Chapter 31
Perfumed Posturing
When the dance ends, Brinette appears at my side again, linking her arm through mine, Nyara catching my other arm at once. For the first time since leaving my father's house, I do not feel alone.
Wine appears in my hand. Then another.
I lean close to Nyara and whisper, “I wish my father had a game room. This place is so sordid.”
“Darts?” she suggests hopefully.
I shake my head. “Too much fun for him.” We laugh, soft and conspiratorial, and it feels like oxygen.
Then a throat clears behind me. It is Prince Tamal again, offering another bow, his expression warm, as though we have merely paused a pleasant conversation rather than disrupted the balance of the room.
Before I can respond, my sister’s voice cuts in. “Oh, Princess,” she says sweetly. “Would you fetch me a drink?”
She giggles. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not a servant anymore.”
The room waits.
Prince Tamal’s smile does not fade. “How unfortunate,” he says mildly, “that your memory fails you tonight.”
My sister blinks.
“A Princess does not fetch,” he continues pleasantly. “She is attended. One would think that distinction might be easier to recall in front of witnesses.”
A few nearby courtiers suddenly find the ceiling very interesting.
My sister’s laughter thins.
Tamal does not release my arm. He studies her with mild curiosity. “What rank does she hold?” he asks lightly, to no one in particular. “A baron’s daughter?”
“I do not recall that as an official title in your court,” he says thoughtfully. “Are we certain that is her only title?”
My sister stiffens.
I cannot help myself. “I believe she is called the King’s paramour, Highness.” In truth, I do not know what she is called, but paramour seems fitting, if not generous. If there were a hierarchy for bedmates, I suspect paramour ranks comfortably above whore.
Yvara takes a step toward me. “You—”
“Sit down, Lady Yvara,” the King says. His voice leaves no room for argument.
My father glares at me, and I smile sweetly.
“Ah. A paramour,” Tamal says thoughtfully. “Is that another word for princess in your country?” He glances around the room with innocent curiosity.
Junis steps forward, having arrived just as Tamal asked his question.
“A paramour? If you want one, Highness, the brothel—”
“Brother,” Nyara says, choking back a laugh.
I could kiss him.
Junis looks around, suddenly aware of the uncomfortable hush in the room. He lifts a glass of dark liquor from the tray of a passing servant and mutters, “This is why I hate these things.”
Tamal is not finished. “Yet the King’s paramour approaches the Princess of Veynar with such familiarity,” he says lightly.
“He has a flair for theatrics,” Nyara whispers to me. “Always has.”
Tamal continues, his tone still pleasant. “I daresay the court has grown rather soft when it comes to propriety, my King.”
A murmur ripples outward.
“Tell me, Majesty,” Tamal says, “is this how the Princess of Veynar is treated in your court?”
The King’s voice cuts in. “Careful now—”
“Careful of what?” Tamal asks, still smiling. “If Princess Asharin must defend her own dignity in your halls, I would happily invite her to Yorali instead.”
Prince Colsar steps forward immediately. “How dare you,” he snaps. “She is my wife.”
Tamal tilts his head. “Is she?”
He gestures across the room toward Jessamy. “And yet that woman was so comfortable with her position that she dared sit at your side while your Princess stood alone.”
For an instant, no one speaks.
Tamal turns back toward the King. “Curious,” he says lightly. “My father has been exploring marriage prospects for my golden-eyed sister, the Princess of Yorali.”
He inclines his head toward my father. “She sends her regrets, by the way. She was unable to attend tonight’s festivities.” My father barely nods in acknowledgment, his face still red with humiliation.
Tamal’s attention drifts briefly toward Yvara, who has gone pale, then back to the King. “Let me remind you, Majesty,” he continues pleasantly, “that any chance with the Princess of Yorali would require you to put all of your playthings… away.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “My sister does not care for toys.”
The Baron clears his throat, his face red with rage. The King’s voice drops low. Dangerous. “I caution you to choose your words carefully, Prince Tamal.”
Before Tamal can reply, another man steps forward from the edge of the gathering, his gold-threaded coat marking him as something far more dangerous than his easy smile suggests.
“The Prince has had much to drink, Majesty,” he says smoothly. “But let me remind you that Yorali cannons and deathmagic have been of considerable use during this war with the Threns. It would benefit us all to remain… friendly.”
He turns to me then, offering a bow far deeper than courtesy requires. “And respectful,” he adds with a wink.
Junis snickers into his drink. “That bastard Eravic would enjoy this immensely. He loves a royal argument.”
“I believe he would call this perfumed posturing,” Tamal says dryly.
Junis takes a sip of his drink. “When blows are thrown, he calls it a snobby scuffle.”
Tamal laughs and I join him, the champagne now getting to me. “Speaking of him, where is he? I was hoping to see him. His dancing skills are unmatched.” I glance at Tamal teasingly.
Prince Tamal frowns. “Clearly, we haven’t danced enough tonight, Princess.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the King narrow his eyes. “Princess, it would serve you well to remember you are neither Yorali nor a sailor of House Vaelor,” he says with authority.
Tamal makes a face of such exaggerated disgust that I immediately burst into laughter again. Remembering myself, I bite my lower lip and fall into a deep curtsy.
“Yes, Majesty.”
Junis steps forward and raises his glass toward the King. “Greetings, King Sevrin, Sovereign of Veynar, King of the Torlands—”
“That is enough, cousin. It is good to see you, tedious as you are,” the King says wearily.
“He is best kept at sea,” Nyara says lightly.
Junis turns to Colsar. “Prince Colsar of—”
Colsar holds his hand up, already annoyed.
Junis shrugs, then turns to me and clears his throat, remembering my question. “Eravic wanted to come tonight,” he says. “But the Threns at the eastern border have cut off supply again. The villagers need provisions.”
He sighs. “So I get the ball while he gets the heroics. I’ll ride east to meet him once this spectacle ends.”
The Duke of Erlaskis is introduced by the Herald, and the King rises to greet him, now distracted.
As we talk, the tension in the room seems to break. Not entirely, but enough. Music swells. Conversation resumes in cautious fragments.
Tamal turns to me. “He is quite fond of you, that Eravic.”
“Oh?” I say.
Junis nods. “When we were docked in Yorali, he told Prince Tamal—and anyone else willing to listen—that you were someone worth respecting. Said Rathmor had no idea what it had.”
He tilts his head slightly toward Tamal. “So when His Highness heard this was your first ball as Princess, he demanded we attend.”
I blink. “Is that why you’re here?”
Junis shrugs. “I didn’t need much convincing. I couldn’t let the vultures swarm my new favorite cousin without backup.”
He plucks Nyara’s drink from her hand and downs it in a single gulp. “That, and I wanted quality bourbon.”
She flicks him sharply on the cheek and glares.
His grin only widens. “Besides, any princess who can drink her way through half of Telly’s and still somehow walk away with her purse deserves a witness.”
Nyara lifts a brow. “Her methods were questionable.”
I gasp in mock offense. “You are one to talk.”
“Regardless,” she adds, “I was absolutely not leaving you alone with this crowd.” She sighs dramatically. “I would much rather be gambling tonight, but someone had to make sure the vultures didn’t get the first bite. These people—”
“Dance with me,” Prince Tamal interjects, noting the prying ears. He offers his arm again, this time with unmistakable invitation. “You wound me with talk of Eravic’s light feet,” he adds. “Allow me to prove myself.” I accept.
For a while, I let myself forget the eyes on me. I let the movement carry me, the laughter, the easy banter. I let myself remember what it feels like to be seen as something other than a burden or a prize. And when I finally glance across the ballroom, the Prince has never once looked away.