Lib Novel Page 50
Hinarax’s usually cheerful features compress in a thunderous frown, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. She cozies up to Meridian with a simper and a flutter of her lashes. “Thank you, sir! I like coming to the palace. Me and my friend Taleya over there—we’ve come here a few times to serve His Majesty and the generals from Vohrain.”
“Indeed?” Meridian waves Taleya over, and she hurries to join us, dimples popping into her plump cheeks.
“How cozy this is!” crows Meridian. “Now, my Prince, my lord…” he looks pointedly at Hinarax. “Let’s be charming, and perhaps these lovely ladies may tell us their darkest secrets.” He places special emphasis on the last two words, and Hinarax’s frown smooths out as comprehension dawns. Meridian views everyone as a source of information, and these women are no exception.
“I’ve no time for dark secrets,” I say. “I want to place a bid for the Princess.”
Caution flares in the rogue’s eyes. “Careful, my Prince. Remember, you lost everything in the pirates’ attack.”
“Then I’ll bid with my father’s treasure,” I reply.
“I’d advise against that,” Meridian begins, but Krissa gasps, “Pirates? How dreadful! You must tell us all about it.”
“Yes, do,” replies Taleya.
“Very well,” Meridian says. “We’ll dance, and I’ll tell you a tale if you promise to tell me one afterward.”
His voice and the giggles of the women fade as I move through the crowd. Much as I hate it, Meridian is right. I have nothing with which to barter. The seventh Prince of Zairos is in no position to bid for a night with the Princess. Nor can I sign pledge documents, because my signature won’t match the one Meridian forged on our papers. I’m a dragon. I can carve Dragonish symbols, but I haven’t learned to write the Eventongue with these hands.
No matter which way I turn, obstacles seem to leap into my path. But there is one thing I can do tonight. I can reveal myself to the woman I love. Maybe knowing I’m here will soothe some of the wounded despair I saw in her eyes while she was dancing.
Rahzien himself has cleared the way for me to have a moment with Serylla. I simply need to claim what he promised to every man in this room.
A dance and a kiss with the Princess.
16
I barely feel the touch of male hands at my waist, at my back. I’m dancing with men I’ve known most of my life—elder dukes, middle-aged counts, young lords. There are some notable absences—some of my mother’s closest allies, who were probably executed unless they managed to flee the kingdom.
As I’m passed from man to man, I acknowledge distantly that they’re being respectful, for the most part. No one has grabbed my breasts or my ass, or murmured lewd comments in my ear. The few kisses I’ve been given, through the aperture of the mask, were brief and polite. But the evening is young, and despite the outward deference the nobles have shown me, I know they’re bidding on my body. Even now, as I dance with Lord Natley, I see Count Meddows in close conversation with Rahzien. After a moment, they both nod, and the Count heads for the clerks’ table to make his pledge.
The Count is old enough to be my father—perhaps even my grandfather. I’ve known him since I was child—he and his family used to come to the palace on feast days. And yet there he is, bidding on me as if I’m livestock.
After signing a document at the clerks’ table, he approaches Lord Natley and requests a dance. Lord Natley kisses me lightly on the mouth, then dances away with one of the escorts Rahzien hired.
“Count Meddows,” I say stiffly.
“My dear.” He lays a palm against my waist. “Forgive me, I’ve done my best.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve wagered all I can. But I had to reserve a little to protect my household. Let us hope that it is enough for me to win you.”
Anger rouses me from my lethargy for a moment. “What would your wife say to this?”
He looks confused, then says in a low, urgent tone, “Oh, I wouldn’t have you in that way! No, no, my aim is to win the key so I can spare you from pain and humiliation, Princess. We could simply have a conversation in the room, and then I would leave.”
“Oh, you sweet man,” I gasp, relief turning me weak. “I was disappointed in you for a moment there.”
He chuckles, but it’s a taut, pained sound. “It’s been a terrible time, Highness, but I should hope most of us haven’t sunk that far. And if we have, we shall rise together.” He says the last four words so quietly I can barely hear them beneath the lilting music.
He waits, as if he expects some response from me, but I only nod vaguely, unsure what he wants me to say.
“Kiss her or get off the pot, old man,” says a caustic voice behind me. “Let us younger folks have a turn.”
I close my eyes, clinging a little tighter to Count Meddows’ hands. I know that voice. Zevin Harlowe.
As the Count and I spin through the next part of the dance, I see Zevin, clothed in velvet up to his chin to hide his scars. He’s wearing a blond wig in a style that sweeps down over the scarred side of his face.