The princess will save y.., p.3
The Princess Will Save You, page 3
The princess’s eyes didn’t waver from the red spires of the Itspi. Her home had become an asp’s nest.
“Greedy? Backstabbing? Opportunistic? Every last one of them. And yet behind closed doors the council bathes them in sagardoa and compliments while negotiating the theft of Ardenia.”
Luca considered that. She’d told him much about the laws of succession that had left the kingdom in such a position. “And they don’t include you?”
“They know I won’t consent—I’ve made that much clear.” Amarande ripped her eyes away from the Itspi and turned to Luca, frustration pinking her cheeks. They hadn’t even involved Koldo, though she was regent. Amarande had seen her around the grounds, working with the soldiers far too much for her to be in those sagardoa-splashed meetings. “And the last thing they want is me making the thieves uncomfortable with my demands.”
Luca paused, snatching Amarande’s hand to make a point. Her blush rose further. “If they won’t hear you in private, you’ll just have to bring your concerns into the open.”
As he spoke, his eyes skipped briefly to the arena, nestled below the castle yard on the other side of the grounds. The site of the day’s funeral. Where royalty and commoners alike would come together to bid King Sendoa farewell.
Yes, that was exactly what she needed to do.
CHAPTER
4
THIS was not his death to die.
Nothing like any of the blows King Sendoa delivered in life had taken his own. There wasn’t a jagged stitch across his throat, thread straining to hold his head flush to his neck. Both arms were there, too, crossed primly about his barrel chest, and no gaping hole underneath his palms from a heart taken as a prize for killing the Sun and Sky’s greatest warrior.
No, as expected, as described by General Koldo and the soldiers who’d been with him that awful day, there wasn’t a scratch on him.
Sunburn sat uncomfortably across his paled cheeks, copper hair ablaze in the late afternoon of the mountains. Gold pieces pressed down on closed eyes—in Amarande’s mind they were still a brilliant green, though he’d taken his last breath five days before.
This was the body of the warrior Sendoa, king of Ardenia.
Lying in state upon a raised dais, in pristine condition, a man who led the most powerful army in the world from the front lines, serving as protector to the realm of the Sand and Sky.
He’d survived it all—blood loss, frostbite, starvation.
Heartbreak.
And now Princess Amarande stood before her father on the dais, head bowed, clasping her hands tightly against the stiff black lace of her bodice, trying for once to look the part of a storybook princess.
Respectful. Feminine. Lovely.
There for the world to see, throat and wrists heavy with the best diamonds of the Ardenian mines. A mourning veil draped across her face, black as night but unable to defeat the sun, as strong as it was this close to the heavens. The ice-and-night display was at the request—demand—of the council.
Because, even now, even saying good-bye, she was upon the auction block.
Behind where she stood on the dais, the royal leaders of Pyrenee, Basilica, and Myrcell all bowed their heads with one eye open, appraising their target from the arena floor. A performance of mourning for Amarande as much as for the citizens of Ardenia who packed the stadium seating. Strategic. Brutal.
Bile crested in Amarande’s throat as she cataloged her father’s features for the final time. Soon his loyal soldiers would close the coffin lid, and Sendoa’s face would only live on in castle paintings that never got it quite right. Dulling the fire in his hair. Straightening the nose he’d broken at least six times. Blurring the gash on his cheek given to him by the Warlord of the Torrent—a forever memory for one of the few outsiders to see the man’s face and live to tell.
But she’d stood there too long.
The crowd’s feelings were starting to show. The masses were embarrassed to watch this sad girl bent before the only parent she’d ever known. Wooden seats sighed under the shifting weight of Sand and Sky nobility, murmurs growing loud enough that the commoners and low-level soldiers seated in the stands could clearly hear the shape of royal whispers.
It was time for more closed doors, more whispers, more sagardoa—Ardenia’s high-hill orchards produced the best cider in all the world.
The moment passed, General Koldo rose to her feet, ready to guide her princess offstage—to stop her from making things any more uncomfortable with her open grieving. Standing, too, was Prince Renard of Pyrenee—his mother, Dowager Queen Inés, must have urged him forward, an effort to show Myrcell, Basilica, and all commoners of Ardenia that the winning contract had already been arranged.
The princess was surprised when Koldo sat back down, allowing Renard to step up onto the dais and press his hand to the lace at her spine, patting, ready to steer her away.
Very well then—now people were really paying attention.
She sweetened the pot by reaching for her veil, lifting it off her face, letting her anguish out into the sun. Between the sight of Renard “consoling” her and the opportunity to witness tears, snot, or something else painful, this was a development to write home about.
They wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Guardians of the Sand and Sky and loyal people of the Kingdom of Ardenia,” the princess began, the very first sounds from her lips killing off every murmur within the arena and maybe all of the Ardenian countryside. She continued to the heavy silence of a thousand people holding their breath. “Your remembrance of my father is heartening and very much appreciated during this difficult time.”
That was when someone began to clap. It seemed to start with King Domingu and his ilk, who were surely eager to get back to angling for the diamonds at her throat and in Ardenia’s mines. The noise was enough to prompt Renard to add further pressure to her back as if to help her down from the dais.
“Thank you, but I’m not yet finished,” Amarande said, her gaze finding the Basilican king—her barely known-to-her great-grandfather by way of her mother’s side—watching him intently until the silence was renewed. Her father had taught her more than how to use a long sword.
When the quiet returned, she set a tight-lipped smile upon her face and found Luca in the crowd. He was seated with the other servants of the Itspi, in the very first row of the stadium seating, sandwiched between Abene and Maialen, the tough-bird, Torrent-born sisters who raised him after his mother passed of illness. Luca returned her gaze, chin tipped—go on.
“I have something I would like all of you to hear, yet I will only say it once.”
That was another of her father’s sayings.
If people are tired by the sound of your voice, they no longer hear you.
These people had barely ever heard her speak a word. The commoners and court alike had only ever seen their princess in her father’s mountainous shadow, playing a part—they’d never heard her speak without cause. They hadn’t heard her father’s advice, meant for her ears alone.
She was going to make these words count and do everything in her power to make them listen. Giving them a single chance to hear what she had to say only made it more enticing.
The silence sat heavy in the mountain breeze. The entire mood of the arena had changed from sad but bored to the perfect posture of interest.
“As you know, the laws of the monarchy require the marriage of a female heir to secure the ruling powers of the Kingdom of Ardenia, as directed by the Sand and Sky. All that is required is for the Royal Council to reach an agreement with the most ideal suitor. A wedding, a new alliance, someone else to call king. It is an archaic law—one that must change. But, as every person in a position to vote for such a change would benefit by marrying me”—her eyes settled on the three royal families before her—“it will not.”
There wasn’t a pin drop in the pause. Every ear was trained to Amarande and the dais. The princess lifted her eyes to the faces of her citizens, leaning forward from the stadium seating.
“Therefore, as your rightful ruler and the last remaining blood of King Sendoa, I have a requirement as well: my consent.” At this, she paused again, testing the silence. “Hear me now: I will not allow the Royal Council to make this choice for me. Any marriage contract will require my signature to be valid.”
Her words ringed around the arena, repeated on shocked lips. Beside her, Renard’s hand dropped.
“You can’t be serious,” he whispered, incredulous smirk pinned to one corner of his lips—a speck of humanity coming to the manicured surface. It was a whisper, but the crowd was on high alert now and nearly everyone heard it, the murmurs stopping mid-sentence.
When Renard realized he’d been caught, the prince turned on the manufactured charm, smirk slipping into a grin, blue eyes glinting in the full sun.
“We are very serious in the Kingdom of Ardenia, Your Highness.” Amarande gave him a smile that was as sharp as an aragonite cave flower—cutting, hard, and beautiful. “My father did not raise me to settle; he raised me to rule. And if I must have a man for that, I demand a partner who cares as much for the Kingdom of Ardenia and its people as I do. I won’t approve of less. No signature—no consent, no contract, no wedding.” She looked out to the crowd in the stands—her people, not the sycophants closest to the dais. “Each one of you is my witness and we must make it so.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Princess,” the prince said with an exasperated little laugh. The kind men give women as a way of closing doors that were only very narrowly open in the first place.
And that was his mistake.
In a flash, the princess unsheathed Renard’s sword and had the tip pressed to his sternum before he could even react, that dumb little laugh still puffing its way out into the arena air.
The crowd gasped, the royal guard of Pyrenee half-rising in their seats, reflexes steering their hands to their scabbards. Dowager Queen Inés was completely out of her seat, a gold-bangled arm thrust to the side to bar their attack, ordering their stillness.
These people had most likely never heard Amarande speak, and they had certainly never seen the girl Sendoa crafted with hours in the yard, covered in dust and bruises and blood. But today they would see exactly who she was.
Renard kept his cool, looking amused, but Amarande was close enough to witness the blood draining from his face. The miscalculation in the cut of his shoulders. She’d embarrassed him by stealing his weapon as easily as he hoped to steal Ardenia’s throne. Amarande bared her teeth into something that would look like a smile to everyone but him.
“I am not ridiculous; I am discerning. I will not settle and neither will my people.”
Silence broke as a clamor arose from the commoners in the stands, the applause drowning out the thunking of the princess’s heart as she stood there, eyes locked upon Renard. The Ardenian royal party on the arena floor—the council, Koldo and her men and women—were forced to applaud as well, though Satordi in particular looked like a marionette, forced into action.
Amarande lowered the sword and again addressed the crowd. “My requirement stands as my contract to the good, strong people of Ardenia. I will not sell you to the highest bidder. I will not allow a usurper to ruin this land with a gold band and some words for the sake of tradition. My father had many chances to join his kingdom with another while he was alive and he didn’t, for the best of Ardenia.” She looked Dowager Queen Inés dead in the eye as she spoke—made sure the older woman knew the princess was aware of the marriage proposals she’d lobbed at her father before her husband’s body was even cold. “And I pledge to my people that I will do the same.”
With this, she presented the long sword back to Renard—gilded handle first, emeralds glinting a deep green in the cutting sun. He reached out slowly to grab it, as if it were a trick, as if he’d lose his arm as easily as he’d lost the weapon in the first place. Amarande had serious doubts he’d know how to use that sword if he managed to keep it in his possession.
The princess’s eyes flashed to the ruthless old Domingu, whose expression had settled into one of calculation.
“Now I am finished.”
CHAPTER
5
IN the moments after the funeral, Amarande was whisked away by the Royal Council, her plea heard, conversations to be had. In Luca’s estimation, she’d been perfect—confident, fierce, lovely.
Stealing Renard’s sword had been a nice touch. Words were worth much, but pressing a man’s own blade to his chest?
A point made indeed.
The smallest of smiles touched Luca’s lips as he trod the path from the arena to the stable. With a little laugh he whispered to himself, “She’s going to kill him.”
It wasn’t funny. Not really. But if the Sand and Sky didn’t change that blasted law, Renard or any other poor bastard who tried to marry Amarande without her approval couldn’t say she didn’t warn him.
And if she did manage to change the law without blood on her hands and became free to rule and marry as she pleased … well, Luca kept the hope in that thought locked far away where it couldn’t annihilate every fiber of his being.
Luca stepped into his stable still dressed in his finest clothes—a hand-me-down cloak, tunic, and trousers from King Sendoa himself, about twenty years and fifty pounds of muscle between himself and the original owner. He strode through the workshop and into his quarters, built off the back of the barn.
Just hours after her father’s death, Amarande had begged, nagged, and ordered him to move into the castle. He’d wanted to say yes. Of course he had. But then who would tend to things here? The horses still needed water, food, shoes, care. And if he didn’t do those things, who would? Luca felt as loyal to the hours he spent here as he did to Amarande, much preferring to earn his keep with hard work rather than with favor.
And so, carefully, he removed the silken clothing and folded it away onto the open shelves and pulled on plain rough-spun work clothes. He had plenty to do before dinner, tending not only to the Itspi’s horses but also to the horses of the men who’d shown up to steal Amarande away.
Her great-grandfather (yes, truly)—King Domingu. The neighbor boy—Prince Renard. The newlywed—King Akil.
Bear. Mountain Lion. Shark.
Again, a smile touched Luca’s lips, because none of them had a chance.
Still, he wouldn’t let their horses suffer. It wasn’t their fault they’d been dragged hundreds of miles into this mess.
He’d start with the purple-and-gold-clad horses of Pyrenee. The soldiers kept theirs close, near the military quarters, but the royal family’s carriage horses made their beds here, in his stable’s guest wing. There were five in all, each of them the color of fresh snow—Pyrenee preferred white horses for official business, and they’d arrived with their undercarriages a ruddy brown from hard travel through the mountains dividing the two kingdoms. Luca had already spent much of the day returning the horses’ coats to their original state.
Usually, all of Luca’s horses received hay, but he’d learned quickly that the high horses of other kingdoms were accustomed to finer things. Horse bread, fresh-cut pasture grass, and, in the case of Pyrenee, oats.
As he finished, Luca realized the cord on the oat bag had gone bald and would need to be replaced—slick rope never knotted tightly. Oats weren’t the price of gold, but they weren’t as easy to find in Ardenia as hay, and he didn’t want to waste them. These horses could be his guests for days before their riders rushed away in failure.
He stepped out of the stable wing meant for guests, fingers still fiddling with the drawstring, the promise of his own dinner on his mind.
His mistake.
He’d only been trained to fight a girl who didn’t want to hurt him.
Luca heard the blow before he felt it, the thick side of his own practice sword cracking him in a wide smack across his back. Tall as he was, the shot sent him off-balance, stumbling forward, one boot dragging a divot in the packed sod. Luca’s hands flew forward, bag of oats and all, but only the bag grazed the dirt, his legs doing enough to keep him from sprawling, face first, on the floor. He immediately tried to rise but was cut down again, this time with a boot to his exposed gut. He fell to the side, rolling onto his back, free hand up in weak defense.
A crush of blood hit all Luca’s senses at once—the sound of it pumping through his hearing, the tang of it on his throat, clinging to any air his bruising lungs were able to capture. Garnet spots slinked across his sight as he opened his eyes to blurry vision.
It was then that Luca felt a sword to his throat—the swooped kind they preferred in the Torrent. Even without full sight he knew what sat across his windpipe, pressing in a curve as deep as the coming crescent moon.
Luca blinked again, and his vision cleared to faces staring down at him. A tall boy, a short boy, and a girl. The tall boy had the tawny brown skin of Myrcell, and sweat-slicked curls hugged the smooth angles of his face. The shorter one had to be from across the Divide: Eritri, most likely, given his features—blunt, broad, and blanched. His hair was so blond it was almost white, eyes a saltwater blue, forehead wide as the sky. The girl, though, she had the burnished skin and honeyed eyes of the Torrent. Like him.
It was the girl who held the blade to his throat, as fierce as anything he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t help but think Amarande would appreciate her if her blade were pointed elsewhere.
The tall boy rapped Luca’s ear with the thin edge of the practice sword. It stung almost more than the pulsing misery of his midsection, front and back. “This can’t be right; he’s of Torrent.”
“Watch your tongue,” the girl snapped, eyes cutting dangerously to the Myrcellian boy. After a nice, hard glance, she turned her attention back to Luca, her lips pulling up at one corner of her mouth. “I’d say general suspicion is correct—look at those cheekbones. What princess is going to turn them down?”
