Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Aurelia
B y the time Melisse arrives to see if I need any assistance before dinner, I’ve discarded my bathrobe for a proper gown. Regardless, the ghost of Prince Raul’s touch lingers on my skin.
He’s rattled me, which would have been his intention. But I can’t set aside the curiosity his intense presence provoked.
“Melisse,” I say as my maid insists on giving my hair one last brushing before we head to dinner, “you told me about Prince Raul’s gift the other day, and I saw him use it, but you didn’t mention what he sacrificed for it.” I haven’t noticed any visible indication.
“Oh.” Melisse’s cheeks flush where her reflection hovers behind mine in the mirror. “I mean, I wouldn’t know from experience, but they say he… he’s been gelded. ”
My head jerks around of its own accord. “He had the clerics castrate him?”
My maid’s blush deepens. “They say. It doesn’t seem to have held him back any in the area you might think, does it? From the gossip among the ladies, it seems… it might actually be a benefit. No need to worry about protection from certain sorts of consequences.”
He couldn’t get them pregnant. I suppose that would be a boon for a lady who disliked taking mirewort to prevent it—or who didn’t want the herb to interfere with her chances of having a child with her husband.
He decided having just turned twelve that he’d never have children of his own. What could he have said to the cleric at his dedication ceremony to convince them he understood what he was giving up?
Or maybe Emperor Tarquin told them to accept whatever his foster sons offered. I’m sure he’s amused to know one of his charges won’t supply their royal line with additional heirs.
If it’s true, Raul’s imposing physique is even more impressive. From my medical knowledge, castration usually slows growth in any male not already fully matured.
Perhaps he was an early bloomer, or perhaps the cleric left him with enough to retain a few benefits.
As Melisse sets the brush aside, I graze my fingers over my cheek where the prince touched it a couple of hours ago. A heated shiver passes through me that’s at least as unnerving as it is enjoyable.
The loss certainly hasn’t diminished his confidence in his masculine appeal.
I gather myself, pressing my hand against the sigil of Elox on my chest. Releasing every shred of emotion the prince stirred in me, good and bad, into the well of serenity I’ve cultivated with my godlen’s guidance.
When I set off for dinner, I’m impenetrable again.
A few steps into the dining room, I pause, taking in the revised layout. The longest table now stands in the very middle of the room. Only eleven chairs are placed around it: five on each side and one at the foot.
The two regal chairs where the emperor and his heir will sit have been placed a few feet back from the head of the table, as if they don’t mean to eat, only to watch. Indeed, the other, smaller tables encircle the main one from all sides, making it the center of attention as well as the room.
Eleven chairs. Eleven potential brides left.
My gut knots with trepidation, but I push myself onward. One of the pages directs me to my assigned chair.
Only silverware and a goblet wait for me at my spot. Well, those and a silver bucket next to my chair.
A few of the other ladies arrived before me. Their faces echo the same apprehension that’s prickling through me.
Lady Rochelle ends up across from me, one seat over. We exchange tight smiles. She curls her fingers around the handle of her fork, rocking it against the table restlessly.
Lady Leonette, the pretty but solemn woman who was called first in the announcement of the trials, ends up at the foot of the table. When Fausta arrives, she casts her gaze that way and lets out a disdainful sniff, as if she sees it as an honor she deserved more. She settles into her chair a couple over from me.
It’s a good thing for her one of her fellow noblewomen is sitting between us. A buffer in case she starts harassing the other ladies again and I’m tempted to stab her with my steak knife .
I believe in peace, but if it’s a question of her peace or that of the ten other women at the table, there’s such a thing as prioritizing the greater good.
As the last of us settles into her chair, the chime rings through the chatter from the surrounding tables. I now dip my head automatically, though I watch our judges make their appearance from the corner of my eye.
Emperor Tarquin reaches his gilded seat with his usual steady stride. Marclinus saunters over right behind his father, his mouth already curved into a wide smirk.
He doesn’t sit at first, simply propping his elbows on the back of his chair in a casual pose. His merry voice rings through the room. “Good people of the court and ladies of our competition, we have something special for you tonight.”
At a clap of his hands, we look up. Servers slip between the tables, carrying covered plates. They stop just behind us to wait for their next cue.
Marclinus sweeps his hand toward us with a flourish. “You lovely ladies will get to feast on every one of my favorite foods tonight. I want to see that our tastes align in cuisine as in all else. You should appreciate every morsel. But I do favor rather a lot of dishes, so downing them all may try your appetite.”
A manic gleam lights in his gray eyes. “The first one to fail to keep it all down is clearly the least qualified to be my wife.”
Fail to keep it— Oh.
The significance of the silver buckets hits me with a lurch of my stomach. They’re for us to vomit into if we’re stuffed beyond our tolerance.
Even as the queasy chill trickles through my veins, my gaze flicks toward Fausta’s scarlet hair with a jolt of recollection .
At lunch, she was being oddly friendly with the ladies near her, encouraging them to try more of one dish and another. While her plate remained barely touched.
Had she guessed what our next test might be, or did she manage to ferret out a forewarning?
Marclinus snaps his fingers at the servers. “First course: stuffed quail eggs.”
As my server steps forward, I glance around and catch a glimpse of the four foster princes seated in a row at the table just behind me. For once, their hostile gazes aren’t aimed at me but at the imperial heir instead.
I think Bastien’s face looks a tad more sallow than usual. Lorenzo’s mouth has tightened with a trace of revulsion.
I yank my attention back to the plate being lowered in front of me before I can focus on Raul’s or Neven’s expression. At least I don’t have to watch them glowering at me while I endure this meal.
Four small half-eggs nestle in the middle of the plate, their yolks whipped to a froth and mixed with bits of some reddish vegetable. Hardly an intimidating appetizer.
But from what I’ve seen of Marclinus’s sense of “fun,” that’s no cause for relief.
Lifting the first egg to my mouth, I catch Rochelle’s nervous eyes from across the table. “Take small bites and chew thoroughly,” I murmur. We’ll want the food to settle as well as possible into our stomachs and to digest quickly.
A server comes around to pour wine, and I add, “Careful how much you drink.” It won’t do us any good to fill up on anything not part of the trial.
The other ladies closest to me have heard my advice as well, but I’m not going to resent them that, even if they’ve spent more time glaring daggers at me than offering friendliness. The moment any of these trials begin, we’re equal victims.
As I chew my first morsel, Marclinus sprawls out in a typical languid pose and waves his hand to one of the other tables. “I could use an appetizer of my own. Vicerine Bianca, you’ll keep me company, won’t you?”
I can’t imagine any of his court would refuse him, but Bianca sashays over beaming eagerness through her coy smile.
The imperial heir pats his lap. She sinks onto him, leaning against his well-built chest as if they’re a pair of ardent newlyweds.
The viceroy I’ve gathered is her husband watches from the table she left with his expression set in stiff indifference.
Beneath that mask, is he angry with his soon-to-be ruler for the liberties taken? Or simply resigned that his wife is no more truly his own than anything else in this palace?
Bianca gives a slight tip of her head to Fausta, who flashes a smile in return. My chest tightens with the abrupt certainty that my suspicion was correct.
Through her associations of whatever sort with the imperial heir, Bianca found out something about the coming trial and passed the knowledge on to her friend.
Heedless of his potential brides arrayed in front of him, Marclinus tucks the lowest loops of Bianca’s sleek braids aside so he can nibble at her neck unimpeded. Her eyelids flutter, and a breathy sigh slips from her lips.
My face flushes. I drag my gaze back to my meal.
The public intimacy in the middle of a formal dinner would fluster me even if the man involved wasn’t my supposed future husband. Does he often show off his proclivities so blatantly, or is this just another part of our test?
None of the nobles I can see look surprised by his display. Even Emperor Tarquin looks more bemused than offended by his son’s antics.
Surely Marclinus will rein in his appetites once he’s married? Once he’s officially dedicated to another woman?
I want to believe that, but a niggling voice in the back of my head points out that he doesn’t seem to respect anyone else’s vows all that much.
We finish the quail eggs with no trouble. The imperial heir cups Bianca’s breast through her dress and announces the next course. “Seared, butter-glazed scallops!”
So it proceeds through plate after plate. I’m not sure what the rest of the room is eating—they’ve been brought one course for every two of ours. Each of ours proves larger than the one before.
By the eighth plate, a slab of roast pork drenched in a creamy wine sauce, my belly is aching despite my best precautions. Across from me, Rochelle’s shoulders have tensed as she chews, a fine sweat shining on her forehead. Her neighbor’s milky skin has taken on a greenish tint.
At the foot of the table, Lady Leonette remains stoic, but she’s gripping her knife tight enough for the dark brown skin of her knuckles to lighten. Only Fausta looks reasonably relaxed, spearing her next bite with a triumphant air as if she’s already won.
The tender meat tastes like ash in my mouth. I force myself to grind it between my teeth rather than gulping it straight down the way I’m tempted to, as if getting it over with would spare me additional misery.
Nearly as nauseating is the sight by the head of the table. Marclinus has called over one of the married baronissas to perch on the arm of his chair. He’s teasing his fingers back and forth along her thigh, although Bianca keeps drawing his attention back to her with strokes of his jaw and chest .
Fausta doesn’t appear at all concerned about the imperial heir’s straying eyes. She probably has the same views on happiness in marriage as Bianca does. No wonder the vicerine doesn’t feel threatened by her friend’s interest in the man.
By the time the ninth plate arrives, my stomach feels as though I’ve swallowed a boulder. I stare at the heap of sauteed fish with queasiness bubbling at the base of my throat.
“Dig in!” Marclinus calls cheerfully. He’s giving every indication of reveling in this trial.
He did say he was enjoying them. I just hadn’t wanted to believe he did quite this much. He didn’t seem so zealous in his delight during yesterday’s test.
My main rival must decide it’s time to speed the process along. Fausta brandishes her fork. “So much lovely food. Isn’t it just wonderful to feel it filling your bellies, ladies? Mouthful after mouthful stuffed down there? It’s almost sickeningly good.”
The woman at my left shudders. My gaze darts to her with a pang of compassion.
“Keep going, slow and steady,” I whisper. “Don’t listen to her.”
Someone farther off in our audience makes a gagging noise that sets my stomach churning harder. I’d think it could be accidental if another noble didn’t imitate the sound a moment later, and then another.
Some of them are having a good time, just as Marclinus suggested. They’re trying to speed along the impending humiliation.
None of the attempts have come from behind me. Is this where the princes draw the line in their sabotage?
More likely they know that any efforts they make would affect all of us, not just me. I’m the only competitor they’re looking to unbalance.
I force down the fish through sheer force of will. Sweat trickles down my neck.
The lady next to me shifts in her chair. Her hand shakes where she’s clutching her fork.
A set of shallow bowls appears before us, filled to the brim with a cloying stew. One whiff makes my gut wobble. I grasp my spoon.
Fausta raises hers with a light chuckle. “Oh, I can’t wait to gulp down even more. Can’t you just feel the hunger burning in your throat?—”
My neighbor buckles over with what must be anything but hunger. I gasp a breath, groping for the words to calm her.
It’s too late. She retches into her bucket, vomit splattering the metal sides.
Even as the horror of her fate hits me, I snatch up my napkin and press it tight to my nose. Just the sound of her retching has acid searing the back of my mouth. If I smell it too…
The lady at her other side succumbs with a heave of her own vomit. Across the table from them, another doubles over with a horrible sound that’s part sobbing, part gagging.
Marclinus straightens up in his chair, his eyes unnervingly bright. He points to my neighbor without so much as a glance toward his father. “She broke first. Put her down.”
The last word has barely left his mouth before a guard is yanking the woman out of her chair and slashing her throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the grisly sight. But I can’t stop myself from hearing the fresh splatter, now of blood, or the peal of Marclinus’s laughter .
When I dare look at the table again, Rochelle has just bent over her own bucket. My hands ball as I watch my friend heave and shudder.
There are still six of us who’ve kept our meal down. I hold myself rigidly still, waiting for the emperor or his heir to call an end to this horrific meal.
Instead, Marclinus lounges back in his chair, one arm around Bianca’s waist, his other hand caressing the side of the baronissa’s breast. He grins at us. “You can all keep going. We’ll see who outlasts the rest.”
Through my nausea, the last tiny spark of hope I’ve been holding on to sputters out.
He’s celebrating our suffering.
He likes the torment so much he’s asking for it to continue even after the main outcome of the trial—the culling of our ranks—has been decided.
I’m never going to convince him to give up this sadistic competition. I’m stuck here until I die or I take his hand in marriage.
Despair sweeps through me, but it dredges up a deeper resolve than has ever gripped me before.
I won’t die. I’ll see my purpose through, marry this hateful man, and bring my people the relief they’ve so long deserved. No matter what I need to do.
The image of Raul’s looming form rises up through my mind. Of Bastien’s accusing remarks. Of Lorenzo slashing his finger past my throat.
The disgust on their faces when Marclinus announced this trial.
The princes might have it out for me, but they’re the only people in the entire palace who’ve been remotely honest about how awful the emperor and his son are. As much as they seem to despise me, they hate the tyrants who might as well be their jailers even more.
They may be the only ones I can count on… if I can find enough common ground for them to let me in.
I’ve been cautious in my approach so far. I have to make the most of every opportunity going forward.
If I want to be sure of surviving the next week, I need to turn the enemies of my enemy into my greatest allies.