Chapter 20
Carys
Six pairs of eyes turn to me as I stride into the council chamber in the late morning.
The space is spectacularly ornate for someplace where the most boring of affairs occur.
Light filters in through the few window panels in the domed ceiling and onto an oval mahogany table at the center, the surface imbued with whorls of gold and bronze.
Ten high-backed chairs with cushioned leather surround it.
As everyone rushes to stand, their chairs scrape against the varnished terracotta-colored tiles.
I acknowledge the councilors’ scattered greetings with a nod. Callum pulls out the chair at the head of the table, and I take my place across from Iywan.
My mother’s seat.
Callum stands beside my chair, on guard.
Gods, I hope this meeting doesn’t last too long. I’ve been told that Wynn Odhran, our trades merchant, is scheduled to make a delivery today, and I’d be remiss if I lost the opportunity to see him.
Lady Sessaley, the mistress of ceremonies, smiles from her spot on Iywan’s left.
Her silvery blond hair is pulled into a topknot so tight it makes my head hurt.
Closer to my side of the table, Lady Taliesin, the treasurer, runs her fingers through short grey hair.
For someone around Iywan’s age, her golden-brown skin is uncannily smooth. What’s her secret?
“Belhan was just updating us on the situation with the rebels,” Iywan says, pulling me from my thoughts.
Ah, the rebels. They’re an oddly quiet group aside from the occasional interception of Forayer activity in the Grounds. Their attempts to directly attack Paramount are so scarce I find it hardly worth mentioning.
Belhan turns his beady eyes toward me, his hands steepled across his barrel chest. “Yes, there’s unrest in the southeast. Rumors of rebel droves traveling toward our gates have been on the rise. We’ve already alerted the Royal Brigade of the threat.”
I narrow my eyes. “The Royal Brigade? To deal with rebels? Seems a bit … extreme.”
“The rebellion isn’t just gaining in numbers, Your Highness, but in strength too. They’ve been attacking with weapons of mass destruction.”
“Mass destruction …” I doubt the weapons of a few rebels are a match for the Royal Brigade. “Having the Royal Brigade deal with rebels sounds like a poor allocation of power. What about protecting us from neighboring kingdoms, Ardall in particular?”
“We have a peace treaty with Ardall, Your Highness,” Councilor Tomen says.
I turn my attention to the master of foreign affairs, my chin lifted and expression unperturbed. “I am aware of that, Councilor Tomen. But until months ago, Erleya and Ardall were locked in a three-hundred-day war. Better safe than sorry.”
He looks away.
Caldeon, on the other hand, has not attempted to attack our kingdom in decades, but there has been increasing unrest between their kingdom and Ardall. With both kingdoms just a short sail away from the northeastern tip of Erleya, our army has always been vigilant of the possibility of war.
Tomen speaks up again, his cloudy eyes somewhat focused in my general direction. “In the unlikely event that Caldeon or Ardall launches an attack on Erleya, our defense force is formidable enough to spare manpower to protect Paramount from rebel attacks.”
“Why not utilize the Forayers rather than the Royal Brigade soldiers to protect against rebel attacks?”
“Mercenaries are complex, Your Highness.” Tomen runs his hand over what’s left of his white hair and Belhan bobs his head promptly in agreement, his jowls shaking.
“And yet we allow them to abuse their power.” The words slip out.
The lines on Belhan’s wide, russet forehead deepen. “Forgive me, Princess, but what do you mean by abuse their power?”
“I mean Forayers are apprehending innocent civilians in the Grounds for petty misdemeanors. Just recently, a botanist was taken on the suspicion of stealing a dress—from Ballybaeg. Under what law is it punishable to sentence her to service as a Veilguard for stealing a garment from another Grounds village?”
My inquiry is met with silence.
“It begs the question: how many more innocents are being snatched from their homes? And what exactly is considered treason? Are we arresting Grounders for owning harmless fairytales? We’ve all grown up with those books.
It’s ridiculous to suddenly consider it forbidden.
” No wonder the rebels want to dismantle the monarchy.
I bite my lip to keep from asking more questions. For now.
Belhan’s thin lips part for a few heartbeats. My focus darts around the table at the other councilors, hoping to find at least understanding on someone’s face.
Jac lifts his hand. “The Grounders have been known to disguise books of enchantments as fairytales, Your Highness. Could that be what you’re referring to?
” His supercilious grin makes me want to shoot an arrow through his pretty face.
He notes my glare, and his knuckles scrape across his stubbly jaw.
“I will see that it is looked into. If there has been such a case—”
“Are you accusing me of speaking falsehoods, Councilor Jac?”
His umber skin pales. “No, Your Highness.”
“Because there is such a case and I’m certain there are more I’m unaware of. Something needs to be done about it. How long has it been since there was proof that Mages exist?”
“A millennium, Your Highness.” He drums his fingers briefly on the table. “But Grounders are known for finding ways to procure magic through artifacts and—”
“I know that,” I snap. “I agree that procuring magic is dangerous and should be punished. But banishing Undesirables and arresting anyone on mere suspicion of using magic is unjustified. Especially when there has been no proof. I’ve been to the depository after Quarterly Raids.
All the confiscated items in there are ordinary. No magic.”
Jac lifts a brow as though challenging me. Gods, he’s so cocky. I hate that he’s also bloody handsome.
“Unfortunately, Princess,” Iywan begins. “We cannot demolish centuries of practice in one small council meeting, but we can revisit this discussion at a later time.” There’s finality in Iywan’s voice, and as I draw in a breath to rebut, I think better of it.
I sit back in my seat, simmering. For a while, no one speaks. Someone clears their throat, another coughs.
Then Iywan finally speaks up, his focus on me. “I’d like to discuss the Feast while we have you present, Your Highness.”
Of course. I hold back a sigh. “I believe that would be beneficial, Lord Iywan.” I glance at the mistress of ceremonies who laces her long fingers together, blue veins standing out on her fair skin. “Shall we start with the most unlikely contenders?” I ask.
Iywan quirks a brow and gestures for me to continue.
“Of the five suitors,” I begin, making it clear that I have indeed considered his list. “I am concerned about Prince Morand of Caldeon. Wouldn’t that jeopardize our peace treaty with Ardall in a way?”
“In a way,” says Iywan, glancing at Tomen briefly. “However, Caldeon has grown significantly more powerful in the wake of Ardall’s disease outbreak in the past year.”
My brows lower, my head immediately starting to ache while I mull over the ramifications of this.
If we form an alliance with Caldeon, it may grant us some protection should Ardall try to infiltrate, but it can also cause a backlash.
Ardall may have a weaker army and less power, but they have wealth and a host of arrogance.
“As for Prince Odgar of Uldarvik, he’s a … unique choice. Does he know this is a formal event?” My voice sounds strained as I try not to laugh.
“Yes, Your Highness,” says Iywan. “The other three suitors are of great noble families. Lord—”
“Bevin, Duke of the Outer Isles,” I say, cutting him off. “Lord Jamie, Duke of Darragh.” My stomach churns. “And Rheon of Bayenbar, Lord Commander of the Royal Brigade.”
Iywan’s eyes widen, but he nods. Around the table more expressions of surprise unfold. Good.
“Many wonderful suitors, Lord Iywan. I am excited to meet them all.”
In the early afternoon, I catch Paramount’s merchant, Wynn, just outside of the wine cellar, his lean arms wrapped around a wooden crate filled with glass bottles.
Beside me, Callum’s steps falter, but I plow on.
Wynn turns toward me, brown eyes alight, his sepia complexion reddening slightly.
“Your Highness,” he says with a smile and a small bow. “Sir Callum.”
Callum nods to him, ice in his glare. “Lordling …” His tone is nothing short of demeaning, a manner reserved for Wynn.
The annoyance on Wynn’s face is brief. “It’s nice to see you again, Your Highness.”
I smile at him. “Is that all the wine you’ve brought?” I gesture to the crate in his arms.
“No, this is the third one.” Wynn nudges the door open with his hip and sets the crate down just inside the cellar.
Carnal need clenches my stomach, but I try to remain casual. “Alys has been eagerly awaiting more honey …”
Wynn smiles warmly. “Yes, she was very happy for … the restock.” His gaze lowers to my lips, his last few words delayed as though he’d had to regain his focus.
“Show me the wine stock you’ve brought.” I can’t keep the breathiness out of my voice as I step closer to Wynn. I glance sidelong at Callum, addressing him. “Don’t let anyone through.”
Callum’s nod is sharp, his eyes cold, but he turns forward, fully on guard. I step into the cellar, shutting the door behind me.
We’re surrounded by hundreds of bottles of wine housed in rows upon rows of shelves.
The aroma is nearly as intoxicating as Wynn’s lustful gaze and the dimple in his left cheek.
Dark stubble has started to grow along the soft curves of his face—he’s matured since the last time I saw him.
I step toward him, and he loops his arms around me.