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“May I present my daughter, the Princess Issylte, whom the people of Ireland affectionately call ‘ The Emerald Princess’. ”

At her father’s gesture, Issylte rose unsteadily from her throne, smoothed her green velvet gown, and reluctantly placed her drenched palm into his hand.

She approached her future stepmother, dutifully bowed her head, and lowered herself into a deep curtsey, all the while praying that she would not stumble and humiliate herself at this most crucial moment.

She could feel the judgmental eyes of countless aristocrats and courtiers assessing the regal quality of her princessly grace. Or lack thereof.

“It is an immense honor and great pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” Issylte stammered, her voice quavering as much as her roiling stomach. She prayed she would not vomit on the future queen’s magnificent, sapphire-blue gown.

“Greetings, Princess Issylte,” the dark-haired beauty crooned. “You are indeed as lovely as I have been told. I trust that you will come to love me as your future stepmother. And queen .”

The glacial, imperial voice seeped into Issylte’s bones like a winter chill.

Her father’s betrothed displayed her elegant hand for Issylte to kiss.

Issylte brushed her lips against the icy hand of her future stepmother. An unpleasant shiver crept up her spine at the frigid touch. As the queen’s skeletal fingers tightly gripped her own, a tingling numbness inched up Issylte’s arm, as if her strength were being absorbed.

Issylte recoiled, withdrawing her hand as if frostbitten. She rose unsteadily to her feet on weakened legs.

The queen’s black eyes fixed upon her with the stark gaze of a predator. Exposed and vulnerable, her limbs quivering and her mouth dry, Issylte returned, shaken, to her father’s side.

Brangien flashed her a reassuring smile that did not reach her troubled eyes.

King Donnchadh escorted his magnificent bride to his left side as the King of Scotland completed his royal introductions.

“And now, allow me to present my daughter’s personal guard and duly sworn knight, the Morholt.”

An enormous warrior emerged from the entourage of heavily armed knights surrounding her father’s bride.

Issylte had never seen such a giant of a man, who stood a whole head taller than the rest of the guards, his heavily muscled arms as large as the trunks of a tree.

Fiery red hair extended well past his shoulders, braided in peaks like the pointed horns of a dragon.

The Morholt’s bushy red beard was also braided—two giant fangs protruding from his gruesome mouth.

Issylte stared, transfixed with terror, at the Morholt.

He wore a knight’s armor—with metal chest plate, gauntlets, and greaves—all magnificently detailed in gold, with intricate engravings of dragon scales upon a background of deepest black.

His plumed helmet, which he held in his hand, was also black—adorned with a golden dragon emblazoned across the forehead.

Serpents slithered up each side of the headpiece, to a crested peak where an elaborate black ostrich feather magnificently unfurled.

The massive Morholt bowed and—placing his right fist over his heart in a gesture of fealty—thundered in a deep baritone voice that shook the room.

“King Donnchadh of Ireland, it is my greatest honor to serve you, as my princess becomes your queen .” Rising to his feet, the Black Knight locked eyes with Issylte’s father. “May you always find me worthy, my king.”

The Morholt bowed majestically and stepped back into precise formation among the royal guards of Scotland.

Issylte’s father nodded his head gravely, his royal regard assessing the formidable Black Knight. “I accept with gratitude your pledge of fealty, Morholt. As the greatest warrior in your land, and as my bride’s sworn protector, your worth will be immeasurable in your service to Ireland.”

Her father seemed unnerved by the encounter, for he hesitated, somewhat flustered, before finally beckoning his royal guests to enjoy the sumptuous feast which awaited.

“Let us celebrate the arrival of my betrothed, the future queen of Ireland. Royal guests, lords, and ladies—Everyone. Let us eat, drink, and be merry!”

The lively procession burst cheerfully into the vast, gaily decorated banquet hall.

Enormous trestle tables and chairs had been strategically placed so that spectators could enjoy the musicians, jugglers, dancers, and troubadours who were performing in the center of the floor.

Lively music was playing, and servants were pouring goblets of wine and ale as the guests filled the opulent ballroom.

Seated beside her father and his honored guests at the royal table, Issylte was enthralled as the bejeweled dancers in exotic bright silks performed with the troubadours, jongleurs and trouvères .

Royal courtiers laughed joyfully at the spectacular entertainment.

Platters of stuffed pheasant and peacock, roast venison and boar soon filled the tables, perfuming the air with delicious aroma.

Issylte devoured the sweet pastries and candied fruits, savoring the delicious cherry flavor of her favorite tartelette aux cerises .

She spotted Brangien at a nearby table. Her nurse was obviously enjoying the fine French wine, from the flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes as she beheld Issylte’s gaze.

The final courses were at last finished and the dishes cleared away.

Now, the royal musicians began to play the lively, enticing carole.

Guests raced to the center of the banquet hall to form a circle of exuberant, energetic dancing.

Joining fingers, couples paired off to perform in the center of the ring, returning to their places as others took turns dancing in the middle, each pair attempting to outdo all the others with impressive, daring finesse.

Issylte was frustrated that she was too young to participate.

She bobbed and bounced in her chair, leaning from side to side with the beckoning rhythm of the music.

She longed to dance breathlessly amid the bright colors of the ladies’ silk dresses, the glittering gold thread of the lords’ tunics, the gaiety of the guests and jovial ambiance of the betrothal feast.

Brangien spoke gently into her good ear.

“It is time for us to retire now, my princess. You have your equestrian lessons in the morning. I am certain your father the king will want his beautiful daughter to be well rested and at her best for the upcoming wedding. Come now. Say goodnight and let us return to your chamber.”

Issylte pretended not to hear, her eyes fixed on the dazzling display on the dance floor.

Brangien insisted quietly but firmly. “Issylte.” Her tone brokered no refusal.

She rose reluctantly from her chair, the magic of the night suddenly dispelled. The music called to her, the dancing and revelry intoxicating and inviting.

She forced herself to curtsey dutifully before King Griogair and Princess Morag, bidding them goodnight. She kissed her father on the cheek and whispered, “Good night, Father,” into the shell of his ear.

His eyes shone with love, but Issylte was unsure if that emotion was for her as his daughter or for the haughty, exquisite beauty at his side who laughed seductively as she clutched his arm, drawing his attention back to her. Issylte swallowed a lump in her throat.

She exited the vibrant ballroom, casting a brief glance back at her father, whose eyes never left the enticing brunette at his side.

The festivities continued in full splendor as she followed Brangien down the long, lonely corridor, up the empty stone staircase, and back to the silence of her royal bedroom.

Her attendants removed her jeweled crown and unbraided the ribbons from her hair.

They removed her luxurious emerald velvet dress and helped her into a soft white cotton nightgown.

Brangien tucked her in amongst the fluffy pillows and embroidered linens of the glorious, canopied bed, bestowing a goodnight kiss upon her cheek as she prepared to leave.

“Gigi,” Issylte sniffled, addressing her beloved nurse by the name she’d given her as a toddler. “I wish my father wouldn’t marry her. She frightens me.”

Tears flowed down her cheeks. Her father would have little time for her now, with his beautiful new bride who wanted him all for herself. A deep, heavy ache gripped her heart.

Brangien sat down on the bed beside Issylte, caressing her hair to soothe her. “Shhh…” she whispered, stroking Issylte’s cheek. “It’s only normal that you should feel resentful. You’ve had your father’s attention your whole life, and now he plans to remarry. Of course you’d prefer it if he didn’t.”

Issylte loved the comfort of her Gigi’s touch. It always managed to ease her fears, to make her feel safe. And loved.

“Don’t you fret now,” Gigi whispered into her left ear as she tucked the covers snugly around Issylte. “Even if your stepmother is cold and uncaring, you’ll always have me.”

Gigi hugged her tightly, cocooning her in the maternal warmth of loving arms.

“Now, no more unpleasant thoughts. Think about riding Luna tomorrow morning. Galloping through the forest that you love so much. That will give you pleasant dreams, my princess. Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Gigi.”

Issylte kissed her nurse, who extinguished the candle on the bedside table and gave her one last reassuring smile as she closed the bedroom door behind her.

Issylte closed her eyes, anticipating the joy of riding her dappled gray mare in the morning. There was nothing she loved more. She smiled with delight, pulling the blankets under her chin, burrowing her head deep into the soft pillow.

Without warning, her fingers remembered the queen’s icy cold touch.

Her hand once again felt drained, with the same disturbing sensation of her energy being leeched.

A frisson of dread shivered through her, despite the warmth of the blankets.

Issylte rubbed her arm vigorously, as if to remove the unpleasant, numbing chill.

When she finally did fall asleep in the luxurious canopied bed, Issylte dozed fitfully, haunted by vivid nightmares of cold, black eyes watching in the darkness, a malevolence lurking in shadows, biding its time.