Tears rolled down her cheeks as he shook his head.
Her father really hadn’t told her anything. Had let her hold out hope.
Holy Ulsinael, he wanted to take her in his embrace, comfort her, but what could he say? He had orders from Mati. Vadiha and Dita were starving, as were the rest of his people, who awaited them and food on specific days. Nothing would change that they had to leave tomorrow. “People are expecting us, expecting we’ll bring—”
With a sob, she covered her mouth and scrambled from the bed.
“Alessandra, let me just—”
She stormed out to her dressing chamber, then slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 7
In the palazzo’s courtyard, Aless stood before Papà in the weak morning sunlight. Even after manipulating her into a marriage, he still hadn’t been done trying to break her. He and the queen of Nightbloom had set the Royal Progress schedule, and everyone involved had known about it but her.
Papà had known she’d miss Bianca’s wedding, and he’d said nothing. He’d even left Veron to break that bitter news.
Ever since Mamma’s death, Papà had looked at her differently, and a distance had grown between them, and grown and grown. Everything she cared about was wrong, and anything she did was punished, and it seemed he was never done punishing her. She hadn’t fit in here, not in a long while, and now she was leaving, for maybe the last time.
Bianca had finally gotten what she’d so long carried a ladder for in that orchard of daydreams.
And Papà couldn’t have even given her the sweet farewell of witnessing Bianca’s wedding. Not even that.
“You are so much like her,” Papà said, his dark-brown eyes dull. “This will be best for you.”
So like Mamma. Mamma, whose entire palazzo library and every book he’d had destroyed.
No, this was best for him. Getting rid of her, like he’d gotten rid of Mamma’s memory.
“Remember your promise,” he whispered.
“Goodbye, Papà,” she replied, before moving to Lorenzo, who wrapped her in his arms.
“I sent some things along with you for Veron,” he said, “so you two can match in equally… haute couture. Despite the piety of Stroppiata, Duchessa Claudia is a fashion snob.”
“Thank you.” With a half-laugh under her breath, she pulled away from Lorenzo as he gave her a soft smile.
“You’re getting away from the palazzo,” he whispered with a twinkle in his eye. “Make the most of it.”
Unlike him, she’d never wanted to escape the palazzo, but rather to become a more useful part of it. Maybe that was what she had carried a ladder for, only for her, it would ever remain a daydream.
“Make the most of being here, too, Brother,” she whispered back, giving his stubbled cheek a goodbye kiss as she at last turned to Bianca.
Veron clasped arms with Lorenzo as she took Bianca’s hand and met her eyes, red and welling with glistening tears. With a lace-trimmed white handkerchief, Bianca dabbed at her face, her lower lip trembling, then shook her head sadly.
Aless pulled Bianca into her arms, holding her tight. Next to her, Veron said his goodbyes to Lorenzo.
At their wedding, Veron had said, I, Veron of Nozva Rozkveta, offer you power, survival, support, defense, wisdom, and partnership, to harness for your ends or ours, as we walk our lives together from this day forward for as long as the Deep allows.
Papà had kept this from her, yes, and he bore the brunt of the blame. But she’d begged Veron, begged him to delay their departure, shift the Royal Progress arrangements, just until after Bianca’s wedding.
But his mother had given him a direct order, and that had been that.
What was important to her was supposed to be important to him, too, wasn’t it? What would life be like if even this hadn’t merited some compromise?
Bianca wept softly into her shoulder. “We’ve sent the package to Nunzio.”
Good. Then she could discuss the plans with him when she arrived in Stroppiata, where the Order of Terra was headquartered.
All the more reason to persuade Veron against the second ceremony, if he’d listen. If he’d even be open to viewpoints other than that of his mother and queen, that is.
Honesty is the one expectation I have, he’d said. Fine words. But what good had her honesty done her about Bianca’s wedding? She’d tell him her plan once they were on better terms, once she’d proven she could deliver a peace before the second ceremony.
Bianca sniffled. “I just wish—”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Bianca,” she whispered, stroking Bianca’s hair softly. “I wish I could stay.”
“I’ll visit you,” Bianca cried. “I promise.”
A lovely thought. She pulled away and smiled softly. “You’d better. I’ll want to hear every detail.”
Bianca beamed through her tears and nodded, swiping a muslin-clad arm across her face, a smiling, weeping, loving face against the backdrop of lush green and the white stone of the palazzo.
This was it. Goodbye, as no matter what happened from here on, she’d never live under Papà’s roof again.
Papà, standing first in line, raised his chin and met her eyes. He’d been the first to bid her goodbye, reminding her of her promise. She remembered all right. She’d promised to wed Veron, which she had done, and the rest was up to her and Veron.
Papà tipped his head toward the waiting cavalcade just as Gabriella took her arm, leading her away. With food, coin, her belongings, and picture books for the children along the Royal Progress, the number of carts had grown.
“Come, Your Highness,” Gabriella said. “We’ve a long road ahead of us.”
A long road indeed.
She fisted her gray skirts. Just as she was about to turn away, Veron approached Bianca—and bowed. Low.
In the ensuing silence, he remained utterly still, his powerful form as if sculpted from stone, ready to endure for centuries, millennia.
He’d bowed. Apologized to Bianca.
Bianca’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up.
So did hers.
* * *
Aless pulled aside the curtain in her carriage. All was verdant and beautiful outside—the cypress trees lining the road, the fields of grass, the umbrella pines in the distance, and the occasional fields of artichokes or orchards of lemon trees. So bright and cheerful. Maybe Bianca was airing out her wedding dress right now, smiling and laughing with her ladies-in-waiting, preparing for the big day.
Veron had apologized to Bianca, but he’d still gotten his way, hadn’t he? Could he be trusted, or did he only wear a mantle of earnestness, beneath which only his mother’s will lived and breathed? Begging him had been awkward, but being rejected had been even more awkward.
He rode just ahead, his hooded figure nevertheless identifiable by his broad shoulders and bearing, atop that massive beast he called a horse. She narrowed her eyes.
He glanced over his shoulder in her direction.
With a huff, she yanked the curtains shut and crossed her arms.
“I’d hoped he’d find a way for you two to remain for Her Highness’s wedding,” Gabriella whispered from the seat next to her.
At least Papà had sent one familiar face with her.
“Will his mother always have the final say over everything?” Gabriella asked under her breath.
“Too early to tell.” Aless exhaled slowly, stroking the cotton batiste of her gray skirts. But it seemed Veron didn’t have a disobedient bone in his body. He’d been reasonable and kind, and because of that, she’d hoped he might soon hear her out about a friendship instead of a marriage.
But now she wasn’t so certain.
If his mother had ordered this union, then to alter that, it would take more than simply asking in order to convince him. She’d need to sort out the library plans with Nunzio and present Veron with an idea for a joint venture, something to symbolize their peoples’ new peace and ongoing friendship. A place where humans an
d dark-elves could unite.
It would start with this one place, the library, and then grow. Maybe someday, Silen would be a land where humans, dark-elves, light-elves, and other peaceful Immortali all lived together in harmony.
Once she and Nunzio spoke and planned in concrete terms, she could bring their ideas to Veron and hope for the best.
Gabriella patted her hand, imparting warmth with a gentle hazel-eyed look. “I wish they weren’t so cold to you, Your Highness,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better if the Brotherhood helped you escape? Would they do that, or would it have to be violent?”
The Brotherhood—no. She did not want any part of that. As much as she wanted freedom from this marriage, she didn’t wish for the Brotherhood’s plan of fire and death to succeed.
“Before we left,” Gabriella continued, “there was word that they sacked a light-elf settlement near the coast. People were saying the Brotherhood put all of them on a ship to Sonbahar in the dead of night.”
Sonbahar? For what? The slave markets? Unthinkable. “Are you certain?”
“That’s what they’re saying, and that now the surrounding villages will be ‘safe.’ They seemed just fine before.”
Safe? Safe from what?
There had been rumors that sick or misbehaving children were light-elf changelings, that any maiden or child that disappeared was abducted by the light-elves or the other Immortali. That light-elves cursed crops, stole random trinkets from people’s homes, poisoned livestock…
But surely no one had believed such farfetched tales? Light-elves had no magic and rarely if ever ventured out of their forests. They placed no value on jewels or precious metals, let alone worthless trinkets.
Human women fled their husbands, children got lost, crops failed, livestock died. It was easier to blame the Immortali than to accept the cruelty of everyday life. And the Brotherhood encouraged it.
“Where was this?” she whispered back to Gabriella.
“Near Portopersico, I think.”
A small village on the coast just east of Bellanzole—there had been a light-elf settlement nearby?
Tarquin and the Belmonte Company had been clearing out harpy nests near Bellanzole. Had he led this attack? He and his watchful “pride”? Where would they strike next?
It would be days before she and Veron would arrive at Stroppiata, their first stop, where they’d be presented to the duchessa, to earn a promise of her friendship. Too long of a time to go without news. She’d have to tell Veron about the Brotherhood and—
“Just how many trunks of silks and baubles do humans need to cart around?” the dark-elf guard with the braid asked outside the carriage, in Sileni, no less. Clearly wanting to be overheard.
The sharp-eyed guard shushed her, but Veron grunted in reply. It was about as much as he’d said all day since their argument last night.
The dark-elves had gaped at her luggage—really, it was only ten large trunks or so; she’d packed light for moving her entire life. What did they expect, for her to bring just one change of clothes and nothing else?
Besides, the cavalcade had left Bellanzole with dozens of carts bearing food and coins, all to distribute to humans and dark-elves alike along the Royal Progress. No complaints about those, it seemed.
“They have no respect,” Gabriella muttered. “You are a princess of Silen. You travel and dress in the style befitting your station.”
Nothing she was and nothing she had was acceptable to the dark-elves. Everything she owned was extravagant, unnecessary, indulgent. They wouldn’t be pleased until she wore a burlap sack and tied her hair with a daisy chain. “Fortunately, I don’t care what they think.”
Gabriella smiled and gave her a nod of encouragement. “Besides, all that leather can’t possibly be comfortable. Their fashions don’t have to be ours, do they?”
She smiled back. Her dresses won over leathers any day, but especially Sileni summer days.
“And what an insult,” Gabriella added, pursing her lips, “to provide you with no household.”
That had been the least of her concerns. Even if Veron agreed to her plan, she’d never have any wealth to speak of ever again. All of her wealth had come from Papà, and by his choice. He’d never welcome her back after this, so… so she’d have to learn to do things for herself.
She had what she needed for camp. Papà’s household had packed an elaborate silk tent, and naturally, he had sent no one to pitch it.
No one but her.
“We’ll make do,” she answered. Compared to dealing with Papà, it wouldn’t be hard at all. Not like telling Veron about the Brotherhood—and Tarquin—would be.
Chapter 8
Veron pounded his tent’s first stake into the ground while Alessandra and Gabriella rifled through the countless packs and chests from Bellanzole. “Has the princess been given one of our tents?”
Gavri huffed under her breath. “Yes, she has. I saw to it myself. No doubt she’s turning her nose up at it. Typical human.”
Stubborn, spoiled human princess. Dark-elves and humans were dying daily, fighting over senseless reasons, and Vadiha and Dita were starving waiting for this food from Bellanzole. He and Alessandra were tasked with sowing peace, ending the famine, and she’d wanted to let them keep suffering longer for a wedding? Of course she’d wanted to be there for such an important day in her sister’s life, but delaying the Royal Progress for that would have had negative consequences for so many more people—starving people—that Alessandra either didn’t seem to notice or didn’t concern herself with. He set another stake and hammered it.
“How dare she treat you with such disrespect,” Gavri added, but Riza glared at her. “You don’t need to appease her, Your Highness.” When Riza snarled at her, Gavri held up her hands and backed away before taking her leave.
It didn’t matter. Disrespect? He didn’t care about that. There was far more at stake. Their union and this Royal Progress through the realm was their one chance to stop the flow of blood before all-out war, and Alessandra couldn’t see past her own immediate family. Even beyond Mati’s orders, there was sound reason she ignored because it suited her.
She paid lip service to peace, but did she even understand what war truly was? The stench of blood and entrails after combat, the screaming widows and crying orphans? The disease that came after, and the famine resulting from the loss of able-bodied people and the bankruptcy of the powers financing it all?
Had she ever looked any of them in the eye, or had she only heard news from her lady-in-waiting and seen paintings of battles in the grand human ballroom, while faceless servants filled her goblet and brought platters of cakes and fruits?
He moved along the tent’s round edge, and Riza handed him another stake.
“Give her time, Your Highness,” she said nonchalantly as he hammered.
He speared Riza with a peripheral glare as he moved along. Could time fix this?
“She is young. Very young. And has been kept sheltered,” Riza said, handing him the stakes as he needed them. “Now that she is touring her own land, her eyes will open to many things. Be patient.” Riza stepped back and admired his work, then hmphed under her breath. She nodded toward the carts, where Alessandra and Gabriella were removing a large, bundled tent.
A yurta, or at least similar to what his people used for more permanent camps. What about the smaller tent Gavri had given her?
“Perhaps you may need to be a little more patient.”
Alessandra’s yurta was about six times the size of this tent, twice as tall, and made of purple-and-white-striped canvas. That monstrosity would take at least three people and two hours to assemble.
“Humans are drawn to ostentation like harpies to anything shiny.” Riza tsked and brushed a hand through her short hair. “That thing, for one night’s camp? At this rate, she’ll be sleeping outside.”
He rubbed his chin, then sighed. “No matter how we disagree, my bride will always have a place to sleep.” He’d suggest
the tent Gavri had given her; hopefully Alessandra would see reason.
Riza nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “You treat her like a dark-elf bride, Your Highness—albeit a very inadequate one.”
“She is a dark-elf bride, Riza.”
She raised an eyebrow, then her mouth curved wider. “Her Majesty would be proud of you.”
Deep, Darkness, and Holy Ulsinael willing. But this wasn’t just for Mati’s praise; he and Alessandra would now be living a life together. He needed to make amends, and she… well, she needed a tent pitched.
Rubbing his face, he headed toward the heap Alessandra was now digging through. Her skirts in the dirt, she burrowed under the purple-and-white stripes, muttering while Gabriella held the canvas. As soon as he took hold of it, Gabriella released it, inclined her head, and excused herself.
“Raise it higher, Gabriella. It’s suffocating in here,” Alessandra said. Except Gabriella was making her way across the camp.
Suppressing a grin, he did as she bade.
Wood thudded against wood and ropes hissed while she shuffled around inside. “Yours looked so simple, but this one is—not. I’m definitely not going to ask him for help. Are you certain there are no instructions?”
He schooled his face. “None that I saw,” he answered, unable to hold back the amused lilt.
No answer came as she froze beneath the canvas, then scooted completely under it.
“Alessandra…”
A heavy sigh. “I suppose you’re here to tell me you have orders that we must share your tent.”
He took a slow, deep breath. A very slow, deep breath. “I’m here to ask you whether I can pitch the tent Gavri gave you.”
“Who?” she shot back. “No one gave me anything.”
He rested a hand on his hip. “One of our tents. She gave you one.”
“No, she didn’t, whoever she is. I think I’d remember that.”
Then what? Gavri had made it all up? Why? She wouldn’t betray him. Ever. As one of his best friends, Gavri knew his father had lied to him once, just once, and had never returned to Nozva Rozkveta. Gavri would never—
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