My jaw aches in an effort to keep from grimacing. The king assists me to my feet, turning me toward the six men standing below. Gods, I’ve got to pick one, but…who? Not Taigan, that’s for sure. I feel my gaze drawn almost unwillingly to Joro, the Pirate Prince. It’s a primal sort of draw, beginning somewhere in my gut, but something tells me that to act upon it would not be in my best interests.
What of Warrick, then? I tear my gaze from Joro to contemplate the Ranger Prince. I wouldn’t want to embarrass him in case he can’t dance on his wounded leg. I turn to Prince Bryon but cannot quite imagine trying to dance with all that bare, muscled flesh. Learned Majestic Rune catches my eye, but I immediately look away again. He intimidates me so much, I just know I’ll end up stepping on that trailing red robe of his and humiliating us both.
Lord Elis would be the safest choice. I glance his way. He shoots me another roguish wink, which sends more blushes roaring up my neck. I could almost swear he’s reading my mind.Go on, Princess, he seems to say.You know I’m the best option here. Pick me, and let’s have some fun together, shall we?
“Roselle?” the king prompts, an edge to his voice.
I cast my gaze out across the faces gathered in the hall. All those strangers, denizens of Stromin Palace. They watch me with such rapt expressions, eager to see who the recipient of my favor will be. I cannot possibly satisfy them all—no matter who I choose, I’m bound to anger five other factions. “Um.” I swallow painfully and try to smile. “I…I choose…”
Suddenly, the doors at the far end of the hall fly open, slamming against the walls with an echoing bang. Everyone jumps, whirls, strains to look over and around one another at the figurewho steps into the opening under the lintel. It’s difficult to discern who or what he may be. Thescintillight, which had seemed to glow with special brightness at the arrival of Taigan, sinks to a dull glimmer, all luminance swallowed in the darkness of that tall, shadowed form.
He wears black. Black boots, black trousers, black jerkin and cloak. A black hood covers his head, and black gloves adorn his hands. Even from here, however, I can see that his garments are all very finely cut to fit his figure just so. No trimmings or embellishments—just perfectly tailored seams emphasizing the great breadth of his shoulders and the sharp taper to his trim waist. He is tall—almost as tall as Prince Bryon, but more elegantly proportioned.
No one speaks a word. No one so much as breathes. Even thescintilsseem to be frozen, their pale light no longer flickering but steady.
He strides into the hall, the heels of his boots making no sound. He might be a living shadow or a wraith of the underworld, so silent is his progress. Part of me wonders why the king doesn’t shout to the guards, why armed men don’t swarm through the guests and surround this newcomer with lowered lances. But no one makes a move. He progresses unmolested to the center of the hall, stopping beneath the largest cluster ofscintils.
No one speaks. No one breathes. I’m not sure my heart even beats.
Then, with a sweeping gesture, the stranger tosses back his black hood, revealing a head of thick dark hair falling in tendrils across a broad, pale brow. Beneath that brow is a face that might be considered devastatingly handsome were it not for the absolute hardness of his features. All except his lips. Those are, by contrast, uncommonly full and sensual and warm and…and…
“Gods and goddesses blight me,” I breathe.
“Alderin Aumanus, Sovereign Lord of Gorduin, High King of Unified Belanor and the mid-isle realms,” the man in black speaks, his voice filling the stunned hall, “I am Prince Valtar Skylock of Inithana. I have come to present myself as Seventh Champion for the honor of Princess Roselle’s hand.”
6
Rosie
What in the hells.
What in the actual gods-blazing hells.
My jaw hangs open, and my eyes bulge in their sockets. I shake my head, struggling to clear the ringing in my ears, struggling to reconcile the words which I just heard issued from that damnably kissable mouth.
He can’t be a prince. Hecan’tbe.
Can he?
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Captain Norlan barking commands. Galvanized guards rush from the edges of the hall, surrounding the man in black in a forest of gleaming lances. He stands in the center, shoulders back, head high, to all appearances unbothered by the numerous deadly blades aimed at his various extremities. His gaze, which has not once so much as flashed in my direction, remains fastened on the king.
“What is this?” Alderin demands, striding to the edge of the dais. The champions all gather before him, forming a protectivebarrier between their king and the stranger. Several hands reach for swords only to find empty scabbards. “Who are you, sir, and how have you come to be here? No one may enter Stromin without my knowledge or permission. The magic of the gate wards prevents it—you could not pass through without first giving your true name, which must then be written down in the Book of Admittance. The name of Valtar Skylock is not written there.”
“No, indeed,” the man in black replies. “I did not enter by the gate. I swam the river and climbed the barge wall.”
The hall echoes with an eruption of shocked, murmuring voices. My own breath catches in my throat. The sheer audacity of that claim! Stromin Palace is nearly impenetrable, with only a handful of entrances and exits, one being the river, which flows underground through pitch-black tunnels for many miles before reaching the palace itself. Even then, the barges which traverse those waters cannot access the palace unless the river level is raised by artificial mechanisms. The barge wall is a sheer face of a hundred feet. I know all this firsthand, for I arrived by river a week ago and carefully studied my surroundings when I came, searching for possible means of escape. There is no getting out that way.
There should be no getting in either. The idea is laughable! Anyone who tried to swim that river would be either drowned or dashed to death on razor-sharp rocks long before he came anywhere near Stromin Palace. And yet the stranger states his claim with such absolute calmness, as though referencing a summer afternoon stroll.
The tension is broken by a sudden burst of laughter. Prince Taigan steps forward from among the other champions, striding across the floor until he stands between the man in black and the dais. He swings an arm, pointing an accusatory finger at thestranger. “Uncle,” he cries, “this man is a bald-faced liar! He is no prince, but one of your own guardsmen. I saw him myself on duty earlier this day, clad in a Gorduin uniform. Give me one good reason why he shouldn’t be run through on the spot for daring to impersonate a prince!”
“I shall decide who is to be run through in my own court, boy,” Alderin replies, and the coldness in his voice douses some of the fire in the prince’s eye. He addresses the stranger again. “And is what my nephew says true? Are you indeed a member of the guard?”
“I am not,” the man replies in that deep voice of his, which could melt bedrock with its latent heat. “I took possession of an unused uniform soon after my arrival so as to blend in with the household while I prepared to make myself known to you.”
Well, I suppose that explains how I bumped into him earlier today. He was lurking about in alcoves, trying to go unnoticed by the other guards, who would surely have seen through his disguise in a heartbeat. I’m not sure if this makes me trust him more, but at least I’ve got some explanation for that ill-fitting uniform.
I swing my gaze from the stranger’s face to the king’s but can discern nothing of Alderin’s state of mind beyond utter bewilderment. A good reflection of us all, I shouldn’t wonder. “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he says after a musing silence. “You have admitted to infiltrating my court by secret means, impersonating one of my guards, and now declare yourself the Seventh Champion in a bid to win the hand of Princess Roselle.” He tips his head a little to one side. “Aside from it being entirely unprecedented for a Seventh Champion to participate in the trials, Inithana has not been our ally these last twenty years. Why should we let a prince of Inithana take part in this sacred championship, if you are indeed such a prince?”
