“I wasn’t talking toyou,” I try to say, but a wave of nausea squeezes my stomach, and I vomit all down the front of his shirt.
Except he isn’t wearing a shirt—because he’s never wearing a shirt—so my vomit spatters Prince Alaric’s fancy velvet jacket and clings to his bare chest like lumpy porridge.
“You are, without a doubt, the most vile and irritating person I’ve ever met,” he grumbles.
“Thank you,” I say as I wipe my mouth on his shoulder.
“Don’t thank me—it wasn’t a compliment.”
“Coming from you, it most certainly was.”
Ten
Alaric mutters curses for the duration of our trek up the mountain. Asif I’m not equally appalled at the feel of his sweat seeping through my tunic and his wiry hair invading my mouth.
Unfortunately for both of us, his assistance is undeniably helpful. My lungs are slowly remembering how to fill, and the haze shimmering across my vision has finally dissipated.
“You can put me down now,” I say when we reach the outer wall of the Fortress and the gargantuan black gate lowers like a drawbridge. “I want to walk.”
Ineedto walk. The Vanzadorians will never respect me if I’m carried into their city like a simpering maiden. But Alaric strides across the gate before it has even stopped shuddering.
I pound my fists against his chest—and immediately regret it when my singed hand throbs painfully. “Put me downnow,” I command.
“And let you stagger about like a madwoman? You’ll scare the children. Or trip and fall, and I’dhatefor you to tumble over a cliff or scrape up that pretty face.”
“Don’t antagonize me.” I thump him even harder—with my good hand this time.
“Can’t I give my wife a compliment?”
“No,” I say, wriggling like a worm.
Stop.Rowenna’s command is so sharp and unexpected, I freeze.Maybe it isn’t a bad thing if they underestimate you, she explains.
But I cut her off with a shake of my head.Is this the first impressionyouwould choose to make? We both know you wouldn’t be caught dead being carried into the Fortress.
Exactly.Her voice is soft, somber.My methods clearly weren’t the best.
We’re both quiet then, contemplating what she could have done differently. WhatIcan possibly do to survive my time in Vanzador and make our oppressors pay.
While Rowenna and I have our quiet discourse, Alaric lugs me through another granite door. Once inside, I expect to find the sprawl of cold, labyrinthine streets and crude stone houses Ro described in her letters, but we must have come through a different entrance, because we emerge not into a filthy, unkempt slum but a spacious plaza that rivals the receiving courtyard in Tashir in size and beauty.
The air in here is still and warm, unlike the punishing wind outside the walls, and the orange glow of the setting sun dances across a mosaic floor made of swirling black onyx and white quartz. A gurgling fountain occupies the center of the square, and tidy rings of vendor carts ripple outward, offering breads and cheeses, as well as glittering stone necklaces and earrings.
Droves of people dressed in the scandalous Vanzadorian fashion—sheer lace dresses with plunging necklines and waistcoats corded in silver and gold—meander about with baskets in hand, giggling and gossiping, while groups of men and women wearing more practical tunics and trousers make their way toward gemstone mines indicated on wooden placards. Around the fountain, children play a game of tagwhile loose dogs bound through the chaos, gobbling up crumbs.
It’s all so ordinary. Sonormal. If not for the ridiculous clothing, it could almost be the marketplace in Tashir.
Which is wrong.
Vanzador isnothinglike Tashir.
As Alaric carries me across the square, the people slowly become aware of our presence. No one says or does anything overtly hostile, but each pointed finger makes me flinch. I’m surprised to feel Alaric flinching too, since the stares and whispers clearly aren’t aimed at him. The people bow as he passes. Some eagerly wave and call his name. But he ignores them all, tightens his grip, and walks faster.
“Ah, there they are!” King Soren’s voice booms from across the square, where he sits on a throne of chiseled quartz beneath a gaudy canopy. A valet holds a near-empty board of sliced meats at Soren’s elbow, giving the impression he’s been lounging there a very long while, awaiting our entrance.
A small contingent of men and women wearing stone-blue robes with tasseled caps surround their king, surveying the comings and goings of the square with a critical eye. Beyond them, groups of courtiers in elegant coats and dresses chat amiably with miners clad in dirt-streaked tunics. Despite the obvious disparity in rank, they all seem to be united by a common goal: winning King Soren’s favor.
They gaze at their king as if he’s as bright and life-giving as the sun itself, and jostle to get nearer to his warmth.
