Page 43 of Echoes of the Raven
“Your sister will bear the blame,” he says, “and her reign will be deemed weak. Many already feel she isn’t a worthy replacement for your father.”
Instantly, anger reaches a boiling point in my veins. “Amira Plumanegra is Simón Plumanegra’s eldest daughter, raised and trained by him to be the best queen any realm could wish for.”
“Debatable.”
“You’re out of line!” I say, my words charged with red-hot fury. “You were politely welcomed into Nido as a faithful denizen of the realm, but perhaps you aren’t what you portray yourself to be. Your words about our queen and your threats to the realm are nothing but treasonous. I could have you arrested.”
His left eye twitches as he realizes his mistake. He takes a deep, calming breath. “You are right,” he says in what seems to take a monumental effort. “I’m out of line, but I hope you will understand my disappointment. My apologies.” He inclines his head.
I don’t believe him, not for a second, but I can’t make an enemy of this man. I have to offer an olive branch.
“I do understand,” I say, my effort as monumental as his. “Your contributions deserve appreciation. I’m willing to provide funds for your army.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “You offend me, Princess Valeria. It isn’t riches I seek. I have enough gold to last me many lifetimes.”
“Forgive me.” I incline my head and lower my gaze to the floor.
He turns toward the door, and for a moment, I believe he will walk out, and I’ll never have to see him again. But it’s all a show, and he turns on his heel, smiles, and says, “Theremightbe a way you can help me, however.” A pause. “I’m still an unmarried man in search of aregalwife.”
18
VALERIA
“Wouldn’t you know? With Simón Plumanegra dead, I’m fourth to the throne.”
Gran Duquesa Sara Plumanegra (Casa Plumanegra) - Fourth in line to Plumanegra throne - 21 AV
Ihate the need to placate that awful man. Don Justo is a villain if I’ve ever seen one. But I have to put the future and peace of the realm ahead of everything else, and if that means trying to find him a wife… so be it. I can only hope that any respectable woman I steer in his direction will see through his facade and run far away from him.
It’s ironic how Jago’s idea to thrust Don Justo at another royal ended up being the outcome of our conversation. I guess I was too naïve to expect Don Justo to simply walk away without a prize for all his troubles. Perhaps we will need to go with my cousin’s plan and introduce him to Sara.
Taking two steps at a time, I hurry down the staircase in search of my sister. As I round a corner, I’m staring at the floor and have to come to a sudden stop to avoid a collision with what looks like a walking bolt of yellow silk and lace.
“Apologies,” I blurt out at the voluminous dress.
“Valeria,” a syrupy sweet voice says, making me cringe. “Are you well? After what happened, I’ve been concerned about you.” Fake concern colors her tone.
I would recognize that voice anywhere. It’s as genuine as those beauty marks Emerito fancied. Reluctantly, I meet the woman’s gaze and try to match her smile. I almost succeed, except my face feels stiff.
“Sara, it’s good to see you,” I say, avoiding her question.
Gran Duquesa Sara Plumanegra. Fancy running into her. It’s as if my thoughts conjured her. Could the gods be sending me a message?
She’s my second cousin, granddaughter of Teresa Plumanegra, my grandfather’s sister. In our tradition, the Plumanegra surname is passed down through both male and female lines, a custom uncommon in Castella, which is the reason we bear the same last name. She is fifth—no, now fourth to the throne, following Amira, myself, and Jago—as she keenly likes to point out whenever given the chance. Unfortunately, her mother passed away last year due to a tragic fall from her horse, and with her father also deceased and being the eldest of three siblings, she inherited the title of grand duchess and moved up the line of succession.
Like many other Plumanegras, she lives in Nido—somewhere in the west wing. I seldom see her, though, a testament to how big the palace is.
She looks like a sunlit cloud in her voluminous yellow gown, her chin held up imperiously. Cascading blond curls frame her slender face, flowing past her shoulders.
“You look,” her cold gray eyes scan me from head to toe, “the same as always, so you must be all right.”
“I could be better.”
“Glad to hear. Glad to hear.”
What? Is she even listening?
She pulls out an elaborate fan and waves it around her face. “I was just talking to my brother about the council meeting this morning and told him how surprised I am to discover that Amira has a backbone, after all.”
