The King's Daughters Page 7

  "I need your counsel."

  The long-haired prince produced a dour pout. "It's a pity you didn't come earlier. Before your disastrous introduction to the court would have been preferable. Some of those gifts where of questionable nature." He cringed so forcefully one could've believed that he had just sucked on a lemon. "Tsk-tsk-tsk," gave the prince. "Deplorable faux pas on your part. The saddest part in all this is that it was entirely avoidable. (Sigh) Let's forget that unpleasant event. It's in the past anyway. I'm glad you've decided to accept my offer—even if late. I will counsel you to the best of my ability . . . on one condition."

  My throat tightened. Damnation! Why were there always conditions? Hiding my discomfort, I asked, "Which is?"

  Prince Diego smiled ruefully. My body tensed up in response. "Simply, that if we are to become friends, we must do away with all these tedious formalities. Let's forget our titles and address each other as friends do. Let's speak each other's names freely."

  Relief flooded me; I had feared something far worse than that. "Agreed, Diego."

  A look of satisfaction crossed the long-haired prince's face. "Amir." He spoke slowly as if relishing in saying my name without its title. Quite frankly, he sounded far too delighted for my taste. "Tell me the reason of your visit," he said.

  "I need you to teach me to dance."

  "Really!" Chuckling under his breath, he shook his head. "This is not what I expected, but I can certainly do that. Will you permit me to dress first? I wouldn't want to lose my pantaloon in mid-rehearsal."

  "Please do," I said. By all means, spare me the sight of your bare bottom.

  While Diego was dressing in the adjacent room, I inspected the contents of this one under Milo's resentful glare. Paying him no mind, I approached the marble-topped table set under the window. Three swords were neatly displayed on top of it. They were all weapons of the type I despised: bejeweled and gilded, which, although impressive looking, more often then not proved useless in battles. Then I spotted a fourth sword propped against the foot of the table. If the bejeweled swords had been an expected sight, this one wasn't. This sword was out of place in this room, mainly because its decoration was limited to some subtle chasing on its blade, which had been crafted with the best quality steel available. As for its grip, constructed of woven leather, it had a simple yet elegant guard surrounding it.

  "Milo, come here. What do you think of this?" I handed him the weapon.

  Carefully taking the sword, Milo weighed it, checked its balance, then its handling. A look of astonishment formed on his face. "My lord, this is a very good sword. In fact, I would say it's an excellent one."

  "I thought I was supposed to teach you how to dance, not how to fight," said Diego.

  I frowned. Unless I had misheard, the tone of Diego's voice sounded deeper than usual . . . more masculine. That was odd.

  "I'm surprised to see that you have a collection of swords. For some reason, I had the impression you fought only with handkerchiefs." I indicated the sword in Milo's hand. "And this is a superior weapon. An expert's sword."

  "That old thing? Pleeease, I would never carry that!" Diego's voice had returned to its usual high, affected tone. "Forget the sword. The dance lesson is about to begin. As you know there are only three days left before the ball—not much time to learn the Sorvinkian dances."

  "Dances! How many are there?"

  "Four. But I think you can manage with two. So let us begin."

  * * *

  Diego proved to be an excellent teacher. Unfortunately, I made a poor student, even though he insisted otherwise. This dancing business was much more difficult than I had believed it would be. I kept confusing the gliding steps of the volka—the slow twirling dance performed by pairs—with the fast hopping steps of the travolesky, which was danced in groups. Consequently, I was often obliged to start over with Diego playing my lead.

  In the midst of our dance lesson, our hands were constantly forced to meet. During those brief moments of holding hands, I had noted that Diego's grip wasn't weak, limp, or soft as I had expected it to be. Instead his hands were firm, strong, and . . . calloused. A dandy with calluses—that's strange. Then again, not as much as a dancing Telfarian Prince.

  While I humiliated myself with this stupid dancing, Milo watched attentively my every move from his seat by the fireplace. Although he was more fortunate than I, Milo didn't entirely escape my fate, as Diego would often use him as an example while I sat down and watched the two of them dance. In time I came to believe that this exercise was also an excuse on Diego's part to dance with my valet. His constant praising of Milo's physical attributes certainly made me suspect that much. I wished he would just shut up about it. Yet I didn't dare tell him so, for fear of antagonizing my only ally before I learned how to dance. Fortunately, Milo proved a quicker study than I was and the lesson moved on rapidly.

  I looked at my valet and smiled. I could have wagered my fortune that part of his eagerness to learn quickly was driven by a will to get out of Diego's clutch. Or perhaps he was just more gifted for dancing than I was. When I declared that I had had enough—my feet were throbbing as if a horse had trampled on them—Diego agreed to end the lesson without protest. However, he immediately set up another meeting for the next day.

  Lounging nonchalantly on the couch, Diego said, "Don't return to your room just yet, Amir. I have another type of lesson for you."

  Head tilted, I stared at him with some apprehension. "What type of lesson?"

  "Court politics and Sorvinkian etiquette. If there is such a thing." Graciously pulling himself to his feet, Diego swung a blue velvet jacket over his lacy white shirt, doused himself in perfume, then with a flip of his long hair said, "Come, follow me. Dinner is the best time to meet everyone in the castle—everyone that matters, that is. You mustn't repeat the blunders you made at your introduction, my friend."

  I could hardly argue about that. By now, I knew how sorely lacking my knowledge of Sorvinka's customs was, and that it needed improving. With a sigh, I followed Diego to the heart of the castle. To my surprise, he didn't enter the throne room, but took a different route that led us to a new area of the castle which I had not yet visited.

  "This is the drawing room," he whispered to me as we passed its tall majestic entrance.

  Amazed, I looked around. The room was quite simply magnificent. It had three light-blue walls embellished with elaborately carved white medallions. Tall mirrors occupied the entire length of its south wall, giving the room the appearance of being far bigger than it really was. It also made it more confusing, because the mirrors reflected the image of everyone present and gave the impression that the room was bursting with people. I liked this place. It had a relaxed atmosphere that put everyone at ease. Lords and ladies were socializing freely in this room. Their conversations were light and animated. Laughter was heard regularly.

  "Beautiful, isn't it." Diego said.

  "Very." I thought the room was totally unexpected in this rough gray stone castle.

  "It's a copy of the famous Vivilany castle's drawing room. Sorvinka has very little culture of its own, it seems. They're content to steal, copy, or reproduce other kingdoms' marvels and advancements," Diego explained as we strolled across the room. According to him, Sorvinka's main accomplishment was in the military domain, which explained how such an unsophisticated group of people had conquered so many countries. But now that they had conquered most of the civilized kingdoms, they were having problems controlling and managing this vast empire.

  "That's why all these foreign nobles are here. The majority aren't free to leave, you know. They're more or less hostage of the Sorvinkian crown. Guaranties, of sorts, that their kingdoms will remain loyal."

  I stared at the joyous assembly. I was now able to discern some signs of tension on many faces. Discreetly motioning toward the nobles nearest to us, Diego began telling me their names, titles, and stories. There were far too many to remember. I would never retain it all.

&nbs
p; As I was scanning the crowd, a tall individual at the back of the room captured my interest. Standing as straight as an oak, the middle-aged man appeared out of place amidst this gathering of idle nobles. Maybe it was because of his clothes, a tall pewter-gray fur hat and a matching short coat thrown over one of his shoulders and held in place with a gold chain. Or maybe because of the black military uniform he wore under his coat. No, I thought after closer inspection, it was because of the serious expression on his broad square face. It was the look of one forced to perform a disagreeable yet essential duty. Clearly, this man was ill at ease in this frivolous environment. He seemed to be enjoying himself as much as a cat in a pond. But that wasn't what had attracted my attention to him in the first place. What did was the fact that he was missing an arm—the right arm, to be more specific.

  He turned his broad face in my direction. I noted that he had thick black eyebrows which had grown together to form one straight band of hair, like a large, hairy caterpillar, and a strong protruding chin—then I noted his attitude. This man glanced about the assembled nobles with the condescending manner of one who believed himself superior to most people. As he surveyed the room, his eyes glided over me as if I were of no consequence. Part of me was glad not to have aroused his curiosity. Part of me was also insulted by that. He turned to the three young officers standing at his side and spoke to them. Those men had to be his sons, I thought. All three possessed the same bushy, grown-together eyebrows, broad square face, strong chin, and stern, humorless look as his.

  "Who's the one-armed man at the back?" I asked.

  "Baron Vladimir Molotoff. The man's a talented soldier—Sorvinka's best general. He's also second in line to the throne, right behind Lars. Tread lightly around him. He's not to be trifled with. Even the king is wary of him."

  That last statement baffled me. I turned a perplexed eye to Diego. "Why? Can't the king simply . . . eliminate him? That's what my father would've done."

  Diego made a sour face. "Too late for that. Molotoff is now more popular than the king himself, with the population. A suspicious death might bring on a revolt. Instead the king sent him to fight a battle that was rumored to be impossible to win and widely viewed as a death trap. Not only did the man survive, he won the battle and returned to Sorvinka. Minus an arm, mind you, but a bigger hero than before."

  "What about the three young officers beside him?"

  "His sons. They're just as upright and heroic as the father. Needless to say, they despise me."

  Nodding, I returned my attention to the crowd of strangers. Just then I recognized a friendly face at the other end of the room. It was the beautiful lady in red who had been kind to me at my introduction ceremony. A group of attractive young noblemen and ladies, each more stunning than the next, was gathered around her. But in my opinion, she remained the most splendid of all.

  "The lady with the pleasant smile, is she a hostage too?"

  "Countess Ivana? No, she's a victim of her station."

  I frowned.

  "She possesses almost everything one could wish for: a title, grace, beauty, and wit. Furthermore, she's also a widow, which isn't a terrible thing when one is as young and as lovely as she is. Being poor, on the other hand, is terrible—especially for a woman of noble birth. And she's dirt poor. Without the queen's good grace, Countess Ivana, like many young ladies, would be destitute and left without a roof over her head. Those penniless nobles are among the few people who are actually glad to be here."

  I stared at the gathering of lovely young nobles and nodded.

  Diego leaned against my shoulder, engulfing me in an intoxicating lavender perfume, and said, "Countess Ivana is delightful. So are her beautiful friends, and they're not opposed to washing either, which makes their company most desirable. However, I must warn you, if she invites you to her quarters, refuse. Ivana's evenings are extremely boring. Trust me. People just sit around drinking tea." Diego sounded rather offended by this. "Not at all what I expect of an evening affair," he said in a vexed tone. "She and her friends are far too virtuous; it's highly reprehensible."

  I didn't reply. I couldn't figure out what to say to that anyway. I turned my focus to Countess Ivana, who was conversing with a small group of ladies. The tall, skinny girl standing aside this joyous group grabbed my attention. She was so serious one would think she was attending a funeral. Such a grim demeanor was ill suited for this event and also for her age, which I guessed was about the same as Eva's, though this girl appeared older. Her clothes were partly to blame for this. The plain blue dress she wore and her unsophisticated hairdo—mousy brown braids simply wrapped around her head—only added to her air of austerity. Why was I intrigued by her? I wondered. It certainly wasn't because of her gaiety or beauty. This girl wasn't ugly either, but she definitely lacked luster. Her features, straight nose, small square chin, prim lips, were for the most part unremarkable, except for her bright green eyes. I found those eyes breathtaking. Have I seen those before? They look familiar . . . actually her entire face looked familiar. Then it hit me. This was the face I had seen in the conservatory. There wasn't a doubt in my mind. That's why she held my attention so. "Who's the stern looking girl in blue?"

  "Lady Isabo. The queen's confidante." Lowering his voice to a secretive whisper, Diego went on. "If I heard well, perhaps her successor too, once the queen passes away."

  "You mean the king would remarry after the queen's death?"

  Diego rubbed his dimpled chin. "I'll believe it when it happens. The king hasn't officially named Lars as his heir yet, however. Believe me, that has people talking. Some think he will remarry and try having sons this time."

  A smile made its way to my lips. Lars must love this.

  "You've mentioned the queen, is her illness something new?"

  Diego looked at me sideways, as if I should at least know the answer to that. "Amir, as long as I've been here the queen has been sick. If you ask me, it's surprising that she's still breathing."

  "Ah," I nodded. "How long have you been here, Diego?"

  "Too long."

  "Can you leave or are you a hostage like the others?" I doubted he was a personal friend of the king. I could hardly imagine those two discussing clothes together.

  A dejected look cast a shadow over Diego's handsome face. "Yes, I am a hostage of the worst kind."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Not only am I held prisoner in this horrid castle, I am to be married to Princess Thalia.

  My eyes widened, and I had to quickly catch myself to prevent my jaw from dropping. "You're very fortunate. Princess Thalia is a charming young lady. Congratulations!"

  Diego glared at me. I thought that if his eyes could have shot arrows, I would have been pierced right there.

  "Are you mocking me? She's a silly, fat little girl who won't stop babbling about stupidities. Worst of all, she's utterly enamored with me. It's intolerable." Diego shook his head. The move sent a wave of perfume my way, forcing me to step back. "Perhaps I would love her more if she loved me less. Plus the girl is always too happy, it's most annoying."

  Well, obviously, this union was an arranged one. I didn't know who to pity the most, Prince Diego, who felt trapped by this arrangement, or Princess Thalia, who loved a man who had no affection for her. She was worse off, I thought.

  I peeked at Diego. The more I learned about this man the less I trusted him.

  "Amir, you are one of the few people in the room who can leave this place," Diego grumbled. "You're a freeman . . . and so are they actually."

  I followed Diego's gaze to the two barbarian warriors entering the room.

  Closing the gap between us, Diego leaned toward my ear. When he spoke his voice was barely above a murmur. "Although the king has problems maintaining the Sorvinkian Empire whole, the Farrell rebellion is far from being his biggest worry. They are his main headache now."

  "Who are they?"

  "Emissaries from the warring empire of the east. These two arrived six months ago, su
pposedly to learn our culture."

  "Have they?"

  Diego shrugged. "Hard to say—they don't speak Sorvinkian, or any other civilized language I know for that matter."

  These warriors really intrigued me, so I pummeled Diego with questions: What were their names? What was this empire like? To name but a few. Sadly, he couldn't answer any of my questions. Because of the language barrier, Diego had long ago abandoned all attempts to converse with the emissaries, and he couldn't recall having heard their names either.

  "Maybe once, at their formal introduction. That was a while ago," said Diego after much head scratching. Then he added that the bulk of his knowledge was made up of secondhand accounts and rumors, which, in his opinion, no sensible man should take too seriously. That last bit of advice took me aback; I thought this dandy would fancy gossip. Nothing this prince did or said was as I expected. I didn't care for the unexpected. More often than not, it turned out to be unpleasant.

  Later that evening, I bid Diego goodnight and left for my room, but only after having promised him to return the next day for more dance lessons. And, of course, he made me promise to bring my beautiful valet with me. Needless to say, neither of us looked forward to dancing with Diego again.

  Chapter Six

  Even though I had spent the previous day practicing dances with Diego, and all of today dancing with Milo in my rooms, I still felt ill prepared and nervous when I entered the ballroom. I stopped in the entrance in awe at the magnificence of this immense space. The glossy russet marble floor resembled a giant sheet of amber. The gilded decorations embellishing the walls were set ablaze by the light of hundreds of candles coming from the majestic ceiling chandeliers. The entire room resembled an opened treasure chest. And the ladies, in their vibrant-colored gowns, looked like floating jewels amidst all this gold.

  I was glad to have chosen an ensemble of shiny gray silk with silver trim. (I would not dare wear pale colors in this company again.) Also, this dark shade had a dignified quality that should please the king. With this in mind, I made my way to the center of the room in search of familiar faces.