Chapter 7 Poise
Poise
Prime Reltas is coming to propose today.
In the chaos of everything, we nearly forgot. Since getting back from the Outskirts, Mance has been holed up in her room, and she’s not inclined to leave it now. So she’s sending me out to handle things.
I coalesce across from her and she blinks at me from the bed, her hair a chaotically unkempt mane framing sallow skin and bleary, bloodshot eyes.
Well, that’s going to take a minute to fix, I think dryly.
Without saying a word, I turn my back on her, pull the vanity toward me, and get to work as she once again buries herself in blankets.
By the time I bustle out of the room an hour later, I am sporting an elegant chignon, a flattering silk dress, and several layers of makeup to cover the under-eye bags that Mance earned for me by tossing and turning through the night.
I smooth down a wrinkle on the hem of my bodice, my movements unusually stiff.
Most of the time, I’m proud that I’m the face of our strange little team.
After all, it’s not easy to make things look easy.
I am a master at striking the right tone, at reading and reflecting the right expressions, and all without a hair out of place.
It isn’t vanity; it’s survival. It’s the art of making others believe that I have it all together and that they can trust me, rely on me, ally with me.
Today, though, I’m struggling to find that pride.
I wasn’t with Mance when Heart died. I was speaking to some dignitaries from the Coast Realm. But Mance made sure to merge with me before sending me on this assignment so that I would know everything that happened. So that I would have context. I believe she thought she was being considerate.
And yet . . . what she put me through doesn’t feel like context.
It doesn’t feel like a helpful packet of information.
It feels like someone forced horrifying, traumatizing memories into my mind and then told me to get out there and smile.
Well, I am smiling. As I approach the throne room, my expression is smooth and picture-perfect.
My gait is airy. My hair is even more intricately styled than usual, and if there’s turmoil happening behind the mask I wear—if I wish I was the one back in that bed—well, no one will ever know.
We all have different skills, and one of mine, to a large degree, is pretending.
So pretend I shall.
I swing the doors to the throne room wide, walking through them like I’m strolling through a garden, not a care in the world, skirts rustling smoothly around my legs.
When my father ruled, he had an ornate, gargantuan throne that looked like it was made of twisting glass brambles. You had to keep your back ramrod straight when you sat in it or you’d be skewered.
My throne is simpler, made of stone and carved with flowers. The glossed engravings won’t impale me if I lean back on them.
But my back is ramrod straight anyway.
Within me, my animals—the birds—are going wild, their wings flapping a frantic rhythm behind my rib cage.
Because I never got to tell Silver this was happening. And we never really came up with a plan for it, either. And both of those facts make me feel a little sick.
But it’s not until I’m seated, hands folded delicately in my lap and skirts arranged in an artful pool of fabric around my feet, that I allow myself to take a couple deep breaths in the quiet of my throne room, readying myself for what’s to come.
I can do this. I have to.
All too soon the doors swing open, and a servant announces Prime Reltas of the Forest Realm, arriving at last. I remain seated, as is customary, and watch him approach, wariness prickling my scalp as I study the man who wants to spend his life with me.
Quite frankly, he’s . . . not what I was expecting.
I remember Prime Gore, the last Prime of the Forest Realm, as stocky, bearded, and gruff.
In contrast, the teenager striding toward my throne is wiry and clean-shaven.
Instead of tawny brown hair, his is raven black.
And instead of the cowed stare of a man who has been beaten, this boy’s gaze is oddly intense.
He appraises me openly, as though I am the one who needs to be puzzled out. I feel him taking stock of my choice of attire, my posture, my expression.
So I do the same, although more subtly. I observe the shadowy green color of his fitted doublet, the tension in his gait, the frankness of his countenance. It strikes me that he looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t place why. I must have seen him at some banquet or another. It doesn’t matter.
When he reaches the space in front of my throne, he bows, the gesture fluid and rehearsed. I incline my head to him. “Welcome,” I say.
He straightens, eyes quickly finding mine again. “Am I?”
Although his question came out friendly, the stiffness in his shoulders remains, and I wonder suddenly if he’s nervous. He is proposing marriage, after all. He must have contemplated it, wondered what a life with a stranger would be like, as I have.
I soften my smile toward him. “Of course,” I say carefully. “Although I don’t intend to commit either way on our first meeting, I am eager to hear your full proposal and how you feel it may benefit both our realms. And regardless of the result, I am certainly honored by your offer.”
I expected the statement to put him more on guard, but to my surprise, he relaxes, as though deciding that whatever he was bracing against is no longer a threat, after all.
Perhaps he’s no more eager to finalize this than I am, and my putting it off is a relief.
Tension leaks from my own posture as well, and the birds within me settle, cooing softly to one another. This is going well.
Reltas adjusts his sleeve, seeming more confident now. “Actually,” he says. “There is nothing to discuss. You will be my bride.”
It takes a couple seconds for his words to sink in, and when they do, my expression stiffens, and I feel the birds pecking at my insides as I try to keep my tone polite.
“You flatter me,” I start, “but aren’t there a few conversations we’ll need to have, a couple of formal commitments we’d need to mutually assent to, before I’ve earned that title? ”
“No,” he says matter-of-factly. “There are not.”
I dig my fingertips into the arms of my chair, careful not to make the action noticeable. “Under the Treaty,” I point out, and I’m proud that I still sound cordial, “you are at least required to get my seal on an official contract of engagement, are you not?”
But he’s barely looking at me now, as though he’s already moved on in his mind.
“Yours?” he says. “No. It would be Merod’s signature, if we’re being technical.
You may outrank him now, but under the same Treaty you just cited, there is still one tiny but crucial bit of control that he retains over you, and that .
. .” He holds up a ring. “. . . is the ability to dictate your marriage.”
His words are like a slap, and the birds within me begin to thrash, a barrage of beating wings climbing up my throat, as I barely restrain myself from rearing back in shock.
For a moment, I can’t speak through the feathers.
I allow a small moment of silence to pass while I gather myself, contemplating the absolute gall it took for him to say that to my face.
What he’s referencing is a small and infrequently invoked section of the Treaty, which was probably grandfathered in from an older version.
It states that anyone of a royal bloodline who has entered the Citadel has the right to dictate the marriage of their offspring, and it was designed to add legitimacy to promised political matches.
No one wanted their alliance to depend on some wayward teen who might run off and marry a stable hand in secret.
They wanted to know that a son or daughter promised would be a son or daughter delivered.
Usually, all it means is that the reigning Prime and their immediate heirs have the authority to arrange matches for their children.
But usually, a Prime would not have any living Citadel-touched parents of their own or they wouldn’t have become Prime in the first place.
So, yes, he’s got me on a technicality. But if he thinks he can come into my throne room and sneeringly ask to go over my head, then he’s got another thing coming.
“You’re saying you’d like to speak to my father?
” I ask. He opens his mouth to respond, but I talk over him, firmly and clearly, though still maintaining a polite formality.
“Regrettably, he is unavailable to see you—and will continue to be unavailable indefinitely. You see, he is currently imprisoned in my dungeons, at my command. So I suggest that you speak directly to me about any—”
Reltas laughs.
He laughs, and I break off speaking in the middle of my sentence, stunned, my birds fluttering in confused circles in the pit of my stomach.
“In the dungeons, huh?” he asks with a smirk. “When’s the last time you checked?”
Before I can even begin to parse what that means, he takes a document out of his coat and unfurls it for me.
And it’s . . .
A codified engagement agreement.
With my father’s signature at the bottom.
Now the birds burst into a frenzy, and my ears are filled with their caws and shrieks, but outwardly I go very still. I cannot tear my eyes from the document, as though if I stare at it long enough it will somehow start to make sense.
How could this have happened? When did this happen?