The words were nothing unusual for Amril, for the rash, crass, unrestrained prince who didn’t have to weigh the words that passed his lips. In taverns and at court, everybody cowed before him, lashed by his reckless tongue, the people who could restrain him fewer than fingers on one hand.
Still, the words he could carelessly throw at his friends or lovers meant something else when hurled at his Seragian bride.
Like silk parting before a sharp blade, the remaining people split into two groups: the Amrian courtiers gathering around Amril, and the Seragian ladies backing off towards the bedchamber with their mistress.
“Can you say that again, please?” the carevna said, her Amrian formal, clipped. Despite her wild hair and the stained nightgown, she looked every inch the emperor’s daughter.
“What did you put in my drink?” Amril said, too immersed in his shocked fury to restrain himself and apologize.
Melia, hovering in the shadow of a curtain, looked towards the door, hoping that someone outside had heard the commotion and that guards were on their way.
“Are you accusing me of trying to poison you?” Aratea said slowly, every word pitched to carry.
“Isn’t that what you Seragian cowards do?” he retorted.
That sobered some of the men around him. Hands pulled Amril back, into a cloud of urgent whispers, but it was already too late. In the bedchamber doorway, the carevna exchanged a few words in Seragian with her women, too fast for Melia to understand. One of them produced a heavy silk wrap and wrapped the carevna in it, covering the shameful stains.
I did this. This is my doing.
A ridiculous thought.
And yet, there was nothing ridiculous about Aratea as she laid an icy gaze on her groom and his friends. “I understand now what you think of me,” she said, “and I understand that, in spite of all preparations, you might not have been ready for the wedding. All I can do now is retreat and seek advice from the Seragian ambassadress.”
Not waiting for a reply, one of her ladies shut the bedchamber door, leaving the rest of them crowding around the prince in a sour-smelling room.
• • •
No one knewwhat to do next; they stood in a frozen tableau around the prince until footsteps thundered in the corridor and Amron ran in, followed by a handful of guards.
“Amril.” Amron rushed to his brother, knelt down beside him.
The two men who held the crown prince let go, not even trying to hide the relief on their faces.
“Where’s Aratea?” Amron asked his brother.
Amril shook his head.
The door of the bedchamber creaked open, but instead of the carevna or one of her ladies, Captain Darin stepped out, stern and impeccable as always. The atmosphere among the courtiers changed, a sudden silence following the chaos.
“The princess requested my men to escort her to the Seragian embassy,” Darin said.
“Have you slipped into my wife’s bedroom behind my back and allowed her to leave?” Amril lifted his head, his face pale with greenish shadows.
“I think it’s probably for the best, my lord. Just for tonight.”
Whispered conversations filled the room as Darin’s men herded the guests towards the door.
“She poisoned me,” Amril said, sullen like a boy.
“You deserved it,” Amron muttered, and amazingly, unexpectedly, his brother cracked a sour smile.
“You’ve come here to gloat, haven’t you?”
“No, I’ve come to fix this. Come.” With Darin’s help, Amron dragged Amril up. “The physician is on his way. Do you have the cup you drank from?”
“I drank from many cups.”
“Of course you did.” Amron motioned one of Amril’s men over. “Help the prince to bed. Clean him and let him lie down.”
