Chapter Three. In Which the Girl Meets a Prince
CHAPTER THREE
In Which the Girl Meets a Prince
There were several factors that made Brunhilda’s plan—could it even be called that?—a very stupid plan. The most important being that Risa was just a girl. What could a girl do on a quest across the kingdom when she had barely even stepped out her front door?
She would have liked to let Brunhilda know what she thought of the plan, but unfortunately, the witch’s spell made it impossible.
Risa struggled against the magic that had stilled her tongue, unable to utter a word.
The spell coiled tightly around the base of her throat, trapping her voice behind the cage of her teeth.
Great.
She resigned herself to glowering at the woods, silently cursing the witch and all the circumstances surrounding this moment.
But—she perked up at the idea swirling in her head. There was a way she could benefit from this arrangement. After all, el principito might have been the youngest and most useless of the royal brood, but he was still a prince.
He wasn’t the smartest of the seven—that honor belonged to the fourth prince.
Nor was he the strongest—that was the second prince’s claim to fame.
He wasn’t a leading military strategist like his third brother, or the tortured artist his sixth brother was, or a prodigious musician like the fifth.
And most of all, he wasn’t the golden child, heir to the throne and inheritor of their great nation, like the first. Prince Javi was a boy with no skills besides somehow making everyone fall in love with him.
If Risa played her cards right and convinced el principito that she was crucial to getting him to the wedding, then he might gift her something in return.
Riches, a magical object, or best of all: a connection to a witch who might be willing to break her curse.
Or at the very least, to acknowledge she had one.
Something snapped within her chest, like a taut line that suddenly went slack, or a growing vine turning into a dried husk. It fell away, and she was unable to stop herself from asking, “Why would the king use his youngest—and arguably most hopeless—son to attempt, what, some kind of peace treaty?”
The question sent a flock of birds in the nearby trees squawking into the air. It even made Risa jump and look around, searching for the source of the sound before she realized it had been her own voice.
Brunhilda did not react. The witch sighed and spared Risa a long, withering glance. The hollows beneath her impenetrable eyes looked darker under the shade of the tall trees.
“Well,” Brunhilda declared, more to herself than to Risa, her voice not much different from the dry leaves crunching underfoot, “that didn’t last long.”
“I deserve an answer if you’re going to throw me to the wolves—”
“I hardly believe Prince Javier of Kheadon constitutes a wolf. More like a puppy. Or a lizard.”
“—and force me to roam the kingdom for a ridiculous plot to, I don’t know, convince the prince to go through with some political marriage.”
“Girl—”
“Risa,” she snapped.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Unless we get murdered before we start. Which, I remind you, is very likely considering I’m cursed.”
“Psh.” Brunhilda swatted at something Risa couldn’t see. “Curses, shmurses. Think of this as an adventure of self-discovery.”
“I’d rather not.” Risa shook her head. “I hate adventure. And I have personally never self-discovered anything.”
“You will figure it out with the prince.” Brunhilda thumped a tree with her misshapen walking stick. “You’ll realize your true gift is self-love—or something equally ridiculous—and save the day. Or die. Whichever comes first, I suppose.”
“Seriously? I didn’t pack my bag, leave home, and resign myself to being a giant’s favorite meal”—Brunhilda’s scowl at the misinformation of giants’ eating habits was scathing, yet Risa persisted—“just to act as a reluctant prince-sitter.”
The wizened woman looked moments away from turning her into a newt, or a sacrificial lamb, or whatever creature it was witches turned unwilling humans into. “Your one and only job is to get him to say yes at the altar.”
“How am I to convince a chronic and problematic flirt to commit?”
Brunhilda shrugged, tapping another tree with her walking stick. “I don’t care how you do it. Be his friend, threaten him with your incessant talking, tell him a story every night that you never quite finish and leave him wanting more.”
“What if I don’t?” Risa smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her blouse and fluttered her lashes. “What if I just abandon him?”
Brunhilda’s cane paused mid-thump. Onyx eyes flashed.
“You’d regret it,” the witch warned.
“What are you going to do, curse me?” Risa rolled her eyes. “Been there, done that.”
Silence fell. The temperature plummeted. The forest suddenly grew dim. Whatever light remained seemed to concentrate onto the witch, who glowed with unfettered power. Brunhilda stared at her with unfocused eyes the color of the darkest night.
This was a witch. Every haunting story, every warning, had been about whatever was happening in this moment.
“If you wish to be cursed so badly, I’ll do the honors.” Brunhilda pointed her walking stick and proclaimed with a booming voice: “I curse you to remain with the prince until he is married. You will be unable to leave his side until he says ‘I do’ at the altar, or your heart will stop.”
Painful heat seared Risa’s skin, a thousand red-hot needles poking at her spine. Brunhilda’s spell raced down her back and flooded every part of her until she was bent beneath the will of the witch’s magic.
Then it was over. The Bosque tittered with life again. Light streamed through the gaps between the leaves, painting the woods in swaths of gold. The summer heat simmered in the air once more.
“How’s that for bad luck?” Brunhilda cackled, sounding very pleased with herself.
Risa was still reeling from the force of the spell, unable to make head or tail of what had happened, body flushed and overheated with power, when a voice cut through the trees.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Javier of Kheadon, and his royal guard!”
Oh no.
Brunhilda’s delight at cursing Risa was replaced with an impressive glower pointed in the direction of this new voice.
A middle-aged man in a brown uniform appeared out of the trees, the silver medals pinned below his heart glinting like starlight.
A small group of uniformed guards followed, shifting eyes on high alert.
They wore matching suits; the strips of chain mail that draped over their shoulders rattled with their movements.
The royal insignia of the Kheadish monarchy, a lion stitched over a sun, glittered in gold thread on their chests.
Risa had been keeping her panic at bay on their walk through the Bosque, but now she felt it surge.
She couldn’t do what Brunhilda wanted, no matter what curse hung over her head.
This general, with his cold, calculating, colorless gaze and thin lips pulled into a sneer, was someone she shouldn’t cross.
He would be able to see the bad luck that clung to her before Brunhilda even had the chance to be rid of her.
The man stood several inches shorter than Risa.
Thinning stark white hair lay flat against his skull with thick pomade that shone in the scant light of the Bosque.
His small stature did not prevent him from posturing, his heels firmly planted and arms ramrod straight at his sides.
He puffed out his chest each time he spoke.
“Witch,” he called in greeting, loud, pompous, and dripping with condescension. “You took too long.”
Brunhilda cackled and waved his words away with her walking stick. “I got here precisely when I meant to. I am a witch, General Van Houten, and you would do well to remember that.”
A collective intake of breath passed over the guards. Even General Van Houten seemed to pause at the declaration.
Only one person was unperturbed. Hovering several feet behind the general was a tall man with dark olive skin, barefaced and too gorgeous to ogle outright without causing serious injury to brains and hearts alike.
A gold circlet sat at his brow, and an unrestrained mop of black curls fell deliberately over gold eyes, which were rimmed by the darkest and longest lashes Risa had ever seen.
His lips were full and inviting, cocked to one side and giving off an air of mischief.
His white velvet doublet stretched over his wide chest, hinting at the muscles underneath.
It was an absurd thing to wear when traveling inconspicuously, though perhaps no less inconspicuous than stomping around with a twelve-man guard.
No wonder he didn’t bother with writing poetry, mastering the sword, or being his father’s favorite. One didn’t require skills when they were so inexplicably beautiful.
Risa wanted to bash her head against a tree at the cruelty of the universe. What need did a prince have for good looks?
“Brunie, I’m starting to think you want me to get kidnapped or murdered.” The prince smiled, a lethal, heart-stopping thing that made Risa scowl with displeasure. He tapped a forefinger on his cleft chin in mock thought. “Though I do so enjoy a detour through haunted woods.”
His men shifted uncomfortably, eyes skittish as they tried not to stare too unabashedly at both Risa and Brunhilda.
“Your father knows I cannot intervene in human affairs too often but still wanted something to ensure your safe passage—”
The corner of the prince’s smile wavered for a moment. “You mean, he wanted to ensure I go through with the wedding.”
Brunhilda shrugged. “You’ve made it quite clear how thrilled you are with the arrangement.”
“I’ll do what I must for the good of my country, my men”—his gold gaze fell on Risa, and his smile brightened—“and women.”
She rolled her eyes in response. It must not have been the right reaction; his face turned quizzical, a furrow appearing between his thick brows.
“Good,” Brunhilda said, sounding unconvinced. “Because she’s your babysitter.”