3. Paris

"You'll never see me again. Is that what you want, to never see your brother again?"

All the way to the border, I'd made my arguments to Hector, knowing that none would sway him. It wasn't that he was indifferent, simply that my will broke against the iron will of the king. There was nothing my brother could do but listen to my griping.

"You're being dramatic," he accused, his light brown eyes narrowed my way.

Over the long hours of this, our third day trapped in a carriage together, Hector had gone from trying to read his papers of business to cross-armed and glaring across the small space.

He wasn't angry at me, not precisely. Well, I wasn't fool enough to think he was pleased with me, but what seemed to bother him most was that I was continuing to make this difficult for everyone. He wasn't upset that I didn't want to go. He was upset at the incessant reminders of his impotency.

Though the day before, he had lamented agreeing to see me safely to the border...

But when I'd gotten quiet, upset that he'd be so quick to cast me off, that he couldn't even stand to hear my complaining over a terrible fate that he couldn't save me from, he'd relented. He'd said that he was sorry and assured me that he was upset too. This was hard for everyone.

It was simply the king's will, and I should think of all the good that might come to the family from this.

Since Father was gone, we were in a delicate position, after all. This was our chance to prove to the king that our family had value to him, even without Father around. Hector couldn't risk upsetting him, not with everything at stake. I'd ruin Helena's prospects, to say nothing of my own.

"I'm not being dramatic," I hissed... dramatically. In this case, it was warranted. "Name one person who has travelled to Nemeda and returned. Anyone."

"Of course there have been people. There are—books? Yes, I'm sure I've read a book on the southlands, so someone has seen it and lived to tell the tale."

"And how many more have disappeared down there? You drink the water, you fall ill and die. You breathe the air, you fall ill and die. Or maybe it's worse than that. Maybe those heathens will stuff a fistful of feathers down my throat, dip me in hot tar, and roll me around in more downy torture."

Hector scowled. "I don't think they tar and feather people in the south."

That brought me up short.

"Really?" We did it in Urial. It was an all-too-common punishment for thieves and traitors, often made a public spectacle. The finer houses around the capital square, where executions were typically held, would often throw dinner parties with the public torture being the main entertainment. "Then what's the point of all those damned feathers?"

Hector shrugged. "Religion, I think? Faith... belief... Who knows why they do the things they do? Perhaps, when you get home, you can tell me."

"If I get home, perhaps I can."

I huffed, crossing my arms and shoving my shoulders back into the seat behind me.

We passed a long time like that, both of us silently staring out of opposite windows, waiting for things to get better.

They didn't.

"Hector?"

My brother hummed, looking away from the green countryside beyond the small windowpane. His lips twitched toward a smile, but I couldn't tell if it was meant to be comforting or if he only wanted to diffuse another argument. Right then, I wasn't sure I had another in me.

"I'm scared," I whispered.

Something in my brother cracked then. He was out of his seat in a second, shoving into the smaller space beside me, his arms around my shoulders.

"There's nothing to be scared of," he promised, squeezing me close. "I swear, if anything happens to you, I'll bring down the full might of Urial on those barbarians."

I scoffed. "Really? You can't even get me out of this."

"And I wouldn't let you go if I thought you weren't equal to the challenge ahead. Paris, you're clever, resourceful, resilient. You can't help but win over whatever room you walk into."

I stared up at him. Did he really believe that? He'd never said it before, but I didn't see any doubt in his eyes, only concern.

"You'll be all right," he promised.

I let myself lean into him, because I felt nicer with him right there, telling me that all would be well if I just let it be.

"I don't know anything about them."

"That could be a good thing," he suggested. "Just... hold on to that and don't make assumptions. The Nemedans could be charming. You certainly are. You'll win them over. The king just wants?—"

I bit my lip. Hector and I had never talked about this, at least not directly. Like most nobility in Urial, we only spoke of each other's personal lives in whispers behind backs.

Hector met my eye, took a breath seemingly to steel himself, and went ahead. "He wants the chance to turn Prince Tybalt into a decent heir. And I know it's not your influence, but Paris, the man is flighty, indulgent, selfish. None of those qualities make for good rulers. Good kings. The king only... he only wants to help Tybalt focus."

"You don't know him," I mumbled, staring at my knees.

"Are you sure that you do?"

Eyes stinging, I glared up at him, and Hector held up a hand.

"I'm not saying you don't, Paris. You just got pulled into his whirlwind so fast. Maybe he's everything you say he is and I just haven't seen it, but time away... it's not the worst thing. If your feelings are true, the distance will only make you surer of yourself."

"Hah! And say I manage this? Where do you think the king will send me next?" If that was really the king's reasoning behind all this, if it was just a convenient excuse to get me away and maybe procure a handful of oranges in the mix, I might never see home again.

The truth of the matter was that it didn't matter how successful I was here. King Albany would never tolerate me with Prince Tybalt.

Too bad I thought the man worth fighting for.

The last nightwith my brother was the worst. We stopped at a country estate at the very edge of the kingdom, and from there, Hector was turning around and going home.

It wasn't the worst because we fought or anything like that. In fact, we ate with Lord and Lady Montague, and dinner was delightful. Conversation was light and pleasant. Our hosts were surprisingly witty for people who hadn't been to court in my lifetime.

It was only the worst because it didn't hit me until that night, crawling into an unfamiliar bed, that I was losing him too. He said the rest of the trip, I'd have to do on my own. If I was to negotiate anything with the Nemedans, they would have to see me as my own man. I'd have to speak for myself, approach them on my own volition. I could hardly bring my older brother with me, clinging to his hand to ask if they would share their toys.

Hector and I left in separate carriages the next morning—him back toward the capital, me, borrowing the Montague's for the final stretch to the border.

I stared out the window, waiting for something to appear in the distance to end this horrid stasis.

I didn't realize that what I was looking at wasn't the shadows of trees and shrubbery until it was too late.

"Gods, are those tents?"

I shifted to the edge of my seat, hands cupped to the window, nose flattened against it, trying to see past the foggy morning haze.

Spread out on the rolling green hills were tents, peaked in different sizes. I—I hadn't read the books that Hector had, but surely the Nemedans didn't live in tents.

I'd have walls around me at the very least. A proper bed. A tended hearth.

My stomach turned, rolling with every jostle of the road. My whole body ached from four days spent shaken this way and that. No one ever talked about how rough cross-country travel was on a person, and I'd forgotten. Truth was, we rarely left the capital. The king had needed Father too much.

To my dismay, we got closer and closer to the assembled tents, and I realized with abject terror that I was going to be sleeping in a shelter made of cloth and sticks and mud that very night.

There was nothing in my trunks and trunks of silk and fineries to save me from that.