The King's Spinster Bride, (Royal Wedding #1)(6)

I still want to live, even if my existence is that of quiet and solitude amongst Riekki’s worshipers.

But choices were taken from me long ago. I hold the book in tight fingers and lift my chin. “Send them in and please leave. Please tell everyone to stay away until my visitors depart.” If assassins have come to dispatch me to the realm of the gods, I do not want them to harm any of the priestesses here. Riekki’s people have been good to me. I will not have them taken down in my name.

She nods and exits quickly, her steps brisk. She does not look me in the eye, and I know I am correct. This is the hour I have dreaded.

I ponder sitting down on the bench again to hide the tremble in my body and decide to stand tall and proud instead. I wonder what the face of King Alistair’s assassin will look like. Will he be kind? Will the method he chooses of dispatching me be swift and painless? If I have to choose, I pray it is not poison, or torture. I do not think I am strong enough to withstand a long, drawn-out death.

Then again, no one has asked me.

The courtyard is utterly silent, the only sound that of the birds chirping nearby. I hear boots before I hear the rustle of clothing of those that approach, the creak of leather and swish of heavy cloaks, and the jangle of metal buckles. My stomach lurches, but I remain utterly still, my face calm.

It would be very undignified to puke in front of my assassins.

Four men enter, and a cold chill moves over me. Though I try to memorize all their faces, I am drawn to one man in particular. He stands in the lead, wearing a cloak of pure white fur, his long black hair shaven on one side of his head and flowing down the other. An eyepatch covers half of his face and he’s tanned and clean-shaven. Other than the cloak, he wears no clothing except for crude leather leggings and boots with metal buckles. Swords are at his belt and behind him, each of his one-eyed men carry a pair of spears crossed over their backs.

Cyclops warriors.

“Greetings,” I call out in as cool a voice as I can manage. “To what do I owe this honor?”

To my surprise, the tall, handsome man in the lead breaks into a grin as he strides forward. Flustered, I force myself to remain still as he approaches. He’s gorgeous. That smile dazzles me and makes my knees weak. I shouldn’t be affected like this at the sight of a handsome man. He’s come to kill me. I should be focused on the knives at his waist and not the beauty of his smile.

Clearly being a spinster has addled my brains.

I force myself to study the group, to focus on something other than the bare pectorals before me. I focus instead on the white fur cloak. I read somewhere that only those who have proven themselves can wear white fur—and the others look to him with deference. He is their leader, then.

“Princess Halla. I see the years have been kind to you,” the handsome man says as he approaches me. He does not reach for his knife. Yet.

Have the years been kind, then? There are no mirrors here, for Riekki’s people eschew vanity as one of the great sins. This man speaks as if we are familiar, though, and I do not recognize him. I study his face, the handsome, high cheekbones, the bronzed skin, the muscles that bulge underneath his cloak. I can feel myself blushing again. My life here has been one of utterly sheltered obeisance. I do not know any cyclops—any man for that matter—and I am pretty sure I would remember one this handsome.

He is young, too. Younger than me, and I have been here in this place for over sixteen years. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I do not know you.”

His grin grows wider, and it is white as snow in his rugged face. “No, I expect you do not. I am a little different than when I was a boy.” He raises a hand into the air, gesturing at his head. “I’ve grown a bit taller.”

Boy? Taller? A flash of memory floods through me. I stare up at him, trying to see the small, quiet child in this handsome, authoritative man. “Mathior?”

“So you do remember.”

My lips part, but no honorable greeting comes from my throat. This man does not look like the small boy I remember. Mathior was a tiny boy with big, dark eyes, wild hair, and a somber appearance. The man before me smiles with pleasure as he gazes at me, and while his eye is still dark, one is gone. And he is tall now, so very tall that he towers over me. “I…oh. Yes, I remember you. You look well, Prince Mathior.”

“First Warrior Mathior,” he corrects. “Or King Mathior, if you prefer. My father is dead and all of King Alistair’s lands have fallen under my control. I now rule in his place. And that includes Yshrem and Adassia.”

I feel dizzy. King Alistair is dead. That means Mathior has come to murder me to secure his claim on the throne. “I see.” I didn’t know that my assassin would come bearing a friendly face. I study him for a long moment, because he seems to be waiting for something. My tears? My anger? Defiance?

I have known this day would come for years, though. So I hold my book tightly to my chest and try not to think that my corpse will be found with a tome full of dirty pictures. That cannot be helped. “Will you make it swift? In the name of our friendship these many years past?”

He tilts his head, the long hair on one side of his head spilling over his shoulder. “Make what swift?”

“My death.”

Mathior—if it is him—lets his mouth crook up in a smile, a somber one that tells me that yes, this is indeed the boy I once knew. “I am not here to kill you, Halla.”