Chapter 14 #2
Roderi of Elmar had never seen himself as a hero because he wasn’t one.
He was the lord of the borderlands plagued by a three-hundred-year-old rivalry.
The war wasn’t a choice, it was a burden, passed from one generation to the next.
And yet, her father had nothing but respect for the Seragians.
The Empire was a formidable enemy, a worthy opponent.
No, it was his own king that Roderi of Elmar considered loathsome and weak.
Melia had spent her youth listening to his complaints about insufficient funds, weapons, soldiers sent to the border, about the soft, privileged life at court, about cowardice and turning a blind eye to the ever-burning fires of conflict in Elmar.
In her father’s eyes, the unforgivable crime wasn’t the Empire’s greedy wish to win back their lost province, but the lack of support from the Amrian rulers.
They were the ones responsible for Elmar’s wounds.
The king and the lord smiled and embraced, and it hit Melia that she despised them equally, for they were both bullies, willing to do anything to get their own way.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone pushed sharp swords into their hands and sent them out to settle their accounts in the yard once and for all?
The whole court and every person in Syr would be able to breathe freely after that.
Melia’s face prickled and she looked up to see the queen’s clear gray eyes studying her. The angry, rebellious thought in her head, where had it come from? Melia turned quickly, flustered, but the queen merely stepped forward towards the men, breaking their display of goodwill.
“Roderi, welcome,” she said, and her voice rang true, although there was a faint note of caution in it. “What news do you bring from the border?”
“It’s relatively quiet,” her father said. “My scouts tell me the emperor is sending troops to border towns, reinstating the imperial order for the first time in decades. They’ve long forgotten they’re a part of the Empire and it’s time to remind them.”
“He promised to deal with the mountain tribes as well, before the caravans return in the spring,” the king said.
“We all know the Empire has publicly ignored and secretly funded them for decades. They wouldn’t have been able to survive there for so long otherwise,” Roderi of Elmar retorted.
“Yes, but the emperor won’t openly admit to that, will he?” the king said. “Still, the terms are good. I hope you’re looking forward to ending the conflict.”
A flash of panic glinted in her father’s eyes as he said, “I’m not sure I know how to live without it.”
The queen frowned. “In peaceful retirement, I hope.”
“I’m afraid that might turn out to be wishful thinking, my lady,” Melia’s father said. “I find it difficult to believe the Seragians will honor the deal. They’ve already broken the peace.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” the queen said.
“We are working with the Seragians to find the attackers,” the king said. “Let’s celebrate today, and leave the investigation for later. One incident won’t spoil the most important wedding of our lifetime.”
The servants arrived with refreshments—dainty bites on silver trays, iced wine, fresh figs cut in half to show their moist red hearts.
Melia took a tiny marzipan flower infused with rosewater, but her mouth was too dry and her throat too tight to swallow anything.
In vain, she looked for a friendly face in the crowd.
Where was Amron? Ferisa had told her he was fine, but that was infuriatingly vague.
Melia was torn between the desire to speak to him to find out how he felt, and the fear of facing him and hiding what she knew about the attack.
Everybody around her lied with such ease—her father, Ferisa, ladies-in-waiting—while Melia squirmed and gnawed on herself, feeling she was betraying both sides with her incompetence.
Melia stood in the corner by the window, as far from the queen’s ladies as possible, holding the inedible sweet like a fool, wondering how many people would be furious if she ran away now, when a slight commotion drew her eyes to one of the entrances.
Amron appeared in the doorway, perfectly attired in dark blue and silver brocade, his hair neatly tied back, his face composed. She made a beeline for him before anyone else noticed he’d appeared.
“Amron.” She touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
He slowly turned his head and she saw that what she’d taken for composure was in fact a carefully arranged mask. Behind it, his eyes were filled with anxiety.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve spent the whole morning with Darin and his men, trying to figure out—”
“Your Highness!” Her father greeted Amron, cutting off his quiet explanation, and suddenly everybody in the room turned to look at them. “I’ve heard you’ve had quite a night. Alone against six Seragians? My border captains told me you were good, but this is an incredible feat.”
Amron stepped back, creating a buffer of empty space between himself and his father-in-law. “I wasn’t alone,” he said. “And I would be dead if the king’s guards hadn’t arrived before the Seragians had a chance to get the better of me.”
Melia thought Amron’s words would dissuade her father, but Roderi pushed on with an insistence that bordered on rudeness.
“Still, we’re all eager to hear the details, if you would be so kind as to share them with us.” Roderi grinned. “Your father must be very proud of you.”
If Amron heard the sting in his words, he didn’t show it. In Melia’s brief experience with the royal family, she’d learned that whenever the king measured Amron against Amril, he always found his younger son lacking.
Melia’s father turned to the king, waiting for him to say something. But Amron V, so talkative and pleasant a moment ago, now frowned in silence.
“Your Majesty, your son is an excellent fighter, isn’t he?” Roderi of Elmar asked.
To onlookers in that room, his words must have sounded like praise, but Melia knew better. He knew how to hit a nerve, how to draw a wedge between people. Roderi of Elmar was lauding his son-in-law to provoke the king.
The corners of the king’s lips twitched beneath his golden beard. “He certainly had his share of fighting yesterday,” he said dryly and turned to Amron. “You should apologize to your brother.”
Amron blanched, pressing his lips together.
“Amril, come here,” the king said.
All clamor died in the room. The crowd parted to let the crown prince through.
Melia, who’d instinctively hidden away from him, who’d refused to look at him for fear of drawing his unwelcome attention, was shocked to discover Prince Amril’s lip was cut and swollen, a bruise marring the corner of his mouth.
She had no idea what had happened. Amril was no stranger to fighting, but what did Amron have to do with it?
Despite his injured face, Amril smiled, radiating his charm. “Amron and I can deal with this later, Father.” He kept his tone light, indifferent. “In private.”
The king ignored him. A soft rustle of silk disrupted the silence as the queen appeared beside Amril. The scene turned so intimate that even the nosy courtiers radiated with unease as thick as a pea soup. Envoys and guests stood aside, aghast.
It was so clear to Melia what her father had done, exploiting the weakness, salting the wound. He was an expert in twisting the blade. Why couldn’t everyone else see it?
She felt like slipping behind a curtain and dying of shame, but Amron’s pale face anchored her where she stood, so close to him she could feel the invisible tremor running through his body.
“If you were anyone else but my son, you’d be hanged for assaulting the heir to the throne,” the king addressed Amron, ignoring the startled gasps from the crowd. “The least you can do is apologize to your brother in public and ask for forgiveness.”
“Amril knows why I hit him,” Amron said.
To his credit, Amril’s cheeks burned crimson as he gave a curt nod. “It was a disagreement, not an assault.”
“One does not disagree with a crown prince by punching him in the face.”
The king’s words were so peevish, so deliberately obtuse, that Melia squirmed.
Surely, he could see what he was doing? Humiliating Amron in public for no other reason than daring to touch his belligerent brother, dancing to Roderi of Elmar’s poisonous tune.
She risked a glance at her father. He stood wide-eyed, soaking in the scene he’d caused.
“He was right to hit me,” Amril said, still trying to keep it light, make it sound like a misunderstanding. “I insulted a girl he was talking to.”
A girl, Ferisa had mentioned a girl. What did she say? He was snuggling with a girl in a dark alley. A stunningly beautiful girl. Is that why Amron had hit his brother? Over some pretty courtesan they both wanted?
She looked at her husband, the toxic jealousy inside her heart goading her to enjoy his humiliation. Was he the same as Amril, chasing after every warm body in a skirt?
Her father was studying her with a greedy half smile.
“You will not mention your whores here at court,” the king barked, his face crimson. “I don’t care about explanations. Amron hit you and he will apologize for it.”
Amril looked sick. Melia’s gaze found the queen, silently begging her to do something, to stop this charade. But the queen remained silent, refusing to intervene.
“Get on your knees, now,” the king said, “or I’ll have my guards make you.”
Amron stood still for one endless moment, while Melia and everybody in the room held their breath.
She expected him to turn on his heel and leave, she willed him to do it, to be braver than Amril, braver than her, braver than every courtier around them.
If anyone could stand up to the king, it was Amron. Defy him, she thought.
Instead, Amron blinked slowly, stepped forward, and knelt before his brother. When he spoke, his voice was clear and crisp, pitched to carry. “I apologize for hitting you, Amril. I hope you will forgive me.”
Amril looked at the king and opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment the queen turned away from the scene abruptly and marched out, followed by a train of flustered ladies-in-waiting.
The movement broke the evil spell that had held the onlookers chained in place, and the crowd dispersed like a shoal of fish before a predator.
Roderi of Elmar disappeared in the shadows.
Amril touched the king’s shoulder and said, “Come, Father, it’s done.
” Even the servants, still holding their trays, scurried away.
In a few heartbeats, there was no one left in the room but Melia and Amron, still on his knees.
She wanted to touch him, to say something kind.
To say she knew what it felt like to be humiliated, used as a tool, unloved.
While she struggled to find the appropriate words, he stood up without sparing her a glance and walked away.
She realized she was still holding the marzipan rose in her hand, now squeezed to mush. Her palm was dyed red.