Chapter 14
Melia
The bells outside called the ninth hour of the morning, and Melia rushed back to her chambers to get ready for the ceremonies.
But when she reached her corner of the palace, it was crowded with men in Elmarran liveries and she had to push through them to get to her door.
Anxiety filled her like icy water and she instinctively tucked disobedient locks behind her ear and smoothed down her dress.
She stepped into her small chamber and closed the door, shutting off the noise outside.
A slim figure dressed in black stood beside the window, and in comparison with that solemn, sinister shadow, every bit of finery in Melia’s room suddenly looked garish and tasteless, like an offensive attempt to flaunt wealth.
“Melia,” her father greeted her, turning away from the window.
“Father.” She bowed, remembering too late that she outranked him now and he should be bowing to her. He showed no intention to correct her; he simply nodded in return.
He looked older than she remembered, and smaller, in this court filled with tall men. But his physical size never limited the size of his temper, which seemed to fill the room.
“How was your journey?” Melia made an attempt at small talk, her voice cracking.
“Long,” Roderi of Elmar said.
“Would you like me to send for refreshments or—”
“No.”
One quiet word and she shut her mouth. It didn’t matter that she was a prince’s wife, it didn’t matter they were not in Syr anymore. Her father still had absolute power over her.
“My men are spread all over town, well-hidden and waiting for orders. I insisted on bringing my guard here—some are at the palace, some wait outside Abia. We have over three hundred soldiers.”
Melia closed her eyes. She had hoped—no, she had merely tried to force herself to believe—that her father would somehow change his mind.
It was not because she liked the court or the people in it; it was simply that she couldn’t imagine how any of her father’s plans could make life better for anyone.
Being around the people here in Abia, normal people, not traumatized by the endless war, taught her that perhaps the most any of them could hope for was a life untouched by the great schemes of vengeful lords.
It was not to be, though, because Roderi of Elmar had arrived in Abia with only one thought on his mind, and it burned in his eyes like black fire as he looked at his daughter.
“Tonight,” he said, “we’ll end this charade of friendship and goodwill, this humiliation of every Elmarran slaughtered by their blades.”
She nodded, looking around the room, wondering how many people were crowded inside the palace, how many ears, how many eyes. Was she being spied upon? Was there a maid, a little page boy tucked behind the tapestries and paneling, listening to her father spew his murderous plans?
Following her eyes, he scoffed. “Don’t worry about that, my men surround your chambers like a wall.”
The hope she didn’t know she’d harbored flickered out and died.
“What…what is going to happen tonight?” she asked.
Her father ignored her question. Instead, he said, “You have one crucial task, and I need you to do it at any cost.”
She nodded, terrified that her father would ask her to do something impossible and lethal. But then he produced a tiny velvet satchel and pulled a glass vial out. It was no bigger than her little finger, stoppered with cork and wax.
“Tonight at the wedding feast, no later than the ninth hour of the evening, I need you to pour this into Prince Amril’s drink.”
“Is it poison?” she asked, without a speck of guilt. She had disliked Amril intensely from the first moment they met.
“No,” her father sniggered. “I expect him to drink a lot, as usual. This is just something Ferisa mixed to enhance his intoxication. He will make a fool of himself and embarrass his bride. If someone caught you with this, you could claim you suffer from insomnia and it helps you sleep.”
She took the vial and the satchel. It felt like a strangely small task, after all the energy her father had invested in this plot. Putting one loathsome drunkard to sleep—she could do it with an easy heart and clear conscience. But still, she dared to ask, “Is that all?”
“No,” her father said. “But don’t worry about it. When the ceremonial part ends and the feasting begins, Ferisa will find you.”
This sudden closeness, this unpredictable camaraderie between her father and Ferisa, surprised Melia. They used to avoid each other when Melia was still in Syr. Something had changed between them.
Melia searched her father’s face, trying to discern his plans.
But instead of fury and violence, she found something very different: A faint sheen of devotion illuminated his brow, a wistful, profound expression too close to hope for her liking.
Was it Ferisa and her goddess, or was he simply looking forward to his plans coming to fruition?
Melia found his elation more frightening than his dark fury.
“Ferisa knows all your plans?” she dared to ask, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
“Oh yes, she helped me make them while your husband dragged you around the kingdom.”
Her father never trusted women, never confided in them. Melia had supposed that Ferisa was just a messenger, but after the attack the previous night, it was clear she was much more. Yet, she had never mentioned it, never warned Melia.
“What is the plan, after tonight?” she asked.
Her father’s gaze burned her as if she were a child who had spoken out of turn.
“I thought…I could help if I knew more,” she stammered.
“It’s too complicated for you, Melia,” he said, the corners of his lips twisting into a smile that looked like a threat. “I don’t want you to know unnecessary details, as they would only put you in danger.”
It might have been caution, but it sounded condescending.
She was not some stupid little maid who would blurt out everything to the wrong pair of ears.
She’d kept her mouth shut for months, revealing nothing.
She deserved trust and respect. But she’d never gather the courage to tell her father that.
“What’s going to happen to the royal family if the wedding goes wrong?
” she asked instead. Her reason was whispering to her that nothing would happen, this was their territory, they were surrounded by their own guard, by their own faithful people.
And yet, her father standing with that smile on his lips was enough to shatter any feeling of safety.
“Will there be conflict? Surely, the Seragians are not going to be happy.”
“Why do you suddenly worry about the royal family?” her father asked, a glint of suspicion in his eyes. “The king is reckless. He ignores all the sound advice he gets from his guard, so sure of his subjects’ love for him. And Prince Amril, well…he’s a troublemaker, isn’t he?”
Was there a tinge of excitement in his voice?
Anticipation? Melia had no love for either the king or Amril; they were both odious, unrestrained, arrogant men.
It wouldn’t be the first time her father hid the truth from her, and yet his words echoed with so much darkness and chaos that Melia was unable to see her way forward.
“And the others?” she asked.
Her father misinterpreted the fear on her face. “I will protect you,” he said. “You will be safe.”
His promise was empty, though. There was no safety for anyone in Abia.
· · ·
Melia struggled to keep her face blank when she entered the king’s audience chamber later that morning, walking beside her father.
Maps of various parts of the world adorned the walls, displaying exotic flowers and wild animals.
Ceremonial weapons and armor stood like mute guards around the room, and precious gifts—jade vases, ivory sculptures, illuminated manuscripts bound between bejeweled plates—sparkled in the sunshine.
A sense of calm luxury, of self-assured power, permeated the air.
The whole court was there: the king with his retinue, the queen and her ladies, noblemen and diplomats who’d arrived for the wedding.
A lump of bitterness blocked Melia’s throat.
Despite the turmoil of the previous night, despite the imminent arrival of the Seragian delegation, the king and court still made time to welcome Roderi of Elmar.
It was a slap in the face to see this display of goodwill towards her father after they’d been ignoring Melia for months.
Roderi of Elmar, always quick to take offense, scanned the room with his dark eyes.
Trained to notice the slightest flicker of discontent, Melia watched him with apprehension.
Yet, all she could discern was satisfaction.
After condemning everybody in Syr to years of austerity, after making Melia feel guilty for adjusting her gowns to the court fashion, her father seemed to enjoy this opulence.
He rolled back his shoulders, stood up a bit straighter, his black figure in stark contrast with the colorful room, but his charcoal silk as fine as any fabric the courtiers wore.
It dawned on Melia that his choice of color wasn’t solely the expression of grief and mourning.
She’d learned a thing or two about colors from Queen Orsiana.
Black was elegant, black stood out at court.
“The Defender of the Kingdom, the Hero of Elmar,” the king called. “Welcome, Roderi. It’s been too long.”
Melia winced.
They met in the middle of the room: the tall, golden-haired sovereign, still handsome, but his large frame turning heavy with age; and the Black Lord, half a head shorter, his figure lean, his dun, pinched face a challenge to the king’s radiance.