Since no one appears inclined to hurl tomatoes, I unlatch the window and lean out, letting the breeze ruffle my hair. Closing my eyes against the bright light, I revel in the warmth on my skin. Sure, my fair complexion will likely burn, but it’s worth it. A little sun is good for the soul, and right now, my soul needs all the light it can get.
“Ah, such a lovely tour of the backwater.” Jared’s voice cuts through my thoughts from the other side of the carriage, where he’s draped lazily across the seat, his inky eyes half-lidded with boredom. Lord Jared Gruffudd Mackenzie, eighth Duke of Glamorgan, and one of my oldest friends, rarely holds back his disdain. With his deep umber skin, handsome face, and vast estates that he rarely visits—preferring, as one does, the delights of the capital—Jared could boast he rivals me as the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor. But he doesn’t because he’s also quite humble, actually. It’s why we’re mates. Except right now he’s prickly.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he continues. “Do you really have to carry on with this charade of marrying some Alarician bumpkin?”
“Don’t be a dick,” I reply, shooting him a look.
“Aw, fuck off,” he retorts, smirking. He always reminds me of a sleek cat—his tendency to melt into seats, like a barn cat on a bale of hay in the sun. He’s mostly bored and indifferent, too.
“This whole ruse is ridiculous. Why would a prince search for a bride here,” he gestures vaguely out the window, “when you could have your pick of all the ladies at your grandfather’s court? Here, she’s sure to have four hooves,” he adds, shaking his head.
I wave at more villagers, keeping the smile plastered to my face. “According to my mother, apparently my philandering reputation precedes me. So the only Alarician noblewomen who’ll have me are the social climbers. And besides, I’m not doing this to actually get married, remember? No one’s suspected our true mission yet.” I elbow him. “But hey, maybe one of these ‘Alarician bumpkins’ will catchyoureye, my friend. And maybe Marcus’s, too!”
Jared’s laugh fills the carriage. The idea of any of us marrying someone from one of these towns is clearly absurd to him. He’s far too busy working his way through the kingdom’s married countesses to consider settling down. So many bored, beautiful, married countesses whose husbands are off preparing for or hiding from the impending war effort.
“There’s nothing here,” he says, gesturing lazily out the window once more. “Fields, fields, and…look, more fields! And so many sheep!”
“Baaaa,” I bleat, settling back into my cushioned seat as the carriage rattles onward.
But Jared’s in a mood and makes no effort to hide it. “We should just ask around for the information you need and drop all this subterfuge.”
“Our official mission is not only to find Loegria’s next queen, but also to win the people over and garner the goodwill of my future subjects. And hell, maybe I really will meet someone.”
He replies with a grunt.
I give him a playful slap on his chest. “Where’s your sense of adventure? A little optimism won’t kill you.” My attention shifts to a small boy with a runny nose staring open-mouthed at the carriage. I wave at him and then at his squinting grandfather. “Good day, sir!” I call out.
Jared scoffs and rubs at his days-old beard. “My sense of adventure involves hot baths, fine wine, and the company of someone who hasn’t lost their mind,” he retorts. “The sooner we’re back at court in Lundenwic, the better.”
I don’t bother arguing. We both know we’re not going back anytime soon.
Officially, my mission is to strengthen ties between Loegria and Alarice, much like my parents did with their Wedding March years ago. Their marriage is a success on paper even if it is catastrophic in reality. My parents despise each other. They’ve spent just enough time together to produce me and my sister.
But whatever my personal reservations about the institution of marriage, as the heir to both kingdoms, my duty is clear: wed an Alarician girl, fulfill the terms of the treaty, and unite our lands in common defense.
My grandfather, King Elgar of Alarice, named me his heir, upsetting the line of succession for the sake of unity against the growing threat of Penrith—and of the mysterious power stirring in the Great Waste. Elgar’s banished brother, Namreth, was supposed to inherit the crown over my mother’s line, but no more. In due time, I’ll produce some heirs of my own with a nice Alarician girl, and the two kingdoms will become one under my rule.
Of course, my mother wasn’t thrilled about me leaving the capital with rumors of war swirling. My father practically forbade it.
Practically.
After Father stormed out of the room, Mother lectured me on how tales of my reputation as a lush and a player had reached King Elgar’s court in the capital and ruined any prospect of a suitable match there. I posited that news of my exploits probably hadn’t spread to the far ends of Alarice. I told her that my best hope of finding a wife was to fish from a new pond.
That did the trick, and she agreed I should go on this tour to find a wife expediently and unite the kingdoms before the Usurper of Penrith makes good on the looming threat of war. As long as my bride is from Alarice, the treaty doesn’t care whether she’s of noble blood.
That’s not therealreason I’m here, though. Unofficially, my mission is much more than just bride-shopping.
Crown Prince is a role I play, like my father’s jester performing before the court, and this search for a bride is nothing but a convenient cover for my real reason for being here. I have no true intention of marrying anyone—from this village or anywhere else—before that mission is accomplished. Treaty or not, marriage will have to wait.
Not that I mind putting it off. Marriage only breeds resentment, bickering, and unhappiness, as my parents have demonstrated throughout my life. It’s the perfect way to make two people hate each other. Why would I subject myself to that any earlier than I absolutely have to? My life is already a tragedy—I don’t need to add a loveless union to my burdens.
At last, the carriage lurches to a stop in Evandale’s town square. Before I can gather my thoughts, Marcus, my ever-loyal general, throws the door open. Taller and broader than me, with tawny skin, a neatly trimmed beard, and a perpetually grim expression, he radiates competence and wariness. Marcus doesn’t trust anyone and doesn’t try to hide that fact. Subtlety has never been his strong suit. He’s always ready for a conflict, a threat, a revolution, an assassination. He’d gladly skewer anyone who even looks at me the wrong way.
“Your Highness,” he says, as I step out into the sunlight.
I take in the square, trying to suppress my skepticism. We’re in an open area surrounded by a horseshoe of two-story wooden buildings. It’s…quaint. Kind of nice, maybe? And busy. We’re surrounded by a flurry of activity. Boxes of apples, potatoes, and onions are stacked like pillars, and a humongous pile of logs in the middle is waiting to be set on fire, ready to cook up a large roast. A mound of freshly picked pumpkins stands by a wooden stage, where a great banner proclaims the coming harvest festival.
Clearly, we are just in time for a party.
