Chapter 1 Silver Eyes #2
She did not offer her hand to be kissed, nor did she invite me to rise. I remained in my curtsy, feeling the strain in my thighs as the seconds stretched uncomfortably long. Finally, with a slight gesture that managed to be dismissive despite its subtlety, she released me from the position.
“Your presence here is intolerable,” she said, her voice pitched low enough that only those nearest could hear, though I had no doubt she would have preferred to announce it to the entire gathering.
Her gloved hand cut through the air between us, directing me toward a small chair tucked in the corner farthest from the fire.
“Seat yourself. I wouldn’t want you to feel. .. overlooked.”
The chair was positioned exactly where a draft from the ill-fitting window frame would ensure constant discomfort. It was also isolated from the main seating arrangement, an island separated from the archipelago of social power by an expanse of empty flooring.
I met her gaze with my own, refusing to lower my eyes despite years of conditioning that demanded deference.
My jaw tightened, the only outward sign of the anger simmering beneath my carefully constructed facade.
I said nothing. What was there to say? She was queen, I was the living reminder of her husband’s infidelity, and we both understood the boundaries of our silent war.
I moved to the appointed chair, aware of Cordelia’s satisfied smirk as I passed.
My half-sister was twenty-five, seven months my junior but infinitely more secure in her position.
Her blonde hair was arranged in an elaborate style that emphasized her delicate features, her gown the precise shade of blue that best complemented her fair coloring.
Everything about her had been cultivated to highlight her status as the legitimate heir, the true daughter of Vareth.
“Sister,” she murmured as I passed, the word somehow transformed into an insult by her tone.
Her companions tittered, the sound like small, venomous creatures scuttling across stone.
I did not respond, merely inclining my head slightly before continuing to my designated place of exile.
Behind me, I heard her stage-whisper, “Those eyes are so unnerving, like an animal’s.
Perhaps we should check her for a tail.”
More laughter, slightly louder now that I had passed. Still, I said nothing. Her cuts no longer hurt.
I settled into the uncomfortable chair, arranging my skirts with deliberate care, using the moment to compose myself.
The draft from the window was indeed cold, creeping beneath the collar of my dress like ghostly fingers. I suppressed a shiver, unwilling to give Ira the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.
From this vantage point, I could observe the entire gathering while being easily forgotten by most present. It was, ironically, the perfect position from which to listen, and listening had long been my most valuable skill in navigating the treacherous waters of court life.
Lady Lorraine was speaking now, her voice carrying clearly across the room. “—and they say he’s taken the eastern port of Callais with barely a struggle. The local lord simply opened the gates rather than face siege.”
“The Blood King grows bolder,” Countess Elspeth replied, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. “Nocthar was nothing but a minor kingdom merely five years pass. Now, half the coastal cities fly his banner.”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft.
The Blood King. King Valen of Nocthar. The Butcher.
His name alone was enough to silence a room, to make mothers draw their children closer.
The stories that reached Vareth spoke of public executions, of nobles who opposed him being impaled on spikes outside his castle, of rituals performed to strange gods beneath the new moon.
Most dismissed these as exaggerations, the kind of embellishments that attached themselves to any feared ruler.
But there was enough consistency to the reports to suggest at least some truth to the horrors.
“They say he bathes in the blood of virgins to maintain his youth,” one of Cordelia’s companions whispered, clearly thrilled by her own daring in speaking of such things.
Cordelia scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emeline. No one actually believes those peasant tales.” She glanced toward her mother. “Though the matter of Callais is concerning. Father should have sent aid to Lord Ferrin, not left him to face Nocthar alone.”
“Your father does what he must for the security of Vareth,” Ira replied, her tone making it clear that the topic was closed. “The affairs of state are not matters for afternoon tea.”
A flash of movement caught my eye. A small figure darted between the clustered ladies, bright as a songbird among crows.
Lysa, three years old and unbound by the constraints of court etiquette, spotted me in my corner. Her face lit with genuine delight.
“Miri!” she cried, using the pet name she had given me when she first learned to speak. She ran toward me, arms outstretched, heedless of her mother’s sharp intake of breath.
I couldn’t suppress my smile as she reached me, her small body colliding with my knees before she raised her arms in the universal demand to be lifted.
I complied without hesitation, gathering her onto my lap where she immediately began fidgeting with the silver pendant at my throat.
“You missed story time,” she informed me solemnly, her hazel eyes—so like her mother’s in shape, yet warmed by an innocence Ira had long since sacrificed—fixed on my face.
“Nurse read about the princess and the dragon, but she doesn’t do the voices right like you do.”
“A terrible oversight,” I agreed, matching her seriousness. “Perhaps I can properly read it to you later.”
Lysa nodded, satisfied with this promise, then reached up to touch my cheek with fingers that smelled faintly of the candied violets she’d clearly been eating.
“Your eyes are pretty today,” she declared. “Like stars fell in them.”
From across the room, I saw Ira stiffen, her disapproval a palpable force.
Cordelia’s expression had soured as well, her lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of her youngest sister’s obvious affection for me.
But neither moved to separate us, aware that doing so would only upset Lysa and potentially cause a scene.
It was one of the few joys I possessed—Lysa’s uncomplicated love. She knew me only as her half-sister who told the best stories and snuck her sweets when the nursemaids weren’t looking.
Her affection was pure, untainted by court politics or the bitterness of adult grievances.
“Tell me about your day, little sister,” I said, settling her more comfortably on my lap.
As she launched into an elaborate recounting of her morning adventures, I kept one ear tuned to her chatter and the other to the conversations flowing through the room.
“—expansion westward means he’s looking toward Vareth,” a lady-in-waiting was saying quietly to her companion. “The shipping port is strategic. It controls access to River Mallen.”
“River Mallen feeds directly into our eastern territories,” came the troubled reply. “If he takes both the port and the river—“
“He won’t,” the first woman interrupted firmly. “King Aeldrin and the neighboring kings would never allow Nocthar to gain such advantage. The treaty between kingdoms has held for two hundred years.”
“Treaties are only as strong as the men who uphold them,” her companion murmured. “And the Blood King has shown little regard for such niceties.”
I suppressed a shudder, tightening my arms slightly around Lysa as though I could protect her from the very mention of such a man. The Blood King’s reputation for cruelty extended even to his treatment of noble children, using them as hostages and leverage against their parents.
The thought of someone like him anywhere near Lysa made my blood run cold.
“And then Nurse said I couldn’t have another sweet because it would spoil my supper, but I think that’s silly because it’s hours and hours away,” Lysa was saying, blissfully unaware of my divided attention. “Don’t you think that’s silly, Miri?”
“Terribly silly,” I agreed automatically, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Though Nurse does have to consider your mother’s wishes.”
Lysa wrinkled her nose at this unwelcome reminder of authority.
“Mother says sweets ruin the com-plec-shun, but you are perfect and I know you eat honey cakes when no one’s looking.”
I smiled at her slow pronunciation of complexion, then pressed my finger to my lips, feigning alarm at her disclosure of my secret vice.
“Shh, don’t tell anyone. It’s a special magic that only works for big sisters.”
I glanced around, as if to see if anyone was listening, before I whispered, “But since you’re my favorite sibling, I’ll make sure the magic works for you too.”
She giggled, delighted to be included in a conspiracy, however minor.
As she settled her head against my shoulder, content for the moment to simply be held, I felt a presence approaching and looked up to find Isolde making her way toward us.
Isolde was perhaps the only person at court I would call a friend. Daughter of a minor noble family with ancient ties to Vareth, she had been assigned as my companion years ago and had somehow, against all expectation, developed a genuine affection for me.
Unlike most at court, she never flinched from my gaze or treated me as though I carried some contagious misfortune.
“Princess Mireille,” she greeted formally, though her eyes held the warmth of genuine friendship. “Princess Lysa. What a charming picture you make.”
Lysa beamed at the compliment while I shifted slightly to make room for Isolde on the small bench beside my chair.
She settled there with the grace that came from years of navigating court spaces, her ash-blonde hair immaculately styled, her gray-green eyes missing nothing.