Chapter Three #2
Marcus has already been here for a day, arranging accommodations for our retinue. His sharp gaze sweeps the gathered crowd, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t look thrilled, but Marcus never looks thrilled.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” I say lightly, though I know better than to expect enthusiasm from him. Marcus is an excellent general but an absolute killjoy. The latter might be an occupational hazard of the former.
I stretch my legs as I step away from the carriage.
It’s a relief to escape Jared’s constant complaints, even though I, too, long for my suite in the palace after the week we’ve had.
I stifle a sigh and try not to stare at the locals, to search for a particular face that calls to me.
I’m not sure who I’m looking for, exactly, but I hope I’ll know when I see her.
But none of the faces staring back at me are the one.
Might as well get on with it. I raise my voice so it carries over their murmurs.
“We’re here to find my princess!” I declare with a grin, eliciting a mix of giggles and gasps from the townsfolk.
Marcus and Jared’s faces don’t give anything away, but I can imagine their thoughts: Here we go again with the bullshit.
I press on, waving to a group of young women who blush and hide their smiles behind their hands. The townsfolk gather around us, curious but cautious.
Faces peer from windows, and a few young women linger conspicuously near the well.
An older man with thinning hair and an obsequious air emerges on the steps of the town hall and scuttles toward me.
Given his rich attire, he is clearly nobility.
He is alight with the kind of false enthusiasm that makes my skin crawl.
He grabs my hand and kisses it with lips that are far too wet. I suppress a shudder.
Even at twenty-two, I hear my mother’s voice in my head reminding me of my lessons in etiquette and her stern warnings to never offend the nobility, whose support we need to hold the kingdom together. I force myself to smile.
“Your Highness,” the man croaks. “I am Lord Breadalbane, Marquis of Evandale. Your visit honors our humble town. I only received word of your arrival yesterday, or I would have prepared a proper welcome. We are a modest village, but if you have any requests, I will make sure our people do all we can to fulfill them.”
I fight the urge to pull my hand away. “Thank you, Lord Breadalbane. But the pleasure is all mine.”
What an ass.
Surely, Evandale deserves better leadership than this. The townspeople look like the practical, hardworking sort, and this oily backwater aristocrat wouldn’t appear to know a hard day’s work if it smacked him across the face.
Still, I must play the part, so I let the marquis escort me into the town hall.
It’s the grandest building in town, with polished wood floors and hand-painted walls accented with gold foil, mimicking the fields of wheat outdoors.
Waiting for us are a handful of local dignitaries standing alongside my councilors.
The formality of this bride search is not my style at all.
I gesture to my party. “May I introduce the Duke of Glamorgan…”
Jared makes an exaggerated bow.
“And you’ve already met General Marcellus, Earl of Coventry…”
Marcus tucks his hat under his arm, his grim demeanor softening just enough to make him look his age, only a few years older than me.
Jared, Marcus, and I go way back to our school days. Before we were handed responsibilities and tasted battle, we raised more than our fair share of hell.
“They are my dear friends and councilors, whose advice has been invaluable as I search for my wife. Imagine—the future queen, born right here in this very town.” I stretch my arms wide and grin at the patriotic pride swelling in the room.
The royal entourage nods confidently, and I add, “I have a good feeling about Evandale. My future is here!” I’ve said as much at every town on the route, and every town falls for it.
“Of course, it is a great honor,” the marquis replies.
He’s far older than my father, with a toad-like, grating presence.
It’s painfully obvious he’s foaming at the mouth to marry one of his clan to me, desperate to advance his family’s standing.
He leads us to a large banquet table festooned with wreaths and fruit.
“I hope you didn’t encounter any trouble on your travels,” the marquis says as stewards bring out platters of buns slathered with caramelized onions, roast boar, goat cheese with jam, and colorful root vegetables. Peasant food, sure, but this looks divine, and my mouth waters.
“No trouble,” I reply reassuringly. “I doubt Penrith would openly attack my caravan. Even if the rumors are true, they’re not ready for a war just yet.”
Everyone in the room knows the truth: Penrith’s forces are testing the borders of Loegria and Alarice. Their army is not exactly subtle.
The marquis sniffs. “Of course not. They’re surely no match for King Donnel and his Rings of Fate.”
My stomach lurches, but I keep my face neutral, plucking a fresh bun from the table and taking a large bite.
The Rings of Fate are more than just heirlooms; they’re powerful weapons from the Second Epoch of ancient Albion.
My grandfather gave them to my father as a dowry when my parents married.
Meant to tie the two kingdoms’ mutual interests together, the silver ring symbolizes Loegria’s ores, the gold Alarice’s wheat fields.
Two kingdoms bound forever, just like the elemental power of the Whisting held inside the interlocking rings.
The Whisting is an ancient magic of the earth—the ability to tame the elemental forces of the ancient wind spirits, the Anemoi.
Its masters can level mountains, carve valleys, divert rivers, and forge lakes.
At the dawn of time, the earliest kings and sorcerers used the Whisting to turn the deserted, mountainous landscape into a lush country where their people could prosper.
The Whisting is the very breath of life.
Alas, it can also take life away—if the rumors of a dark magic rising once again are true.
The Rings are our greatest defense against the Usurper.
“Of course, no one would dare challenge the might of the Whisting,” the marquis says.
His worshipful tone echoes with the hope that fills every Alarician face in the room, like my father will singlehandedly save them all from the Usurper’s wrath.
“The Rings aren’t the only reason we’re safe in this land,” I say, my tone clipped. It’s annoying how carelessly the marquis dismisses the bravery of our knights in front of all of Evandale. I’m traveling with a full squadron—plus, Marcus himself is a walking fortress.
The marquis purses his lips. “Perhaps it’s easy for the inheritor of such ancient power to speak so lightly, especially when darkness has not touched Lundenwic. The promise of such magic is the only thing keeping the Usurper and his dark creatures at bay.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of our kingdoms’ alliance,” I reply, plastering on a reassuring grin.
“It’s time to find my queen and fulfill the agreement with a wedding, sealing the alliance of Loegria and Alarice just as my father’s and mother’s marriage united our lands. ”
That’s the cue the marquis is waiting for.
He claps his hands, and a door opens. A long line of girls rushes out, hands clasped tightly in front of them, eyes lowered.
They wear ornate dresses that look as if they were ordered straight from the capital, all brocade and heavy velvet and fur.
They all have the same coloring as the marquis, save for his white hair—the same ruddy cheeks, the same pointed nose, the same thin lips.
If I were a betting man—and I am—I’d say they’re all his daughters and nieces. Possibly some granddaughters, too.
“Without further ado, Prince Dietan, may I introduce to you some of the finest ladies in the land: the ladies of House Breadalbane.”
Called it.
They line up against the wall, their heads bowed from the weight of their hair piled high on their heads, threaded with jewels and ornaments.
The one at the end can’t be older than fourteen. My practiced, perfect smile falters for just a moment. I blanch at the thought of the marquis offering up his own ward so young.
“Oh—meet them so soon? I’ve barely arrived,” I say, feigning surprise.
“We’ve not a moment to waste,” the marquis insists, his enthusiasm unwavering. “The harvest festival begins shortly, and we’ve arranged the festivities in your honor. It’s best to introduce you to our finest now, so you can decide who you’d like to get better acquainted with.”
I glance at Jared, silently begging for rescue, but his smirk only deepens. Marcus remains stoic, offering no help, either.
Great. I’m on my own.
Suppressing a sigh, I step up to the first girl in the line. She curtsies, offering me a demure smile as I kiss the back of her hand. “What a lovely gown,” I say, my voice steady, my expression polite. “And your hair—so beautiful.”
The platitudes flow effortlessly, practiced over countless encounters like this throughout my youth. I move to the next girl, repeating the process. My smile remains firmly in place, and Jared’s smirk and Marcus’s stern expression ensure that no one can guess the truth: this entire tour is a farce.
Even if I wanted to marry, no woman in Albion would have me once she learns the truth about me on our wedding night.
I carry a dangerous secret that my two closest friends, my father, and I have conspired to keep from the rest of the world—and especially from my mother—for half my life.
My father distrusts her still, and our kingdom would be imperiled if I were exposed.
By the time I reach the end of the line of Breadalbane women, I’m struggling to maintain my composure. The youngest girl, the fourteen-year-old, curtsies, and I keep our interaction brief, offering her nothing more than a polite nod. The marquis is beyond disgusting.
“What a warm welcome!” I declare, turning back to the sorry excuse for a man with a broad smile to hide my irritation. “But I must admit, I’m utterly exhausted. I would be eternally grateful if you could show me to our lodgings.”
Marcus steps forward, taking over the conversation with his usual efficiency. “This way, sire,” he says, gesturing toward the door.
I follow him out of the town hall as quickly as I can without sprinting, trying not to step on his heels.
My retinue forms a protective barrier around me as we cross the square, intent on shielding me from the curious stares of the townsfolk, but I motion for them to stand down.
Let the people look for a few moments more; that’s why I’m here.
Faces peer out from windows, and a few onlookers crane their necks, eager to catch a glimpse of the visiting prince, soon to be their prince.
I keep my head up, face forward. I’m tired.
I want this to be clean, simple, and quick.
The inn—a two-story building on the edge of the square—isn’t much, but it’ll do. Right now, my only concern is getting to my suite, away from the prying eyes of the village. Once safely indoors, I’ll be free to focus on what really matters.
I didn’t come here to find a bride. I came here to find a mage.
Her last known whereabouts were reportedly near this town. She’s the only one who might be able to help me—not just for my sake but for all of Albion.
For the Rings of Fate are not resting safely behind glass in my father’s war room. Gods no. They’re buried under my shoulder blades, fused to bone and blood.
My life depends on getting them out of me. And so does the fate of the world.