Chapter 20 #2
Amril was swaying gently, his flush turning an ugly shade of purple.
Melia regretted that she hadn’t asked Ferisa what she’d put into the concoction, because he surely wasn’t displaying signs of fatigue and sleepiness.
On the contrary, she noticed the bright spark of arrowfoil in his eyes, the agitation of a soldier getting ready for battle.
She turned her back to the crowd and took the vial out of her pocket. A solitary drop lingered in it. Melia was no expert in potions, but she had spent enough time in Ferisa’s den to recognize the smell of the herbs she often used, to tell her potions apart.
She shook the drop into her palm and sniffed it. Arrowfoil, yes, for energy and aggression. But also lobelia and vervain. She licked the drop.
Oh, Father!
Powerful emetics, both of them. It was too late to do anything about it, though.
And why should you do anything about it?
“Bring me wine!” the prince ordered.
She didn’t care for Amril, and he didn’t care for her.
He’d crush her like a cockroach if he thought she stood in his way.
He’d sacrificed every inch of Elmarran soil, every drop of blood the Elmarrans spilled, for an advantageous marriage with a Seragian princess. He deserved no consideration, no help.
The golden prince. Behind his mask of bravado, he was probably as nervous as his bride.
He’d bedded tavern wenches and ladies alike, more than anyone could count, but the woman waiting for him in the royal bedchamber was not like them.
Every noblewoman knew from the earliest age that her body was not her own.
It was interesting to see a prince realize that.
Amron had known it—and fought against it on their wedding night—but he had the luxury of being the less important prince.
In the other room, even if it was for this night only, that composed, plain young woman whose body was Seragian territory and a vessel for imperial will held just as much power as Amril.
And thanks to Melia, he would perform badly.
The songs had turned bawdy, and the court ladies reached for the prince’s clothes, giggling as they disrobed him.
He was laughing, but his laughter had no joy to it as the hands that had known his body before now untied, unclasped, unbuttoned, and pulled off the layers of fine fabrics roughly, impatiently, and without any wish to caress.
The cruelty was shocking but not surprising if one remembered how Amril had treated them.
This was a payback for his wandering hands, his demanding grasps.
Amril flinched and cried out in pain. Disheveled and undressed to his shirt, he pushed the ladies away hard, breaking the unspoken rules of the wedding-night disrobing.
One stumbled, one would have fallen if a courtier hadn’t caught her.
They protested, but Amril ignored them, raking his fingers through his locks. A fine film of sweat lay on his brow.
The two imperial ladies-in-waiting guarding the bedchamber watched the spectacle with distaste. The crowd’s feeble attempts to invite the carevna to show herself were ignored, the language barrier suddenly an impenetrable obstacle.
“Go and make us proud!” some drunken fool cried.
Amril’s bloodshot eyes searched the room and fixed on Melia. “Where’s my brother?” he asked.
Where was Amron? It was not his habit to shirk his duty like this, even if he was angry, even if this crowd bewildered him. Amril so rarely relied on him, but now Amron’s absence loomed like a missing tooth, like a rug pulled from under one’s feet.
The truth was, in that roiling sea of sycophants, he was the only person capable of reining Amril in, and Amril knew it.
Faster than she expected, Amril crossed the room and grabbed her arm. “Where is he?” He shook her so hard her teeth chattered.
“I don’t know,” she stammered, frightened by the wild glint in his eyes.
“Someone find him,” Amril ordered.
He looked sick, yet everybody pretended not to see it. Goaded by his friends, he let go of Melia and stepped towards the bedchamber.
“She’s in for a treat,” a lady said behind his back, her voice dripping poison.
“Show her that move, you know, the one that makes the girls moan.”
A choir of exaggerated moans echoed in the background. Amril swayed on his feet and shook his head like a wounded boar preparing for the final charge.
“Conquer the Empire for us!”
Melia kept her expression frozen, afraid to show her disgust lest they turn on her.
“Open the door,” Amril said.
If Amron had been there, perhaps Melia would have repented and begged him to stop his brother, to take him to some private corner and let the potion run its course. But Amron wasn’t there, and even if his erratic behavior frightened her, she had no means of stopping Amril.
The Seragian ladies opened the door, and Amril walked through them like a man heading to his execution.
The noise in the antechamber fell to hushed whispers, cushioned by the soft melody the lutenist strummed. The lust was postponed for a little while, the erratic, nasty revelry temporarily brought to heel while the royal business was conducted in the next room.
What were they waiting for? For Amril to walk out with a triumphant smirk on his face? For some physical proof, like a bloody sheet?
Melia felt sick.
“Any moment now,” one of the ladies whispered, “he never lasts very long,” and all her companions burst into muffled fits of laughter.
But there was only silence on the other side of the door, silence for so long that the men grew uncomfortable and the women bored. Those intent on seeking their own pleasure snuck out, and the crowd dwindled, leaving only the curious and the unfortunate.
Too many scents mixed in the air—food, flowers, perfume—and it lay thick and heavy on Melia’s shoulders, choking her.
Her father was far away, yet she felt his fiery gaze burning the back of her neck, his hot, hungry breath behind her ear.
And Ferisa, damn her, what was she doing?
She used to be Melia’s friend, her anchor, not this malevolent creature seeding destruction wherever she went.
If only Amron were beside her. Even though it was too late to save the night, they could retreat with dignity.
Melia stifled a yawn, looking at all the food that lay forgotten on the tables, all the bottles filled with bright liquid, the ice slowly melting, wishing she knew how to drink herself to oblivion and wake up in some other place.
Or some other time, where Ferisa’s potion had been nothing but a sleeping draft, and Amril snored gently in his wedding bed while the carevna read a book beside him, wondering how long it would take for the most stubborn guests to take the hint and go away.
The course of the night had already been decided upon, though.
Voices rose on the other side of the door, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
Pleading, then a high-pitched yelp, something heavy stumbling, hitting the door.
A cry, “No, don’t—” and then the door opened so violently it almost tore its hinges.
The carevna flew through the doorway, landing on the carpet in the middle of the room. The Seragian women screamed, rushing to her. Amril stood on the threshold, swaying wildly, his bloodshot eyes staring at the antechamber but seeing nothing.
Pushing away the ladies, Aratea cried, “What are you staring at? Help him!”
The prince fell to his knees, head bowed, hands hitting the carpet, and threw up a stream of red liquid.
Melia screamed, and she wasn’t the only one.
The ladies shrieked, and Amril’s friends woke from their stupor, ran to him, pulled him away from the mess.
A lady with a wet cloth ran to wipe his face, someone poured a glass of water and tried to lift it to his lips.
The prince shook them off and turned to his wife.
Supported by her ladies, Aratea looked like a ghost, red hair pouring over her shoulders, white nightgown ruined. She stepped towards the prince. “Amril, you’re unwell,” she said.
The glistening puddle on the floor was dark red, but it was clear to Melia, who’d seen enough blood spilled for a lifetime, that it was only wine.
The prince opened his mouth to say something and instantly doubled over, a red tide rushing out of his mouth again. When it ceased, he lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “What have you done to me, you bitch?”
The words were nothing unusual for Amril, for the rash, crass, unrestrained prince who didn’t have to weigh the words that passed his lips. In taverns and at court, everybody cowed before him, lashed by his reckless tongue, the people who could restrain him fewer than fingers on one hand.
Still, the words he could carelessly throw at his friends or lovers meant something else when hurled at his Seragian bride.
Like silk parting before a sharp blade, the remaining people split into two groups: the Amrian courtiers gathering around Amril, and the Seragian ladies backing off towards the bedchamber with their mistress.
“Can you say that again, please?” the carevna said, her Amrian formal, clipped. Despite her wild hair and the stained nightgown, she looked every inch the emperor’s daughter.
“What did you put in my drink?” Amril said, too immersed in his shocked fury to restrain himself and apologize.
Melia, hovering in the shadow of a curtain, looked towards the door, hoping that someone outside had heard the commotion and that guards were on their way.
“Are you accusing me of trying to poison you?” Aratea said slowly, every word pitched to carry.
“Isn’t that what you Seragian cowards do?” he retorted.