Chapter Nineteen
Aren
The sound of footsteps wakes me from my sleep.
I’m still half dreaming, the early-morning sunlight dim behind my closed lids.
I feel a presence pass above me. It must be one of my sisters.
I wonder if I’m late to open the Raven’s Beak, but then I remember I’m far from home, and the hand on my shoulder is unfamiliar.
I jump awake, only to find a young woman looming above me. She jumps, too.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I wildly assume the worst, even though some part of me wonders why an assassin is dressed like a lady’s maid.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, my lady. I’m Lydia. I’m your bridal attendant.”
“My bridal…what?”
Lydia looks a bit like me—the same coloring, about the same height, with dark hair and eyes.
She wears ribbons in her hair, woven into her braids.
Her accent is Loegrian. She’s broad-shouldered with defined muscles in her forearms. Her hands, now clasped at her waist, are callused, like any working woman’s hands.
“I’m your bridal attendant,” she repeats. “I’m here to see to your every need while you journey with the prince. I thought you knew…” She looks worried, as if she did something wrong.
I let out a ragged sigh and glare at the wall separating me from Dietan. Did he even think to mention Lydia to me?
Annoyance snaps me fully awake. If I’d known about having a lady’s maid, I wouldn’t have jumped down the poor girl’s throat. A week ago, I’d more likely have been in her position than mine.
I can only guess what else Dietan has failed to inform me about.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “You just startled me. You move quietly.”
The girl bows and accepts my apology. She hurries about my room, dutifully preparing a morning routine more elaborate than what I’m used to at home, as I throw the covers off and stretch. My back aches from sitting in the carriage all of yesterday, and my spine cracks wonderfully.
Lydia presents a small basin with a towel for me to wash while she lays out my clothes.
The water is cold, briskly waking me up for more hours on the road.
I’m patting my face dry when I notice the garments Lydia set out.
One is a traveler’s coat unlike any I’ve seen.
It’s made of a heavy wool, dyed Loegrian blue, with a large hood to keep out the rain and sun.
Ornate embroidery and beading run down the front.
It’ll easily go past my knees, and the cut is meant to flare out at the waist, the silhouette of the latest city fashion.
It isn’t ostentatious, but it also isn’t plain, and it’s exactly the type of coat I always wanted to wear but could never justify making for myself.
Practical but stylish. I’m amazed. I run my hands over each bit of the coat, luxuriating in every detail.
“The seamstress’s stitchwork is of the Loegrian variety, with crystal and pearls in each loop, but I added the Alarician knots in the buttons to make it feel more like home for you,” Lydia says proudly.
I look up at her, stunned. “Thank you.”
Lydia nods, her smile small but demure. “It was an honor.”
A yearning homesickness washes over me as I blink away tears. These little touches of home are reminders of why I’m doing what I’m doing.
“Prince Dietan had it made especially for you,” she says. “He hopes you like it.”
“I love it,” I tell her, feeling warm all over. Somehow the idea that he thinks of me at all makes me sweat, even though I know it’s not personal—I need nice clothes to look the part of a princess-to-be.
Lydia helps me into the coat, securing each button with a twist of her fingers.
It’s a perfect fit. I look at myself in the mirror as she starts fixing my hair, and for a moment I don’t see a barmaid, but the royal bride that the people expect me to be.
A future queen. For a moment, I believe it, too.
When I meet Dietan downstairs for breakfast, his eyes light up when he sees me wearing the coat. “You look ready to handle anything this journey throws at you,” he says.
“Well, as long as it can be met with a deadly frying pan.” I can’t help but grin, and Dietan’s smile deepens.
…
We depart from Elspeth at first light, making good time as we rejoin the high road south. With our supplies restocked and spirits high, the hours pass quickly.
When we stop again in Port Tyralis to feed and water the horses, Dietan informs me that the small town is important for regional trade.
This time, I’m prepared for what comes after Dietan helps me out of the carriage.
All eyes are on me, Dietan’s bride-to-be.
The prince holds my hand steadily while he addresses the crowd, but I don’t hear a word of it.
My heart is beating so hard that he must feel it through my skin. My lips tingle with anticipation.
Dietan looks at me, eyebrow raised, asking if I’m ready. I nod, as ready as I’ll ever be. My heart is galloping like a horse, but when he leans in, he merely brushes his lips on my cheek once more.
Oh.
That’s nice. I can feel his stubble against my skin and his breath on my neck, a moment’s respite, a brief second where the rest of the world melts away, and it’s only the place where he touches that exists.
Then it’s over.
But I prepared for a kiss, a real kiss. I feel let down somehow. Does he not want to kiss me anymore after yesterday? Soon, he pulls his hand away, too, and doesn’t stand so close, and the moment ends. I try to blink away the strange ache in my heart.
Then his face melts into my blurry vision, his eyes soft, his lips slightly quirked. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“Totally fine.”
“You look disappointed.”
“Not a bit.”
“Not even a tiny bit? Now I’m the one who’s disappointed.”
I bite my lip. I want to put my hands around his neck and choke him, but I don’t. That’s not what a princess would do.
…
Before I know it, we’re back on the road again. Every time we stop in a new town, I take his hand, and I know what’s coming next. A kiss on the cheek. That’s all.
Still, the crowds seem satisfied with our performance.
The people cheer, and after a few more towns, we decide to put on a real show.
I relax in his arms, letting him dip me lower as my hand wanders around his back to pull him closer.
I’m starting to appreciate how Dietan holds me, firmly but gently.
And I look forward to the way he nuzzles my neck, sending tingles up and down my spine.
His lips press against my skin. Once, he even lingers and drags his lips down against my jaw, almost to my neck. I can’t help but gasp a little.
“Oops, got carried away that time,” he murmurs afterward.
I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. He never tries to kiss me on the lips again, and every time he doesn’t, I die a little inside.
Do I really want to kiss him? Him? Ugh. But what if I do?
The next several days pass much the same way.
The weather is the only thing that varies.
One day we’re caught in a rainstorm and the carriage wheels get stuck in the mud, and it takes everyone’s effort to get it out.
Dietan and I even help push, slipping and sliding in cold mud nearly up to our knees.
I end up soaked to the skin, because I refuse to risk soiling my new coat.
We sit on a several daises for celebratory banquets in the larger towns and share private meals in smaller ones.
Each inn is warmer and cozier than the next, every room with separate beds—always separate.
Whenever possible, Dietan keeps to his own private quarters, which doesn’t go unnoticed by his guards, who keep watch in front of our rooms through the night.
He never lingers to dine with his men, which I gather is unusual, and he always closes the door between our rooms when it’s time to rest.
I’ll admit that traveling with the prince has become slightly less annoying, especially since I pointed out his bad habits. He makes attempts at cleaning up after himself, and I make a point not to nag him about it.
Lydia and I grow closer, sharing my bed because I can’t imagine my bridal attendant, this young woman barely older than my sisters, sleeping in a tent like Dietan’s men.
One night between cities, we arrive in yet another small town, barely a village. There is only one inn, which has only one room, which goes to me and Lydia, leaving the rest of the traveling party to set up tents under the night sky.
At least the inn has a proper kitchen I can use, and I’m finally able to serve the truffles we picked up with roast pork and potatoes. I even have time to bake a side of garlic bread. That night, I serve up a hearty meal for everyone in the entourage around a fire in the innyard.
“That was the best damn meal I’ve ever had,” Dietan says happily when he’s finished eating.
“Hear, hear,” agrees Marcus. The soldiers raise their goblets—and some even clank their swords, which are never far from their hands—in appreciation.
“Ah, we’re all just tired of dried meat and old bread,” I dismiss with a blush.
“No, seriously, best meal ever,” says Dietan.
“You said that about breakfast at the Raven’s Beak,” I remind him.
“Because that breakfast was also the best damn meal I’ve ever had. Can you make biscuits again?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I shrug. Then I add, in a lower voice, “But I don’t think you deserve them.”
He laughs. “Don’t be harsh.”
“Spoiled prince.”
“Snarky barmaid.”
“You think that hurts? Try harder, Your Worship.”
He looks serious for a moment, even slightly wounded. “Aren, I don’t have it in me to argue tonight.”
“Fine, me neither.” I sigh. Truly, I don’t know why I’m so mean to him. I tell myself it’s because somebody needs to keep his princely ego in check.
I leave him alone and walk over to where Marcus is sitting by himself on the other side of the campfire, writing on parchment, a ledger in his lap and a sheaf of papers at his side.