by Lucy Tempest
I guessed that was what everyone here thought of me as well, if Leander had placed that vapid gander among the top of my candidates.
Not that I could do anything about that opinion now. If I failed to find the man who’d break my curse, I’d die in two weeks’ time and that would be my legacy. The tragic princess who was useless in life, and pointless in death.
On the bright side, the pointed tips of Hippolytus’s ears, along with the vivid circles of colors in his eyes served to introduce me to inhuman features.
After the unpleasant experience of having my feet trampled by that vacuous bore was over, I moved on to my second candidate.
Björn Torkelsson was a shapeshifter from Avongart, and an atheling—a potential prince—a title given to all of the king’s male children, legitimate or otherwise. The succession was determined by election, a council choosing which offspring was worth the throne.
I’d previously seen him without the mask that barely covered the top of his face, with large slots for his chestnut-brown eyes. I supposed he was handsome enough, in that burly, bearded manner of Northerners. As I’d approached him, I’d been intrigued by his intricate leather attire, and the dirty-blond hair arranged in complex side braids, which held some specific significance in his culture’s hierarchy.
My intrigue had persisted until he’d almost scared me senseless.
His response to my offer to dine with me had been to haul me off my feet and into a rib-cracking squeeze. I’d thought I’d offended him, and he’d crush me to death right there and then.
Just as I’d finally gathered enough wits to struggle, he’d jovially dropped me in a seat at a table, and went about piling food in front of us.
Between his own excessive eating and drinking, he practically force-fed me more food than I’d eaten in the past week. Whenever I protested, he called me skinny and many other pitying adjectives, while praising the hardy figures of Northlander women.
Aside from how he’d initially frightened me, how brash he was, I found Björn to be interesting company. This mountain of a man couldn’t speak without constantly poking me and gesturing exuberantly with his massive hands, and was so loud he managed to drown out the din of the packed ballroom. He also somehow ended up making me promise I’d let him know when I could go on a walk into downtown Eglantine with him, so I could see him shift into a bear and fish in the river.
Though I felt mostly stunned amusement towards him, he was the first suitor I’d ever looked forward to dining with again, if mostly to relive the overwhelming yet entertaining experience.
“What a strange, strange man,” Meira commented as we regrouped at the corner of the ballroom, lifting our masks for a break from their stuffy confinement. “I’ve never seen someone so friendly without it being suspicious.”
I nodded as I looked over at Björn who was sweeping a couple under his massive arms and steering them to another table. “The friendliness was indeed a nice surprise, since I’d first thought he’d maul me for daring to approach him. At least I now know what a bear hug is—literally.”
“I don’t think actual bear hugs have any affection in them,” Meira mused. “Human form or not, he’s still a predator.”
“Don’t be mean,” Agnë chided. “He was very nice, a gentle giant.”
“You consider all that poking and squeezing gentle?” Meira teased her. “If you like big men so much, why don’t you pursue him yourself?”
As Agnë flushed red, I sighed wryly. “I think we should focus less on how jolly bear-man turned out to be, and worry more about how unattractive he found me. He would not stop talking about how frail I looked, and likening me to his land’s little girls. Just how big are the women up there?”
“I believe they match their men,” Agnë muttered, before rushing to add, “But you are without a doubt more beautiful than any of those hefty, square-jawed milkmaids.”
“He really didn’t seem to think so.” Exhaling, I scrutinized my appearance in a nearby gilded mirror.
I’d always taken pride in my appearance, and been told that I possessed a rare beauty due to the uncommon mixture of my heritage. I also never thought of myself as small or skinny. Even without the comparison to my shorter handmaidens, I was taller than average, and as slim and graceful as a girl in an Arborean court was expected to be.
Now I tried to examine myself from the perspective of someone who held other standards of beauty. Björn was clearly used to big, boisterous blondes, while I was a refined and reserved brunette. He probably didn’t think my dark-brown hair that fell in big waves down my back, was the treasure my mother insisted it was. He seemed to take one look at my long, delicate neck, slim shoulders, and elegant limbs and thought me fragile. But what if he saw my face?
No. I bet my high cheekbones, sharp jawline, and small, thin nose would only reinforce his opinion. As for my pronounced brow ridge, which made my dark, dense brows arch higher, along with my pouty lips and heavy-lidded almond eyes, I supposed he’d think I looked cold, haughty—unapproachable. Everything I didn’t want to be while fishing for a declaration of love from a man in order to save my life.
The one trait he’d complimented me on, when he’d shoved a lamp in my face to examine my mask, was the color of my eyes. That bright turquoise, like the precious stone I was named after, appealed to everyone. Not that it had been enough to spark his interest, and it hadn’t even registered in Hippolytus’s self-absorbed vanity.
I blew out another sigh of resignation. “Which one’s next?”
Agnë browsed the room, then pointed at a man wearing a gilded cloak. “Kyrillos of Chrysopolis. I hear he claims to be a demigod.”
Meira burst out laughing. “And I’m Queen Isolda of Winter!”
Agnë’s usual smile froze. In the mirror, I saw Meira’s eyes bulge, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said.
“Who’s Queen Isolda?” I asked.
Agnë laughed nervously, waving the question off. “Oh, you know, a character in a folktale where we come from.”
I frowned down at her. “I thought you two came from different lands.”
I had never seen them agree on anything. Right now, they mirrored each other’s expression of horrified dismay.
I nudged each with an elbow. “Why are you two looking like I caught you with your hands in my jewelry box?”
Agnë’s giggle did nothing to lessen her impression of a cornered rabbit. “Oh, you know how stories travel! What happens in Orestia goes up to the Northlands through trade routes and whatnot.”
I held her flustered gaze, my confusion intensifying. “Isolda sounds more like a Northlander name, not the other way around.”
Agnë seemed at a loss until Meira clapped her hands, ending the strangely tense moment. “And that’s a story for another time! Now off to your meeting with that semi-divine boy before he gets bored and ascends to the heavens or something!”
Both handmaidens urgently herded me towards the refreshments table where Kyrillos was hovering. He had his mask set on top of his head as he sampled the variety of offered drinks, so I could see his face in detail, which I’d previously seen from afar.
He shared a lot of traits with Hippolytus, with features leaning towards pretty, rather than handsome. But unlike him, Kyrillos’s halo of curls was sun-bleached, and his shining, tanned skin was from outdoor exposure, not a natural complexion with a beautifying layer of body oil.
Also unlike Hippolytus, he had the decency to notice my approach and greet me. His sedate handshake was almost a letdown after Björn’s enthusiastically suffocating bear hug. His palm was rough, with a callous here and there. They made me question more than his supposed divinity.
My nose wrinkled under my mask at the notion that this man might not be noble enough, or even of good breeding. Why else would he be tanned and calloused, if he didn’t toil in the sun like some field worker, or work with his hands like a carpenter?
I shook my misgivings away when he introduced himself and asked
for my name.
With a curtsey, I introduced myself with the name I was going with tonight, “Zafira.”
“Is that a flower?” he asked.
“It actually means sapphire.”
Kyrillos fluttered his long golden lashes at me in confusion. “But I thought Arborean girls were always named after flowers.”
“They are. I was supposed to—” I stopped my rambling, sipping my rosé wine until I composed myself. “My mother is not from here. In her family, it is tradition to name girls after gems.”
He nodded. “Fascinating. I, too, was named for my heritage.”
I was educated in the history and languages of Lower Campania and Orestia enough to gather that his name meant something like little lord.
Hoping that did mean he was noble enough, I asked, “Which is?”
He pointed upwards, smiling proudly. “My father is the sky god.”
Though Agnë had informed me of that claim, it hadn’t prepared me for hearing it with my own ears. If I could burst out laughing like Meira had, I would have.
My first reaction was to think Leander was desperate enough to invite some delusional idiot to court me. Then as I leaned my hip against the table, scrutinizing him, other considerations followed.
Kyrillos looked human, but there was a certain sensation emanating from him. Like the one that wafted off Bonnie, if not quite the same. And as she was a half-fairy, why shouldn’t there be half-gods, too?
The claim of divine heritage was common along the southwestern and central regions of the Folkshore, with plenty of classical tales and myths featuring heroes spawned from the coupling of humans and deities. I myself had met one other person who’d said she’d been fathered by a god.
Cora of the Granary, one of the five finalists in the Bride Search, hadn’t seemed to care for her mother’s story about her origins. But I wouldn’t discount her claim, considering what I’d seen that enormous farm girl do with my own eyes.
A shudder ran through me as the terrible memory assailed me again, and I was unable to focus on Kyrillos for the remainder of our encounter.
He didn’t seem that taken with me, either.
As we parted ways, the music picked up, its joyfulness framing my deepening dejection.
My handmaidens gestured excitedly at me in the distance, pointing at my fourth candidate.
Feeling hope drain out of me with every step, I dragged my feet towards him.
Here went nothing.
Chapter Three
As lofty as the title King in the Wild was, it didn’t do justice to the stories surrounding Lycaon.
It was said he was the overlord all shapeshifter tribe leaders deferred to, rumored to be millennia old—the first man to ever shift into a beast and back at will.
It was more likely he was like my father, King Florent the Tenth, named after a long line of predecessors to give the impression of an undying ruler.
Whatever he truly was, the werewolf was the only so-called king, and therefore, one of my best remaining options. He was also the one candidate I’d woken up this morning being wary of.
And I’d been right to be.
Unable to ask him to dance, or to strike up a conversation, I’d stood there until I’d caught his attention. I’d regretted it the moment he’d turned to pin me with the unblinking stare of those terrible, yellow eyes.
He was all sharp angles, from the grey-brown spikes of his hair, to his triangular chin and painfully prominent cheekbones, to the long canines that flashed through thin, leathery lips. But it was the sight of his claw-like nails that made me want to shriek like a child, and dive under the nearest table, where the captain of the guard and his family sat.
Leander had been, reportedly, far more of a wolf-man than he was—hairy, hunchbacked, with a mouth full of sharp teeth, and claws as long as my fingers. How had Bonnie stomached the sight of him, let alone declared her love for him?
But in my case, it was not me who had to make the declaration. I probably didn’t even need to like my potential savior. The curse stipulated that he be the one to proclaim his love.
But so far, none of my suitors had uttered anything close to such a declaration, since they’d all come seeking my hand for every consideration but myself. Even had we demanded they said the words, I believed it wouldn’t have worked, since none could have been considered noble enough, anyway.
As for those latest candidates, Hippolytus was more likely to kiss his reflection than me, Björn treated me like a little sister who suffered from malnutrition, Kyrillos had his head in the clouds with his godly father, and Lycaon…
Lycaon looked like he wanted to eat me.
I felt certain if I wasn’t in my castle, surrounded by hundreds of people, and within sight of my family and guards, he would have.
I didn’t know what exactly I babbled as I tried to extricate myself, repeatedly, but the clawed hand that had closed on my forearm wouldn’t budge. All the while he watched me with that detached avarice of a predator.
Then those horrifying fangs were perilously close to my neck as he bent to whisper in my ear, ordering me to walk out of the ballroom with him.
To any onlooker, my handmaidens included, it would seem he was bending closer so I could hear him over the din. He was being so careful, only I knew that he was coercing me. The only way I would get anyone to intervene would be to make a scene.
But if I did, there would go any hope of approaching my other candidates tonight. If I didn’t, he wouldn’t really hurt me…would he?
Problem was, I felt it in my bones that this was a very dangerous creature. And if he had others like him around, maybe anyone who came to my rescue would be in equal danger. If not now, then later.
Then he was towing me towards the ballroom doors, and I kept telling myself I was letting my previous trauma in Cahraman blow this all out of proportion. He was probably just a creepy old man who’d misunderstood my approach, and would let me go if I explained. If all else failed, I would tell him who I was. Surely he’d let me go then? Surely Leander wouldn’t have invited him if he posed real danger?
But the bubble of disgust, fury, and terror building deep in my gut wouldn’t listen, threatening to burst any moment now, come what may…
“Camellia, darling! There you are!”
A deep male voice cut through my rising hysteria as a big man barreled between Lycaon and myself, tearing the clawed grip off my forearm.
“I’ve been looking all over for you!” the newcomer crooned, taking my hands in his.
Confused, I blinked up into the full-head mask of a red-and-white fox, my nerves in shreds.
The man’s grip tightened when I tried to move away, and he continued behaving as if he knew me. “Shame on you! You should have left a message that you changed your costume. I thought we agreed to come as fox and hound. I’ve accosted no less than four other girls tonight and almost got into duels over it.”
Mind still foggy, I couldn’t make sense of his words. Who was this? Could this be a drunken case of mistaken identity?
“Thankfully, Aunt Florence pointed you out to me before she retired to her guest quarters in the eastern tower. She needs you there urgently, so we must rush away before someone gets mad.”
But the eastern tower didn’t have guest quarters. And why did he stress these last… Oh.
Oh!
He wasn’t drunk! He was only giving me a way out of this situation!
“Oh, yes!” I tried to curb my shaking so I could play along convincingly. “We mustn’t keep Aunt Florence waiting!”
Lycaon shoved his head between us, growling menacingly, “I wasn’t finished with her.”
“You are now,” the intruder said blithely. “Keeping our godmother waiting is not an option—not if we all want to keep our heads on our shoulders.”
Before Lycaon could do anything else, the intruder spun me around and rushed me away, muttering, “Can’t take a hint, that one.”
I checked over my shoulder,
found Lycaon following us, fists clenched.
“And he still can’t!” I wheezed, fright booming inside me again, making me stumble.
Powerful hands supported me at once, the man’s mask-muffled voice as light as ever as he whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry. There’s no one alive I can’t lose.”
People blurred past as he had me almost running among the crowd. I thought we’d headed to the doors, then at one point I realized he’d plunged us into the mass of people on the dance floor.
After a while, as we weaved among the dancers, I snatched another frantic look around, and I could no longer see Lycaon anywhere.
Could it be he’d really lost him?
Before I could ask my strange companion, I noticed that I was draped in a black cloak.
I blinked up at him, baffled, and a light-colored eye closed in a wink within the mask. “I took the liberty of borrowing a guest’s cloak.”
“How? Why?” I mumbled dazedly.
He bent and a deep laugh echoed close to my ear. “The how is easily. As for the why, that magenta, while very becoming on you, is second only to red as a lure to the likes of your fanged friend.”
I shuddered as I dragged the cloak around me tighter. “He’s not my friend. I was trying to find a way to get away from him.”
“I noticed. Thought I’d swoop in and be that way out for you.”
My throat closed with expanding relief and disbelief. He’d noticed. When no one else had. And he’d chosen to intervene, when he must realize how dangerous Lycaon was.
When I could finally swallow past the lump of emotions, I rasped, “Thank you for ridding me of him.”
“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t. I’m betting he has inhuman hearing.” As I froze in dread, he shook his head and chuckled. “Kidding.”
All my tension deflated, as for the first time in long months, I felt something I’d almost forgotten how to feel. Safe.