Page 5

5

Though I was half expecting it by the time we rolled through the castle gates, the lack of a royal reception there, too, hardened my anger into a stone sitting below my breastbone. I allowed Lord Varin to hand me from the carriage and swept through the double doors of the castle entrance with as much grace as I could muster. A small crowd of courtiers had gathered in the entryway. It was impossible to miss the whispers that sizzled through their ranks as they took in the sight of me—silken skirts plastered to my legs, hair a sodden mess—but I kept my mask firmly in place, refusing to let any embarrassment show. I merely nodded, acknowledging them with a tight-lipped smile as if I were dragged out of a harbor on a daily basis.

On second thought, perhaps it was to my advantage that Aric hadn’t turned out a full royal welcome. This way the entire Gilden court didn’t witness my bedraggled arrival—although I didn’t doubt the whole castle would know of it within the hour.

At least if my welcome to Arnhelm was less than desired, my rooms made up for the lack. Varin departed, and a palace official showed me to a full royal suite on the castle’s second floor with tall windows that overlooked an arboretum, rooms for my personal attendants, and brightly colored tapestries to help ward off the northern chill. A large bureau took up much of one wall. To my immense relief, a fire crackled in the hearth—the trip from the wharves had done little to dry my clothes, and the harbor’s cold was beginning to set in deep. I started eagerly towards the fire, only for Catalina’s arm to descend, blocking my path.

“Wait here, please, your Grace.” Any trace of the familiarity she’d shown on the Gilded Lily was gone, leaving a woman as professionally cold as a marble fountain. “We must ensure your rooms are safe.”

A retort hovered at my tongue—I was freezing, and I doubted Aric would risk the treaty by doing anything as obvious as booby-trapping the chambers he assigned me. But Catalina and I were no longer familiar enough for me to say so, and I was too tired to argue anyway. I waited, trying not to visibly shiver, while Catalina and my guards turned the suite upside down searching for any possible threat. I winced as a pair of guards prodded the pillows on the canopy bed and heaved aside the mattress. Another rammed a poker up the chimney, scattering a shower of soot across the rug. I appreciated their enthusiasm for my safety, but was being quite so thorough really necessary? My fingers were practically blue with cold.

I cast a longing glance at the hearth—and blinked. The flames glowed oddly green—nearly the color of leaves in spring. Perhaps it was a peculiarity of the wood? But Gildenheim was known for its pines and firs—the same wood we built our ships from, the same wood we burned. And I had never seen it burn this color.

“All clear, your Grace,” Catalina said, jolting me out of my thoughts.

Virtue of Mercy. It appeared as if Tatiana had unleashed her tempest in a teacup on the suite. I didn’t envy the servants tasked with cleaning the rooms—especially since Catalina would undoubtedly have their persons searched with equal thoroughness.

I glanced back at the fire. The color had vanished, the flames an ordinary palette once again. I must have been imagining things.

“Thank you,” I said, and headed for the hearth. The mess could wait for later.

To my immense relief, the suite included a personal washroom, with hot water at the ready. Once I had warmed enough for my hands to function again and had washed the harbor’s mildewed stench out of my hair, Julieta helped me into my most striking gown—blue and gold and ornate, like Damaria itself. I sat at the bureau so she could brush color onto my salt-chapped lips and work my damp hair into something presentable. Varin had informed me there would be a welcome ball this evening—my first formal public appearance as Aric’s betrothed. I did not intend to waste it.

A few volumes in the Damarian language were neatly stacked on the bureau’s polished surface. My brows drew together as I read their titles. A History of Conflict on the Peninsula . Tales for Sleepless Children. And, most confusingly, what appeared to be a pamphlet on Damarian fashion, almost two decades out of date.

Clearly, they were intended to send a message, but its substance confused me. Did Aric mean to warn me with my own country’s history of war? Suggest that I was childish? Take a jibe at my fashion sense? Whatever he meant by the books, it didn’t bode well.

I supposed I could ask him myself soon enough. Surely he didn’t intend to hide until our wedding night.

In the mirror, I glanced involuntarily at the far wall of the suite. Reflected in the glass was a door that led directly to what I’d been told were the king’s chambers. It was firmly closed. For now.

I forced my eyes away from the door. I didn’t care to think about what lay on the other side. Not yet. I would consider Aric’s bedchamber and all it entailed after I had actually met the man.

I shifted my attention to the tapestries instead. Their wool was dyed in jewel tones—pigments likely imported from the Zhei Empire through Damarian trading routes. At home, such deco rations would have borne representations of the Virtues. Instead, these tapestries depicted people and animals in scenes of nature, mixed with fantastical creatures whose melding of body parts reminded me of the birdfish.

My gaze stilled on a tapestry depicting a pale woman with dark hair and golden eyes. She stood beside a winged horse with a crown perched between its ears—the same creature rampant on the flag of Gildenheim, though here it stood on four legs instead of rearing on two. The bright color of the woman’s eyes, picked out with gilt thread, suggested she could channel magic with the strength of a high-level Adept. Confusion brought a frown to my face. I’d known Gildenheim had magic users, of course—unlike in Damaria, where everyone with magical potential was required to complete nine years of Adept training and have their subsequent careers monitored by the Guild, untrained wielders of wild magic were not only tolerated but encouraged here. But I’d been taught that greenwitches, as Gildenheim called such individuals, were weak at best, dangerous at worst. The tapestry must be an exaggeration.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Not the door to Aric’s chambers, thank the seas. The main door to my suite.

I turned sharply, causing Julieta to mutter a curse as her careful work twisted out of place. My hand slid to the hilt of the knife strapped to my forearm. Tatiana’s locket was warm in the hollow beneath my collarbones.

One of the guards posted at the door gave me a questioning look. His hand hovered near the hilt of his rapier. The woman beside him rested a hand on her own weapon.

I nodded, silently ordering them to admit the visitor. Their caution was merited, but if I were to live in Gildenheim, I couldn’t expect every visit to be an attack. Still, a trickle of unease slid down my spine like a drop of the harbor’s cold water.

The door opened to reveal a reedy man somewhere between my own age and my parents’. His dark hair, olive complexion, and clothing in the Damarian style—an embroidered doublet with slashed sleeves, hair cut short—identified him as a citizen of my own country.

“Ambassador Dapaz?” I guessed. I’d never seen Evito Dapaz’s portrait, but there were only a handful of Damarian courtiers in Gildenheim. My retinue’s arrival had at least doubled their number.

The ambassador gave me a bow of precisely the correct depth, confirming my suspicions. His brown eyes were keen over a hawkish nose.

“Your Grace. I don’t believe we’ve yet had the pleasure of meeting.”

He was correct. His features were familiar—I’d probably met members of his family at balls or dinners—but I’d been too young to attend court functions regularly when he took up his ambassadorial role abroad.

“It’s an honor to finally make your acquaintance, ambassador. I’ve heard much about you.” Ambiguous flattery couldn’t hurt. “You’ve been in Gildenheim how many years now?”

“Twelve.”

Julieta had moved on to tightening the laces of my dress. I suppressed a grimace as she tugged harder than usual. “Damaria thanks you for your service. What can I assist you with, ambassador?”

“Actually, your Grace, I believe I can assist you. I came to see how you are settling into your quarters and whether they suit your needs. And also to escort you to the welcome ball.” His mouth pressed into a thin smile. “I imagine you have not had adequate time to learn your way around the castle.”

Was this another one of Aric’s attempts to insult me? Had he meant for me to blunder around the castle on my own, making even more of a spectacle of myself? My jaw tightened with renewed anger at my betrothed. Thank the seas for Dapaz’s foresight. At least someone in this wretched country was on my side.

“Thank you,” I told Evito. “My quarters are proving satisfactory so far, though I admit I’ve not fully explored them.” Though Catalina and my guards had done so more than adequately. I winced internally as Evito’s gaze followed mine, sweeping over the mess, but he was a trained courtier. His expression didn’t change.

“Of course, my lady.” The ambassador inclined his head.

“But I do have a question.” I gestured to the tapestry that had caught my eye, trying to keep my torso still for Julieta’s sake. “What does this image portray?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Evito’s face. Whether it stemmed from my lack of knowledge or my topic of interest, I couldn’t determine. “It’s from one of the local folktales, your Grace. The story of the Lady of the Wilds. The Gilden people say she was the first queen of this land—she made a pact with the local deities, who gave her the crown in exchange for a promise to protect the wild places. Such superstition is why Gildenheim refuses to open more iron mines or log the forests, despite the immense potential for profit.”

Interesting, especially since those two things were specifically outlined in the treaty. I would have to ask Aric about this. Whenever he showed his face. “Was she real? The Lady?”

“By all accounts, your Grace, the woman was real. The legends… well.” Evito gave a condescending smile. “I’m sure your Grace can draw your own conclusions.”

I studied the image of the first Gilden queen, more intrigued than before. Rather than satisfy my curiosity, Evito’s answer had piqued it.

“If your Grace is almost ready?” Evito prompted.

“Of course.” I shouldn’t be late to a ball held in my own honor. “Julieta?”

My attendant gave a final tug on my laces. “Finished, my lady.” Her words were clipped.

When I glanced in the mirror, her lips were pressed together so firmly they had paled. Perhaps she regretted accompanying me to Gildenheim after all. I would have to discuss it with her when I had a spare moment. If she wanted to go home, I wouldn’t make her stay.

I caught her hand and pressed it in silent gratitude, hoping the gesture conveyed my thoughts, then rose to my feet. “Ambassador, I would appreciate it if you directed me to the ballroom.”

I followed him, two of my guards only steps behind. A headache pulsed faintly at my temples, but at least I wasn’t having a flare, and the water and fruit Julieta had forced me to consume before we disembarked were helping me recover from the voyage. Thank the seas. I needed all my strength tonight.

Within minutes of leaving the suite I was grateful for Dapaz’s guidance. I had never gotten lost in any Damarian hall of state; the bright mosaics, stained glass frescoes, and individualized depictions of the Virtues served as waypoints, every room unique. The castle of Arnhelm was hall after hall of grey limestone. Narrow windows let in glimpses of a sunset the color of ripe plums, blurred by rain that had begun to fall without my notice, but those hints at the outside world didn’t orient me to the castle’s twists and turns. This was a place built for defense, not beauty. My parents would have liked it.

Dapaz led the way to a pair of tall double doors reinforced with spiked iron bands. Even the courtrooms here were equipped for battle. At least their handles had a touch of artistry: each was fashioned into the semblance of an open-mouthed predator. Not particularly welcoming, but at least it was more subtle. Slightly.

Evito nodded to the two soldiers stationed beside the doors. Gilden troops, wearing the same forest green uniforms, a silver sash across their chests. They bore ceremonial halberds hung with the flag of Gildenheim: the green field, the winged white horse. The same image from the tapestry in my room. Unease stirred behind my sternum. Were the guards merely for show? To send me a message? Or were they truly here to defend—but against what? I thought again of the rumors of royal relatives angling for the throne. Surely they wouldn’t dare strike so publicly.

As we approached, the guards threw open the doors, revealing a grand ballroom with a polished marble floor and arched ceilings. A dozen sparkling chandeliers cascaded light over a crowd of well-dressed courtiers. At the far end, two thrones occupied a raised dais. Both were empty. Was Aric really going to refuse to meet me again?

The two soldiers thudded the base of their pikes onto the floor. I managed not to flinch at the booming sound.

“Announcing her Grace,” Dapaz called, “Duchess Bianca Liliana, flower of Damaria, betrothed of Aric of Gildenheim.”

Gazes swung to meet me, accompanied by whispers. A smattering of polite applause rose from the crowd. Like the court at home, the guests here were a varied group—mixed in with the predominant pale complexions and muted attire of Gildenheim’s people, I spotted the boldly patterned fabrics and ranging brown skin tones of the Mobolan Alliance’s member states; the shining silks and sleek black hair of the Zhei Empire’s representatives; the richly embroidered doublets, flowing skirts, and olive-toned countenances of fellow Damarians, though I recognized none of them aside from Evito. All of them united in staring at me.

I donned a smile, masking my nerves behind it. This, at least, I was accustomed to. I could navigate a courtly dance as easily as I could breathe.

A ripple went through the crowd, a scythe parting a field of wheat. Through the gap walked a man dressed in the dark grey of Gilden mourning, a circlet resting on his golden hair. He stopped a sword’s reach from me but did not bow.

Our eyes locked, his the cold blue of a winter sky. The air went static between us, like the feeling just before lightning strikes.

I needed no introduction. I would have known this man even had I not perused his portrait for hours on the journey from Damaria, reading meaning in every brushstroke. Aric of Gildenheim, heir apparent to the throne.

My betrothed. At last.