Chapter Six
Aren
I knew it. That man from last night is the prince.
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t think the prince would be foolish enough to walk around Evandale without protection or to stumble into the Raven’s Beak alone.
With those polished boots and coiffed hair, I’d assumed he was a member of the prince’s entourage, some fancy lord who’d never seen a hard day’s work.
He had blisters at the thumb like a soldier, but there wasn’t a speck of dirt or grime on his hands—the hands of a man used to a life of comfort.
I couldn’t help but watch him. His was the only face I hadn’t seen before.
While he hid his golden hair beneath a cap, silky strands fell on his forehead.
He was lean but muscled, so he couldn’t be a bureaucrat relegated to hours behind a desk.
His blue-green eyes were hooded—haunted, even.
I was confused that no one else noticed him.
That’s when I realized he was good at hiding.
The moment Dietan—Prince Dietan—walked in the doors of the Raven’s Beak, I knew exactly what he was: a liar. And I don’t have time for liars.
I lean a hip against the edge of the stage and force myself not to fidget as he speaks with my sisters again. He’s far too annoyingly handsome for his own good. I was right—what kind of prince would he be if he wasn’t handsome?
At least he’s flirting with my sisters. My plan is working. If either Ophelia or Sonja captures his eye, they’ll both be set, and my father, too. My life will finally be my own. But why would a prince hide his identity? Should I be worried for my girls? Dario, my ass.
I narrow my eyes. What the hell was he up to, sneaking around last night in that crappy disguise?
Why did he ask me about Veteria? A prince seeking a healer so far from court doesn’t sit right.
Maybe he’s sick, or… Maybe he’s secretly impotent and is searching for a cure.
Maybe that’s why he’s not courting one of those inbred princesses in the capital. Aren’t they all his cousins anyway?
When Sonja finishes whatever she’s saying, the prince glances my way, and a zing of excitement shoots through me, like I’ve been named harvest queen or something equally ridiculous. What the hell? Maybe I’m the one who’s sick.
Dietan comes to the edge of the stage and addresses me directly. “Your sisters’ dresses are beautiful.”
I can feel the marquis’s unapproving eyes on me. I reel my thoughts back in and force my shoulders to relax as I dip into a stiff curtsy. Dietan didn’t say my sisters were beautiful, though—only that their clothes were. Interesting.
He raises a golden eyebrow. “And how does a barmaid afford such luxurious material?”
Some compliment, asshole. “Anyone who works hard and budgets well can afford it, Your Highness,” I reply.
The crowd inhales collectively. I half expect him to reach down and strike me, like the marquis did once. But to my surprise, the prince only laughs. “I’m afraid you’ve got me there. I don’t know anything about work of any kind.”
He keeps his gaze locked on mine as he leaps from the stage and approaches me. He’s much taller than I expected, and it’s irritatingly gratifying, the way he towers over me. Ugh, why do I feel so womanly looking up at him?
“You’re not in line to meet me,” he says, ignoring the queue of impatient girls glaring at me. “Why didn’t you make yourself a beautiful dress as well? Don’t you want to be considered for marriage?”
“To you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks mildly.
I know I should keep my big mouth shut, but we’re already way past any sense of decorum. Besides, he started this. I scowl as I take in his shiny boots, velvet coat, and epaulets—the attire of a proper prince, instead of a shadowy stranger in the night.
Honestly, I like the man from last night much better, but my sisters deserve a prince, and I won’t turn them over to the care of a man unworthy of them, no matter how wealthy or titled. The idea of marrying him myself is absurd, but this is a chance to find out what kind of man he is.
“You wanna know what’s wrong with you?” I ask. “You’re a man.”
“Last time I checked.”
“Men looking for wives just want a servant they don’t have to pay.”
“But you would be a princess. I have many servants in my employ.”
He’s got a point. “Why do you want a wife, then?” I ask.
“The usual reasons princes get married. Unite the kingdoms, guarantee the line of succession, continue the dynasty, that sort of thing.”
Right. I suppose a princess could do worse than this stupidly handsome prince—but he’s definitely hiding something. “Yeah, except marriage is for chumps,” I say.
That turns his smirk into a smile. Huh. I didn’t expect that. I thought I’d offend him, as the only girl in town who doesn’t want to be a princess. If he’s offended, he doesn’t look it. Not one bit.
“Funny, that’s what I always used to say,” he says with a grin. “But one day, perhaps you’ll find a man worthy of your talents, my lady.” Then he winks at me.
The jerk.
Everyone else turns back to the prince as he mounts the stage and sweeps toward the next maiden, without another glance at me.
I don’t have time for such nonsense. At least I’ve determined he has more than a pretty face. He held his temper even when I called him a chump, has a quick wit, and seems to have a sense of humor.
I meet my sisters at the end of the stage, and they step down gracefully, their silk skirts swishing as they whisper and giggle behind their hands.
As I follow them across the square, I give the stage one last look over my shoulder and find Prince Dietan staring right at me, a knowing look on his face.
I can’t manage to pull my gaze from his, but I do conjure an impressive scowl.
The very same scowl I use on rowdy tavern patrons that sends them scurrying home before I throw them out.
And Prince Dietan? He doesn’t scurry anywhere. He winks. Again! Blasted man, maybe he has a stye in his eye.
With a huff, I spin and haul my stunned ass away.
Thank the goddess, it’s the harvest festival. The one night of the year I don’t have to work. I sip my mug of mulled wine slowly, determined to enjoy myself for once.
The sunset turns the sky a dusky pink, and a chill sets in.
I move closer to the roaring fire in the middle of the town square and watch the dancers skip and spin on the packed dirt.
Most have already tossed off their shoes and are dancing barefoot, including Sonja.
Sonja knows all the steps and moves so gracefully that people gather around to watch her, clapping along to the drumbeat and cheering her on.
Some of the royal guard come over to gawk as well.
Even if Sonja’s hair is a little disheveled and there’s dirt on the hem of her gown, it’s hard not to look at her.
Getting those mud stains out of the silk is going to be a chore, but I try not to dwell on it too much. I just hope Dietan is watching, too.
Everyone is having a grand old time even though it was a hard summer, with not enough rain and too much sun, a smaller harvest than expected, and the king’s defense levies.
But soon it’ll rain again. Gray skies and mud are a blessing, a gift from the goddess.
I can smell the coming storm. It smells like something new.
I pass a table of some of the town’s gossipier farmers, a handful of older folks who have seen Evandale spring up from the roots. They like to talk about people, but at least they do it to their faces. I ignore them most of the time but can’t help overhearing their conversation tonight.
“That’s impossible! The Kilandrar are children’s tales! They can’t be in Alarice!” Melvin Brody says.
“Unless they crossed the bridge from Penrith—” argues Silas Hong, but Jones Holden speaks over him.
“Ridiculous. The bridge was destroyed. Not even the Kilandrar can fly across that chasm. The only way to Alarice from Penrith is through Loegria.”
“Is it so ridiculous? Dark magic is in the air. War is coming.”
Children across Albion know the story of Lord Boreas the Unbeliever, who was a disciple of the ancient sorceress Skiron, and how he corrupted the Whisting.
He twisted that great gift into the Unseen Death and used it to slaughter his fellow disciples and force the world to submit to his will.
Then Boreas created monstrous assassins: the fearsome Kilandrar, foul creatures of wind and hate.
I shake my head. Old-timers. The threat of war is real enough, but there’s no way the rest can be true. Children’s nightmares walking the earth? It’s probably the ale talking.
No one else seems worried. I shrug off the shiver that runs through me. What the hell could shadowy, evil creatures made of magic and created for destruction want from Evandale? Apples? Wheat? Lumber? Ham and ale?
I shake my head. The men are wrong. Definitely the ale talking.
My feet ache. I’ve been standing all day and desperately want to kick off my shoes and lie down. The wine makes me feel warm and fuzzy. A friend from childhood asks me to dance, but I’m not in the mood.
I find Ophelia sitting at a table near the stage, her chin in her hand as she stares in the prince’s direction, her eyes half-lidded, her smile small and hopeful.
Dietan and his royal entourage sit at the high table on the stage with the marquis.
They’re clanking mugs together and laughing, having a grand old time.
The prince is supposed to be leaving in a few days, so he must be announcing his choice soon.