Page 71 of The Masked Princess

With trembling fingers, Annalise removed the cover and stared down at the mask in her hands. It was white, like her dress, and someone had painted intricate designs in red over the entire face. There were two openings for her eyes, but the carved nose and mouth were completely solid. Her gaze flicked from the mask to the matching dresses of the Rhinnean women.

“His Majesty has requested that you wear it as a symbol of your new loyalty to Rhinnea,” one guard intoned.

Annalise stared at the smug expression on Nelan’s face, back at the box, and finally at the trembling child in front of her. “I understand,” she said as she lifted the mask from its place.

Annalise’s blood pounded in her ears as she walked down the aisle. The room was full of Rhinnean nobility dressed in their finest clothes, although not a single shade of blue was anywhere to be found. Nevertheless, even while surrounded by a sea of enemies, Annalise kept her head up. To any outside observer, she was the picture of elegance and grace—a cool princess of ice, even if on the inside she felt as though her organs were burning into ash.

She reached the end of the aisle and paused. “If I am to wed King Nelan, why is my betrothed not standing at the altar with me?” she asked the priest, ignoring the strange man who offered her his hand.

The high priest swallowed, his eyes darting nervously back and forth from her to the stranger. “Because of your curse, King Nelan has requested a proxy for the ceremony. As he is still present, albeit not directly at your side, it is allowed by the Goddess.”

“Don’t worry, Princess Annalise, my proxy is a man sentenced to death. If your curse takes him, it will be only what he deserves,” Nelan said.

“Please, Your Highness, if I don’t do this, he will jail my entire family,” the man whispered.

Annalise’s eyes flicked over his face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. She wondered what his crime was—knowing Nelan, he might have only been guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her onto the dais in front of the altar. He’d been given precautions—long black gloves that disappeared under the edge of his black, red, and gold dress coat. She guessed Nelan didn’t want to take any chances with his proxy dying before the ceremony could be completed.

As the priest began the marriage rites, Annalise let her eyes drift to her betrothed, who sat safely ensconced on his throne. He didn’t wear gloves, although a pair sat on the armrest of his chair, and his coat hung open at his neck.

She told herself that it was okay; she could improvise. She’d sequestered Soren’s knife away in a hastily sewn pocket of her dress. Nelan couldn’t keep his distance from her forever. At some point, he would have to approach, and she would have her revenge. If no opportunity presented itself, then she’d cut her hand when he wasn’t looking and throw the knife at him, or perhaps she’d sever one of her arteries, and the gush of blood would be too powerful for him to back away in time.

There were many ways to kill a man with her curse, and she savored the thought of each of them.

Undoubtedly, as soon as she made her move, she’d be tackled to the floor if not killed outright, but his fate would be sealed, and Dovea would live for another day. Rhinnea might start a war, but it would be impossible for them to fight on two fronts, and Dovea would only have to play defense until Praxis made its presence known, drawing Rhinnea’s attention away from their eastern neighbors. She had a small amount of hope that perhaps Princess Codela, Nelan’s older sister who she’d only met briefly, wasn’t as bloodthirsty as her brother, but that was in the Goddess’s hands.

A loud boom resounded behind her, as if someone had dropped an armful of tax books. Annalise didn’t flinch and kept her eyes ahead, boring into her target. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not when she was so close and yet still so far away. Her palms itched and her mouth was dry. She wondered briefly if this was how soldiers felt before going into battle.

Nelan’s eyes flickered over her shoulder and widened imperceptibly, and the blood drained from his face. A chorus of whispers broke out so loudly the room sounded like it was full of buzzing bees.

The curiosity was too great for Annalise to keep her focus. In slow-motion, she turned to see what had caused such alarm.

Soren Kierson, captain of her guard and king of her heart, stood in the open doorway, bruised and bloodied but very much alive.

“Nelan, I’m here to deliver on my promise,” he roared.

CHAPTER 53

Pain. There was so much pain.

Soren’s head pounded from dehydration, the skin on his back and torso burned from the whipping, and his left shoulder hung loosely at his side. He couldn’t remember exactly when it got dislocated, just that at some point in the past three days, Nelan had swapped the cat-o’-nine-tails for a wooden racket braided with leather and the force of the blow was enough to pop his shoulder from its socket. That pain was the worst, far outshining the countless cuts and bruises that covered his body. Thankfully, his legs were spared the worst of the beating; it would be terribly hard to look imposing if he couldn’t even take a step.

From his peripheral vision, he saw Princess Codela in the front row. She had saved him—well, she and Matheus Risebach. Less than an hour before, he’d heard a scuffle outside his prison room, and then the princess, who he’d only seen a handful of times, had swept in. She wore a formal dress with a high red collar that faded first to white, then into black. Judging by the disgust on her face as she stepped into the cell, he’d wondered if the black border of her hem was a calculation to hide any basement dirt.

She’d freed him with two swipes of a wicked-looking knife, told him what day it was and that he had an hour to prepare, and then exited as quickly as she’d come. Matheus had nodded at him from the doorway, where he left a change of clean clothes and Soren’s old sword, before following her.

It had been a close thing, but thankfully everyone was focused on the wedding, and beside a few servants who were far too busy to notice him, the halls were clear by the time Soren made his way to the throne room.

“How… where did you come from?” Nelan asked, rising halfway out of his seat.

“You know where I came from—the dungeon far below the castle where you kept me imprisoned after ordering your personal guard to ambush me. I’d say you should train them better so they don’t get complacent and allow the next prisoner to escape, but you won’t have that chance. This ends here and now.”

Nelan started calling for the guards, but Soren shouted over him. “The marriage between King Nelan of Rhinnea and Queen Annalise of Dovea is not valid, and I am here to issue a handfasting challenge for her honor as is my right!”

The declaration stopped Nelan mid-sentence, and he leaned back in his chair and waved his hand. “No one has called for a handfasting challenge in years; you can’t be serious,” Nelan scoffed, but Soren noted that the guards standing at the edge of the room had stopped mid-step when he invoked the right to the trial.

The head priest standing at the altar cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but the right to a handfasting challenge is one of our oldest traditions ever since your great forebearer, King Rosen, fought for his sister to restore her honor and standing after she was pledged to one of the great desert warlords.” The priest’s voice was reedy and clear, and he tilted his head as he appraised Soren. “However, I must ask, young man, how a Dovean heard of one of our more obscure traditions.”

“Over the last few weeks, Queen Annalise spent much of her days reading aloud to her attendants, frequently from books on Rhinnean history and customs. I had the fortune and privilege of standing guard outside her chambers for hours at a time. I am no great scholar, but some of the more intriguing parts stuck,” Soren replied.