The bells outsidecalled the ninth hour of the morning, and Melia rushed back to her chambers to get ready for the ceremonies. But when she reached her corner of the palace, it was crowded with men in Elmarran liveries and she had to push through them to get to her door. Anxiety filled her like icy water and she instinctively tucked disobedient locks behind her ear and smoothed down her dress.
She stepped into her small chamber and closed the door, shutting off the noise outside. A slim figure dressed in black stood beside the window, and in comparison with that solemn, sinister shadow, every bit of finery in Melia’s room suddenly looked garish and tasteless, like an offensive attempt to flaunt wealth.
“Melia,” her father greeted her, turning away from the window.
“Father.” She bowed, remembering too late that she outranked him now and he should be bowing to her. He showed no intention to correct her; he simply nodded in return.
He looked older than she remembered, and smaller, in this court filled with tall men. But his physical size never limited the size of his temper, which seemed to fill the room.
“How was your journey?” Melia made an attempt at small talk, her voice cracking.
“Long,” Roderi of Elmar said.
“Would you like me to send for refreshments or—”
“No.”
One quiet word and she shut her mouth. It didn’t matter thatshe was a prince’s wife, it didn’t matter they were not in Syr anymore. Her father still had absolute power over her.
“My men are spread all over town, well-hidden and waiting for orders. I insisted on bringing my guard here—some are at the palace, some wait outside Abia. We have over three hundred soldiers.”
Melia closed her eyes. She had hoped—no, she had merely tried to force herself to believe—that her father would somehow change his mind. It was not because she liked the court or the people in it; it was simply that she couldn’t imagine how any of her father’s plans could make life better for anyone. Being around the people here in Abia, normal people, not traumatized by the endless war, taught her that perhaps the most any of them could hope for was a life untouched by the great schemes of vengeful lords.
It was not to be, though, because Roderi of Elmar had arrived in Abia with only one thought on his mind, and it burned in his eyes like black fire as he looked at his daughter.
“Tonight,” he said, “we’ll end this charade of friendship and goodwill, this humiliation of every Elmarran slaughtered by their blades.”
She nodded, looking around the room, wondering how many people were crowded inside the palace, how many ears, how many eyes. Was she being spied upon? Was there a maid, a little page boy tucked behind the tapestries and paneling, listening to her father spew his murderous plans?
Following her eyes, he scoffed. “Don’t worry about that, my men surround your chambers like a wall.”
The hope she didn’t know she’d harbored flickered out and died.
“What…what is going to happen tonight?” she asked.
Her father ignored her question. Instead, he said, “You have one crucial task, and I need you to do it at any cost.”
She nodded, terrified that her father would ask her to do something impossible and lethal. But then he produced a tiny velvet satchel and pulled a glass vial out. It was no bigger than her little finger, stoppered with cork and wax.
“Tonight at the wedding feast, no later than the ninth hour of the evening, I need you to pour this into Prince Amril’s drink.”
“Is it poison?” she asked, without a speck of guilt. She had disliked Amril intensely from the first moment they met.
“No,” her father sniggered. “I expect him to drink a lot, as usual. This is just something Ferisa mixed to enhance his intoxication. He will make a fool of himself and embarrass his bride. If someone caught you with this, you could claim you suffer from insomnia and it helps you sleep.”
She took the vial and the satchel. It felt like a strangely small task, after all the energy her father had invested in this plot. Putting one loathsome drunkard to sleep—she could do it with an easy heart and clear conscience. But still, she dared to ask, “Is that all?”
“No,” her father said. “But don’t worry about it. When the ceremonial part ends and the feasting begins, Ferisa will find you.”
This sudden closeness, this unpredictable camaraderie between her father and Ferisa, surprised Melia. They used to avoid each other when Melia was still in Syr. Something had changed between them.
Melia searched her father’s face, trying to discern his plans. But instead of fury and violence, she found something very different: A faint sheen of devotion illuminated his brow, a wistful, profound expression too close to hope for her liking. Was it Ferisa and her goddess, or was he simply looking forward to his plans coming to fruition?
Melia found his elation more frightening than his dark fury.
“Ferisa knows all your plans?” she dared to ask, keeping hervoice carefully neutral.
“Oh yes, she helped me make them while your husband dragged you around the kingdom.”
