6. Katya
6
I ’m certain the gods must hate me. What other reason would there be for dressing me up in a beautiful forest green gown that hugs my hips and pushes my small breasts up to truly glorious heights, only to seat me next to Berezin and his wandering hands? I haven’t been pawed this much since the last time Max’s cat tried to turn me into his own personal bed.
The most ridiculous part is Berezin isn’t even looking at me when he does it. He just drinks his wine and chats with the neighboring diners, as calm as can be, while I fight a death match with his hands, feet and thigh beneath the table. I’m seriously contemplating jamming my fork into his manly bits, when the door to the dining hall swings open and all conversations stop cold. Utensils clatter onto empty plates, wineglasses are abandoned, and the discordant squeal of twenty-plus chairs being shoved backward echoes in the cavernous room as diners scramble to their feet and bow. I, of course, follow suit with my awkward version of a curtsy. Fortunately, my lower half is obstructed by the table, making it less obvious.
The queen’s shoes clack against the wood floor as she enters the room, flanked by an entourage of her Bellatorae soldiers dressed in white military uniforms with gold seams, their rifles positioned across their chests. The refined appearance of the Bellatorae doesn’t really fit the image I had of them after reading about their ruthlessness during the Three-Nation War. The queen, on the other hand, is exactly what I expected, from the jeweled tips of her hefty gold crown to the pointed toes of the satin slippers, peeking out from beneath her silky white gown. She is practically dripping with jewelry. Spelled gems of all shapes and sizes dangle from her ears, neck, wrists and even around her waist. It’s a grand display of wealth and power. I doubt even the Principal Magi from any of the nine houses could compete. Her jewelry must be awfully heavy, but if the weight bothers her, she shows no sign of it. Back straight, head held high, she positively struts down the red carpet running between the two long tables where her guests are seated.
Then I take notice of the male walking just a few steps behind and to the right of the queen, and my mouth goes dry. It’s the male from my dream. He’s dressed in the same white and gold military uniform as the Bellatorae, except the patch bearing the Feridas sun insignia on his shoulder is black instead of gold and surrounded by a multitude of chevrons. There are also a number of metals pinned to his chest, but it’s the crown—a smaller version of the queen's—seated atop his head that has my belly tied up in knots. My gaze flicks to the queen’s fingers stacked with rings. The same sort of rings I wore in my dream. I’m struck by a sudden wave of dizziness and have to grab the back of my chair for support. Casmir, save me, they’re going to burn me alive. They’re going to chop off my head and spike it on the palace gates the way they did the royal families of Elterra and Ajir.
Why must my magic always force me into the worst possible situations? I couldn’t hop into a scullery maid chopping carrots. No. Of all the hundreds of people in this palace, I just had to unintentionally jump into the mind of the queen. And while she was reaming out the crown prince, no less.
Calm down, Katya. There is no way they could know. If they did, you’d already be chained up in the dungeon. Wait. Do modern palaces have dungeons?
Well, whatever they have, I’m not there, so I just need to take a deep breath and move on. I shut my eyes and breathe, willing my heart to slow. When I open them again, the queen and prince are just about to pass where I’m standing.
In contrast to what I saw earlier, the prince’s expression is calm and pleasant—if not exactly warm—but the fact that he is still clenching his fists makes me think he isn’t actually over their argument; he’s just an exceptional actor. I suppose you’d have to be if you spend your life in the public eye. He exudes all the cocky confidence you’d expect from a royal as he swaggers down the aisle, but it’s the male striding directly behind him that snags my attention like a fishhook. His uniform is similar to the prince’s, except for a few less chevrons decorating his shoulders and some rather hefty metals on his broad chest. He wears no crown or jewelry—not a royal, then—but he carries himself with a predatory grace I’ve never seen before, and I’m torn between the impulse to run and the urge to move closer .
As if sensing my thoughts, the male glances my way. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and a shock wave rolls through my center. I’ve forgotten how to breathe. His bright blue eyes, even brighter for their contrast against his golden-brown skin, drag me under like a tidal wave. Then he looks away and my lungs resume functioning.
The two royals take their seats at the head table and the rest of us follow suit. The soldiers line up against the wall behind them, except for the handsome one. He sits one seat over from the prince—leaving an empty chair between them. I wonder who’s missing? Conversation resumes, and servants begin to hand out plates of food—
“Be careful of him, little one,” Berezin says, leaning in way too close for comfort.
I want to shove him away, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, “Why? Who is he?”
“That is Lieutenant Aemon Cregg. Officially? He’s the head of the prince’s personal guard.” Berezin leans in even closer, until he’s practically on top of me, and whispers hot wine-scented breath into my ear. “Unofficially? He’s a spy.”
My heart leaps on the last word. “A spy?” I whisper back, while simultaneously jabbing his ribs with my elbow to push him away. “He can’t be a very good one if everybody knows about it.”
Berezin shrugs and flicks out his napkin to lay on his lap. “Rumors and speculation, mostly, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.”
Neither would I.