A trumpet sounds from somewhere and two rows of soldiers in pristine white and gold uniforms, the golden sun emblazoned on their backs, march through the door and continue down the center of the room, splitting the mob of guests. Stopping just short of the dais set before the stained-glass sun, the two lines turn on their heels, facing each other. Then they take one, two, three steps backward, essentially creating a pathway. A voice booms from one of the soldiers in the front of the line. “Presenting, the CrownPrince of Solstyr, first general of Her Majesty’s Royal Army and heir to the throne of Solstyr, Prince Troi and his mate Princess Elsbeth.”
Mate? How could they be mates? Elsbeth said they weren’t even supposed to get married.
The guests clap politely as the pair step through the door, chins up in that haughty manner so common to the rich, their eyes glued to the stained-glass sun like there’s a pot of gold waiting at the end of it. Arm in arm, they make their way to the dais, separating when they reach the steps, so they’re positioned on either side of the throne, facing the crowd.
The herald starts again. “Her Majesty, the great and benevolent Diana, Queen of Solstyr.” The queen strides through the door, and I have to press my lips together to hold back my laughter. Whoever chose the queen’s attire should be shot and flayed, or flayedthenshot, something as horrific and painful as the travesty currently defiling the queen’s body. Her entire dress is gold, from the corset pulled tight around her torso, to the skirt falling straight at the hips, then flaring out at the ankles. Add to that the mass of hair piled high on her head, top it off with the overly large golden crown ,and she looks like a walking candlestick.
By the mixture of expressions—ranging from shocked to amused to horrified—on the faces of the other guests, I’d say I’m not the only one to make this tragic connection.
It does make me feel a bit better about my own dress, though. The queen starts down the makeshift walkway at a much greater clip than the prince and princess before her. She climbs the couple of steps to the dais and, standing between Troi and Elsbeth, spins around, her arms outstretched. “Welcome, friends and compatriots.Tomorrow, we will continue the work of running this great nation, but tonight we dance.”
The crowd erupts into cheers, and music begins to play. The soldiers march into position against the walls, and the floor clears to make way for dancing, while guests move to the fringes to drink, eat and converse.
Leodin walks me around the ballroom, introducing me to all the fae who “matter” and making sure I take note of the lords and ladies he wants me to spy on. Thirty minutes in and Leodin’s already left me to schmooze whomever it is he has deemed schmooze-worthy, while I make a circuit of the room, ears trained for political discussions and gossip.
It doesn’t take long.
The principal magi of Casmir—Magi Lotimer or Lottiemire, something to that effect—is trying to negotiate with the queen for a better price on sythra. The principal magi of Dom Ratimer and Dom Veda haggle over the trade of spelled stones, and Duke Krom of Ajir asks anyone who will listen what their expectations are for tomorrow’s meeting. I’ll have to keep my eye on that one. I write all of this down in my journal to share with Leodin later, and feeling rather pleased with my progress, decide to reward myself with a glass of wine. I’m halfway to the bar when a wall steps in front of me.
Not a wall. Aemon. My heart leaps in my chest. Oh gods. I’m caught.
“Lieutenant Aemon. Hello,” I say, my shaking voice betraying the nerves rattling my body.
He holds out a hand, and I’m expecting him to tell me I’m under arrest and haul me away. The last thing I expect him to say is, “Lady Katya, would you honor me with a dance?”
I swallow back the lump in my throat, which may or may not be the cheese pastry I ate a few minutes ago. The thought of touching this man skin-to-skin is both exciting and terrifying, and even though some small part of me is saying to run, I agree. I slide my hand into his, expecting the soft, pampered hands of a gentleman and instead, feeling the scratch of callused fingers across my palms.
He walks me to the dance floor, his eyes never leaving mine, and I follow, held in thrall by his icy-blue gaze. He slips his other hand behind my back and pulls me against him, and we begin. Our bodies are pressed so firmly together, I can feel the muscles of his hard chest flex and stretch as he moves me across the floor with such skill even my shaking legs are able to follow along. I can’t breathe, can’t blink. All I know is this perfect moment with this beautiful man looking down at me, our bodies fitting together like the gods created us for each other.
Aemon lowers his head until we’re cheek-to-cheek, his hot breath tickling the shell of my ear.
“I know what you are, witchling.” he says.
My heart stops beating.
“What is it you’re looking for, little spy? You want to know what the queen has planned? I could tell you.”
We’re still flying across the dance floor, but my mind is frozen. Stupid, stupid. How could I be such an idiot? I actually thought he was watching me because he was attracted to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, the tremor in my voice clearly audible.
He smiles then, actually smiles, revealing straight white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. He’s so handsome, and it’s making it hard to think, to process his words and come up with an intelligent response. Even now, knowing he might arrest me at any moment, my attraction to him is undeniable.
“Don’t play stupid, witchling. It doesn’t suit you.” He removes his hand from my back and tenderly cups my cheek, then runs it along my jaw, fingers dipping into my long tresses. Without warning, he closes his fist around my hair and jerks my head back. He leans over me, his face so close I can taste his breath—tart like wine. And even as my mind is screaming“danger,”my traitorous body yearns for him. My nipples harden into tight beads, my drawers flood with arousal and my core aches.
I open my mouth to speak but can’t seem to find my voice.
The music stops and so does our dancing, but Aemon has yet to let me go. I’m like a rabbit caught in his snare, immobilized by fear, too terrified to even attempt escape.
“You’re not keeping all the pretty girls to yourself, are you brother?” It’s Prince Troi. His voice breaks the spell, and Aemon releases my hair and takes a step back.
“Not at all,” he says, placing my hand in Troi’s. “Enjoy your evening, Katya.” He makes a quick bow, then strides off, leaving me with the prince. Troi slips his arm around my back and tugs me against him, much like the way Aemon did, but whereas, Aemon felt like a piece of me fitting into place, the prince feels… wrong somehow. He gives me that charming smile and starts across the floor, his moves just as graceful as Aemon’s.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “Aemon can be a little intense at times.”
That’s an understatement. “So did you come here to save me?” I ask, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.
He chuckles. “Yes. Elsbeth sent me. She was afraid if someone didn’t intervene, Aemon might eat you alive right here in front of the gods and all our guests. Not that I would blame him.”
Wait. Does he know too? Is this some game the two of them concocted to frighten me? “No?” I manage to ask.
