CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

QUEEN MALINA

The man sitting across from me is polished and poised, as if he’d grown up in royal court all his life. In actuality, he’s been a rootless nomad. He’s traveled all over Orea doing odd jobs, helping the poor, chasing away thieves and raiders.

Why he decided to come to this frozen edge of the world, I don’t know. But he showed up to visit Highbell, and when I saw him appear at court the first time, our eyes locked. He’s been here ever since, though I still can’t quite fathom it. He seems to have just dropped from the sky.

“You are very beautiful.”

My lips curl up at the compliment. “I know.”

I’m certain that my reply catches him off guard, because his brown eyes widen a fraction before he gives off a small laugh.

But it’s true. I do know I’m beautiful. Any beautiful person who says otherwise is lying. Sometimes, it’s to fish for compliments. But mostly, it’s because they have been taught by society—men, in particular—that we have to downplay our beauty, to only let them determine it. To seem humble. But I don’t have to be humble.

I’m a princess.

Of course, being a princess has its downsides too. Right now, for instance. Instead of being able to have this conversation privately, there’s an audience. Three of my ladies-in-waiting are embroidering by the window. Though even I can tell they’re more interested in eavesdropping than making their stitches. I should walk over to the fireplace that’s tucked into the corner of the tea room and toss their hoops into the flames, letting them balk. Yet my mother taught me to never let my temper burn hot. Rashness, fiery tantrums, outbursts, those are never well thought out.

Punishment is best served cold.

“You told me you’ve frequented theaters during your travels throughout the other kingdoms,” I reply, eyes flicking back to him. “I’m sure you’ve met many beautiful women.”

He tips his head as if in thought, lets a hand run down the gold thread along his collar. “None like you.”

I know this too. There isn’t a single family line whose heirs are born with snowy white hair—that’s a Colier trait. I have had sonnets sung to me, artists who have painted my likeness as a white rose growing out of the Highbell snow. I have been praised since I was a little girl for my unique beauty.

I have also had many offers for my hand in marriage, but this time, it’s different.

This time, the man sitting across from me has charmed my father. And there are only two things that my father can be charmed by: power and wealth.

Tyndall Midas just happens to have both.

Leaning forward, I reach to pick up the teapot from the table in front of us and pour out more tea before I take a sip. It’s still warm, despite the fact that we’ve been sitting here talking for the past hour.

“So, is that something you like to do here? Go to the theater in the city?” Tyndall asks.

After taking another sip, I place the cup back down on the glass table. I can see both of our legs beneath, mine shrouded by the skirts of my white dress, and his encased in brown trousers, the buckles on his boots solid gold.

“I do not enjoy the theater perhaps as well as I should,” I admit.

He tilts his head slightly, making the flames from the fireplace cast his golden hair in an orangish shadow. “And why is that? I thought most young women loved watching plays.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” I reply, stroking a hand against the hair that’s swept over my shoulder. “They’re playing. I get enough of people pretending on a stage while I’m at court.”

“I suppose I won’t ask you to attend one with me, then.” A wide, bright smile comes over Tyndall’s face. I have to admit, the sight makes my stomach flutter. I am not one to be so casually charmed. Another aftereffect from court adulation. Yet this is different. I don’t dislike his attentions. For one, he’s not from this kingdom, and therefore, he’s something new. For another, when he looks at me, it feels like he’s actually interested in me.

Unlike the other possible suitors, he doesn’t constantly meet with my father. Instead, he puts all of his attention on me.

“On the contrary,” I tell him. “I have a feeling I wouldn’t be nearly as annoyed as I usually am when I go with my ladies.”

When he smiles again, I find my own lips curling up too. The motion makes my cheeks hurt. I don’t smile very often. I’m not one to give fake grins or to simper. I only smile when the person or the moment truly warrants it.

Is this what it feels like to fall in love?

The smiling, the stomach tightening? I have no one to ask. Not with my mother dead and buried, certainly not with my father, who only ever speaks to me either from across a formal dining table or during a court function. I’d rather scoop out my own teeth with a serrated spoon than ask my simpering ladies.

I suppose the theater will be good for something after all. The romances played out on that stage are the only examples I can go by.

“You’d make a very fine leading man,” I tell him, eyes sweeping over his figure.

“Well, from what you’ve explained, there will be plenty of opportunity at court for me to try my hand at a good pretend.”

I let out a small laugh. “I look forward to watching your performance. Actually, you will be performing from what I understand?”

“Indeed,” he says. “If all goes well, I will present myself to your court with a formal show of magic.”

“I must admit, I’m especially excited to see it. From what my father has said, your magic is fascinating.”

“I’ll gild something just for you,” he says with a wink.

My heart skips a beat. “I’d like that very much.”

His smile softens, but when I reach out to grab my teacup again, he captures my hand instead. A gasp sucks through my lips at such a bold move, and my eyes dart to the right again to see if my ladies noticed, but thankfully, they’re actually keeping their heads down on their needlework for once.

“Your hand is quite cold,” he says quietly as his thumb skates over my skin.

“They’re always like that.” I’m embarrassed at how shaken my voice sounds. “Everything about this kingdom is cold. Its princess included.”

He hums beneath his breath, eyes locked on my pale skin, while I take the moment to be able to study his face. He’s handsome, there’s no doubt about that. With his clean-shaved face and arched brows and so much charm packed into a single expression. It’s no wonder my breath catches again when he lifts his eyes to mine.

For a moment, I get lost in the depths of his eyes, and I wonder if he gets lost in mine. I’ve heard some men say that the pale blue of my eyes is unnerving. Yet when he looks at me like this...I don’t think he’s unnerved.

No, he looks at me like he’s thinking about doing things far too inappropriate during high tea.

“May I ask you a question, Princess?” he purrs, making a shiver travel down my back.

“Yes.”

“If I asked for your hand in marriage, would you want to accept?”

My eyes go wide. Of course, I know that he and my father have been in discussion about it. Yet that’s something that the men always decide—especially when it comes to royals, and even more so when it has to do with a powerless princess.

“You’re asking my opinion?’’ The idea is ludicrous. None of the other would-be suitors have ever asked me whether or not I wanted to marry any of them. The fact that he is asking is a bit mind-boggling.

“I am,” he says.

“My father’s opinion is the one that matters.” There’s a hint of bitterness crawling over my words like biting ants. “You have an incredible power and wealth that could restore Sixth Kingdom’s glory and stability.”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “But I am not asking about your father or your kingdom. I’m asking about you.”

Startled, I blink at him, my straight spine hitting the back of my chair.

“If you don’t want this, tell me at once,” he says, eyes looking between mine, his hand still holding my own with a steady warmth that’s so foreign. “I would never wish to move forward with something that you didn’t wish for. Would it make you happy, Princess?”

Sincerity drips off his tone like honey from a spoon. Slow and sweet, making me want to lean forward and lap it up.

This must be what it’s like. This must be what all those silly romance plays are about.

“I would be happy,” I finally answer quietly, though that word...I’m not sure I truly know what being happy means. I haven’t been happy since before my mother died years ago. But I would like to be happy again.

I would like to have a husband who I actually liked. Who actually liked me. I would like to have control over my life and not always be thrust away by my father, forever punished for being born a girl without any magic. If it weren’t for my white Colier hair, I suspect he may have tried to denounce me as his heir years ago.

I don’t even realize that a tear has dripped down my cheek until Tyndall lets go of my hand to reach up to brush it away.

Not once has a man ever touched my cheek. My own father never even placed a kiss there when I was young. So perhaps that’s why it feels like such an intimate thing. Perhaps I am so starved for and startled by touch, that it’s the reason I freeze beneath it.

“None of that,” he says quietly, and I don’t know whether I want to cry or smile, but he’s somehow gotten me to do both in the same hour, when I’ve gone without either for so long.

I marvel at the feel of his hand cupping my cheek. Marvel at how, for the first time in my life, I actually want.

Yet the moment is broken with the sharp hit that comes from the clearing of a throat. Suddenly remembering we’re not alone, I jerk away from him, gaze darting over to my ladies. They’re all looking at me now, disapproval pulling at their brows. Yet their chastisement doesn’t quite ring true. Not with the glint of excitement in their eyes now that they have a piece of gossip to later spread throughout the castle.

How I loathe them.

Clearing my throat, I take a moment to gather my composure as I run my hands down my skirt. Yet it’s not the fabric that I feel, it’s his touch, the way his fingers curled around my palm. The warmth that seeped in from his skin to mine. The trace of the tear he swiped away with his fingertip.

“Princess—” Tyndall begins, but that gets cut short too.

The door to the tea room opens, and my main guard walks in with a bow. “Pardon, Your Highness, but your father has requested to see the gentleman.”

I try not to let the disappointment show as we get to our feet. “Of course,” I say as we head for the door. “I’ll join you.”

Yet the guard shakes his head. “King Colier was specific. He wants to meet with only the gentleman.”

My spine stiffens, anger pressing my lips together tightly. Tyndall sweeps a light yet comforting brush against my back as he passes. “It’s alright, Princess. I will speak to your father, and then we can see about getting out to that theater, yes?”

I give a stilted nod. “I’d like that.”

He lowers himself into an elegant bow and then turns and leaves the room. The guard removes himself once more, while I return to the table and sip on tea that’s now gone cold, though I don’t really notice it.

In my father’s eyes, I’m still an accessory—and an inadequate one at that. Yet every time he’s tried to marry me off, it always falls through because he won’t settle for anything less than an exorbitant price for my hand.

After all, he knows that by marrying me off, he’s handing off his kingdom too. And his kingdom is in dire straits, so tangled with debt that it will take a hefty pair of shears to cut through it. Lucky for him, Tyndall apparently has solid gold ones.

The soft whispers of my ladies make my gaze snap to them, the hair on the back of my neck rising like a bristling cat’s.

Get out. Go away. Stop your mindless, stupid chatter.

That’s what I want to say. That’s what I would do, if I were queen.

If this marriage contract actually goes through, I can have a husband who can come to love me. I can actually have some power here in my own kingdom, even though I have no magic to speak of.

I can have some control. I can be happy. I can have a child of my own and raise another Colier heir worthy of the throne, who will have enough magic to keep it.

Tyndall Midas feels like the answer to my unspoken hope. So I close my eyes, deciding I’m actually going to voice them.

Great Divine, hear my prayers...

I wake with a start.

My eyes are wide, my ears throbbing with the sound of my own whispered plea in my head, like an undying echo. Even my cheek seems to sear from Tyndall’s long-ago touch, like it was just moments ago, rather than years.

Fool.

I was a naive, ignorant fool.

Sharp bitterness rises like shards of ice on my tongue that I try to swallow down. The dream was an exact replica, as if that memory was plucked from my consciousness and played out behind my tired eyes.

Why my mind would torment me with that now, I’ve no idea.

Probably because I’m stuck in the back of a wooden cart, using my coat for a blanket, with a curved hillside as the only form of shelter. Why is it that when you’re physically vulnerable, your mind decides to become vulnerable too?

I sit up, my movements stiff with aggravation. The shelter from the snowy hilltop is paltry and laughable, but it keeps the wind at bay somewhat. What it doesn’t keep at bay are the memories that keep jumping up in my mind like snapped springs, breaking through the mattress to cut right into me without warning.

Times with Tyndall repeat while I’m asleep. But when I’m awake, I see Jeo. I see my freckled saddle getting stabbed in the snow, his blood as red as his hair. I see the shadowed man distorting dark and light, eyeing me beneath a hood and pointing at me like death incarnate come to hunt me down.

My body involuntarily shivers, though it’s not from the cold. The cold doesn’t even seem to touch me.

“My queen?”

Shifting my body, I slam a barrier between those memories as I lean over the cart. I see Sir Pruinn sprawled on the ground with the horses, their saddle blankets spread beneath them as a feeble layer against the snow.

Despite our hard travel, he doesn’t look rumpled. His tailored clothing is still unwrinkled, his boots holding their shine, and his jaw clean-shaven, though I don’t know when he’s had time to shave. His skin doesn’t even seem to be chapped from the freezing cold air that always pelts at our faces.

“I wish to get moving for the day, Sir Pruinn.”

He sits up from where he was resting against the animal, seeking its heat, head tilting up as if he needs to do that in order to confirm it’s still dark out. “It’s not yet dawn.”

“It’s not far off,” I reply before I turn and grab my coat, pulling it on. The waterskin Pruinn gave me falls out from its folds, hitting the wooden planks of the cart with a thump. “The water has frozen.”

I hear him sigh, but then he’s up and on his feet, stretching slightly before he comes over to take it. As he does, he brushes against my fingers, and his dark and severely arched eyebrows lift. “My queen, you should really reconsider sleeping on the cart. The horses offer warmth—”

“And they’d offer their stench too,” I say, cutting him off.

“Yes, but...”

“I’m fine on the cart, Sir Pruinn,” I say primly. “What I’m not fine with is wasting time.”

Without waiting for a reply, I step off the cart and trudge through the snow to do my morning ministrations. It’s completely uncivilized being exposed and forced to squat like an animal, with the snowfall as a washbasin.

When I’m finished, I come back to where Pruinn has already hitched and fed the horses. Fortunately for us, the bottom of the cart was loaded with bales of hay and a couple bushels of food. Even with rationing, our supply has already dwindled to half.

We haven’t discussed what will happen if the horses run out of hay and can no longer carry us. Or what will occur once our own reserves run dry. I’m not sure I want to know.

I walk over as he’s finishing up with the animals, the sky dim. A drab veil is cast over it, as if even the clouds feel subdued this morning. “How many more nights am I expected to be out in the elements of Sixth Kingdom like this?”

He rifles through his shoulder bag, pulling out a familiar pouch. After digging into it, he hands me an oat bar. That, plus jerky and dried fruit, makes up the entirety of what we’ve been living off of, along with melted snowfall for water. “Since we’re getting such an early start, we should be out of it by tomorrow.”

My hand drops, oat bar and thirst forgotten. “We’ll be out of the elements tomorrow?” I say, hope burgeoning in my tone. There are no cities or villages out this way, of that I’m sure, but perhaps a traveling merchant such as himself knows of a lone homestead? Somewhere that we can sleep inside and be fed something more than travel packs?

But Sir Pruinn shakes his head, pulling the hood of his coat over his shorn blond hair, just as it begins to lightly snow. “Not the elements. We’ll be out of Sixth Kingdom.”

This stops me short. “Already?”

“Remember the map?” he says with a smile, his gray eyes almost twinkling. My hackles rise, because he’s talking about the map that apparently shows me how to reach my heart’s greatest desire. “It showed me a shortcut.”

My back stiffens. “Of course it did.”

“I thought that would make you happy, my queen.”

Would it make you happy, Princess?

I grind my teeth loud enough to drown out the memory of Tyndall’s words in my head, and then spin back toward the cart, settling myself into it for another long day of endless traveling. Toward what? I’ve no idea. Perhaps it’s all a lie, and Sir Loth Pruinn, the strange albeit magnetic traveling merchant, is nothing but a fraud. Perhaps he’s leading me to the ruined Seventh Kingdom, where he’ll toss me off the edge of the world.

I would be happy.

Fool.

Naive, ignorant fool.