Page 34 of A Gaze So Longing (The Fall of Livenza #1)
They were positioned at opposite ends of the throne room. Nia stood by the entrance, a tray of cups balanced on one hand.
Favian, by a cruel twist of fate—His Majesty’s command—was directed to stand next to the pedestal holding the thrones, next to Leonardo’s throne, where he was forced to watch each arriving princess greet his prince.
The women’s—girls’—curtsies were deep, their hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes averted. They reminded Favian of himself.
Rodrigo had been right. It was as clear as the bright summer days that the neighboring leaders had, indeed, been asked to bring their daughters of marriageable age. There was barely a royal young man in sight, only a few brothers having joined their sisters for the occasion.
Favian noticed Lord Casella and the other advisors among the guests, though he was sure that even if any of them had a daughter, their status would exclude them from the list of eligible suitors.
Favian suspected that, nevertheless, it was courtesy to invite the gentry with whom the majesties ruled.
Considering the sharp words about the prince a few weeks ago, he supposed, too, that Lord Casella was interested in the prospect of Leonardo’s future, though he was still unable to discern why exactly the lord cared so much about the prince’s life.
Favian couldn’t help but wonder if the presence of Leonardo’s old weapon tutor unsettled him.
He hadn’t asked about it, and the prince hadn’t brought it up, but ever since the advisory council had resumed its meetings, Leonardo regularly faced the man who had taught him how to wield a sword and shoot a rifle.
Favian had too few words to ask the many questions that continuously bubbled to the surface, certainly after the most recent meal they had shared.
The lack of young men in the room made Leonardo stand out even more.
And he already did, in the clothes he had chosen to wear for the occasion.
Favian suspected it must have been a point of contention; the kind of jewelry he wore was unbecoming of someone the prince’s parents, the council, and the guests believed to be a man.
Almost every one of Leonardo’s fingers was accessorized with at least one golden ring, and he wore a necklace made of pearls around the high lace collar of his short gown, stockings matching the lacy pattern of the fabric.
His earlobes, too, were adorned with jewelry, red gemstones mirroring those embedded in his crown.
The dark green overcoat he wore was detailed with flowery golden embroidery that, in turn, mirrored his rings, and if Favian wasn’t mistaken, he had noticed some powder on the prince’s face.
His curls were moisturized and shiny, the crown atop his head polished, the red stones bringing out the amber specks in his eyes.
He looked stunning, a sunflower craning its head towards the brightest star.
Favian could tell that Leonardo was bored, though he tried to be kind to all the girls and women being introduced to him. He knew as much as Favian did that, in all likelihood, they had not been given a choice in coming here, either.
The customary anticipation in the air shifted when the caller announced the representatives of Abijata.
Their queen entered through the throne room’s wide gates first, prompting murmurs around the room.
The thin braids she wore were woven together in patterns more intricate than Favian had ever seen, weaving into the crown on her head.
He could not tell where hair ended and metal began, golden powder blending the two together.
The long dress she wore emulated the color, the contrast between the bright shade of yellow and her dark brown skin stark.
Behind her entered another woman. She wore a similar dress, though in white, and also wore a crown, silver atop her shaved head.
Murmurs turned to gasps. Two queens?
The two women each took a step away from the doorway, making room for their daughter to enter between them.
She shared her mothers’ dark umber skin; her gown was red, wide sleeves bellowing around her arms, golden patterns embroidered along every hemline.
Her face was adorned with golden rings in her nose and lip and framed by long twists flowing down her body, the ends of her otherwise dark hair doused in the same golden powder as her mother’s.
Favian assumed she was that woman’s child by birth, though it hardly mattered.
All three women were a sight to behold.
“Princess Dinha of Abijata,” the caller pronounced, and the woman smiled.
It was not a kind smile—it was the smile of a person who understood the space she just walked into, a room filled with people baffled by the boldness they were witnessing, a hall belonging to the man who had waged war on her kingdom for years. It was a smile that could cut glass.
Favian didn’t need to look at Leonardo to know that the prince was entranced. Gravitating towards people who matched his energy, Leonardo had always been charmed by big personalities. For as long as he could remember, Favian had been the exception, whether it made sense to him or not.
How did Leonardo feel about meeting the princess of a kingdom he had spent five years fighting, Favian wondered.
A kingdom whose food he enjoyed, yet whose people he had hurt.
Did he even consider the political implications of this meeting at all?
Or was Princess Dinha’s dazzling brightness the only thing he focused on?
Princess Dinha of Abijata made her way to the gallery holding the thrones.
Flanked by her mothers, she greeted the majesties.
They all held their heads high as they curtsied in front of the rulers of Livenza, of the kingdom which had attempted to decimate theirs for the mere cause of greedy expansion.
In the presence of these queens, Favian understood why the effort had failed—if the people of Abijata had even half the strength its leaders exuded, the attempt had been futile from the beginning.
He recalled the burn of Abijatan spices in the back of his neck, the tingle of pepper and chili in his throat, and he knew: there was much more to admire about this kingdom than its food.
When she moved on to Leonardo, Princess Dinha did not hesitate to meet the prince’s eyes. The sparkle in them was undeniable even at a distance—Leonardo was taken by her, this presence so unlike those he had been made to interact with prior.
Favian ached to decipher the prince’s expression, to look for the revealing details in his eyes, his smile, but there was no way. Looking directly at the prince here, in front of half the palace staff, their guests, and His Majesty himself, might as well have been a death sentence.
To Favian’s surprise, it was Her Majesty who rose from her throne once the obligatory receptions were finished.
Though perhaps, after that dinner a couple of weeks ago, he should not have been surprised. Perhaps, he should have seen this coming.
“Welcome, esteemed guests,” Queen Irmina called into the room.
All whispers died down immediately. “My husband, His Majesty the King Leonardo Amondo the First, and I are delighted to host such a distinguished crowd on this blessed evening. May you enjoy yourselves,” she gestured toward the prince, “and your company. As you know, our son has recently returned from the front lines after five long years fighting bravely for his kingdom.”
There was no more doubt in Favian’s mind that Princess Dinha and her mothers had been invited here as a jab.
Neither party had won the war, but from what he had gathered, those years must have been harder on the smaller kingdom of Abijata.
Why the queens had agreed to come, however, remained a mystery to Favian.
He could not imagine them interested in marrying their daughter away to their enemy.
Queen Irmina continued, “He is eager to meet all the young women who have come of age in his absence, and will take this opportunity to dance with each of your daughters.”
Attention having shifted to the queen, Favian snuck a glance at the prince.
He did not need to see much of Leonardo’s face to recognize the anguish in them.
The prince tried to hide it, but Favian knew him well enough to understand that he had not been made aware of this expectation before the ball.
Among the many things that Leonardo did not enjoy, dullness was a significant one, and Favian knew there would be few things more dull in Leonardo’s mind than having the same conversation over and over again, in a setting overlooked not only by his parents but by his partners' parents as well.
Nobody in this room, he knew, could be themselves at any point throughout this event.
Though Favian did not doubt that Leonardo would try—and he would be as genuine as the circumstances allowed.
With the musicians’ initial melody, the dance floor was opened, and Leonardo was ushered to take his first partner.
Favian was grateful to be instructed to move to the banquet, given the task of serving wine.
He knew how to serve.
And he was so, so tired of it.
So the night began. Leonardo moved from partner to partner, danced with girls far too young to be here in the first place, fought off hands far too eager to reach for him, and came for a refill of his wine far too often for it to be merely for his thirst.
They did not talk. They had agreed on this beforehand, though it had taken Favian quite the effort to convince Leonardo of this arrangement, the prince unable to grasp the magnitude of the potential repercussions were Favian to stray from His Majesty’s commandments right in front of the man’s eyes.
Still, the prince made sure that it was Favian who poured his drink each time.
It was still a risk, but one Favian had calculated and accepted.