Page 20 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)
I know as much. Moreover, as Kal has been on the crown prince’s guard duty both days, I know why Wil called on his cousin.
Some days, I’m unsure whether Wil is sixteen or six.
“The customs of the palace are so complex that I find studies taking up a great deal of the day,” I say politely.
“For instance, I’m still puzzled as to the purpose of water buckets balanced atop certain partially ajar doorways. Might you enlighten me?”
Wil’s eyes widen while the corners of Trace’s mouth twitch in a suppressed smile.
Raza’s eyes flash at the guardsman before returning to the guests. “I hear Dansil attacked our heat-crystal mines in Sylthia.”
“Viva Sylthia attacked the mines,” Firehorn corrects. “Not Dansil.”
Raza shrugs. “Many in Everett rely on those crystals for warmth. Quite a toll for a time of ceasefire, don’t you think?”
“Abhorrent,” agrees Bishop Bahir. “I will pray to the Goddess for their souls.”
“What a comfort,” says Raza, her fingers wrapping around the belly of her wineglass like vipers.
Firehorn inclines his head. “I’ve received the report as well, Princess Raza, and have already discussed it with Envoy Jajack.” He rubs his face and looks wearily at his daughter. “Violet, you’ve not touched your food. Are you unwell?”
“On the contrary, Father.” The girl raises her chin. “I’m fasting. It is my tribute to the Goddess.” She casts a shy glance at Bahir, who smiles approvingly. Violet blushes.
Wil snorts. “The Goddess must be exceptionally bored to care whether or not you eat dinner, Violet.”
“If we might return our attention to—ah!” Raza gasps as her wineglass shatters inside her grip. Eyes wide, she clutches a bloodied hand to her bosom.
Guests rise to their feet. Wil vaults over the table. “Are you all right, Princess Raza?” he asks, the concern in his voice surprisingly genuine. “Let me escort you to the infirmary, or shall I summon a medic to attend you here? It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”
Raza blinks, as if having just registered Wil’s presence, and then draws composure around herself like a cloak.
“A well-thought idea, Prince William, but please, don’t disturb your dinner on my behalf.
I believe I’m more startled and embarrassed than injured.
Certainly, one of the king’s guardsmen might escort me to a medic? ”
“Of course,” Firehorn says, but before he can make a selection, Raza beckons to Trace.
“Come along,” the princess commands.
I don’t need to see Firehorn’s meaningful look to know that I am to follow. I give the princess to the count of fifteen before excusing myself to check on my injured companion.
My gut, or perhaps simply occupational conditioning, keeps me sliding silently along in the shadows instead of approaching the princess directly. Hugging the wall of the hallway, I watch and listen from the darkness.
“Where are we heading?” asks Raza, pulling up the hood of her cloak.
“The infirmary,” snaps Trace, holding the door open for her. The fury rolling off him is as palpable as a hurricane, and the pace he sets appears more suitable for professional soldiers than an injured princess. “Where did you think?”
Raza’s answer dissolves into the distance of the outdoors.
Slipping out after them, I feel the cool night air whispering against my cheek.
Fortunately for me, Trace and Raza are keeping to the path along the North Wood, allowing me to melt easily into the trees while we head west from the residence toward the palace.
With the calm familiarity of the woods embracing me like an old friend, I stalk closer to Raza.
I wish I were wearing pants and a tunic, but if I must find myself in a dress, the liquid night is a fortunate choice.
The princess’s voice drips with disgust. “How does being Firehorn’s dog suit you, Trace?” My gut tightens. Raza’s tone is too familiar, her word choice too sharp, even for her. I wait for Trace’s signature formality, but he says nothing. Not at first.
Then, a soft growl. “Your display at the dinner table is befitting a spoiled child. Firehorn is what’s keeping us from war. Do you know what the world would look like with Bahir in charge? ”
My arms crawl. Not a foreign princess toying with a handsome guardsman, but rather a conversation between two people who know each other. Perhaps well .
“The welfare of Everett—” Trace starts again.
“Don’t talk to me about the welfare of Everett,” snaps Raza.
“You are the heir to the throne. We can’t not talk about it.”
“I don’t want the bloody throne,” says Raza. “I want you.”
I hear more than see Trace grab Raza’s shoulders and haul her into the trees. My breath catches. I flatten against the oak beside me and, after a moment’s thought, haul myself into the branches. Sprawling like a cat on a tree limb, I focus on the words being exchanged mere paces from me.
“What under the stars are you doing in Dansil, Raza?” Trace demands.
Raza takes a breath. When she speaks, the haughtiness in her voice is gone. “Begging you to come away with me. I thought that if you saw me, if I asked in person... that for me, you’d come.”
Trace’s hand cups the princess’s chin and my heart stops. “I can’t,” he whispers.
“You can.” She buries her face in his shoulder, wrapping her slender arms tightly around his middle. After a moment, Trace’s own large arms envelop Raza. He rests his cheek atop her head as Raza’s desperate, pleading whisper rushes into the wind. “Please. For me. Choose me. Please.”
“Shhh.” Trace smooths his palm over Raza’s head in a way that says he’s done it so many, many times before.