Chapter 7
Rosie
Every eye in the hall turns to me.
I swallow hard, suddenly almost crushed under the sheer weight of scrutiny radiating from all those startled faces. The champions, the king, the courtiers, and the guards…they stare at me like I’ve just grown two heads.
Only the man in black—Valtar—doesn’t stare. His expression is one of quiet contemplation, as though nothing about this situation has taken him by surprise.
I look away from him quickly, turning my attention instead to the king, who stands with his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw set in a hard line.
I flash a smile and toss my elegantly pinned curls.
“The truthseer has had his say, has he not?” I keep my voice bright and brisk, as though the tension in the hall has simply failed to impress me.
“The matter seems to be decided, so why should we not dance?”
“Princess Roselle,” Taigan growls, “it would be best if you remained silent and let the men decide these matters.”
A flicker of movement from Prince Valtar. I could swear he’s going for one of his knives, gods damn him. But I don’t look too closely, for that might give him away, and then where would we be?
Laughing merrily to drown out Taigan’s protests, I lift the hem of my gown and descend the dais steps in a cloud of pink silk and embroidered roses.
“Oh, come, Prince Taigan!” I cry. “Surely you’re not so keen for a fight you’d choose violence over dancing?
Hardly what a girl looks for in her future champion. ”
“Indeed, Taigan,” Alderin growls, shooting a glare his nephew’s way, “this night is meant to honor our princess.” Looking at me, the grim lines of his face soften into that same gentle smile which never fails to send a chill down the back of my neck.
“As she says, the truthseer has spoken. It would seem Prince Valtar’s presence here is ordained by the gods and necessary for the ultimate success of this venture.
We’ll decide tomorrow whether or not he shall be permitted to compete in the trials.
Perhaps the gods who sent him here will deliver us a sign.
In the meanwhile…yes. Yes, let us have dancing. ”
With those words, he signals to Captain Norlan.
The guards raise their lances and retreat, rather reluctantly, to the edges of the room, melting into shadows just outside the range of the scintil glow.
Prince Valtar stands alone in the center of the great hall, his head slightly angled, his gaze still resting on me.
There’s something in his eye which I cannot quite read.
Surprise, perhaps. Amusement, maybe. And…
is that a hint of admiration? No, surely not.
I must be imagining it, for it’s not as though I’ve done anything particularly brave or clever.
There’s a cautious sort of watchfulness to him, however.
As though he’s curious to see exactly what I will do next.
King Alderin moves to my side, leaving his nephew behind. “Well done,” he says as he draws near. “I thought for a moment that we should have bloodshed, but you seem to have forestalled the worst. Now, who will you choose to help you lead the first dance?”
I don’t hesitate. After all, we’ve kissed already; what could a dance possibly hurt?
“Him,” I say, and point. All those eyes, which had been fastened on me, swivel now to Valtar.
“I shall dance with the prince of Inithana,” I continue, with far more confidence than I feel, “and bid him welcome to the trials.”
The six champions shuffle their feet, muttering and cursing. None of them dares utter a protest, however. Only King Alderin drops his mouth close to my ear and murmurs, “Are you quite sure?”
I nod firmly.
“Very well.” Alderin turns and addresses the gathering. “The princess has made her choice. Let the celebration begin!”
At once, music bursts from the musicians’ gallery; pipes and drums and stringed instruments pour forth a merry tune.
To my great surprise, it’s a song I know—not one of the solemn, staid pieces Philippa has been trying to acquaint me with, but the Springhopper Jig, an old country tune I’ve danced to many times on festival nights back at Gartsworth.
I flash a glance the king’s way. He smiles benevolently and says, “I wanted to be sure our princess enjoyed her first dance and asked the musicians to play something familiar.”
And there I go again, feeling a warm flush of gratitude for the man who kidnapped me. How am I ever supposed to keep my head on straight?
Swallowing back words of thanks, I hasten across the hall to where Prince Valtar stands.
My footsteps slow the nearer I draw to him.
My gods, but I’d forgotten how much taller he is up close!
Even balanced on heeled shoes, I’m obliged to crane my neck, looking up and up and up some more to meet his eye.
However did I manage to catch the back of his head and drag his mouth down to mine earlier?
It probably helped that I couldn’t see him all that well at the time, hidden in that alcove as he was.
Seeing him now, all six and a half–odd feet of him, towering over me, his face fully lit by scintil glow, well…
I doubt very much I’d have the courage to make such a bold move again.
He bows solemnly as I draw near. When he straightens, he catches my eye.
That faint hint of what might be a dimple flashes so briefly, I wonder if I imagined it.
“Greetings, Princess Roselle,” he says. There’s something…
I’m not sure. Something lingering about the way he says Roselle.
As though sounding it out takes particular care.
Though I hate to hear it, hate every time someone calls me by this stranger’s name, I possibly don’t hate it so much coming from him.
“Have you any particular need of my services this evening?”
Heat races up my neck at memory of the last service I required of this man. Hastily, I drop my eyes, unable to meet his gaze one second longer, only to find myself staring at that awful dragon-shaped scar. Not to mention the undeniably impressive display of muscle beneath it.
“Your shirt,” I say, and flutter a hand his way. “It’s all…it’s still…”
He looks down at his unfastened garment then back at me. “The music?”
“I’m sure they can play through a few measures while you pull yourself together. This song is rather repetitive in any case.”
The corner of his mouth twitches yet again, that almost-dimple there and gone in a blink. He inclines his head and begins to do up the laces, slowly, deliberately.
“Oh, you missed one,” I say, pointing.
His fingers freeze. His eyes lift to mine.
“Here, let me.” I step forward and, pushing his hands aside, carefully pull the misaligned lace free. “Hold this,” I add, shoving the gold rose into his hand before threading the lace through an embroidered grommet.
He breathes out a long exhale. Then, in that low rumble of his, which stirs my bones: “Thank you, Princess.”
“No need for thanks,” I reply, fingers crossing the next lace and pulling it through the opposite grommet. “I suppose your unique talent for unlacing ladies’ bodices doesn’t necessarily translate to fastening up your own garments. Not to worry! We all have our particular gifts.”
“I meant for saving my life just now.”
I fumble the lace. It slips through my fingers and falls across that slab of bare muscle and scar tissue.
For a moment I stand there, lips pursed, staring at it.
Then, with a little sniff and a lift of my chin, I take hold of the lace and thread it back into place, ignoring the way my fingers shiver.
“While I don’t doubt my ability to take down any of the champions either singly or in a group,” he continues, his voice low, his breath warm on my forehead, “I’m not certain I could have made my way clear of the entire palace guard. Some of those men look like proper fighters.”
“Well,” I say, fastening the laces in a secure knot at the end to prevent the whole garment from falling open again, “if you didn’t go around provoking people by flashing your naked flesh in public, perhaps you wouldn’t need saving. Just a thought.”
“Is my naked flesh so objectionable to your eye, Princess?”
I look up at him sharply. “You know exactly what I mean.”
His eyes meet mine, holding my gaze. He must realize that if I had known about that scar of his, I would never have kissed him, not under any circumstances. Does he know the visceral reaction the sight of that raw mark inspires in me? Of course he does.
His eyes narrow. For a moment, I could almost swear I see the murky reflection of memories playing out in the mirrorlike darkness of those orbs.
Memories of a boy watching his father burn.
Of a child, branded and in pain. Terrified.
When I draw breath, I smell the stink of hellfire fumes.
What did that boy endure as he fought against such impossible odds?
What did this man become merely to survive?
“Perhaps you should take this back,” he says suddenly and holds out the rose I’d pushed into his grasp a few moments earlier. “Otherwise, they’ll think you meant for me to keep it.”
I swallow with some difficulty past the tightness in my throat. Then I pluck the rose from his fingers, twirling the stem lightly. “If you do not offer me your hand,” I say with a pert toss of my head, “the dance will be over before we’ve made a single turn about the floor.”
He blinks. I’ve surprised him, I think. He draws another breath, slowly inclines his chin. Then, first removing his gloves and tucking them into his belt, he offers his right hand, palm up.
Though I’ve not been unaware of the eyes fixed upon us, in this moment the force of those stares seems suddenly to redouble. All of them—the courtiers, the guards, the champions, the king—watching my every move. A single wrong choice, and this whole scenario will erupt into madness.