“Your Majesties,” said Prince Col, a burly youth, in heavily accented Arnesian.
“We are welcomed to your city,” added Princess Cora with a curtsy and a cherubic smile.
Kell shot Rhy a look that said, Honestly? This is the girl you’re so afraid of?
Rhy shot him one back that said, You should be, too.
Kell gave Princess Cora another, more appraising glance. The princess hardly looked strong enough to hold a wine flute. Her cascades of honey-blond hair were done up in an elaborate braid that circled her head like a crown, woven through with emeralds.
She was slight for a Veskan—tall, yes, but narrow-waisted, willowy in a way that would have better suited the Arnesian court. Rhy had been allowed to accompany his mother to the Essen Tasch in Vesk three years before, so he’d seen her grow. But Kell, confined to the city, had only seen the tournament on years when Ames was called to host. When the Games were held there six years ago, Prince Col had come, along with one of his other brothers.
The last time Kell had seen Cora, twelve years ago, she’d been a small child.
Now her pale blue eyes traveled up, landed on his two-toned gaze, and stuck. He was so accustomed to people avoiding his eyes, their own glancing off, finding safer ground, that the intensity caught him off guard, and he fought the sudden urge to look away.
Meanwhile an attendant carried a large object, shrouded in heavy green cloth, to the throne dais, and set it down on the step. Whisking the cloth away with a dramatic flair, the attendant revealed a bird inside a cage—not a multicolored mimic, or a songbird, both favored by the Arnesian court, but something more … predatory. It was massive and silvery grey, save for its head, which had a plume and collar of black. Its beak looked razor sharp.
“A thank you,” announced Prince Col, “for inviting us into your home.” Col shared Cora’s coloring, but nothing else. Where she was tall, he was taller. Where she was narrow, he was built like an ox. A handsome one, but still, there was something bullish about his attitude and expression.
“Gratitude,” said the king, nodding to Master Tieren, who strode forward and lifted the cage. It would go to the sanctuary, Kell supposed, or be set free. A palace was no place for wild animals.
Kell tracked the exchange out of the corner of his eye, his attention still leveled on the princess, whose gaze was still leveled on him, too, as if transfixed by his black eye. She looked like the kind of girl who would point to something—or someone—and say, “I want one of those.” The thought was almost amusing until he remembered Astrid’s words—I would own you, flower boy—and then the humor turned cold. Kell took a slight, almost imperceptible step back.
“Our home shall be yours,” King Maxim was saying. It all felt like a script.
“And if the gods favor us,” said Prince Col with a grin, “so shall your tournament.”
Rhy bristled, but the king simply laughed. “We shall see about that,” he said with a hearty smile that Kell knew was false. The king didn’t care for Prince Col, or any of the Veskan royal family for that matter. But the real danger lay with Faro. With Lord Sol-in-Ar.
As if on cue, the trumpets sounded again, and the Veskan entourage took up their glasses of wine and stepped aside.
“Lord Sol-in-Ar, Regent of Faro,” announced the attendant as the doors opened.
Unlike the Veskans, whose entourage surrounded them, Sol-in-Ar strode in at the front, his men filing behind him in formation. They were all dressed in Faroan style, a single piece of fabric intricately folded around them, the tail end cast back over one shoulder like a cape. His men all wore rich purple, accented in black and white, while Sol-in-Ar wore white, the very edges of the fabric trimmed in indigo.
Like all ranking Faroans, he was clean-shaven, affording a full view of the beads set into his face, but unlike most, who favored glass or precious gems, Lord Sol-in-Ar’s ornamentation appeared to be white gold, diamond-shaped slivers that traced curved paths from temples to throat. His black hair was trimmed short, and a single larger teardrop of white gold stood out against his forehead, just above his brows, marking him as royal.
“How do they choose?” Rhy had wondered aloud, years before, holding a ruby to his forehead. “I mean, Father says the number of gems is a social signifier, but apparently the color is a mystery. I doubt it’s arbitrary—if it were the Veskans, maybe, but nothing about the Faroans seems arbitrary—which means the colors must mean something.”
“Does it matter?” Kell had asked wearily.
“Of course it matters,” snapped Rhy. “It’s like knowing there’s a language you don’t speak, and having no one willing to teach it to you.”
“Maybe it’s private.”
Rhy tipped his head and furrowed his brow to keep the ruby from falling. “How do I look?”
Kell had snorted. “Ridiculous.”
But there was nothing ridiculous about Lord Sol-in-Ar. He was tall—several inches taller than the men of his guard—with a chiseled jaw and rigid gate. His skin was the color of charcoal, his eyes pale green, and sharp as cut glass. Older brother to the king of Faro, commander of the Faroan fleet, responsible for the unification of the once dispersed territories, and considered to be the majority of the actual thinking behind the throne.
And unable to rule, for lack of magic. He more than made up for it with his military prowess and keen eye for order, but Kell knew the fact made Rhy uneasy.
“Welcome, Lord Sol-in-Ar,” said King Maxim.
The Faroan regent nodded, but did not smile. “Your city shines,” he said simply. His accent was heavy and smooth, like a river stone. He flicked his hand, and two attendants carried forward a pair of potted saplings, their bark an inky black. The same trees that marked the Faroan royal seal, just as the bird was the symbol of Vesk. Kell had heard of the Faroan birch, rare trees said to have medicinal—even magical—properties.
“A gift,” he said smoothly. “So that good things may grow.”
The king and queen bowed their heads in thanks, and Lord Sol-in-Ar’s gaze swept across the dais, passing Rhy and landing for only a moment on Kell before he bowed and stepped back. With that, the king and queen descended their thrones, taking up glasses of sparkling wine as they did. The rest of the room moved to echo the motion, and Kell sighed.
Standing there on display was painful enough.
Now came the truly unfortunate task of socializing.
Rhy was clearly steeling himself against the princess, who had apparently spent their last encounter trying to steal kisses and weave flowers in his hair. But Rhy’s worrying turned out to be for nothing—she had her sights set on other prey. Kings, swore Kell in his head, gripping his wine flute as she approached.
“Prince Kell,” she said, flashing a childlike grin. He didn’t bother to point out that she should address him as Master, not Prince. “You will dance with me, at the evening balls.”
He wasn’t sure if her Arnesian was simply limited, or if she meant to be so direct. But Rhy shot him a look that said he’d spent months preparing for this tournament, that it was a display of politics and diplomacy, that they would all be making sacrifices, and that he’d rather stab himself than let Kell put the empire’s peace in jeopardy by denying the princess a dance.
Kell managed a smile, and bowed. “Of course, Your Highness,” he answered, adding in Veskan, “Gradaich an’ach.”
It is my pleasure.
Her smile magnified as she bobbed away to one of her attendants.
Rhy leaned over. “Looks like I’m not the one who needs protecting after all. You know …” He sipped his wine. “It would be an interesting match….”