Page 9

I have to find my horse.

It’s all I can think about as I march off in a direction that quickly gets me lost, but I refuse to turn around and go back. That feels far too much like retreat.

The Sarnian girl’s words hang around my neck in an invisible weight, a cruel, mocking echo as lingering as the gasp that escaped the others when I refused to buckle under this gods-awful circumstance.

Twelve other princesses. My mind reels, grappling with the humiliation.

I fight for honor, for duty, not for a manchild in a palace.

And yet, here I’ve ended up. I am a contestant, a spectacle.

The polished marble floor feels unsteady beneath my dusty boots despite their unwavering solidity.

It’s me who wavers, who wobbles and warps as I continue to stride, faster and faster, through halls that turn corners into other corridors that lead me deeper into this maze I only long to leave.

My armor, once a symbol of pride, now seems a heavy, absurd costume. Who I’ve been raised to be a detriment to me suddenly, the very flowers I storm past comparing me to the princesses who judge me just as much.

More so. They find me wanting, do they? Lacking in the necessary refinements for the role I thought I’d come to play?

To the fire with all of them, then. And to the flames and furnace with my mother, she most of all.

Fuck. This. Shit .

I’m aware of eyes on me as I carry on in this seemingly pointless search for an exit.

There must be a way out and I’ll make one if it comes to that.

Panic flutters, as trapped as I feel, fed by my utter need to leave right now .

The glittering, curious stares of the court follow me, the disdainful glances of these soft, weak people I can’t stand to ponder.

Their silk gowns rustle, their murmurs like a chorus of venomous insects.

I would tear their tongues out for their whispering, but I don’t dare stop.

If I stop, I might crumble, and that will not be permitted.

Heald blood keeps me moving, refuses to let my knees lock, my momentum slow. I breathe, forcing myself to stand tall with every stride, even as my cheeks burn and burn and that panic beats its wings against my ribcage.

I would set fire to this whole place for the chance to set them free.

He’s turning a corner when I’m barrelling around mine, and the impact would be worse between us except that I’m too well trained to allow anyone to sneak up on me, even in this state if froth and fury.

I catch him roughly by the arms before he can harm himself, his startled blue eyes meeting mine, shapely mouth agape.

He’s handsome enough, thick, blond hair wavy over his pale complexion, the dusting of freckles across his nose adorable, really.

He’s close to my age, no doubt, early twenties, though untried with a baby face like that.

But he has enough height and weight on me that when I catch him, he grunts from the effort it takes me to keep the crash from ending in disaster, and I know I likely bruised his biceps in doing so.

I step back, releasing him the moment he’s steady, and nod abruptly, jaw jumping. “Apologies,” I say. “I’m looking for the front door.” Near-hysterical amusement bubbles, a child of the panic, as I speak. How utterly ridiculous all of this is. The front door, indeed.

He rubs at his offended arms while he studies me for a moment. “You’re Remalla of Heald,” he says, not a question.

“I am,” I snap. “Now, I ask you, the door?” Panic can take a flying leap because my patience has run out. Officially.

Someone approaches from behind me, many someones, if the footsteps I count out from habit ring true.

A dozen someones, in fact. The princesses have followed me.

No, chased me, panting and heaving for breath just to even attempt my pace.

Pathetic. He notes them, tightening skin around his eyes a flag of his own before a mask falls over his face.

I watch it settle there, guarded but gregarious, and he’s the more handsome to me for the deception.

“Highnesses,” he says, sweeping a bow. I don’t bother to turn around. I’ve already clocked them and refuse to participate in whatever this is.

“Overprince Altar,” the Sarnian girl’s voice drips sugar that would make Gorgon stamp his foot in demand.

So, this is the Overprince I’m here to seduce? I have nothing to lose and choose to instead throw all caution to the wind as it is abundantly clear that I will not be staying here under these circumstances. Not for any glory or gold or order from my mother.

With the acutely pointed purpose I choose, I step back and look the Overprince up and down.

Slowly, drawing out my examination, tilting my head to one side, gaze lingering in personal places.

My heavy hair is still bound for my ride, the weight of the braids wrapped into confinement making my scalp ache as I cross my arms over my chest, leather creaking and sniff.

“You’ll do,” I say. “The door, princeling.”

That mask he’s donned for the other princesses slips momentarily as his very blue, very intense eyes hold mine. And then he steps aside and gestures the way I’d been walking.

“Your instincts have served you despite the maze the Citadel can be,” he says with warmth and only the barest touch of humor.

Laughing at me or with me? It had better be the former.

“Carry on, highness,” he says then, “two more turns, then right. When you finish the end of that hall, turn left and you’ll find the great entry. ”

“My thanks,” I growl, already stalk past him before the last word is out of his mouth, hearing the tittering disapproval of the princesses I leave behind.

At least they’re no longer whispering.

I do find myself wondering why the Overprince chooses to hide his true self from the women brought here to choose from.

Then again, I’ve barely met them and I don’t want anything to do with them either, so his choice is fair enough.

Whatever his reasons, it matters not at all to me.

Gorgon is used to long rides, and my mother’s soldiers can protest if they like.

I am leaving this fucking place, and nothing can keep me here.

“Princess Remalla!” Whoever is chasing me will have to hurry. I’m almost to that first turn that Altar told me to take, and I can almost smell the outdoors. “Your highness, wait, please!”

“Whatever it is you have to say,” I call over my shoulder, “can be done while I walk. Or not at all.”

“Please, wait.” A hand falls on my arm, the owner of it spinning me around.

I face off with a stranger, a woman in lush velvet and silk.

Purple and gold velvet and silk. The colors of Heald.

“Lady Amber, highness,” she says. “Your mother assigned me here before you were born.” Ah, the ambassador Mother mentioned, her insider in this wretched place.

Her face pinches, weakness showing. “I’d hoped to catch you before your audience with the Overking.

” She wrinkles her nose at my armor. And she claims to be of Heald. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Home,” I snarl at her. “Away from this,” I wave one hand back the way I’ve come, “humiliation.”

Her dark eyes won’t release me. “Your mother didn’t tell you?”

“Since when,” I grate at Amber, “does Jhanette tell anyone anything?”

I’m surprised that she nods immediately instead of offering any kind of reprimand, hands grasping the skirt of her dress. “I see,” she says. “Your highness, you can’t leave.”

“And you’ve forgotten Heald,” I snap. “The heart of our homeland no longer beats in you to tell me such a thing.”

She hisses, face tight, the warrior she used to be flashing in her eyes. “How dare you?”

“Show me otherwise.” I plant myself, tall, defiant, and eye-to-eye with this stranger who, through no fault of her own, stands in for Mother.

“There are times,” she says in a low voice, “when the sword and the shield turn the tide of war. And times when it’s the heart of an Overprince.

” She glances down the corridor back the way I’d come before lowering her voice further.

“He’s had a month to choose of them, highness, and rejects them all.

His father grows weary of the dance. That’s why you’re here. ”

Since I never wanted to marry him in the first place, her attempt to console me is ludicrous.

But she’s not done, one hand unclenching to grasp my wrist. “Please, highness,” she says. “Heald’s time has come. I assure you, he will adore you.”

“I will not scrape and beg for a man’s attention,” I tell her. “Ever.”

“Exactly,” she says, slow smile building.

“I may be years and miles from our lands, Princess Remalla, but I am of Heald and, like you, strategy is in my blood. When I tell you that he will not choose one of those pampered frauds, that he longs for more, far too intelligent for a wife without a mind…” she exhales sharply.

“I’m sorry the queen didn’t see fit to tell you everything.

I assume she knew you’d refuse outright.

” Except she is too long from home if she thinks I’d get away with that.

I’d be here, still, but at least fully informed.

Amber lets me go, folding her hands in front of her. I see the warrior she was still hiding under her dress, beneath the makeup and fancy hair. I can’t trust anyone here.

Even my own countrywoman?

“A week, highness,” she says. “One week. He will fall for you immediately, if he hasn’t already.” So, she knows of my encounter just now. Good for her. “And he will be yours, I swear it to you.”

She’s desperate. Why? Her motives must be suspect.

But where is it that I think I’m going to go? Despite my storming fury and grand attempt at an exodus that’s gotten me lost and only added to the mess, I can’t go home. Not like this.

I have my orders. Damn it.

My jaw tightens. There’s no actual whispering at the moment, but I can still hear it. Will no doubt dream about it. Nightmares of eyes on me, silent judgment, all paired to the sssssss of their secrets and jealousy.

The wild princess from Heald. What does she know of court? She looks like a stable boy in that armor. The scent of Amber’s expensive perfume chokes me in a cloud of mockery, too sweet, too light, too everything I am not. Nor do I ever want to be like her.

But she’s how I’ll end up if I remain.

I wish, with a fierce, aching longing, that I had fought harder, argued better. While knowing nothing would have gone any differently, and that I’m as trapped now as I ever was.

“I have to see to my horse.” My throat is thick, the words hard to form.

“Of course,” Amber says. “He’s at the door?”

I nod and follow on her heels, a trained animal on an invisible leash. I was so close to escape, just a few more minutes, the Overprince’s directions exact. The moment I set foot outside, Gorgon trumpets to me, and a wild, terrible thought rises.

Run. Just run. Race away from here, from Mother. From obligation and the weighty needs and wants of others. Go to the sea, join one of the pirate crews from the Isles. Or find a mercenary band to battle with. Anything but this.

Anything.

Gorgon goes with them when I release him from his stand at attention, Amber guiding me, and good thing, too, because I’m in a daze again, and this time, I fear I’ll never wake from it.

We’re back inside again, the hushed halls engulfing me, the tap of my boots on the marble echoing. Wherever she leads me, I’m oblivious until she opens a door and steps through.

It’s bright here, late-day’s sunlight pouring through tall windows overlooking a small garden. There’s a seating area of plush furnishings, a large four-poster bed draped in gauze and velvet. Another door leads to a clothing storage that Amber goes through as she speaks.

“Vivenne sent your measure,” she says, pulling out a dress to show me.

I don’t acknowledge it, hating the thing already though it’s never touched my body or done me real offence.

“These should all fit and can be tailored as we need.” She pulls out some white underthings, shoes, depositing all on the bed.

I cross to one of the large, arched windows, looking out over manicured gardens. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of foreign blossoms. My hands clench and unclench. Trapped in a cage of my mother’s making.

By that same mother who sent me to humiliation.

She sent me here, knowing I would be one among many, a disposable pawn in some twisted game of courtly intrigue.

I can’t bring myself to believe it. My mother, for all her ambition, for all her ruthlessness, has always valued Heald’s honor.

Surely, she wouldn’t subject her only daughter to such a public degradation.

And yet, the queen of Heald is a master of tactics.

A maestro of deception. She has manipulated me my whole life.

Why would now be any different?

I turn to find Amber watching me with so much empathy that anger is the only response I have available to me.

“Get out,” I snarl, advancing on her. She’s so startled by the command that she retreats to the door. “I don’t need your help.” I slam it closed in her face, turning to lean back against it.

Breathe, Remalla. Breathe.

I’m about to straighten when a soft knock fires me up all over again. I whirl, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my sword as I jerk it open to shout at Amber for her audacity.

Only to find I’m threatening another stranger, this one a man, with the point of my very sharp blade.