Chapter 2

The emissary leads me into the dense mass of the Burbarre’s assembled forces, who stamp their feet and clang their weapons together, ready for the fight ahead. They part for us as we approach, and while we freely pass down the long channel, I wonder if they are not clamoring at me.

What a coward this prince is, hiding behind thousands of his soldiers.

Soon we come to a great wagon surrounded by armored guards. It’s decorated with golden ropes and bones in some sick tribute to all the lives the Burbarre have taken. The emissary comes to a halt beside it and dismounts, clearly expecting me to do the same. But I won’t, not until my counterpart emerges to greet me.

I may be at a disadvantage in this negotiation, but there are still customs to uphold and rules to follow. I cannot show weakness.

One of the guards leans into the covered wagon and speaks in a tongue I don’t recognize. This must be the Burbarre language, and it’s simultaneously guttural and musical. Then the guard backs away, and a head emerges from the wagon.

I’m not prepared for how tall he is. The Prince has surprisingly long hair, most of it tied back in a high ponytail with a few long strands hanging in front of his face. They are shiny, smooth, and black as a night sky. He wears a heavy metal chest plate with the crest of an ox carved into it and a chainmail coil across his groin. His legs are bare, or as bare as they can be covered in thick, dark fur. He has hooves, shiny and black like his hair.

His face is what takes me by surprise. His brows are heavy-set, like the Burbarre in the painting outside the conservatory, and his nose is broad. From the middle hangs a gold ring so large that it brushes the top of his lips. I wonder if he was the original subject of the painting because it feels like I know his face well already.

After he steps out of the wagon, he doesn’t approach me. No, first he bows, then gazes up at me with eyes that look like they hold many dark secrets behind them. “My Queen,” he says. “Thank you for coming to meet with me. I am Prince Jakol.”

Then he approaches and holds out his hand as if to help me down from my horse. I ignore it as I dismount. I am as much of a horsewoman as I am a queen. The Prince withdraws the hand and bows again.

“What is it you want to discuss?” I ask, impatience slipping into my voice. Of course, I want to act with propriety and avoid war if I can, but I can’t ignore that he is also a conqueror standing on my doorstep, waiting to raze my kingdom and everything I hold dear to the ground.

“Will you join me in my carriage so we can discuss this privately?” the Prince asks. His mastery of our language is nearly perfect, with only small inflections that remind me he’s not a native speaker.

I have extended a great deal of trust already by coming here, and to ask more of me strikes me as condescension. Does he think I have no wits about me at all that I would simply step into his private quarters alone?

“We can speak out here.” I roll my shoulders back and stand tall.

“I promise, I intend nothing uncouth, Queen Dienne.” The Prince gestures to the wagon again, pulling the curtain back for me. “I merely do not want our conversation overheard.”

I wonder what he wants to tell me that isn’t appropriate for the ears of his subordinates. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be seen as weak when he proposes peace terms—which gives me some hope that I can walk out of this situation without starting a war. There is a chance that here and now, I can prevent a great deal of bloodshed by entertaining this beast of a man.

So with a sharp nod, I agree, and relief spreads across the Prince’s face. Once more, he offers a hand to help me into the carriage, and again, I disregard it and climb up the steps on my own.

There is an odd musk inside the small space, a combination of herbs, spices, and animal. Two broad seats face one another, upholstered with soft leather. Decorations hang in every corner. There was no extravagance spared for the Prince’s personal transport. It makes me dislike him even more to see that he bathes in this sort of wealth in front of his own people.

I sit down uneasily on one of the seats, and soon the Prince joins me, nearly bumping the top of his horns on the roof of the carriage. When he sits across from me, his coil draws up on his lap, revealing even more furry thigh. Only a few more inches, and he would likely be exposing himself to me.

If that’s even how it works. I’m not sure about the Burbarre’s anatomy beyond what is in the painting outside my conservatory.

“Thank you for joining me, Your Majesty,” the Prince says, tipping his head yet again. I find his deference surprisingly civilized, if not a little extravagant. I worry that he is buttering me up for something. “I know I am asking a lot of you to discuss this with me here, in my private quarters.”

“You are.” It was a grand assumption on his part—yet here I am anyway because he has my hands tied. “Why have you brought me?”

“I have a proposal.” He smiles then, and he has nearly perfect straight teeth behind his full lips. “One that could benefit both of our peoples and prevent much unnecessary bloodshed.”

This outright admission of his threat, his intention to conquer us, darkens my heart against him even further.

“No one asked you to come here,” I growl. “There was never any need for war in the first place if you had just stayed in your lands, as we have.”

He nods slowly. “Yes. I have come here of my own volition. The elves would not let us pass, not without a fight, and so I did what I had to do in order to reach you, my Queen.” His eyes watch me closely, carefully, searching my face for something. “I came here for you, and they were merely in the way.”

This is the second time one of them has called me that, but I am not their Queen. “For me? Why?”

Instead of answering, the Prince reaches into a cabinet beside the seats and draws something out. It’s a small, framed painting, and when he holds it up, I gasp.

It’s me. Painted many years ago, of course, when I was still in my youth. It is me nonetheless, with my silver-white hair braided and hanging down my shoulder, my bright blue eyes shining out from the canvas. The look on my face is serious and composed, but my mouth is tweaked on one side, as if entertaining a smile.

He turns the painting back to face himself and gazes upon it with a strange fondness. It unsettles me. How does he have this? I wonder if my own painting is perhaps created in his likeness, too—the resemblance is uncanny. But how could that have come to be?

“I have had this for many years,” he says, still looking down at this oil-and-canvas version of my face. “It hangs in my room, where I can see it every night as I go to bed and every morning when I wake up.”

Well, that’s certainly strange. “Why?” I ask, a tinge of uneasiness in my voice.

“I’m not entirely sure. I am drawn to it.” The Prince looks up at me once more, and there’s an intensity in his stare that prickles my skin.

No, I must not show any weakness. I steel my expression and return his gaze with my own hard one.

“My Queen,” he says again. “I am nearly at the end of my marrying years, but I have not been able to choose a wife. My advisors have brought many beautiful women before me, but none of them bring out my passion.”

I’m not sure what any of this has to do with me. I let him continue anyway, but I’m growing increasingly nervous about what our destination might be.

“It took me many years to realize that it was this. You are burned into my mind.” Prince Jakol puts the painting away, closing the cabinet so gently that it makes no sound. I’m surprised at how fluidly he moves, how elegant and careful he is despite how big and broad his hands are. “I cannot escape it.”

For a split second, I think of how I always stop in front of the Burbarre in my own hallway and stare at it for as long as I can before he starts to see into my soul. It is the same way that now I struggle to look right at his face. Prince Jakol’s eyes feel limitless, bottomless, like they might swallow me up and eat me if I’m not careful.

“What is your point?” I finally ask, feeling both unsettled by the topic and frustrated at how much time this is taking. I don’t know when my generals will decide I’ve been gone too long. That’s when the war will really begin.

The stern set of the Prince’s face slackens, and for a moment, he looks deeply vulnerable. “My point is that I need you,” he says, tone pleading. “Please, Your Majesty—be my wife. Join me in matrimony, share my life with me, and your people will never fear or want for anything again.”

It takes me a while to fully register what he’s said. I replay the words, again and again, to make sure I’ve heard them right.

“Your wife?” I ask, straining with disbelief.

“Yes, of course. You are both beautiful and magnanimous.” His voice is passionate, reverent. “Stories of your heroism, your passion for justice, and your dedication to your people have reached my ears many times.” I’m baffled by this. Not once have I heard of Prince Jakol, but somehow he’s heard of me—in great detail. “Not only would you find a loyal and dedicated companion in me, but our peoples would be joined as well. We could unite the world and then rule over it together.”

I’m both complimented and deeply insulted. He finds me beautiful. He admires me. But he is also mistaken if he believes I have any interest in ruling over other peoples. It’s quite enough for me to keep my own kingdom safe, well-fed, and happy. Not to mention that it is painfully arrogant of him to assume that everyone else should simply kneel to us.

Us. He wants to marry me. That would mean not only joining our royal households but living alongside one another. He would most certainly want heirs, and that presents a whole host of other questions I can’t answer. Is it even possible for a human and a Burbarre to produce offspring? What would that entail? My gaze falls to the coil at his waist, and unbidden, I imagine what he looks like underneath there.

I hear a chuckle and realize I’ve been caught.

“I have been given the gift,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I would be able to keep you quite happy, I believe, my Queen.”

My face goes hot as coals before I can stop it. When I look up, the Prince wears a big, mischievous smile.

“That is not my concern,” I say. “I am not interested in marrying and most certainly not a Burbarre.”

He blinks with surprise. “You had not planned to continue the royal line? To produce heirs who could rule after you?”

I shake my head. “I was not born into the position of Queen,” I say. “It was given to me by my people, the same as all previous queens and kings of Fiore. I was nominated once my predecessor passed away, and it was my advisors who chose me and swore me in.”

“You were chosen,” he says, more to himself than to me. “That makes you all the more marvelous. You are a hero among your people.”

I don’t know what to make of his compliments, but I must shut this down immediately. “I decided long ago that I would not marry. It would interfere with my responsibility to my kingdom. I’m sorry that I must refuse you.”

At this, a darker aura descends on the Prince. “Please, reconsider.” He reaches out to take my hand, but I draw it back from him. “I do not want to go to war with you.”

“Those are your conditions, then?” My voice turns hard and unforgiving. “Marry you, or else die?”

His mouth tilts down when I put it like that, but those are the facts. That is the agreement he’s presenting to me—surrender my entire kingdom to him or put our lives on the line to fight him off.

“I would never hurt a single hair on you.” He clenches one hand, and a darkness descends on his face. “I could not.”

“But my people, my kingdom, are fair game.” It is truly reprehensible to hinge the safety of my entire country on this one decision of mine.

The Prince sighs deeply. “I just want unity in our world. And I want you at my side while I achieve it.”

“I don’t care what you want.” I feel my temper rising into something sharp and bladed. “What about what I want?”

He tilts his head at me. “What do you want?” he asks.

I didn’t expect such an open question, but the answer is easy. “Peace,” I say. “Safety. I want my people to be happy and to have what they need to flourish. I want them to live long, contented lives.”

“I didn’t ask what you wanted for your people.” His gaze is intense. “I ask what you, the Queen, want for yourself.”

I pause, because I don’t know the answer right away. It has never even been a consideration in my mind. I am a queen, and my only wants are for my subjects. I have lived my life in service of them.

“I don’t know.” I say it so quietly that I’m not sure if the Prince heard. But he leans forward to hear me better, and I know he has. “It is not a consideration of much importance.”

He smiles. I must admit I like his smile—it’s wide and surprisingly welcoming. Charming, even, with square, flat, white teeth much like my own. This must be some trick of his, pretending he has charisma. “I am not surprised,” he says, “given what I have heard about you, that you would not think at all of your own needs and desires.”

Something about the way he says needs and desires makes me imagine once more what might be underneath his coil. Is that what he means?

“Despite your selfless words, I do not believe that you don’t have wants of your own.” His eyes never leave mine. They are so deep and full of dark, unspoken words that I have to swallow hard to keep myself from looking away. “Whether or not you are aware that those wants exist... that is another matter.”

As much as I want to brush him off, to throw away his invasive questions, I can’t help but ponder them. I have had suitors in the past, before my time as Queen—men and women both who desired me and whom I desired in return. But once I was nominated and then crowned, those desires became secondary.

Slowly the Prince gets up and then kneels in front of me. Now I can see the tail flicking behind him, long and slender, with hair running down the spine to a tuft at the end. When he takes my hand again, the warmth of his big fingers is almost comforting as they swallow up my own, and I find that I don’t pull it back. He draws my knuckles to his lips and kisses them, and a slow tingling spreads up my arm and through my body. It pours like a stream of molten iron downward into my abdomen.

I don’t like what he’s doing to me, yet I remain perfectly still. I’m waiting, I realize, to find out what comes next.

“If you take my hand in marriage,” he says, “I will give you everything your heart desires. Whether it is material objects or pleasures of the flesh, I would be honored to give them to you.”

Pleasures of the flesh. So he does have?—

No. I shake my head. I can’t think about this. I can’t even entertain his offer. A human and a Burbarre, married? Enjoying, as he puts it, “the pleasures of the flesh”? It is impossible.

“I hate that it must come to this,” he says, “standing before you with my assembled forces rather than alone on one knee. My intelligence had warned me you would not be open to my offer.”

“So you came to blackmail me with the safety of my subjects instead.” I understand perfectly. He brought his army to my doorstep to show his strength, and he defeated the elven forces so I wouldn’t doubt his threat. He knows my human soldiers hold no candle to his sprawling Burbarre force. My people have lived their lives seeing only peace and prosperity, and they are not suited to fight. He did it all so that I would have no choice but to accept this offer.

Much to my despair, he’s right. If it means the safety of my kingdom, what is a marriage? If it means my farmers and bread-makers and schoolchildren are unharmed, then I truly have no choice.

“I want only their safety and yours,” the Prince says. “And your hand.”

I set my mouth in a stiff line. “Then it will be by force,” I say, injecting the words with as much malice as possible. Even the Prince is taken aback. “Of course, I must say yes if threatened with the pain and death of my people.”

His face falls. He had truly hoped this would go some other way. He thought I would happily oblige rather than be compelled to agree at sword point.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking genuinely ashamed. “This was the only way.”

“Petulant child.” He starts when I say this, eyes wide with surprise. “So driven by your petty desires that you would put the lives of all your people and mine on the line.” I get up to my feet and exit the carriage with the Prince close behind me.

“Please, my Queen,” he calls after me. “You must understand that it is greater than just...”

“Save it.” I scowl back at him. “I will marry you. But I will never, ever forget that you compelled me. You will never derive the pleasure you had hoped for from me. You will regret this.”

There is a genuine sadness on the Prince’s face as I mount my horse. He will get what he wants, but I will never truly give in to him.