“We don’t know that for sure,” the queen said.
“We are working with the Seragians to find the attackers,” the king said. “Let’s celebrate today, and leave the investigation for later. One incident won’t spoil the most important wedding of our lifetime.”
The servants arrived with refreshments—dainty bites on silver trays, iced wine, fresh figs cut in half to show their moist red hearts. Melia took a tiny marzipan flower infused with rosewater, but her mouth was too dry and her throat too tight to swallow anything. In vain, she looked for a friendly face in the crowd.
Where was Amron? Ferisa had told her he was fine, but that was infuriatingly vague. Melia was torn between the desire to speak to him to find out how he felt, and the fear of facing him and hiding what she knew about the attack. Everybody around her lied with such ease—her father, Ferisa, ladies-in-waiting—while Melia squirmed and gnawed on herself, feeling she was betraying both sides with her incompetence.
Melia stood in the corner by the window, as far from the queen’s ladies as possible, holding the inedible sweet like a fool, wondering how many people would be furious if she ran away now, when a slight commotion drew her eyes to one of the entrances.
Amron appeared in the doorway, perfectly attired in dark blue and silver brocade, his hair neatly tied back, his face composed. She made a beeline for him before anyone else noticed he’d appeared.
“Amron.” She touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
He slowly turned his head and she saw that what she’d taken for composure was in fact a carefully arranged mask. Behind it, his eyes were filled with anxiety.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve spent the whole morning with Darinand his men, trying to figure out—”
“Your Highness!” Her father greeted Amron, cutting off his quiet explanation, and suddenly everybody in the room turned to look at them. “I’ve heard you’ve had quite a night. Alone against six Seragians? My border captains told me you were good, but this is an incredible feat.”
Amron stepped back, creating a buffer of empty space between himself and his father-in-law. “I wasn’t alone,” he said. “And I would be dead if the king’s guards hadn’t arrived before the Seragians had a chance to get the better of me.”
Melia thought Amron’s words would dissuade her father, but Roderi pushed on with an insistence that bordered on rudeness.
“Still, we’re all eager to hear the details, if you would be so kind as to share them with us.” Roderi grinned. “Your father must be very proud of you.”
If Amron heard the sting in his words, he didn’t show it. In Melia’s brief experience with the royal family, she’d learned that whenever the king measured Amron against Amril, he always found his younger son lacking.
Melia’s father turned to the king, waiting for him to say something. But Amron V, so talkative and pleasant a moment ago, now frowned in silence.
“Your Majesty, your son is an excellent fighter, isn’t he?” Roderi of Elmar asked.
To onlookers in that room, his words must have sounded like praise, but Melia knew better. He knew how to hit a nerve, how to draw a wedge between people. Roderi of Elmar was lauding his son-in-law to provoke the king.
The corners of the king’s lips twitched beneath his golden beard. “He certainly had his share of fighting yesterday,” he said dryly and turned to Amron. “You should apologize to your brother.”
Amron blanched, pressing his lips together.
“Amril, come here,” the king said.
All clamor died in the room. The crowd parted to let the crown prince through. Melia, who’d instinctively hidden away from him, who’d refused to look at him for fear of drawing his unwelcome attention, was shocked to discover Prince Amril’s lip was cut and swollen, a bruise marring the corner of his mouth. She had no idea what had happened. Amril was no stranger to fighting, but what did Amron have to do with it?
Despite his injured face, Amril smiled, radiating his charm. “Amron and I can deal with this later, Father.” He kept his tone light, indifferent. “In private.”
The king ignored him. A soft rustle of silk disrupted the silence as the queen appeared beside Amril. The scene turned so intimate that even the nosy courtiers radiated with unease as thick as a pea soup. Envoys and guests stood aside, aghast.
It was so clear to Melia what her father had done, exploiting the weakness, salting the wound. He was an expert in twisting the blade. Why couldn’t everyone else see it?
She felt like slipping behind a curtain and dying of shame, but Amron’s pale face anchored her where she stood, so close to him she could feel the invisible tremor running through his body.
“If you were anyone else but my son, you’d be hanged for assaulting the heir to the throne,” the king addressed Amron, ignoring the startled gasps from the crowd. “The least you can do is apologize to your brother in public and ask for forgiveness.”
“Amril knows why I hit him,” Amron said.
To his credit, Amril’s cheeks burned crimson as he gave a curt nod. “It was a disagreement, not an assault.”
“One does not disagree with a crown prince by punching him in the face.”
The king’s words were so peevish, so deliberately obtuse, that Melia squirmed. Surely, he could see what he was doing? Humiliating Amron in public for no other reason than daringto touch his belligerent brother, dancing to Roderi of Elmar’s poisonous tune. She risked a glance at her father. He stood wide-eyed, soaking in the scene he’d caused.
