Protect the Prince (Crown of Shards #2)(35)

Outside the train, the Blair royal march began to play. Paloma squeezed my arm, silently wishing me good luck, then slipped out the side door, leaving me alone. The march kept playing, and I used the time to check my reflection in the mirror in the corner.

Calandre and her sisters had spent most of the morning fussing over me, since I was scheduled to go straight from the train station to the Glitnir throne room to meet with King Heinrich. Calandre had tried to get me to don a gown, but I’d insisted on wearing my regular blue tunic, black leggings, and boots, and I’d strapped my tearstone sword and dagger to my black leather belt like usual.

The thread master had sighed at my lack of fashion sense, but I’d told her that my outfit was a necessary evil and that I at least wanted to be able to fight if I was attacked. My pragmatism about another assassination attempt finally made her give in, but she’d won a small battle by making me wear a new tunic that featured silver thread on the sleeves, along with a crown-of-shards crest that stretched across my chest. The symbol might as well have been a bull’s-eye, telling assassins where to aim, but I hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, so I’d told her that it was lovely.

Calandre had also tried to get me to don one of the more elaborate crowns she’d packed, but I’d refused in favor of wearing the same thin silver crown with small blue tearstone shards that I’d sported at Seven Spire.

Glitnir was Heinrich’s court, and I didn’t want to outshine him in any way. Things were already tense and difficult enough between our kingdoms, and I needed his help too badly to offend him, especially by doing something as silly as wearing a crown larger than his.

Camille, Calandre’s youngest sister, was a paint master, and she’d worked her magic on my face, using silver shadow to make my eyes seem more gray than blue and adding berry balm to my lips. My shoulder-length black hair lay in loose waves, and my only jewelry was the crown-and-thorn bracelet that Alvis had given me the day of the massacre.

Outside, the royal march finally trailed off, and the last boisterous notes faded away. Then Cho’s booming voice sounded.

“Presenting Her Royal Majesty, Queen Everleigh Saffira Winter Blair, of Bellona!” His voice rang out like thunder, and the car door slowly slid back.

I drew in a breath, then let it out and strode outside.

The platform looked like the one we had departed from in Svalin—a stone slab dotted with iron benches with the main rail station building in the distance. I took a few steps forward and stopped, and that’s when I realized that the people here weren’t rail workers and guilders.

They were Andvarian royal guards.

More than three dozen men and women formed a semicircle around the platform. They were all dressed in long-sleeved gray tunics trimmed with black thread, along with black leggings and boots, in keeping with the colors of the Ripley royal family. Normally, during an official visit, the guards would have been wearing ceremonial swords with jeweled hilts and leather scabbards studded with metal scrollwork.

Not today, not for me.

Each guard had a regular sword clutched in their hand and a dagger hooked to their belt. They were also wearing breastplates made of dull silver that was probably much stronger than it looked. But perhaps the most telling things were the way that the guards glared at me and the hot, peppery anger that blasted off them in strong, continuous waves.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I was the embodiment of Bellona, the place, the people, and especially the family who had murdered their beloved prince and ambassador and had almost killed the king’s granddaughter. I hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but I had been hoping for a bit less hate and hostility.

My friends weren’t any happier about the situation. Sullivan was deep in discussion with an Andvarian woman, while Serilda, Cho, and Xenia were standing off to the side. Calandre and her sisters were behind my friends, nervously studying everyone around them.

Paloma was stationed a few feet away with the Bellonan gladiators-turned-guards. Her hand was curled around the mace on her belt, and her amber eyes were narrowed, along with the ones of the ogre on her neck, as if she was silently daring the Andvarians to attack me. Tension hung in the air like a cold, wet blanket, smothering any pretense of warmth or friendliness.

But there was no turning back, so I plastered a smile on my face and headed toward Sullivan. At my approach, he murmured a few final words to the woman, then moved back. But instead of rejoining our friends, he stood in a little bubble of space all by himself, clearly caught between two worlds. He was definitely not a Bellonan, but he wasn’t quite an Andvarian either.

I focused on the woman. She was about my age, late twenties, with topaz eyes, beautiful ebony skin, and shoulder-length black curls held back from her face by gray crystal pins. She was wearing a gray tunic, and a sword and a dagger dangled from her belt, the same as the other guards. But the Ripley royal crest—a snarling gargoyle face—was stitched in black thread over her heart, indicating her importance.

The woman didn’t smile. I hadn’t really expected her to, given the situation, but the raw, naked hate that filled her eyes surprised me, as did the strong scent of ashy heartbreak that wafted off her. This woman utterly despised me. Not a great omen of things to come.

She pressed her fist to her heart and bowed in the traditional Andvarian style. “Queen Everleigh, welcome to Glanzen. I am Rhea, captain of the royal guards.” She recited the usual platitudes in a cold, flat voice, not meaning a single word.