Chapter 20
The girls only finished an hour past midnight.
Their wrists had long since gone red beneath the rope binding them.
Dust streaked their cheeks, their hair was a mess, and they staggered more than ran for the last twenty laps.
When Briony’s ankle had given way on the ninetieth round, Isolde had gritted her teeth and hoisted the girl onto her back.
Richard was at the final line when they crossed. He caught Briony when she slid from Isolde’s back, and nodded to Lady Rowe, who at once moved to her own squire with a healer’s salve and a towel.
Nearby, Squire Godwyn—a tall boy with large, soft eyes—hovered with a waterskin. Richard tried not to glare at him. Godwyn’s only crime, after all, was to possess a handsome face and a smile too easily given.
By the gods, he and Kaelen are alike.
Richard failed in repressing his glare after all.
* * *
By late afternoon, the ankle sprain had clearly ceased to trouble Briony, for her stomps thundered and her lungs were in magnificent form.
“IT IS EATING ME ALIVE!”
Richard winced from the other end of the royal quarters.
He’d been heading to his own chambers to dress for the ball when the shrieks erupted.
Elara’s door opened two rooms down, and she emerged with her hair half-pinned.
Corwin, too, appeared from the opposite direction, clad in his riding breeches, an apple in hand.
Exchanging glances, the three of them walked into Briony’s room.
Chaos reigned. Seamstress Cecily, a stout, buxom woman only a few years older than Richard, was flanked by two attendants. She had her hands fisted on her hips and frowned at Briony before her. The girl stood in her shift, face blotchy and trying to wriggle out of a half-laced corset.
“It digs!” Briony wailed. “It crushes my sides, and I cannot breathe. My ribs will crack, I shall die, and everyone will say, ‘Oh, what a pity, the princess perished at a ball because her innards were squeezed out through her nostrils!’”
“Your Highness!” Cecily’s voice was higher-pitched than usual. “The corset has been fitted to your exact measurements. It helps to shape.”
“It shapes me into a corpse!”
Elara moved past Richard. “It is not as tight as you think, little one. You are panicking, and that makes everything feel smaller.”
“Can the corset not be loosened?” Richard asked, nearing his sisters.
The seamstress shook her head. “It is already as loose as it will go, Your Majesty. Any further, and the gown will hang improperly.” She sighed “It is tradition for princesses at formal balls to wear corsets. Why, the late queen, gods bless her, would have expected nothing less for her daughter.”
“It is terribly unfair!” Briony blew her nose on her sleeve, earning a wince from an attendant.
“Why must girls be mashed into such horrible cages, while boys get to swan around in soft jackets? I hate growing up. I hate stupid dances that nobody asked me to. I hate traditions. And I especially hate whoever invented corsets, and I hope they are dead.”
Corwin leaned against the bedpost, chewing his apple. “You know, I think they’ve probably been buried for centuries by now.”
“Good!”
“And I shall wear one too if it helps.”
Briony froze. “You...you would?”
Corwin shrugged. “If my very beautiful and sweet little sister must suffer, then I shall suffer with her. Besides”—he grinned—“I shall look splendid.”
Richard squinted at Corwin, but the boy seemed genuine. Perhaps the stretch of Briony not talking to him had knocked some sense into him.
Mistress Cecily looked delighted. “Oh, Your Highness, there are plenty of male corsets that would fit you well. They are mostly decorative, designed to be worn over the doublet to emphasise the shoulders, the upper chest, and narrow the waist.” Her eyes glittered as they shifted from Corwin to Richard.
“I have several in my workroom that would suit both brothers beautifully.”
Richard’s brows rose. “No.”
Elara snapped at him, “It would only be fair, Brother.”
“No.” Richard glared at her, then at a sniggering Corwin. “Absolutely not. I am the king.”
Briony’s mouth wobbled. “Will you not do it for me, Brother?”
There it was. The wounded note that undid him entirely.
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.
“Oh, very well,” he muttered. “Let us see these corsets.”
* * *
The corset was a mistake.
Richard fought the urge to hook two fingers beneath the boning and wrench it off.
The thing sat over his doublet like a constricting vest—stiff maroon brocade fastened at the back with a column of hooks.
As Cecily had promised, the shaping cinched his waist, squared his shoulders, and hugged his torso close.
It felt ridiculous, but Cecily had proclaimed that not a soul who met him would be able to keep their wits about them.
Now, standing at the top of the grand staircase that swept down into the hall, Richard very much doubted her words. He tugged at the corset’s hem and tried to breathe as he waited for the herald to announce his entrance.
Below, the Great Hall sparkled. Tables lined the hall’s edges, laden with wine, fruit, cakes, bread and soup.
On the far platform, a band of violinists and harpists played a merry tune.
The centre of the floor had been cleared for dancing, its marble tiles polished to a sheen.
Already, guests were filtering in through the lower doors dressed in fine robes.
Richard spotted Seola by the wine table, squeezed into a long gown that was cut at the back to reveal her muscles.
“Stop fussing,” Dain grumbled from Richard’s right shoulder.
Richard glanced sideways at the Lord Commander, who’d been wrestled into a formal tunic with medals pinned across his front. His hair had been combed back, and his beard trimmed.
“Blasted thing.” Dain tugged the fabric at his stomach.
He sucked in his gut, held it and released it with a disgusted huff.
“There was a time, lad, when this belly was as hard as reinforced steel. Your father used to make me lift my shirt at taverns to charm the barmaids into giving us free drinks.”
Richard smiled. “How silly.”
“Well.” Dain snorted. “Young things, we were. All four of us. Thought we could outfight anything the world threw at us. All manner of misadventure your father dragged me into, and Selwyn would glower, and Aralynn would call us fools.” He chuckled.
“But those ladies landed their fair share of trouble. Twenty-four, they were, when they entered the Sylari Realm to find a dun cow. Its milk’s said to heal any ailment.
Haldric and I raced after—found them three miles past the southern border, kidnapped by a Baba Yaga. ”
“A Baba Yaga?” Richard had read of such a creature. Most stories reported her as an old witch, but in truth she was an ancient being of nature—a wild, primaeval crone who ruled life and death, luring children into her hut. “You and Father rescued them?”
Dain rubbed his nape. “Ah. Well. Already had matters under control, our ladies did. Tricked the crone into her own oven and roasted her to death. Quite unimpressed, they were, when your father and I charged in with our battle cries.”
Richard chuckled, but his smile slid off on catching sight of Kaelen at the base of the stairs. The man’s dark blond hair was combed to the side, and his tunic of midnight blue clung to his broad chest. As he laughed, one hand gesturing wildly, Richard’s heart pounded—
then lurched as he saw who Kaelen spoke to. Ravi was hugging Kaelen’s arm and chatting merrily. He wore a high-collared gold tunic, fitted perfectly to his slender frame. A fresh stroke of red marked the centre of his brow, and black paint lined his eyes.
“Dain,” Richard said quietly. “Would you say—is there a chance—” He faltered, heat climbing his neck. “Might a man find me more...that is to say, between myself and King Vikram’s nephew, do you think a man could find me of…greater beauty?”
Dain squinted down at the pair below, then at Richard, then back again. He spluttered, “Since when have you cared for your looks, lad?”
Richard wondered if he should hurl himself from the balcony. “Never mind—”
“Well, since you’ve mentioned it.” Dain stroked his moustache, studying Ravi. “The boy is much younger. And by the gods—” He shook his head. “Is there a man more beautiful in all the Seven Realms? I think not. The face on him. The hair—”
“Thank you, Dain,” Richard muttered.
“—could weave a rope from those locks. And those eyes! Like a doe’s, they are—”
“Yes, Dain. Thank you. Your point is noted.”
“You did ask, lad.” Dain bellowed down the stairs. “Hey! Son!”
Half the hall turned. Kaelen’s head snapped up towards the staircase, gaze landing straight on Richard. Kaelen’s smile vanished. His spine went rigid, shoulders drawing back, and his hands curled into fists.
Hollowness gnawed at Richard from the inside.
Kaelen hated him. Whatever bond existed between them, Richard had clearly shattered it in that hallway, for now, Kaelen’s entire body was wound tight, the tendons in his neck standing taut, and a fierce intensity edged his stare, as though he was barely restraining himself from lunging.
Kaelen climbed the stairs, Ravi keeping pace beside him. Once near, Kaelen bowed stiffly.
“Your Majesty.” On turning to Dain, Kaelen’s face softened. “Father. You look distinguished.”
Dain harrumphed. “Distinguished is a word for old men. Say handsome. Say dashing.”
“Very well. You look adequately groomed for a man of your age and expanding girth.” Kaelen dodged the clout to his ear with a grin.
Dain gestured at Ravi. “And I see you’ve a vision on your arm, eh? By the gods, son, you are punching above your station.”
Kaelen’s ears went pink. “Father, this is Ravi. My new friend.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Commander.” Ravi smiled at Dain and ascended the last step to stand before Richard. Up close, he was even prettier—fine-boned, long lashes. He pressed his palms together and bowed.
“Your Majesty. I am Ravi Singam, the eldest nephew of King Vikram.” He straightened, dark eyes earnest. “I must thank you, Your Majesty. For your invitation, your kindness, this castle, this ball, all of it—” He hesitated.
“My uncle said the western kingdoms would be cold and grey, but this is…beautiful. And everyone has been most kind. Especially—” His gaze flickered to Kaelen.
“Especially your knight. He has made me feel most welcome when I have felt so far from the people I love.”
Shame prickled, and Richard stifled a sigh. This was who he had resented? A homesick boy, who smiled so sincerely?
“Ravi,” Richard said warmly. “Your performance at the procession was among the finest displays of skill I have ever witnessed. You are welcome in High Ardenia for as long as you wish to stay. Now, go on.” He nodded towards the hall. “The first dance will soon be called.”
“You are most kind, Your Majesty.” Ravi reached again for Kaelen’s arm. “Come, then, big man.”
Kaelen bowed once more, avoiding Richard’s eyes. “Your Majesty.”
The two of them descended into the candlelit hall. Richard watched them go, biting the inside of his cheek. They made a fine pair indeed.
When he turned back, Dain was looking at him with an expression Richard did not like in the least. He’d seen it before when Dain puzzled out an enemy’s strategy. A dawning comprehension as if all the pieces had just arranged themselves neatly into place.
“Lad,” Dain said slowly. “There are many dazzling women here tonight.” He looked down into the hall where Selwyn stood by the doors, her brown dress plain beside the jewelled ladies around her.
“But none compares to the sight of my wife. Wrinkled, she is, with stiff knees and knobbly hands. And to me, she is the most beautiful creature in all the world. Every time. Always.”
Richard blinked. It wasn’t like Dain to be so poetic. “I see.”
“And that, lad”—Dain clapped his shoulder—“is what love means.”
Before Richard could ask what in the gods’ names that had to do with anything, the music grew louder.
At the foot of the stairs, the herald—the same wizened man from the jousting tournament—struck his staff and bellowed, “Announcing His Majesty, Richard of Ardenia, King of the Sun Throne. Son of Haldric the Mighty, who vanquished the Blight Necromancer. Son of Aralynn the Kind, who foretold the Great Storm. Guardian of High Ardenia. Slayer of blood-trolls. Vanquisher of enemies. Shield of his people. Keeper of his kin. He who walks into fire and creates the dawn.”
Richard sent the satisfied-looking herald a bemused glance. Since when did he have so many titles? Perhaps Vikram’s entrance had inspired the old fellow.
“How is my crown?” Richard muttered, giving the corset’s hem a final tug.
“On your head,” Dain grunted, offering his arm. “Let’s go.”
With a sigh, Richard took the arm and descended towards the light.