1. The Prisoner Princess and Her Parade of Princes #2
Sapphira easily meets Dorian’s first strike. Sparks hiss in the air, illuminating the determined set of his jaw.
“I should have known you didn’t follow me into the tunnels for a morning chat,” she grunts. Dorian worked toward becoming Captain of the Guard since he first pledged his knighthood. Part of his duty is keeping the princess contained on order of the Lady Regent.
Sapphira’s aunt Agath is regent, in charge of the Kingdom until Sapphira is deemed fit to rule. It was supposed to be on her eighteenth birthday. Now, she doesn’t know when it will happen. They don’t trust her anymore.
Sapphira’s mind flashes back to last week. Her attempt to escape the castle. Not her first, but the first time she’d been caught.
It wasn’t like this—slipping from her rooms to watch the parade—Sapphira had actually tried to flee the castle.
To disappear. It was a disaster that nearly landed her at the bottom of the sea.
And since then, her aunt confined her to her chamber without sunlight or access to the outside.
Maidens bring her meals to her rooms. If Dorian lets her pass, he’ll be defying the regent’s orders.
Sparks fly where swords meet. Dorian wields a double-edged sword with a golden cross hilt.
It’s challenging to maneuver in the small space, but he manages it well.
They have practiced together for years and fought in many places.
Sapphira could duel him in her sleep and knows all his moves.
He knows hers too. Which is why he easily dodges a thrust from her second sword, one in each of her hands.
“Are we actually doing this?” Sapphira asks. Her voice is high and strained as she tries to get leverage in the tight space. With Dorian’s size advantage, she has to use both hands to block his single strike, her swords crossing in an X before her chest.
“If you want me to disobey my orders, earn it, Sapphira. It’s how we always settle things.”
“You’re not usually my aunt’s lap dog. You turn the other way when I misbehave. It’s why I like you so much,” she teases through gritted teeth. “You want to be the captain that bad? Gonna lock me in my rooms to boost your performance evaluation?”
Sapphira uses Dorian’s distraction to go for another jab at his side. They navigate the narrow space, steel clashing in the echoing tunnel. She clicks her tongue. “I’m disappointed. And on my birthday too.”
“You aren’t going to change my mind,” Dorian says, his eyes like steel. Sweat lines his brow. “If you want my permission to pass, win. That’s the only way I’ll defy orders.”
“Fine,” Sapphira snaps. “No more talking.”
She ducks under Dorian’s arm, parries his blow, and uses the space to her advantage. He’s large, bumping the walls when he moves too much, but she’s able to maneuver around him and get in his blind spots. She’s like a snake, flexible and fast, and her two swords work to keep the knight distracted.
Before Dorian knows it, the princess has one sword at his neck and the other pressed to his side.
His chest rises quickly, the space quiet, save for their labored breathing.
Footsteps thunder above as the maidens circle back, and Sapphira hisses, her eyes trailing the ceiling. She’s wasted too much time already.
“If you care for me, you will do me this one favor.” Dorian’s mouth twists, but she continues. “I won’t get you into trouble, I promise. You only have to distract my maidens for a short while. Long enough that I can see the parade.”
“Sapphira…” He’s pleading with his eyes, and even in the dark of the tunnel, she can see their pained glimmer. She hardens her words.
“I won the battle. Those are the rules.”
The knight exhales, his eyes closing in defeat. “I’ll cover for you this time. Because I lost, and because I didn’t get you a present.”
Sapphira huffs a laugh, rolling her eyes as she steps back and withdraws her swords, ignoring his look as she reaches under her skirt to sheath her swords. They both play on opposite teams, and they’ve gone through too much together for her to be embarrassed that he’s seen her bare legs.
Dorian sheaths his sword too, a smile finally growing on his lips. He moves aside, flattening his broad shoulders against the wall to let her squeeze past, and she gives him a salute as she swaggers past him, travelling deeper into the dark.
The scent of a feast wafts through the castle, and Sapphira’s mouth waters at the smell of jerk chicken, roti, callaloo, and fried plantains that seep through the floor. It melts into a warmth that heats her chest and brings back memories of childhood, when the castle always smelled like this.
Sapphira’s mother, the late Queen Paloma, loved to eat. Her favorite place was at the dinner table, and she would sit Sapphira into her lap to feed her by hand.
It wasn’t “proper.” A child was supposed to be raised by nannies, not the queen herself. But Sapphira’s mother never did things by the rules. Her strongest memory of the woman isn’t crowns or dresses, but her fingers stained with yellow curry.
Damnit, don’t cry. Not today. She sucks the tears back up, and slips out from behind the swinging portrait of the first king, Maceo Tuisaravere, who drove all of the pirates from the Whispering Isles back when it was still a fractured and warring island.
Sapphira closes the door to the secret tunnel behind her.
She knows this castle by heart. Every inch of it.
Being trapped here for so long, she had nothing better to do.
Sapphira stands before the large windows that line the long, empty hall off an abandoned section of the castle. They blind her, bleaching the hall white. She shuffles forward on slippered feet, her muslin nightgown brushing the plush carpet, and the neckline drawn tight under her chin.
She throws a window open, the glass rattling against stone as it hits the castle walls. A large gust of wind blows in, the sheer lace curtains tumbling as wind and noise rush in. Sapphira’s long, black hair is picked up and fans around her shoulder like a dark cloud.
Muggy air rushes into her lungs with a drawn inhale.
Forgotten tunes sing in her ears—chirping birds and the clop of parading horses pulling gilded carriages. Horns and whistles, and tinkling bells.
Sapphira collapses to her knees before the windows, laying her head on her arms over the window sill as the sun shines onto her, warming her upturned face. This is the closest I’ll ever get to freedom.
Carriages roll in, led by a marching band.
Rulers from Dansui’s neighbors in Tideholm to the furthest Kingdom of Percion, arrive.
Each carriage is covered in decor and trimmings, even the dress of the rulers and their primped horses, work hard to stand out and make a good impression.
They aren’t only here for a party, they’re here to make a match with the largest kingdom in the isles.
Sapphira’s head spins at all of the sights and smells, hypnotized by the spill of color. She feels airborne.
“Why am I not surprised to find you here?” a sharp, nasally voice snaps.
Sapphira’s body jerks hard. A cold sweat trickles down her spine as she curses herself for becoming so distracted.
She turns to find herself surrounded by her three elder cousins, each more boarish in looks and attitude than the other. Her eyes skate over Cedella, who spoke, and land on Giselle. The most boarish of them all. Positively piggy.
Giselle barks a sharp and grating laugh. “Look at you! Kneeling on the carpet in your skivvies like a dog.” Her jaw protrudes, and her long, scraggly teeth are like tusks. Sapphira can see the wickedness in her face.
Sapphira’s cheeks tighten as blood floods them with a rush of warmth. She jumps to her feet, embarrassed at being caught like this. How did they even find me? She wonders. Did Dorian betray me? Sapphira quickly banishes the thought. He hates her cousins as much as she does. More, possibly.
Cedella slams the window shut. Suddenly, Sapphira’s clothes feel too tight, the air stifling and hot. Her cousin, with a drooping face and eyes that pop from her head, pinches Sapphira’s ear to drag her from sight of the parade.
“Mother said you’re supposed to be in your room until the party starts,” she says, sneering down into Sapphira’s pained face. “Imagine what she would do if she caught you sneaking around.”
“Yes, imagine,” Giselle echoes as she oinks another laugh.
If anything could make Sapphira’s imprisonment in Jagun castle worse, it’s her cousins.
The only relief Sapphira finds here is being away from them.
As much as she once envied their lives of parties and pretty dresses in Nasaur, at Palais des Renard, she is grateful it keeps them busy for most of the year.
Her aunt and cousins prefer the palace to the cold, quiet castle.
“What do you want?” Sapphira growls. Blood tickles down her ear, the scent of iron choking out the aroma of spices in the air.
“My breakfast was cold,” Giselle says, “because you had those idiot maidens running all around the castle looking for you.”
Cedella sniffs in addition, “My sisters and I had to fetch it ourselves.”
Ines, who had stayed quiet through all of this, slouches forward, her back arched like a cat as she whines, “There are sooo many steps, and my stockings are a pain to get on myself.”
Ines is the prettiest of the three sisters, but her childish attitude and unbearable laziness make her undesirable to anyone with a brain. How any of her cousins plan to get married, Sapphira is unsure. And she pities the men who would settle them.
“What a pity,” Sapphira says, unable to keep the derision from her voice. “Fetching your own breakfast and dressing yourselves? I don’t know how you managed.”
Eyes that glow like lightning with hatred, pierce Sapphira.