the curse, right? It will know if you really love Fitzhumphrey or not.”
Narcise wrenched her arm from Samiris’ grip, her teeth bared in a snarl. “I would ask that you refer to my future husband by his given title. He is not Fitzhumphrey to you. He is the Crown Prince, future Emperor, and I am the future Empress.”
“Not if you don’t love him,” Samiris said. “Ladonna is sweet enough to possibly, actually fall in love with him. But you are too smart for that. Let her have it. Let her win. Save yourself.”
Narcise huffed in anger, the noise reminding Samiris of an angry bull. “I have convinced everyone that I am madly in love with him. He’s half in love with me in return. It will be enough.”
“No, it won’t! It won’t work unless you actually love him.”
“I do love him!” Narcise snapped.
The certainty in her voice made Samiris pause, take a step back. “You do?”
“Of course I do. The Crown Prince is his crown, his title, his power. And that, I do love. So it will be enough to break the curse. Don’t you see? That fool Beatrice fell in love with the man, but she had it all wrong. The Crown Prince isn’t the man, he’s the title. And that’s what she didn’t love. That’s what I do love. It will be enough,” she repeated.
Samiris wondered if Narcise was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince Samiris.
“But...” Samiris began.
“No,” Narcise hissed, rounding on Samiris. “I know what I’m doing. I can play this game better than anyone else. I was born to be the Empress, and I will not accept anything less.”
“Even if it means your death?” Samiris tried once more. “Even if you die in pursuit of it?”
“If I can’t be Empress, then I’d rather die anyways,” Narcise said, the cold emotion in her eyes making Samiris think of the wind-blown, frozen deserts of the Southern Wastes.
Narcise whirled and stalked away in a flurry of silk and ribbons. Samir
is sagged against a stone pillar and took a deep breath. She had no doubt that Narcise believed what she was saying. She was as devout and passionate as any lover... when it came to the crown. Samiris didn’t think it would be enough, but she hoped.
Despite Samiris’ tumultuous emotions where Artem was concerned, things were normal that evening in the garden. Perhaps it was because they weren’t alone, but Artem treated Samiris as he always had, joking at her slowness even though she was quick, teasing her to smile when her eyes narrowed. Deems, Gia, Marcus and Marla worked alongside them. They had loaded five carts without Samiris the night before, and the storehouse was low.
One by one, the servants left to get a few hours of sleep, leaving Artem working a few rows over from Samiris. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and stepped high over the rows of vegetables until she reached his side. Her courage fled as she watched him harvest asparagus with a sharp knife. Her carefully-crafted words scattered like scraps of paper in the wind.
“Something on your mind, Samiris?” Artem asked, straightening and then stretching.
“Yes,” she said, grateful her voice sounded more confident than she felt. “Thank you. For getting the inheritance law changed.”
“You’re welcome.” He swiped the edge of his knife against his trousers to clean it, then sheathed it at his waist. He raised an eyebrow. “Was there more you wanted to say?”
Samiris studied him, heart racing. He seemed calm, and she wondered if all her sleepless uncertainty regarding his actions had been completely unfounded. But there...his jaw was tight, his nostrils slightly flared. If she didn’t know him well, she would have missed it.
“I guess I want to know why,” she finally said.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and exhaled sharply through his nose. “What do you want from me, Samiris?”
“I... the truth,” she stammered, confused.
“You didn’t come to the garden last night,” he said. “Why not?”