Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aurelia
I approach the hall of entertainments braced for catastrophe.
Just moments after I step over the threshold, bells ringing in the tenth hour of the morning peal beyond the palace walls. The last of Marclinus’s prospective brides hurry in behind me.
Most of the court nobles have already gathered in the vast room in anticipation of the new spectacle. They stand in clusters murmuring to each other and studying us rather than partaking in any of the offered entertainments.
Rochelle comes over to join me, her mouth pressed tight. I nod to her in acknowledgment.
I might not know how to send her back to the man she loves, but we’ll face this next challenge together.
Perhaps if we’re the last two remaining in the end, the emperor will accept some kind of victory that doesn’t need to be fatal. I could step in with whatever minor authority I might earn as the champion and official betrothed to ask for a show of mercy against my final opponent.
Right now, the imperial heir stands near one of the windows, talking with his father. I think Emperor Tarquin looks vaguely exasperated, which I’m not sure bodes well for the rest of us.
Marclinus laughs and makes an animated gesture. The emperor responds with a motion as if to say, Go on, then.
As Tarquin settles into one of the high-backed wingchairs, Marclinus saunters into an open stretch of floor where he can address his entire audience. His wide grin does nothing to ease my nerves.
“My friends, my ladies,” he says in a buoyant voice, “today we will all appreciate the greatest beauty the gods can create, so often hidden away. It will be a trial of surrender and welcome. The lovely women vying for my hand will demonstrate that they fully and freely accept my gaze and my attentions by remaining bared before me until nightfall.”
I stare at him for several thuds of my heart, his words not quite sinking in. Remaining bared? He can’t possibly mean?—
At our obvious uncertainty, Marclinus chuckles and sweeps his hand through the air. “You may disrobe now. Leave not a scrap on. Your maids have been summoned to assist you as needed. No modesty between us today—no attempts to evade my view or my touch. It is only a small sampling of what you will enjoy if we are wed, after all.” He flicks his gaze toward the rest of the nobles. “The rest of you will keep your hands to yourself, naturally.”
Even the most boisterous members of the court appear to be stunned into silence. Melisse arrives at my side with downcast eyes and a faintly apologetic expression. “If Your Highness would like some help…? ”
I can hardly refuse, can I? Defiance would earn me a trip straight to my grave.
My lungs have constricted, but I reach for the folds of my skirt. Melisse hefts the fabric higher so I can peel off the gown with a minimum of disturbance to my hair.
Before I’ve even grasped my chemise, a renewed ripple of murmurs passes through our audience. A couple of my fellow competitors pause in their own undressing to peer at me—even Rochelle hesitates, blinking at my uncovered arms.
I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hide the marks there from everyone forever. I just hadn’t expected their exposure to be quite so abrupt and beyond my control.
Marclinus is eyeing me too, his eyebrows rising. His representative saw my scars and I would assume noted them in his report, but Mother had me powder them even more than my face to diminish the purple hue. The imperial heir might not have expected them to be so obvious… or, knowing him, he might not have bothered to read the report to begin with.
It’s his father who speaks first, though I’m sure he would have insisted on being thoroughly informed. Emperor Tarquin has pushed to his feet, frowning. “What is the matter with your arms, Princess Aurelia?”
His tone is dry but ominous. He’s asking me to give the explanation he’s already aware of to his court—and no doubt evaluating how I handle the awkwardness.
I skim my fingers over both forearms to show there’s no discomfort, not even a change in texture to the smooth purple blotches that stand out against my tan skin from just above my wrists to my elbows. “It’s only a discoloration, nothing more. Lingering scars from a minor accident years ago. ”
Marclinus cocks his head. “What sort of accident produces scars like that?”
I smile disarmingly. “I’ve told you about my gift. When I was still learning how to use it, I made a mistake with a healing potion I was brewing. It erupted from the cauldron and splattered my arms above my gloves. The properties of the potion meant our medics couldn’t completely erase the marks. But they haven’t caused me any pain since the first day, and I got a lesson in always wearing long gloves when attempting a new concoction.”
I speak calmly and warmly, as if it’s a harmless story only worthy of amusement now, but my gut stays balled tight. There’s no telling how Tarquin or his son might react, whether I’ll be deemed soiled goods and cast aside for the superficial flaw, no matter how forewarned they were.
It has no bearing on my ability to support my husband’s rule or bear him healthy children, but I know better than to expect a purely logical reaction from these men by now.
To my relief, Marclinus laughs. “You nearly have gloves painted right on you. I do like a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”
The leering slant of his next grin suggests a more provocative meaning to his words, but I’ll take his acceptance either way.
While we continue undressing, the imperial heir ambles from one of us to the next as if inspecting his goods. Fausta strips down with a determined expression, revealing all of her petite but perfectly proportioned frame. As Rochelle proceeds with obvious discomfort, I realize just how clever she is at dressing even though she tends toward plainer styles.
The gowns she’s always chosen have played down her broad shoulders and added more curve to her smaller chest and square hips. Without the benefit of their enhancing effects, her sturdy physique looks outright gawky.
Naturally, Fausta rubs in the fact by shooting a pointed look Rochelle’s way and pretending to stifle a giggle.
Other than the scars on my arms, which are hardly a selling point, I don’t think there’s anything all that remarkable about my own body. My regular walks have kept my limbs toned but hardly as dainty as Fausta’s. I have two breasts in the right place and reasonably sized, which my childhood maid once said is all a man cares about. Who can fathom an emperor-to-be’s tastes, though?
My thumb lingers against the side of my gold-and-sapphire ring. Are we expected to remove all jewelry too?
Before I can fret over losing that bit of comfort, one of the other ladies asks for me. She holds up her wrist, where a thin gold chain dotted with tiny pearls glitters. “Should I take off my bracelet as well?”
Marclinus appears to consider. “Ah, leave your minor adornments on. They cover nothing and enhance the rest of the landscape.”
I tuck my ringed hand close to my side. The warm air moving over my bare skin feels unsettling with so many gazes traveling with it. Keeping my breaths even, I hold tight to my inner calm.
For the first time, I’m discovering which of the lesser gods each of my fellow ladies dedicated themselves to. Fausta’s sternum is branded with Inganne’s sigil, though I’ve never seen her show any artistic interest. Maybe she considers her cruel antics a kind of play and assumes the childlike godlen would approve?
Not at all to my surprise, Rochelle is a dedicat of Prospira, the godlen of agriculture and abundance. That fits her generous attitude .
Do any of the others have gifts like mine? I resist the impulse to trace my fingers over the small scar near my stomach where my spleen was removed nine years ago.
I don’t see any missing digits or skin on the women around me, but nobles are often cautious in what they sacrifice. Especially ladies hoping to catch the eyes of discerning bachelors. Teeth can be replaced with ceramic counterparts that pass for the real thing. Bits of flesh can be offered from spots normally hidden by hair or the shape of one’s body. A lesser internal sacrifice might not leave a scar years later.
Of course, smaller sacrifices mean smaller magic. I haven’t seen any sign that my competitors are wielding gifts I need to worry about.
I hate to think what Fausta might have asked for if she’d known she’d one day find herself in a fight to the death for the imperial heir’s hand.
Now that all eight of us are nude, Marclinus meanders past us again, testing how we respond to his touch. When he trails his fingers up Fausta’s arm, she tilts her head coyly. Rochelle visibly tenses at his stroke of her belly but doesn’t pull away.
When he reaches me, I tap into my inner reserves of serenity even more deeply. Every particle of my body wants to cringe at his caress of my cheek and neck, but I hold still with a mild smile.
If I can detach from a raging fever, I can endure this indignity.
“I’d say your markings make you all the more exotic, Princess of Accasy,” he says in a teasing tone. “They certainly don’t detract from your fine figure. Curves in all the right places. ”
His fingers skim down the side of my breast, the slight concave of my waist, the slope of my hip.
I’m not here. It might as well be a sculpture he’s touching, not any part of me.
Bianca’s mocking voice breaks through my silent meditation. “Not all that much of them, though. Hardly impressive to simply fill a man’s hand when you could be spilling over in bounty.”
My gaze darts to her voluptuous form, but Marclinus simply chuckles. “Now, now, Vicerine. Jealousy doesn’t become any lady.”
Bianca’s eyes flash with anger, but she snaps her mouth shut. She reserves her glare for me rather than the man who chided her, the moment he turns his back.
The imperial heir compliments Lady Leonette’s athletic yet curvy figure, bringing a reserved smile to her lips. Then he returns his attention to our larger audience in their scandalized but avid hush. “We’ll continue with a typical day. Let us revel in our entertainments—and the beauty of my ladies! How about a little music… Where’s that foster ‘brother’ of mine?”
It takes me even more effort not to stiffen at the sight of Lorenzo walking past. He keeps his gaze studiously averted from our nakedness, but of course he’ll have seen something.
The other princes are somewhere in the room too, taking the situation in. Taking me in.
Raul has talked about getting me naked. There’ve been times when the idea sounded a little bit tempting.
I’d never have wanted him to get his first glimpse like this.
As Lorenzo takes his vielle and launches into a sprightly tune, Marclinus motions us to the room’s various activities. I stick close to Rochelle for moral support—mine as much as hers—and end up spending the better part of an hour playing cards with several other members of the court.
Marclinus calls me over to have a go at a game of darts. I manage not to cringe at the raking of his gaze over my body as each throw makes my breasts sway.
At lunch, we find ourselves arrayed all on one side of the head table again, with Marclinus sitting directly across from us. His leering eyes roam over all of us whenever he’s not attending to his meal.
We’re not even allowed napkins on our laps, not that he can see them through the table. We’re instructed to keep those next to our plates.
When we’ve finished eating, the emperor directs us all out into the gardens. The bright sun prickles over my skin, highlighting every nook and cranny on our bodies in contrast.
I’ve never wished more for an overcast day.
As we walk over to the lawn for whatever games Marclinus has gotten it into his head to play, the wind picks up. It ruffles through our hair and nips at places wind is never meant to reach.
Rochelle shivers but keeps walking. “We just have to make it through dinner,” I remind her under my breath.
Another hot gust sweeps over us—and one of the other nude ladies walking nearby wraps her arm around her chest against it.
It’s obviously an instinctive gesture. She’s shielding herself from the wind, not anyone’s gaze.
But Marclinus’s jaunty voice carries from a few steps behind us. “Lady Jovitte, you wound me by hiding from my view. So I’m afraid you must be wounded in turn.”
Jovitte yanks her arm down, her face blanching. “I didn’t mean?— ”
My own lips have parted to protest on her behalf, but it’s already too late. One of the ever-present guards lurking on the fringes of our gathering leaps forward with his sword drawn.
The blade slices Jovitte’s throat. Her body slumps onto the grass, blood dabbling the flesh the imperial heir was so determined to leave on display.
Rochelle sucks a tiny gasp through her teeth. I force myself to drag my attention away and nudge her to keep walking.
Gods save me, what else can we do?