Val stood too, slipping his sword into its scabbard and blinking in surprise as the prince, still dressed in his opulent fur-trimmed, golden wedding tunic and bedecked in heavy chains of office, stepped through the ranks of soldiers. He dragged his new wife by the arm, pulling her with him into the shocked silence of the room.
“You. You. You. Come here.” Prince Ballanor pointed directly at Val and two others. A glance showed that he’d picked the three biggest, roughest-looking men in the room.
Val stepped forward, widened his stance, and clasped his hands behind his back, eyes forward, as the prince inspected them. All three of the guards Ballanor had chosen were well over six feet tall, dark, and heavily muscled.
With a slow smirk, Ballanor turned to the princess. “Now, wife, choose your personal guard.” Then he lowered his voice and mock whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Touch him and he’ll die. If he sees you touch anyone else, they’ll die. Consider him your keeper from today. Choose one. Now.”
Val kept his face stoic. It seemed bizarrely threatening, but in the few weeks since Ballanor had arrived and taken charge of the guards, it had quickly become clear that the prince liked instant obedience, almost to the point of flattery. If she’d been throwing tantrums all week, it wasn’t surprising that Ballanor would have started to throw his weight around.
Ballanor gave the princess a shove forward, and she took a step closer, giving Val the chance to get a proper look at her.
She was tall and willowy, golden hair pulled back into a mass of complicated braids and studded with pearls. The princess shivered in her long white bridal gown; its filmy satin fabric and delicate embroidery were not designed for the cold outdoor weather, and its hem was ruined with the mud and muck of the stables they had passed on their way to the barracks. Her sleeves were slashed at the shoulder to reveal slender arms, biceps twined with the green bands of stylized knotwork tattoos of her people, while a matching emerald glittered in the delicate gold diadem on her brow.
She was very beautiful. And she looked terrified. Nothing like the harridan he’d expected. He could see her elegant fingers trembling as they rested against her throat where her pulse thrummed unsteadily.
She raised a shaking hand and pointed directly at him. “That one,” she said in her softly lilting northern accent.
Ballanor tilted his head in command. “Lanval, you’ve just been promoted to Captain. You’re now personal guard to the princess—see that she does as she’s told.”
Ballanor turned the princess around and marched her away while Val tamped down his shock at the sudden and complete annihilation of his life.
Keeping his face carefully blank, he gathered up his things and fell into step behind them, plans for his evening tryst falling by the wayside along with all his years serving with the Hawks.
They made their way through the palace to the chamber that had been prepared for the princess; a room adjacent to the prince’s and connected by a stout oak door.
Val couldn’t help but notice that Alanna’s room was less than half the size of her husband’s. And that the large bolt that locked the door was only on Ballanor’s side.
Well. He didn’t know much about how the nobility conducted their marriages. And, in all honesty, he didn’t know that much about the prince.
Mostly Ballanor had amused himself by ordering the Black and Blues around and sinking into the machinations of court politics. He spent his days arguing against the treaty and trying to reinstate the war, or out on the parade ground enjoying the crowds that came to watch him beat his cronies at sword fighting practice. He’d seemed inept and spiteful to Val, but it wasn’t his place to judge.
Val continued to withhold judgment while the prince explained his duties—which primarily sounded like babysitting—and he gave his oath of guardianship, promising to protect the princess with his own life.
He withheld judgment when the princess timidly asked if she could have some food and Ballanor looked her up and down and told her she was fat enough as it was.
He still withheld judgment when Ballanor locked Alanna in her room and told Val to keep her there until he was ready. And not to let anyone in, even her maid.
He didn’t like it. But it wasn’t his place to say anything.
Val firmed his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and withheld judgment. He was a soldier. His job was to provide the muscle, not the brains. And certainly not to question his prince.
He continued to tell himself that, standing outside the princess’s barred door for hours. Right up until the wedding night.
First Grendel arrived, deep in his cups and leering at the entourage of foppish courtiers he’d brought with him, demanding to be let into Ballanor’s rooms.
“Sorry, Lord High Chancellor, sir.” Val shook his head, blocking the way. “The prince hasn’t allowed it.”
Grendel tipped his head back to look down his long nose contemptuously. “The prince will allowme.”
Val flicked his gaze along the amused sneers of the prince’s cronies, their flushed faces and knowing looks, and was absolutely certain that he could not let them into the room that Princess Alanna had been waiting in, silently and alone.
“I apologize, Your Grace,” he looked to the rest of the group, “gentlemen. I made a vow to the prince, and he—”
“Someone asking for the prince?” Ballanor mocked as he came up behind the group, still wearing his wedding tunic, a goblet leaning precariously from his hand.
“This man”—Grendel prodded Val in the chest with a sharp nail—“refuses me entry. Me.”
Val clasped his hands behind his back and focused his gaze on the opposite wall.
