Page 12 of Veiled Flames
Trumpets sound. The royal families have arrived. Stepping away from the edge of the hall, I push my lusty thoughts aside, and I join the rows of courtiers forming two long lines to greet them.
Five
Rosomon
Walking several steps behind Father and my two younger brothers, I step into the banquet hall, my body moving as if my joints have been fused with iron bolts.
In two long lines, courtiers bow as we pass. Normally, most of these men have straightened their postures by the time I go by, but tonight some show me the same respect as my male relatives. I suspect I’m the last to know of my upcoming nuptials.
I must look on the bright side. Finally, I am to be of use. Finally, I’ll have value. Finally, I’m going to travel outside Achotia, something I’ve wanted since I first read about faraway lands. I wish I felt more happiness, but perhaps that will come.
Tonight’s feast is already spread across three long tables—two reaching down the length of the room for the courtiers, and a shorter one stretched across the hall’s width. The head table is reserved for our family and honored guests—one of them my future husband, I expect.
The scents of venison, boar, and pheasant waft into my head, along with roasted gourds and roots. I was ravenous, after my day long ride in the fresh air, but my stomach has turned to a twisted pit of stones. None of the food seems appealing.
The horrid King of Khotor stands ahead of us, and the Crown Prince behind him to his left. Both men are wearing simple crowns, and I expect they have finer ones held back in Khotor.
Behind them stand five or six other people, a few not much older than me, and all are dressed in the finery of a royal family. The books I’ve read about Khotor were scribed before I was born and recounted only the current king and his eldest son. I don’t know who the others might be, or which prince or nobleman I’m expected to marry.
I stop five paces behind my father, the place I’ve occupied ever since I could stand on my own, and I can’t hear as the introductions are made. My mind is incapable of turning sounds into anything with meaning.
The stones in my belly churn like they’re caught in whirlpools at the narrowing of a river.
“Princess Rosomon.”
My name snaps me out of my stupor. Olifer is standing in front of me, empathy in his kind lavender eyes that so resemble mine and our mother’s. “Sister, are you well?” he asks softly.
I nod, and my stiff neck pinches.
“I am to present you to the royal family of Khotor.” Olifer extends his arm to me, in the same way Alfryd did earlier.
I place my hand gently on my brother’s forearm, and he guides me toward the visiting party. I didn’t think much about themen’s appearances when I saw them earlier. Not beyond the bulbous belly of the King, and the Crown Prince’s cruel face.
The King’s hair, what little there is, is silver and wispy, and the Crown Prince, who earlier wore a cap, sports well-groomed indigo hair, nearly as dark as Sky Stallion’s, punctuated by a few streaks of silver. I’ve never seen a soul with such dark blue hair and wish the tomes I’d read had colored illustrations.
I curtsy in front of the King.
He grunts. “I suppose she’ll do.”
I keep my eyes cast down as the old man walks slowly around me, as if inspecting a piece of meat his cook might roast for dinner.
Olifer presents me to the Crown Prince, and I dare to flick up my gaze. Could this be the man I’m expected to marry? He’s at least the age of my father, having thirty years more than I, but he’s handsome enough. His features are strong and well set, and his skin tone reminds me of freshly cut stonewood—fetching in contrast to his deep blue hair.
I flick my gaze toward the Crown Prince’s eyes, the deep green of an evening forest, hoping to find a glint of kindness inside the malice of his temperament. But I see nothing beyond indifference. Indifference is something I’m well used to, and it’s better than the cruelty held in the tight curve of this prince’s lips.
This is the man who suggested the servant girl needed a drilling.
A young woman, close to my own age, steps forward. She’s introduced as the Crown Prince’s wife, and I’m equal parts shocked and relieved.
I’m not meant to marry the Crown Prince. That’s a relief. He already has a wife. Unless Princes of Khotor take more than one bride? The young princess is strikingly beautiful, her hair bright gold, like fresh corn in the sun, and her complexion’s far paler than her husband’s, but not as pale as mine.
Some have compared my skin tone to silver or moonlight.
“In which kingdom were you born?” I ask the young woman.
“Silence.” King Vyktor slaps the back of my head.
I lurch forward. The room spins, and I struggle to maintain my balance. I glance toward my father, but he’s turned away.
