His next sigh was melodramatic, and he placed a delicate hand over his sternum. The ring on his pinky was a signet, she realized suddenly. The ruby glinted as the eye of a gold lion. “As the loneliest prince in the world.”
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself, though the words resonated unnaturally loud in the woods. “This can’t possibly be what gets people going.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. His smile thinned, gold eyes turning flat. “I think it helps that I am a prince.”
“Are you going to reveal that you are, in fact, getting married because it’s the one thing you can do for your nation?”
His recovery was quick. The brilliant smile returned. “After General Sur”—at this, his brow creased before he continued—“took over the throne in M-Madros, he reached out to my father about creating an alliance. In the form of a marital union.”
She couldn’t blame him for his discomfort. She felt it, too, at every mention of the kingdom beyond the sands, or whenever her tongue tripped over its name.
Barrow had received the news of Madros’s regime change several weeks after it had happened, and even those scraps had been hard to pull together. The first traveling merchant who shared the news had difficulties even saying the country’s name, let alone telling the supposed story. One day, there had been a king and a queen and five young children; the next, they were gone, the nation leaderless until General Sur stepped in. That was five years ago. Madros closed its borders, and whenever a new traveling merchant arrived in Barrow, one of the gossipmongers in town would inevitably ask about news. The merchant would just frown and shake their head, saying there wasn’t much.
Eventually, the townspeople stopped asking. It wasn’t like anyone enjoyed speaking about Madros, the name slimy in their throats.
Risa didn’t know much about the sunbaked kingdom. Her tutors had taught her everything they knew of Madros, but her history lessons never quite stuck. All she remembered was that it had been a scientifically advanced nation that refused to muddle itself with magic.
“And that was that. My father agreed. Now I am to be married.” Prince Javi shrugged again, his smile a little wobbly.
“I didn’t take you to be the general’s type,” she finally mustered.
The prince guffawed. “I’meveryone’stype. And I’m betrothed to his daughter.”
“So, what, the general wishes to be a friendly neighbor and offers his only daughter to the least significant prince of Kheadon?” It sounded like another terrible plan.
He nodded, though the wrinkle between his brows remained. “Yes. I’ll admit, I’m hazy on the details.”
He paused his little speech, searching her face. When she grew nervous under his attention, she cleared her throat. “Don’t stop on my account. Please proceed to lavish compliments upon yourself.”
“The honor is usually someone else’s,” he responded.
At least all her prior assumptions about the prince had been right. He was the worst kind of person, the kind who reveled in their own self-importance, convinced they were deserving of everything.
“Perhaps that’s the real reason Brunhilda forced me to tag along. You need all the luck you can muster to keep your large, pompous head from expanding any farther—before you topple off your horse, crack your skull against a rock, and die,” she declared.
Suddenly, everyone stopped. Darkness had fully descended upon the woods.
General Van Houten raised his fist in the air. In the torchlight, the general’s complexion looked no different from sour milk.
“Here.” General Van Houten’s voice was harsh, his strange accent unplaceable. His voice was an unpleasant grating sound, amplified by the quiet that had settled over the trees. The guards loudly set to work.
Prince Javi made a face. “I’m wearing Itranian velvet.” He gestured at his intricate doublet, gold filigree suggesting someone spent hoursof labor on the fine and detailed stitching. “Surely we can go on until we’ve made it out.”
Risa was unsure if those outside Barrow knew about the specifics of the Bosque’s curse, unless they were forced to traverse its thick growth for business, like the wandering merchants. While it was more or less safe to traverse during the day, once night fell, hardly anyone ever made it out alive, and seeing the guards prepare to camp made Risa’s neck itch.
A tic started in the general’s left eye. He regarded the prince with barely concealed disdain written across his pallid, nondescript face, though Prince Javi didn’t notice.
“The Bosque is treacherous to cross at night. We should rest now and try in the morning.” The general trotted away, shouting orders at the soldiers. That left Risa alone with the one man she couldn’t avoid, who was staring after the general with a puzzled expression.
“I’m starting to get the impression my general doesn’t like me.”
Risa gasped. “What kind of general doesn’t dream of babysitting a prince on his trek to say ‘I do’?”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but you’re right. Who wouldn’t?” He hopped off his horse and handed the reins to an overeager soldier who had appeared at their side.
The soldiers started a fire and set up a large, elaborate tent, which had a flap embroidered with the Kheadon family crest and stripes in the kingdom’s colors: bright red, purple, and gold. A spit was propped over the fire. A cauldron hung from the wooden shaft, and soon aromatic smells of slop emanated from the pot.
“Shouldn’t we be more inconspicuous?” Risa remarked to no one in particular. She watched as a lazy plume of green smoke spiraledupward from the fire. It turned the itch at the back of her neck into a rash of suspicion.
