As he spoke, his eyes skipped briefly to the arena, nestled below the castle yard on the other side of the grounds. The site of the day’s funeral. Where royalty and commoners alike would come together to bid King Sendoa farewell.
Yes, that was exactly what she needed to do.
CHAPTER
4
THISwas not his death to die.
Nothing like any of the blows King Sendoa delivered in life had taken his own. There wasn’t a jagged stitch across his throat, thread straining to hold his head flush to his neck. Both arms were there, too, crossed primly about his barrel chest, and no gaping hole underneath his palms from a heart taken as a prize for killing the Sun and Sky’s greatest warrior.
No, as expected, as described by General Koldo and the soldiers who’d been with him that awful day, there wasn’t a scratch on him.
Sunburn sat uncomfortably across his paled cheeks, copper hair ablaze in the late afternoon of the mountains. Gold pieces pressed down on closed eyes—in Amarande’s mind they were still a brilliant green, though he’d taken his last breath five days before.
This was the body of the warrior Sendoa, king of Ardenia.
Lying in state upon a raised dais, in pristine condition, a man who led the most powerful army in the world from the front lines, serving as protector to the realm of the Sand and Sky.
He’d survived it all—blood loss, frostbite, starvation.
Heartbreak.
And now Princess Amarande stood before her father on the dais, head bowed, clasping her hands tightly against the stiff blacklace of her bodice, trying for once to look the part of a storybook princess.
Respectful. Feminine. Lovely.
There for the world to see, throat and wrists heavy with the best diamonds of the Ardenian mines. A mourning veil draped across her face, black as night but unable to defeat the sun, as strong as it was this close to the heavens. The ice-and-night display was at the request—demand—of the council.
Because, even now, even saying good-bye, she was upon the auction block.
Behind where she stood on the dais, the royal leaders of Pyrenee, Basilica, and Myrcell all bowed their heads with one eye open, appraising their target from the arena floor. A performance of mourning for Amarande as much as for the citizens of Ardenia who packed the stadium seating. Strategic. Brutal.
Bile crested in Amarande’s throat as she cataloged her father’s features for the final time. Soon his loyal soldiers would close the coffin lid, and Sendoa’s face would only live on in castle paintings that never got it quite right. Dulling the fire in his hair. Straightening the nose he’d broken at least six times. Blurring the gash on his cheek given to him by the Warlord of the Torrent—a forever memory for one of the few outsiders to see the man’s face and live to tell.
But she’d stood there too long.
The crowd’s feelings were starting to show. The masses were embarrassed to watch this sad girl bent before the only parent she’d ever known. Wooden seats sighed under the shifting weight of Sand and Sky nobility, murmurs growing loud enough that the commoners and low-level soldiers seated in the stands could clearly hear the shape of royal whispers.
It was time for more closed doors, more whispers, more sagardoa—Ardenia’s high-hill orchards produced the best cider in all the world.
The moment passed, General Koldo rose to her feet, ready toguide her princess offstage—to stop her from making things any more uncomfortable with her open grieving. Standing, too, was Prince Renard of Pyrenee—his mother, Dowager Queen Inés, must have urged him forward, an effort to show Myrcell, Basilica, and all commoners of Ardenia that the winning contract had already been arranged.
The princess was surprised when Koldo sat back down, allowing Renard to step up onto the dais and press his hand to the lace at her spine, patting, ready to steer her away.
Very well then—now people werereallypaying attention.
She sweetened the pot by reaching for her veil, lifting it off her face, letting her anguish out into the sun. Between the sight of Renard “consoling” her and the opportunity to witness tears, snot, or something else painful, this was a development to write home about.
They wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Guardians of the Sand and Sky and loyal people of the Kingdom of Ardenia,” the princess began, the very first sounds from her lips killing off every murmur within the arena and maybe all of the Ardenian countryside. She continued to the heavy silence of a thousand people holding their breath. “Your remembrance of my father is heartening and very much appreciated during this difficult time.”
That was when someone began to clap. It seemed to start with King Domingu and his ilk, who were surely eager to get back to angling for the diamonds at her throat and in Ardenia’s mines. The noise was enough to prompt Renard to add further pressure to her back as if to help her down from the dais.
“Thank you, but I’m not yet finished,” Amarande said, her gaze finding the Basilican king—her barely known-to-her great-grandfather by way of her mother’s side—watching him intently until the silence was renewed. Her father had taught her more than how to use a long sword.
When the quiet returned, she set a tight-lipped smile upon her face and found Luca in the crowd. He was seated with the other servants of the Itspi, in the very first row of the stadium seating, sandwiched between Abene and Maialen, the tough-bird, Torrent-born sisters who raised him after his mother passed of illness. Luca returned her gaze, chin tipped—go on.
