Chapter Eight #2
I snap my head to the side as he backs away, the mischievous challenge in his eyes meeting the glare in mine.
My lips stay pursed, even as he tries to crack a smile, and the longer the moment draws, the more I can see him beginning to waver.
His pupils narrow first, then his tail twitches.
When finally my stare makes him do the nervous shuffle from one foot to the other that Phillip does when he’s been caught and can’t get out of it, I lower my own voice, leaning in.
“Are they all also so foolish as to mistake nerves for weakness?” I counter, my voice holding its shape better than I expect it to. After facing down the Judge and signing a contract with a demon, I’m starting to think myself capable of more than I’ve previously believed.
Clearly, it’s more than Valenar expected, either. The humor fades from his face, his eyes hardening. “Don’t let them see you flinch,” he hisses under his breath, more of a challenge than a helpful warning.
Just for that, I’m determined to remain unmovable as stone.
Before I’m able to come up with my next clever response, I’m overwhelmed with the scent of the sea, salty spray, sun on the rocks—I’ve only been to the coast once, but it’s uncanny how accurate the smell is.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a silvery-white cloak approaches, his sculpted features difficult to read, almost like he’s a statue come to life, his jaw and cheekbones cast in bronze and given a pearlescent sheen.
Though his face is unreadable, his sea glass eyes are simply observing, not full of judgement and disapproval like so many others.
Valenar clears his throat. “Allow me to introduce the king’s bloodsworn bride, Ingrid Wakefield; Prince Delmareth, The Storm’s Burden, and Golden Heir of the Azure Isles.”
The prince inclines his head toward me, elegant, ivory-colored horns catching the light as he does.
His cloak moves with his shoulders as he gestures to something behind him, and all at once I realize it’s not a mantle of fabric he’s wearing, but great, feathery wings.
White and silver, each feather tipped in a dark gray, the wings seem too large even for such a tall man, and I get the impression that they carry a heavy weight only he truly knows.
“Bride-Ascendant Ingrid, an honor,” the prince says, inclining his head. “And my brother, Prince Thaliondel, The Sea’s Light,” Delmareth’s voice is quiet, weary almost, but demands respect in a way few can.
From behind his great wings appears another sculpted face, this one even more angular and sharp, with eyes like stormy skies. Unlike his brother, though, Thaliondel cracks a smile as he steps toward me, sharp canines glinting in the light when he reaches for my hand.
“Lio, please,” he says, bending over my hand to place a chaste kiss on the back of it. “Being second-born comes with some privileges, and foregoing a bit of the formalities is certainly one of them.”
“There are times, brother, when some formality is called for,” Delmareth says through a sneer. “You’d do well to remember that.” His hand clamps onto his brother’s shoulder, pearl-tipped talons gripping the younger prince tight enough that his dark-feathered wings crackle with electricity.
“And there are times, brother,” Lio returns the sneer with more venom behind his words, “when it is appropriate to be more welcoming than stately.”
Prince Delmareth’s eyes darken, but it’s the only physical sign he shows that his brother’s words have affected him at all. As much as I appreciate Thaliondel aiming to be more genial, I can’t help but sympathize with the older sibling trying to wrangle their wayward brother into respectability.
“While you are busying yourself with ‘welcoming’ the human, I will try to discern for the Crown whether she is brave or demented for standing where she is,” he says, almost as if I’m no longer present.
“She’s clueless, mostly,” I supply coolly, sympathies washed away.
Lio fails to contain his surprised laughter, and while Delmareth is taking his measure of me, another demon pushes his way into our conversation.
“I do hope the Golden Heir isn’t boring you to tears,” says the newcomer, enough drinks carried in his clawed hands for everyone.
“Viscount Velmarch,” Valenar says with a weary sigh.
The viscount chuckles, his half-lidded eyes glassy with a look I recognize as having had a few too many drinks. His skin is dark as wine, and his unruly hair is tangled around the twisted, vine-like horns that curve back from his temples.
“Always so sour Valenar,” the viscount chides with a patronizing tsk and a finger wag that sloshes wine over the rim of one goblet, only missing my slippers by a hair.
“It’s like I’m always telling Del, here,” he says, words slurring together with no regard for the way the prince’s jaw tightens at the familiarity.
“You gotta loosen up. Hits land harder when you’re tense,” he chuckles, sloshing more wine, this time making Lio dodge.
“Speaking of, Del, I’ve been asking around about—”
The elder prince’s enormous wings flex, his jaw tense as he shifts his grip from Lio’s shoulder to the viscount’s, steering him away with tight-lipped words I can’t hear.
“Apologies,” Lio says, stormy eyes alight with glee. “That seems too promising to miss.” And he scampers after the other two demons, weaving in and out of the crowd with deft efficiency.
Chancing a look back towards Valenar, I’m left with no indication of how that first interaction went, his face carefully neutral as he sips the wine Velmarch brought him.
That expression changes in an instant, his eyes widening as he sputters in his goblet and hastily reaches for my arm, trying to drag me away.
“Valenar?” comes a cool, firm voice. “Will you not do the honor of introducing us?” The woman who speaks is tall and thin, a drawn arrow more than a willow branch, her dark hair pulled back so tight it makes my eyes water.
“Be careful Sylar—”
The woman’s sharp green eyes snap away from me to meet Valenar, and his words fall short in an instant.
“Your Grace,” he continues, clearing his throat. “It would be unwise to insult the king or his bride,” he says, displaying the most neutral demeanor I’ve seen from him yet.
“Insult? I come only to pay the customary respect,” the dagger-eyed woman wearing scaleskin that seems more fit for the battlefield acts appalled at the mere suggestion. Her overblown reaction is all I need to see to brace myself. “Introduce us,” she says, her voice as chill as the frosty air.
Through clenched teeth, Valenar complies, “Her Grace, Guardian of the Sacred Groves, Emerald Blade, Duchess Calessevan…and His Grace, her consort, Duke Calessevan, allow me to introduce—”
“The human bride, yes,” the duchess says with a smile like a wolf. “What interesting times we live in.”
“We welcome you to our reach, Bride-Ascendant Ingrid,” the duke says, his appearance less severe, but his voice just as haughty.
“My family has tended the Sacred Groves from the time of the first root,” the duchess says, every word spoken like she’s explaining something very important to a small child.
“We have offered stewardship and protection for generations, and always the Grove has prevailed. I pray that it may once again find the strength to weather such an…unprecedented change.”
My throat tightens, embarrassed tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let this woman see she’s gotten to me.
I’ve dealt with her type before—born into a position she’s convinced she earned, granted every advantage while claiming constant adversity—and I won’t be the quiet country mouse she expects, if only to see that smug expression vanish.
“I hope the Grove can forgive me, Your Grace. I am only going where I’m led,” I say with all the charm I can muster in such a terrible moment.
“How quaint,” says a demoness with elaborate decorations ornamenting her bowed horns.
Her voice drips like honey as she pushes her way into our conversation, leading with her ample bust like it’s a battering ram.
“You are quite a brave little human, aren’t you?
” she chirps as she closes the distance.
“Baroness Bastel,” Valenar says in my ear without further commentary. Guess I’m on my own now.
Nothing new then.
The baroness is the duchess’s complete opposite.
Where the Emerald Blade is tall and thin, composed and efficient, Baroness Bastel is plumper, shorter, and a riot of expensive-looking fabrics, colors, jewelry, perfumes—it’s sensory overload.
The duchess is remarkable purely for the terrifying aura she emits, but Baroness Bastel has gone out of her way to make herself a spectacle in any way she can.
“I beg your pardon?” I ask, head already beginning to hurt from her overwhelming perfumes.
The baroness laughs, a high, dry, fake sound that makes my skin prickle. “A Bride-Ascendent begging! Quaint indeed,” she laughs that horrible fake laugh again. “You must be an awfully brave human to attend The Presentation without your betrothed… Or is this how your kind courts scandal?”
Another awful laugh from the baroness, and even the duchess’s lips seem to twitch into a hint of a smile.
Heat flushes through me, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure they can all hear it.
Valenar clears his throat behind me, as if he can sense what’s building in me, but I’m beyond keeping him happy.
He’s been less than helpful this whole time.
It’s not like I asked to be here; and if I am to be the future queen, shouldn’t they show a bit more deference?
Anger, exhaustion, my newfound confidence, or some combination therein has my mouth moving before I can stop myself.
Doing my best impression of the duchess’s cool, detached tone, I say, “I may not yet know your customs, my lady, but I do believe insulting one’s host is considered rude in all civilized societies.”