Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(46)

Beside me, S?ren makes a noise of recognition as the man approaches. “Archduke Etmond of Haptania,” he whispers to me, his voice tinged with awe. “Brother of the King there, but everyone knows the King is sterile. Etmond is next in line. One of the best military minds I’ve ever met—he’s turned the tables in battles where he was outnumbered ten to one.”

S?ren sounds half in love with Etmond already, but there’s something about the man that I can’t quite place. He seems to have trouble looking anyone in the eye, even when he approaches me with a stiff bow.

“Archduke Etmond, may I present Astrea’s famed beauty, Queen Theodosia,” King Etristo says.

The Archduke’s eyes dart toward S?ren and narrow before turning back to me. “Queen Theodosia,” he says, reaching out for my hand, which I offer. He bows to me again, kissing my knuckles. His thick mustache scratches my skin. “Your beauty is indeed legendary. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

He speaks like he’s memorized what he’s meant to say, rambling it off in a flat tone, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

“It’s an honor to meet you as well, Archduke Etmond,” I say. “I’m so pleased you came all this way.”

His bushy brows knit together. “Haptania is only a day’s journey, Your Majesty,” he says. “I didn’t have to come very far at all.” He seems to hear the implication in his words as he says them, because he straightens up and clears his throat. “What I mean to say is that any journey to have the chance to meet you would be considered short, and I would have gladly traveled much longer if I’d had to.”

The Archduke is ushered into the palace, his entourage of Haptanian courtiers trailing behind him like baby ducks.

“I don’t think he cared much for me,” I whisper to S?ren.

He laughs. “I wouldn’t take it personally. His mind doesn’t work the way yours or mine does. He understands charts and figures and diagrams—he’s an ace at chess—but he has more difficulty with people.”

I smirk. “It seems like perhaps you should marry him,” I tell S?ren. “You seem enamored enough already.”

S?ren shrugs. “He’s brilliant, though from a personal standpoint I don’t think he’d be a good husband for just about anyone, you and me included.”

I sigh. “Well, we aren’t looking at this from a personal standpoint, are we?”

“Just wait,” S?ren tells me, nodding toward the next carriage pulling up. “I’m sure worse is yet to come.”

It’s difficult for my eyes not to glaze over as the introductions drag on, especially since many of them seem identical and I can’t imagine agreeing to marry any of these men.

King Wendell of Grania, for example, is fifty and has already accumulated three wives and what S?ren tells me is the largest harem in the world. He is short in stature, with thinning hair that has already gone gray and skin like old milk. When he bows and kisses my hand with soggy lips, his lecherous gaze makes me want to take a bath immediately, though I make do with subtly wiping the back of my hand on my dress. Grania has a large army, S?ren tells me with some regret.

There are so many kings! Ten pour out of the next carriage, all of them bickering among one another, taking only a small break to introduce themselves to me. Their names are all a blur, though, and I can’t remember a single one. All of them are rough-faced and in need of a good shave. When they disappear into the castle, the Sta’Criveran courtiers give them a wide berth.

“Esstena is a nation of clans,” S?ren explains when they’re gone. “Each of those men is a minor king trying to take control of the entire country. They’ve all been at war for centuries. No doubt they think if one of them marries you, they’ll be able to call themselves high king.”

“Difficult to imagine they’ll be anxious to take Astrea back with so much on their plates,” I murmur. Another lost cause. The Archduke is starting to seem very appealing.

Prince Talin of Etralia is next, accompanied by his father, Czar Reymer—or, as S?ren says he’s known, Reymer the Handsome. He must have been once—even now, in his forties, he’s quite dashing. His son is remarkably less so. He’s the one S?ren said was rumored to be illegitimate. I can understand why, looking at them side by side: where the Czar is dark-haired and broad-shouldered, with a strong square jaw and high cheekbones, Prince Talin is scrawny and small, with wheat-colored hair and a round, unstructured face. He also hangs back, staring at the ground while his father makes introductions and kisses my hand.

“He’s a child,” I tell S?ren when they’re gone. “What is he, ten?”

“Eleven, I think,” S?ren says, but he’s fighting laughter. “Don’t worry, I doubt there would be pressure to consummate the marriage for a few years.”

I fight the urge to gag. “No,” I say firmly.

Next is another prince, this one from Brakka. Prince Tyrannius looks far too old to still be a prince—fifty or so, with weather-beaten tan skin and hair that’s gone silver. According to S?ren, that’s exactly the problem.

“His father won’t give up his throne. He’s in his nineties and rarely leaves his bed anymore, but he’s holding on to his crown tightly. Rumor has it Tyrannius is planning a coup. I’d imagine you’re a part of that plan.”