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.