“Even if the victorious suitor is you?” I asked in a dulcet voice.
He just looked at me for a moment. “Yes,” he said, at last. “I would hope you would use that time to get to know me. To learn things about me that perhaps you have not understood before.”
“I cannot imagine what those things might be,” I said. “I have known you my whole life.”
“You have been acquainted with me your whole life,” he corrected. “It is not the same thing.”
I shrugged. I was tired of talking to Sir Harwin. “I will tell my father I want a betrothal period.” Suddenly, for no good reason, I remembered Gisele’s earlier advice to marry quickly before my father sired a son. I wondered if that had been her subtle hint that she was pregnant, though she could hardly know if she was carrying a boy. “Though I’m not sure I like the idea of a long engagement,” I added.
“It is a splendid idea,” Harwin said. “I will make the recommendation myself.”
Now I scowled. “I don’t know why you think you have anything to say about my engagement or my wedding or my life.”
“I have everything to say,” he responded, his voice cool again. “I’m the man who’s going to marry you.”
I made a strangled sound deep in my throat and spun on my heel, not even answering him. Within a few steps, I had turned the corner and slipped up the servants’ stairwell, on my way back to my own room. If Harwin had any more ridiculously grave pronouncements to make, I didn’t hear them.
I was not going to marry Harwin. I was going to marry Darius the magician, if he turned out to be as delightful as he seemed—and if he didn’t, I wouldn’t marry him or any other man who had flocked to my father’s house with the hope of winning my hand. I was not a prize to be bestowed, won, or bartered.
I was a princess, and a rather difficult young woman. I knew how to get my own way.
2
The Dashing Suitor
I had not attended the joust that whittled my suitors from more than fifty to about two dozen, because I had never enjoyed the sight of violence. But my father insisted I be on hand for the competition that would judge the contestants’ courage, whatever this test entailed. So the following morning I joined all the other spectators gathering before a makeshift ring that had been set up just outside the walls that surrounded the palace. A dais had been erected in the most favorable spot to overlook the grounds; this was where the royal party would sit. More rudimentary stands had been built to accommodate everyone else and to enclose a space that resembled a small arena. Overnight, this arena had acquired chest-high walls and an overarching lattice canopy—it had, in effect, been turned into a very large cage.
I sat on the dais, awaiting my father and the rest of his guests, and surveyed the arena with misgiving. Would such a cage be used for keeping dangerous creatures in or not allowing terrified contestants out?
It was not long before the stands filled up with several hundred people of all ranks—servants, tradesmen, merchants, and nobles—including a few of my unsuccessful suitors from the previous round. The day was sunny and warm, except for a persistent chilly breeze, and the mood of the crowd was mostly cheerful. I was half excited and half fearful, since my father was an unpredictable and not very nice man, and what he dreamed up to test someone’s bravery might be highly unpleasant to watch.
At last my father arrived on the scene, trailed by Gisele, a handful of guests, and five or six servants bearing food, drink, cushions, and other comforts. The audience cheered and applauded when he made his appearance—less because they were happy to see their king, I thought, and more because his arrival indicated that the entertainment would soon be under way.
There was a little fuss and confusion as he and his companions mounted the dais and disposed themselves in the waiting chairs. Like me, my father had dark hair and blue eyes, but I had a larger and more solid frame than he did; he often wore bright colors and a lot of jewelry to make up for the fact that he was not particularly tall. Today he was dressed in dark green with gold trim, and he wore a gold circlet on his head. I noted without any enthusiasm that his guests were Sir Neville and his daughter Mellicia, a pretty but rather silly blond girl close to my own age. Like Harwin’s father, Sir Neville was a longtime ally of the crown and often at the palace. More than once it had occurred to me that Mellicia would make a perfect bride for Harwin. Perhaps, once I was betrothed to Darius, I would suggest her to Harwin as a substitute wife.
I had taken the seat at the very end of the row of chairs, knowing that my father would sit in the middle. I was not surprised to see Neville and Mellicia given the seats of honor on either side of him, and I was not surprised—but not particularly happy about it—when Gisele strolled down to take the chair next to mine.
“Your father asked me to look after you while he entertains his company,” she said by way of greeting.
“I don’t need looking after,” I said.
“Good,” she said, settling in. “Then I should have an easy day of it.”
I glanced into the arena, where several of my father’s grooms and trainers had slipped inside the cage and stationed themselves along the perimeter. Their hands were full of staffs and chains and other simple weapons, and my uneasiness increased. “Do you have any idea what he’s planning for this competition?” I asked.
“Only a rather dreadful suspicion,” she said. “I’m hoping I’m wrong.”
Which was not reassuring in the least.
Almost on the words, a stream of men entered the arena from the left side and milled around inside the cage, waiting. I was surprised to find them all barefoot and stripped to the waist, except for a loosely knotted collar each wore around his neck. None of them bore weapons. Whatever they were to face, it seemed, they would have to fend off armed with very little except their personal courage.
I searched the crowd, looking for Darius. There. He stood perfectly still to one side of the cage, gazing around with curiosity. He had pulled his fair curls back from his face with a leather cord, which gave him the brisk air of someone prepared to do business. He did not appear particularly nervous.
Most of the other men, I thought, had started to show some apprehension. They glanced up at the latticework ceiling of their prison; they casually leaned against the half walls as if testing how easily they could be breached. One or two paused to confer with each other, casting quick glances over their shoulders in case a monster had been released while they were engaged in conversation.
I was not looking for him, but I spotted Harwin anyway. Like Darius, he was standing almost motionless, but his eyes moved as he studied his competitors, his jailors, and his terrain. I saw his features set as he came to some kind of conclusion. I guessed that he had a pretty strong inkling of what trial lay in store, and he did not like it. While I watched him, he turned his eyes toward the dais and gave my father one long, narrow-eyed appraisal.
Then, before I could look away, he turned his attention to me. For a moment we stared at each other through the wide bars of the makeshift cage. Then he dropped his eyes and offered me a deep bow, ridiculously inappropriate considering his attire and his situation. I turned my face aside before he could straighten up and try to meet my eyes again.
I was just in time to see my father rise to his feet, his arms outstretched. Despite his lack of height, he had a certain forceful charisma; all eyes invariably turned his way when he moved or spoke. “Let the second phase of the competition begin!” he called and dropped his arms.
Over the renewed cheering of the crowd, I heard a chilling sound.
“Oh, no,” I said and looked at Gisele with horror in my eyes.