Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(45)
The suitors are arriving in a long procession of canopied carriages that weaves through the white stone streets.
“Not to worry, my dear,” King Etristo says from his seat next to mine, misreading my expression. “There are a lot of them, but this will only be a brief introduction. The whole event should take an hour—two at most.”
An hour or two. I stifle a groan. I can’t imagine sitting out here more than a few minutes, even if the chairs brought out for the royal family and me are comfortably padded and somewhat shaded with palm fronds. Between the hot sun and my aching head and the dress pinching my ribs, I feel like I’m going to pass out.
But I smile at King Etristo in a way I hope looks natural. His manner toward me has cooled since my outburst last night, though outwardly he’s been nothing but polite. When I apologized for my words, he accepted it with a strained smile.
“Wonderful,” I tell him. “I’m so excited to meet everyone. Thank you so very much for putting all of this together for me.”
It sounds like too much to my ears, but King Etristo only returns my smile and pats my hand with his, the skin of his palm wrinkled and clammy. “It’s a pleasure to help, my dear, after everything that has befallen you.”
I lean back against my chair and glance at S?ren, who is standing behind me and slightly to the side. The others are pressed farther back in the crowd of Sta’Criverans gathered behind us—even Dragonsbane, much to her displeasure. But S?ren is on full display, though whether he is being shown off as an ally or just as a trophy is unclear. Since King Etristo is still speaking Astrean and not bothering to translate, it’s difficult to imagine he sees him as anything more than decoration.
I translate what the King said and S?ren nods, but his face is paler than usual and there are dark shadows under his eyes. I had those this morning as well, before they were painted and powdered into oblivion.
“Last night, it felt like I was fluent in Astrean,” he says. “But I can’t remember a word of it today.”
I laugh, though it makes my head ache even worse. “Whatever it was you started speaking last night, it was not Astrean,” I tell him. “You kept talking about amineti, but apart from that I didn’t hear a single Astrean word.”
His cheeks redden. “I suppose that’s one of the only ones I remember,” he admits.
My own face grows warm as I remember the night I taught him the word, demonstrating with more amineti—kisses—than I could keep count of.
“Well, you’re sober now,” I point out. “Can you tell me about the suitors when they arrive?” I lower my voice, casting a glance toward King Etristo, who is deep in conversation with his son. “I have a feeling my official introductions will be much rosier than the truth on their side and mine.”
He nods, though a crease appears between his brows.
I turn back to King Etristo, drawing his attention away from his son and to me.
“After the introductions are made, I would like to visit the refugee camp,” I tell him.
King Etristo looks at me like I’ve just suggested we jump into lava. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
It’s a struggle to hold on to my smile. “You’ve been so kind to take in my people over the years, and those from other fallen countries. I would enjoy seeing people from Astrea, and I think it would help them to see me, to know that I’m trying to get us home.”
Again, King Etristo pats my hand and smiles at me like I’m a charmingly misbehaved puppy.
“You are kindness incarnate, my dear, but the camp is no place for a girl like you.”
I open my mouth to argue and quickly close it again. After last night, I need to watch my step more carefully, even if the temptation to slap his hand off mine is almost too much to bear.
What does that mean, a girl like me? And can he truly consider me a girl while at the same time planning my marriage to men who, if S?ren’s intel is to be believed, are mostly much, much older than I am? The Kalovaxians believed children became adults at fifteen, though at least they were consistent. In Sta’Crivero I am both infantilized and sexualized, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
* * *
—
The line of carriages snakes forward until the first one pulls to a stop in front of the palace. I straighten up in my chair, catching myself in a very un-regal slouch. Finally, we seem to be starting.
Two men dart from their place at King Etristo’s side and go to meet the arrival. One rolls out a thin red carpet that leads right from the steps of our dais to the steps protruding from the carriage. The other opens the carriage door with a sweeping bow that has a few more flourishes than seems practical.
Several tense seconds pass before a man emerges from the carriage door, forgoing the steps and simply hopping down onto the carpet. He’s tall—taller than S?ren even—and broad-shouldered, with umber skin and close-cropped black hair that is already receding in the front, though he can’t be more than twenty-five. He has a severe face with sharp bones and a mouth that looks like it’s permanently down-turned. His eyes are dark brown and intent below thick eyebrows.
He makes his way down the red carpet and up the stairs of the dais, one hand idly reaching to his hip, where I’d imagine a sword would usually rest in its scabbard. He must have been told to leave that behind today—it is against Sta’Criveran law to approach the King with a weapon.