Chapter Twenty-Seven
ChApter
Twenty-Seven
Ican’t remember if it’s been three days or four.
I’ve become so bored in this tiny carriage that I’ve even succumbed to Nadya’s recommendation of reading one of her sordid romance books.
It turned out to be very entertaining, but at the end, it only made me want to escape our carriage and climb into Dante’s all the more.
Aside from spotting Dante at his carriage as Princess Orida took it upon herself to personally wish him a pleasant journey, I’ve only caught glimpses of him when the caravan has made it stops.
King Silas hovers over him like he’s protecting the most valuable treasure in his inventory.
Dante must hate it. Even though he spent years seeking out his father’s approval, Dante no doubt feels suffocated by Silas’s constant presence.
I’ve yet to find out if the visit to Podrosa was an actual success.
I would guess it was, since he passed their physical trial, but Ezra told me there’s more to it than that.
Political views, terms of alliances—all things I wasn’t allowed to be present for when the men discussed them.
Even after I outperformed King Harold’s Ironshields.
I just hope King Harold didn’t take my heroism as an insult that might sway his decision in a negative light.
Knowing Podrosa’s affinity for protocol, they’re probably going to follow some ancient rule, writing up a hundred-page document approving Dante’s claim to the throne. Just to keep things done by the books.
Whether Dante’s trial in Podrosa was a success or not, we’re now approaching Baharat Palace in the capitol of Bastos, and I can’t help but wonder what tests await Dante here.
Our caravan stops, and the heat is the first thing that hits me.
The moment I step out of the carriage to join the royal procession, a wave of thick, sweltering air presses against my skin, heavy with the scent of spiced fruits and something floral—heady and intoxicating.
My mourning attire is instantly unbearable, the dark fabric trapping the heat and sweat against my body, and I resist the urge to pull at the stiff collar.
The people of Bastos have no such burdens.
They line the wide stone street leading up to the palace, watching our arrival with unabashed interest. Sheer silks and lightweight linen hang off their bronzed skin, the thin fabrics flowing with the occasional warm breeze.
Still, most of their skin remains uncovered.
Gold glints from their ears, wrists, noses.
Chains drape from collars; beads and bangles clink softly with every lazy movement.
Intricate tattoos of vines, animals, and symbols wind up their arms and across their backs, some swirling along their ribcages, half-visible beneath gauzy wraps.
But it’s their eyes that make my breath hitch.
Unlike the rigid stares in Podrosa, the people of Bastos drink us in with slow, smoldering glances, their dark eyes gleaming with curiosity—and maybe something more lascivious.
Women and men alike gaze at Dante with open appreciation, their lips curling at the corners, as if already picturing how they might lure him away. But they do not only look at him.
I feel it too, the slow drag of their gazes down my form, lingering where my dress clings to me. I stand taller, my chin high, pretending not to notice the way some of them whisper behind their hands, their expressions playful, amused.
Nadya, walking close beside me, exhales a long breath. “So,” she murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. “This is Bastos.”
The great palace sprawls before us, a breathtaking sight of domed rooftops and white stone towers, the architecture intricate and elegant.
Arched entryways are draped in silks of every jewel tone, the banners depicting Bastos’s royal sigil—a copper viper coiled beneath a silver crescent moon—fluttering in the warm breeze.
Guards stand lazily at the entrance, but there’s nothing indifferent about their posture.
Their tunics are open to their waists, exposing corded muscle and bronzed skin, their scimitars and axes strapped loosely at their hips, as though daring someone to test their speed.
A dainty woman in a copper top that exposes her stomach and a semitransparent, long skirt saunters toward us from the palace gates. Her pastel-pink hair is chopped at chin level, and there’s a thin, gold chain loosely connecting her right nostril and her right earlobe.
“Welcome, Your Majesties, Your Highness, and Lord Stregasi. I am Jalelle, the palace chamberlain. I hope your journey was pleasant.” She places her palms together and bows, not waiting for a response. “Please follow me. The queens are eager to see you.”
We are led through the palace gates, and the air turns even thicker, scented with incense and jasmine.
Musicians lounge on cushions, their fingers dancing over the strings of golden lutes, the music sultry, hypnotic.
Servants glide past carrying trays of exotic fruits and goblets of deep-red wine, their bodies adorned with chains of pearls and delicate, golden veils.
The heat inside is a different kind altogether. It carries the scent of passion, embraces one’s skin like a lover’s kiss. I stretch out my neck and splay my fingers, fighting the urge to rip my heavy clothes off my sweat-dampened body.
“Right this way,” Jalelle says, her arm flowing forward as if sifting through water.
We are brought into a grand chamber, its walls lined with draped silks that shimmer under the sunlight shining in through glass panels in the ceiling.
Plush mattresses in rich burgundies and sapphires are arranged in circular formations, oversized pillows scattered between them.
Ferns and palm plants sit in colorful pots, scattered throughout the space.
A feast of glistening, roasted meats, fresh figs, and sweet pastries are laid out.
And at the center of it all, lounging on an enormous, plump, round mattress, are two of the most striking women I’ve ever seen.
Smoky, black kohl and shimmering powder accentuates their piercing eyes.
Their stunning, sun-bronzed arms and legs drape over each other, completely at ease, completely unbothered by the formality King Silas brings with him.
“Your Majesties,” Jalelle announces to the two queens.
“May I present King Silas and Queen Eleanor of Hedera, Princess Celeste of Delasurvia, and of course, our guest of honor, Lord Dante Stregasi.” She turns to us, her arm extended toward the queens.
“Queens Ambra,” she says, indicating the one with long, raven-colored hair dressed in sheer purple, “and Eosla,” she continues, gesturing to the curvier one with turquois waves and a coy grin.
Their bodies are adorned with golden cuffs and delicate chains, their sheer gowns flowing over the curves of their figures, leaving their shoulders bare.
They don’t seem the least bit disturbed that their nipples are somewhat visible through the material.
They have no shoes on, and they are not alone.
Several lovers—men and women—lounge at their sides, some draped lazily across the cushions, others curled against them, their hands idly tracing along bare skin.
Queen Ambra props herself up on one elbow, her catlike green eyes raking over our party as a slow, sultry smile spreads across her lips.
“King Silas,” she purrs, her voice like silk and wine. “You have finally arrived. Let us first extend our condolences for the loss of Prince Torbin. He was a fine man, and Bastos weeps with you.”
King Silas steps forward, his black robes a severe contrast to the cascade of brightly colored silks and gauze spilling from every corner of the hall. He inclines his head with rigid formality. “Thank you, Your Majesties. Your kind words mean a lot to our wounded hearts.”
“Queen Eleanor, we can’t begin to imagine your loss,” Queen Eosla adds.
“You have my thanks,” Queen Eleanor says, her voice small in the huge hall.
“It has been too long since our last meeting,” King Silas says, steering the conversation away from his wife. “I trust Bastos continues to thrive.”
Queen Ambra’s smile deepens, her voice as smooth as honey. “Thrive, we do. And yet Bastos is always… livelier when there are guests to entertain.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the courtiers sprawled on cushions and divans across the hall.
The women are draped in gossamer fabrics that leave little to the imagination, while the men wear open vests or nothing at all over thin, loose breeches.
The air hums with a lazy sensuality that makes my skin prickle.
King Silas’s face barely shifts. “We thank you for your warm welcome. As you know, I have come to present my son Lord Dante Stregasi for consideration in the matter of legitimization, and to strengthen the bond between Hedera and Bastos.”
At the mention of Dante’s name, Queen Eosla straightens, her eyes bright with curiosity as her gaze sweeps over him. “Ah, yes. The future prince. Your arrival has stirred much excitement, my lord.”
Dante, to his credit, bows smoothly and answers with charm I know is only halfhearted. “I’m honored to be here, Your Majesties.”
The queens exchange a look I can’t quite decipher, but something in the way Ambra’s fingers trail down her arm suggests more than polite interest.
Queen Eosla’s gaze lands on me. “Princess Celeste, we were both deeply sorry to hear about your brother’s passing. He was a well-versed man and always respectful.”
I offer a small smile and a curtsey in response but say nothing.
King Silas gestures to his servants, who step forward carrying a carved, wooden chest. “In honor of your hospitality, we bring gifts from Hedera. Treasures to please the senses, as we know such delights are cherished here.”
I take a step back, giving the servants room to place the chest before the queens’ velvet mattress. Ambra and Eosla scoot closer, their brows raised in anticipation.
The chest is opened, revealing bolts of silk in rich jewel tones—sapphire, ruby, and emerald—each fabric embroidered with ivy patterns that shimmer under the light like liquid luxury.
“Our skilled seamstresses have worked their fingers to the bone,” Silas explains, “to create the most exquisite and unique silks especially for you. There are also vials of perfumes crafted from rare flowers found only in the wild meadows of Hedera.”
One of the servants removes a polished, wooden box from the trunk, handing it to Queen Ambra with a bow. She opens it to find a collection of hand-carved hair ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold.
Queen Eosla rises gracefully, padding barefoot upon the marble floor to inspect the offerings. She lifts a strand of emerald silk and runs it through her fingers. “Exquisite,” she murmurs, turning toward Ambra. “Don’t you think, my love?”
Ambra’s smile sharpens as she traces the wooden box with one finger. “Hedera always did have impeccable taste.”
The king nods to another servant, who unveils the dragon scales. Just like in Podrosa, the king has chosen to gift the royals with one gold and one onyx scale. The queens’ smiles widen as they gaze upon the rare items.
“King Silas,” Eosla purrs. “You have outdone yourself. We are humbled by your lovely gifts.”
“We look forward to hearing your proposal for your son,” Ambra adds. “But you must be exhausted from your travels. Please, follow Jalelle to your rooms. We know you are not accustomed to our climate, so we have provided clothing more suited for the heat, which you’ll find in your chambers.”
“Tonight we feast in our celebration tent,” Eosla says as she eases back onto the cushion. As soon as she’s seated, fingers and lips from the queens’ ensemble of lovers find her skin.
The king gives a crisp nod, but I catch the way his mouth tightens. These women unsettle him, as if he finds their boldness a challenge. And for some reason, I do, too.