A Gift for the Emperor's Son

by cassie69a

Summary:

If she had known it would come to this, she would not have protested so publicly when the empire’s delegation had announced their proposal: They would spare Berenul a short and bloody war, if only they handed over their kingdom’s princess and sole heir to the throne.

Princess Amali is awoken one morning to find her father murdered by his own vassals. Betrayed and powerless, she is gifted to the son of a ruthless emperor seeking to conquer her kingdom. But the imperial prince is more than just a bloodthirsty warrior, and he wants more from Amali than just to share his bed.

Notes:

Many thanks to the amazing Katie_Mae for creating fanart of this series. You can follow her on Reddit for more of her art, as well as updates on her stories, which she publishes on Literotica.

Chapter 1

Amali shivered in the crisp wind of early autumn. The sky was crystal blue with clouds wisping across its surface, the air smelling of churned-up earth. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she were out riding on her favorite gelding across the rolling hills of grass and bracken.

She shivered again, dressed in nothing more than a gauzy shift. Her hands were bound and the end of the rope tied to the saddle of that treacherous man Horan who had slit her father’s throat. Her eyes burned with grief and rage, but she refused to cry in front of all these traitorous men.

“Over there!” came a shout, and she lifted her hands to shield her eyes from the bright sun.

Beyond Horan’s warhorse, the hills dipped and rose, crisscrossing each other until they reached the horizon, where she could just make out the blood-red banners of the empire’s imperial house.

The moorland had protected Berenul’s eastern border for centuries, but no longer. The rest of Tauria had fallen, and now it was Berenul’s turn to bow to the emperor of Serutus’ bloodthirsty son. She knew that for the empire’s mounted archers and swordsmen, Berenul’s moors were as easy to traverse at the unforgiving steppe of the Serutusian homeland, far away to the southeast in the center of the continent.

Serutus was a young and war-hungry empire, named after the emperor’s grandfather, who had conquered three neighboring kingdoms within as many decades. Berenul was one of the last few kingdoms standing, at the edge of the continent, hemmed in between the ever-nearing imperial army and the sea. Her people were strong in wool and ore and sailing, not in fighting. They hadn’t needed to be; their corner of the world had reached an easy equilibrium centuries ago. But now Serutus’ great-grandson was here to upend everything.

“Raise the flag!” Horan ordered, and a herald lifted a pike with a plain white square affixed to its end.

Amali gritted her teeth. Her family’s own golden banners had been shredded the night before and dumped for all to see by the main gate of Lirean Castle. Only Horan’s red-and-blue banners were visible now. She supposed he expected the emperor would let him keep his lands and title, perhaps even reward him with some of her family’s own holdings for his betrayal.

The white flag rippled in the breeze, and in answer the imperial riders broke away from the horizon to gallop down the hillside out of view, racing toward them.

“They approach!” the herald cried.

“Let us go meet them!” Horan commanded, and Amali stumbled forward as he kicked his horse into a walk.

The coarse vegetation hurt her tender feet, but it was better than rocks and dirt, she supposed. She hadn’t had the time to even don her robe before Horan’s men barged into her bedchamber and hauled her away, let alone to put on her slippers, not that they would have helped much now. If only she’d had the presence of mind to reach for the knife beneath her pillow just a moment sooner, then she might at least have taken her own life and been spared this humiliation – and whatever horror awaited her at the hands of the emperor’s son.

He was said to charge into battle roaring like a dragon, freezing the blood of all who faced him. He could fire arrows one after another as quick as lightning and leap from his horse into the thick of battle without injury. So proficient was he at killing that he had suffered not even a scratch since first joining the battlefield when he came of age. That had been but a handful of years ago, and in that short space of time he had already laid low the northwest of the continent.

She didn’t want to think on what such a fearsome man would do to her when he had her to himself. She knew it was the custom for Serutus’ emperors to take the daughters of those they subdued as trophies, living little better than bed-slaves, their lives forfeit should their families ever step out of line. She no longer had any family to protect, which was a small mercy. But then, there was nothing to hold back the imperial prince from forcing himself on her at the earliest opportunity.

Amali shuddered at the thought, then tripped and fought to right herself before one of Horan’s men tried to touch her under the guise of helping her stand. But she wasn’t fast enough, and a gloved hand gripped her arm, yanking her up.

“Do forgive my rough manner, princess,” the man sneered.

She hissed and pulled away from him, turning her eyes back to the path before her. She knew her face was flush with shame, and she tried to ignore the crass jokes of the armsmen surrounding her.

If she had known it would come to this, she would not have protested so publicly when the empire’s delegation had announced their proposal: They would spare Berenul a short and bloody war, if only they handed over their kingdom’s princess and sole heir to the throne. But would that alone have made a difference? Her father had been seething with anger and shouted the ambassador out of the throne room. Perhaps instead she should have begged him to consider the offer, or secretly ridden out and presented herself at the imperial war camp currently sitting on the edge of Berenul territory. Anything to protect him, whose body now hung outside the gates of Lirean Castle.

The red-cloaked riders came into view over the crest of the nearest hill, and Horan raised a hand to halt his entourage.

Amali shifted her stance, peeking past Horan’s great warhorse to catch a glimpse of the approaching men. Which one was the imperial prince? She’d thought his horse would be outfitted in the imperial colors, that he’d be wearing the most sumptuous of garments amongst his men, as her father did. Was he not even here?

The imperial soldiers halted at a shouting distance, and then one lone rider stepped forward and hailed Horan. The traitor returned the gesture and nudged his horse slowly forward, Amali trailing behind. He stopped halfway between the two groups, his horse shifting uneasily.

Horan’s voice rang loudly in the barren landscape. “I come to surrender, most esteemed son of House Underen.”

Amali blanched. Was this really the prince? She dared not look.

“You made a wise choice.” His words were clear despite the wind, with an undercurrent of power that made her shudder. She could only imagine how terrifying he would sound when he unleashed it fully. “But why,” he continued, “do I see only the banners of House Riotaz? Have you abandoned your king and come to surrender alone?” There was cold mirth in his voice now.

“King Orist is dead,” Horan declared without preamble. “He refused your offer, but I would accept it in his place.”

“Can you prove it?” the prince demanded.

“Indeed, your imperial highness.” Without turning, Horan signaled to his men.

Amali looked over to see a rider step forward, proffering a leather satchel in his outstretched arm. One of the prince’s men rode over and accepted it, looking inside at what could only be her father’s head. She bit back a sob.

The man returned to the prince’s side and showed it to him, face grim. They spoke a few words and the man nodded, closing the bag.

“I accept your proof.” The prince’s voice held a hard edge. “But my offer was not made in exchange for a dead king, but rather a living princess.”

“That is why we brought her,” Horan replied. “As a gift for your imperial highness.”

“A gift?” the prince echoed. Amali couldn’t discern the emotion underneath his words.

“Indeed.” Horan jerked on the rope and Amali yelped as she was yanked forward, her wrists burning. He continued pulling until there was no more slack, and she could only stand, arms out taut, next to his saddle.

Amali stared at the ground, not wanting to face this man who had come to claim her.

Horan’s boot met her back, shoving her forward. She whimpered as she stumbled yet again, then righted herself and stood. The wind shifted and she was suddenly leaning into it, and she felt a blush rise furiously over her face. Her figure was clearly outlined now as the thin cloth of her shift pressed against her body. She tried to pull her hands down to cover herself, but Horan refused to loosen his grip.

“How do you like her?” the traitor asked, and she could hear the lewd smile that was surely spread across his face.

The prince made no reply, instead dismounting and striding towards her. Amali cowered back as much as she could, acutely aware of her shift rubbing against her stiff nipples, streaming between her legs all the way up to her thighs. She fell to her knees and cried out in pain. Burning with shame, she pressed her lips together to keep any more sounds from escaping her mouth.

He was standing right in front of her now, his heavy boots not even a step away from her grazed knees.

“Look at me, princess,” he said quietly.

Amali shivered at his tone but refused to obey. He crouched down and she closed her eyes, feeling his hand lift her chin to face him.

“Look at me,” he repeated firmly. “I won’t ask again, princess.”

She didn’t want to, but she was more afraid of what he’d do to her if she defied him in front of all these men. Slowly she opened her eyes, her breath freezing in her lungs as his gaze locked onto hers.

Imperial Prince Kirilos Underen’s eyes were as pale and cold as steel. He had tanned skin, heavy brows, and rose-dark lips, which were frowning as he peered into her eyes.

“They really are as dark as they say,” he murmured, and she gritted her teeth and looked away.

Amali was well-known for her eyes as deep blue as indigo and her auburn hair that was now blown all about her face. The prince tucked a strand of it behind her ear and caressed her cheek, and she flushed in embarrassment. This was the closest she’d ever been to any man other than her father, who was now dead and could no longer protect her.

More loudly, he said, “I accept your gift, Horan Riotaz. I will be taking her with me.”

“It pleases me to hear so, your imperial highness,” the man replied.

Amali blinked. Horan hadn’t even given his name. Just how much did the emperor’s son know about the lords of Berenul?

She was startled out of her thoughts when the prince drew a dagger from his belt. She flinched, raising her hands in a futile effort to shield herself. Then the ropes fell away. Surprised, she glanced up to see him scowling and averted her gaze once more.

“Don’t try to run,” he said, voice low but dangerous. “You will regret it. Do you understand?”

Amali curled her lip; did he really think she didn’t comprehend her situation? But she nodded meekly, and he helped her stand. She moved to cover her breasts, but the prince unclasped his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. It was heavy and warm, and she slipped her hands through the arm slits gratefully as he fastened it above her chest.

“Come,” he said, turning away without bothering to make sure she followed, as though he were entirely sure she would obey him.

And she did. Limping slightly, she reached his great black stallion, which rolled its eyes at her.

“Easy, Tuma,” he murmured to the horse, petting its neck.

Amali stepped forward slowly and breathed into the horse’s nostrils by way of greeting, and his ears relaxed. She stepped back and saw the prince staring at her, and blushed anew. He looked as though he might say something, but instead only held out his arms. She braced her hands on his wide shoulders and he lifted her up, settling behind her only a moment later. He reached around her and took the reigns and she flushed once more, realizing her backside was practically kneading into his crotch.

“I thank you for this gift, Lord Riotaz,” the prince said, his voice rumbling through her body.

Horan bowed in his saddle. “I only hope that she pleases you, your imperial highness.”

“She does,” he replied. “Greatly.”

Amali shuddered at his words. The prince didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. Silently he urged his horse around, and his entourage followed, falling into formation around them.

She looked over at the man who still carried her father’s head. She recognized him now; he was the ambassador the prince had sent to court not two months ago. She tried not to stare at the satchel but couldn’t help it, and the man caught her looking. He inclined his head politely but said nothing. She supposed there was nothing to be said.

It was slow going, riding double. She eyed the sun, guessing it was about midday. Would they even reach the imperial camp by sunset?

Suddenly her stomach growled, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since suppertime the day before. She reddened under the curious gazes of the soldiers on either side of her, one of whom glanced at the prince, who held out a hand. The man searched through his saddlebags and offered up a pouch of some sort. The prince took it and shoved it in front of her, and she accepted it without a word. Peering inside, she found long, dried strips of what seemed to be meat. It was tough and hard to chew, but she ate it nonetheless.

Over the first hill they went, then the next. Amali was tired and sore, but dared not lean back against the prince, not wanting to touch him more than she had to. Every time she caught herself relaxing, she sat up straighter, refusing to sacrifice the last shreds of her dignity.

At long last they crested the final hill, and she gasped. Stretching out over the wide plain was a fortified encampment laid out as precisely as though it had been drawn with a straightedge on a map. There must be thousands of tents, she realized, and many thousands of men to go with them.

“Impressed, princess?” he murmured in her ear. She didn’t deign to reply.

It was indeed earlier than sunset, but not by much. The sun stretched low over the camp as they approached, with much less fanfare than Amali would have expected. The watchmen saluted as they entered, and the soldier who had given over his rations kneed his steed ahead of them, making a path for them to follow. The rest of the entourage seemed to melt away, here and there a soldier recognizing his prince and saluting. She wondered at how safe he must feel, surrounded by his men. Her father would never have mingled so easily among his common soldiers.

Up ahead she saw a tent larger than the rest, colored deep red, with space left empty all around it. The prince pulled his horse to a stop in front and dismounted. He reached up his arms to help her off, but she hesitated.

“Come down,” he said, not unquietly, and around them a few people stopped to look.

Conscious of her skirts, Amali dismounted on her own, and the prince caught her as she stumbled hitting the ground. His warhorse was much taller than her own riding horses, and it had been foolish of her to refuse his help. She nearly opened her mouth to thank him and apologize, but bit her lip to stop herself.

He steered her into the open tent, which was dominated by a large bed. Seeing it made her blood run cold, and she turned away from him.

“This is my tent,” he said unnecessarily. “You’ll be staying here tonight.”

Then he strode out, barking orders. The tent flaps were let down and Amali stood there alone in the evening light. The imperial colors made the whole tent glow an ominous deep red, and she held herself, trying not to think about what the night had in store for her.

Presently a pair of serving-women entered carrying a large tub, and then a train of them followed bearing hot water to fill it. As she watched the water rise, the sounds around the tent seemed to grow louder. Or perhaps that was just her imagination, and her fear. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, and she knew any moment now the prince would return and undress himself and –

“My lady,” said one of the women in a rough accent.

Amali blinked. She had forgotten that the people in Serutus’ homeland spoke a different language than her own. The prince had been so fluent in Taurian that it had completely slipped her mind.

“My lady,” the woman repeated. Amali turned to face her, and she put a hand to her chest and lowered her head, which was the Serutusian equivalent of a curtsy or a bow.

“His highness has instructed me to assist you with your bath,” the woman said.

Amali’s eyes widened, and she glanced at the curtains covering the entrance of the tent.

“Do not fear, my lady,” the woman assured her. “His highness bade a screen be put up surrounding us, so no man will be able to see you.”

That’s what that noise had been. Amali felt her shoulders relax. But still….

“Thank you,” she said, “but I have no need to bathe.”

The woman’s brows furrowed in confusion. “His highness commanded me to help you bathe,” she said slowly, as though she doubted Amali had understood her the first time.

“What about his highness?” Amali asked her. “When will he return?”

The woman tilted her head. “I do not know.” Eyeing Amali’s tense frame, her hands clasped nervously around her body, she sighed and said, more gently, “I will ask. But first, you must bathe.”

Amali gave in and undid the cloak, setting it on the bed, then stripped off her dirty, torn shift. The woman did up her hair in a simple bun, then helped her into the tub. She tried to stay alert for any sign that the prince might return, but the hot water was so soothing on her aching muscles, she couldn’t help but sigh and close her eyes. The woman bade her lean back and then undid her hair, softly detangling it with a comb. This done, she braided Amali’s hair and then began scrubbing her from head to toe. Her movements were so gentle and methodical, and Amali was so tired.

But no, she couldn’t let down her guard. She fought to keep her eyes open as the woman massaged first her legs, then her arms, frowning at the rope burns on her wrists.

At last the woman declared her clean, helping her out of the bath. The cold evening air brought Amali back to her senses, even after she had been patted dry and helped into another shift and then a long robe over that.

“His highness bade me apologize on his behalf for the poor quality of these garments,” the woman said. “He did not foresee he would need to provide you with clothes so soon.”

Amali smoothed her hands over the fine linen robe. Of course he had expected she would come to him, with all her belongings, even after being turned down.

She froze as the tent flap opened, but it was just another woman bearing a tray of food. She set it down on a small table at the edge of the tent, and Amali sat down on the stool before it. She ate with more gusto than was proper for a princess, for she was famished. The food disappeared too quickly, and she suddenly realized this was the last thing separating her from the prince’s certain return.

The thought made her queasy. She nodded absently as the serving-women bowed their heads and took their leave.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

Amali tried sitting, but her nerves were too tightly wound. She tried pacing, but this only made her more jittery. She was standing at the foot of the bed when the curtains gave way once more, and suddenly the prince was before her.

She swallowed, instinctively bringing her arms in tight beside her. He sighed and walked past her to the table, setting down a pitcher and two goblets.

“Would you like some wine, princess?” he asked her.

She shook her head. He made no reply to this, pouring out a cup for himself. He leaned back against the table, sipping his drink slowly as he regarded her. His long dark hair was tied back loosely, framing his chiseled face, and his eyes gleamed in the light of the candles the serving-women had lit as it grew dark. He’d removed his chain mail and leather armor, and a loose robe covered what she could see of his shirt. His sandaled feet peeked out from under the hem, which concealed whatever else he was wearing. If anything at all.

Amali could feel her stomach tensing, her heart thundering in her ears.

“Is there something you wish to say to me?” he said finally.

What was there to say? She shook her head.

“Then why am I here?” he asked, clearly irritated.

Amali pressed her fingernails into her palms. If he were so impatient, why didn’t he just take her? Did he want her to undress herself first?

Taking a breath to steady herself, she undid her robe and let it fall to the carpeted floor. He stilled for a moment, then drained his cup.

“Never did I imagine that the proud Princess Amali Lethar of Berenul would offer herself to me freely. I was told you rejected my proposal. Quite vociferously, I was informed.”

She frowned. Was he mocking her?

“Very well,” he continued, “I’ll play along. What else do you have to show me, princess?”

Haltingly, she raised her hands to undo the laces of her shift. It was somewhat too large for her, and the fabric slipped down easily.

The prince sucked in a breath. She braved a glance at him and saw his eyes roaming over her body. He met her gaze and she blushed, looking away, clenching her fists by her side to keep her hands from covering herself.

“You’re as lovely as I imagined, princess,” he said thickly. Of course he hadn’t needed to imagine much, since he’d already seen most of her out on the moor.

He was silent for a long moment. “Is that all you can manage, princess?”

Amali gritted her teeth. She was standing right before him, naked as the day she was born. She hadn’t expected he would restrain himself like this.

He must enjoy watching her degrade herself. She took another deep breath, then stepped forward out of her garments puddled on the floor. One step, then another, until she was close enough to reach out and take his hand. It was large and rough, surely strong from all the years he had spent honing his warcraft. But he allowed her to move it, and she slowly placed his palm upon her trembling breast.

The prince groaned and palmed her tender flesh. “You’re so soft,” he murmured, stroking her. Then he put his thumb on her nipple, circling gently until it stiffened. He grasped it between his fingers and squeezed, which made her gasp. It hurt exquisitely, and this brush of pleasure was more than she could bear.

Amali felt tears of shame welling in her eyes and she tried to blink them back, but one slipped free and ran down her cheek.

He let go, then held her face and brushed her tear away, almost affectionately. “Did you truly think I would want a woman who cries at my touch?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her voice sounded so weak.

He frowned and pulled his hand away. “Is that all you have to say?”

Amali swallowed. “I will do better,” she pleaded. Better to be the prince’s woman than to be cast away. What would become of her then?

“I don’t think you can, princess,” he said, not unkindly. “Nor do I wish for you to try.”

More tears were running down her face now. “But I thought… you wanted me,” she managed.

“I do,” he replied. “But not like this.” He leaned forward and she closed her eyes, but he only brushed her forehead in a chaste kiss. “Rest tonight, princess,” he said.

She opened her eyes and saw him leaving. “Are you not sleeping here?” she asked him.

He paused in the open tent flap but did not look back. “Rest assured, princess,” he said, voice husky. “None shall disturb your sleep, least of all myself.”

And with that he was gone. The lanterns swung slowly with his leaving, the flames jumping high and casting eerie red shadows.

Amali shivered, then dressed herself. She slipped under the heavy covers of the bed, nestling into the soft downy pillows. He must have something special in mind, she decided. Or perhaps he’d rather wait until he finalized matters with Berenul. He’d said she pleased him, and that he wanted her. She was certain he wouldn’t leave her intact for long.

But her exhaustion was stronger than the uneasiness of her thoughts, and soon she fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter 2

In her dreams, her father’s dead body was propped up on his throne, still bleeding from the gaping wound in his throat. “Why did you leave me, my daughter?” he moaned, reaching out his hand. Then Horan’s face swam before her, laughing evilly. He brandished a knife and ran towards her, and she tried to scream but couldn’t.

Amali struggled awake, gasping for air. She tried to slow her breaths, reminding herself that it was just a dream. Soon enough Gilda would come to rouse her for the day, and –

But no. It hadn’t all been a dream.

She covered her mouth to smother the sob that rose up in her throat. Her father really had been killed; Horan had done it as he lay sleeping and defenseless. His men had dragged her out of her bed in the gray predawn to see for herself.

Amali shuddered. What had become of Gilda and the rest of her servants? She prayed they were safe, though she knew Horan turned a blind eye to whatever his men did to his own serving-women. The royal guards were dead, she knew, or else imprisoned in the dungeons. Hopefully Horan wasn’t torturing them for sport. She hadn’t heard he liked such things, but then, she hadn’t heard he was a treacherous bastard either.

She looked around the tent, which was starting to glow in the cool dawn. Here and there a fragment of golden light slipped through, and she wondered when the serving-women would arrive.

Amali waited, and waited more. The sun had truly risen now, slanting ever higher through the edges of the tent. At length she remembered what the prince had said the night before – None shall disturb your sleep. Were they waiting for her?

She licked her lips. “Hello?” she called out, then again more loudly. “Is anyone there?”

The tent flap opened and the woman who had helped her bathe entered and bowed her head.

“His highness ordered me to attend to you this morning,” she said, then called out in the Oghian tongue. A stream of serving-women entered, each bearing some item Amali would need to ready herself for the day.

She insisted on washing her face herself, but relented so the women could wipe down her body. A smaller shift had been found for her, and as one woman brushed and plaited her hair, another tended to the wounds on her wrists. Once these were bandaged, she was dressed in a simple gown and sturdy stockings and presented with fine riding boots that were only a smidgen too large. Last was the blood-red cloak, which Amali supposed was meant to mark her as belonging to the imperial family, just like their soldiers.

Breakfast was sparse, but she ate it all the same, and afterwards the woman approached her.

“His highness wishes to see you,” she said, and Amali rose from her seat.

Steeling herself, she followed the woman out the tent, which was surrounded by a wall of cloth held aloft by poles and ropes. They had to backtrack to exit, emerging into the bustling camp. Amali kept her head down, but did not fail to notice that two soldiers were following her as she was led across the way and into another even larger tent.

The prince was stood there at a large table, speaking to one of his men. Amali waited awkwardly as the two conversed in Oghian, wondering if he’d even noticed her arrival. Her eyes wandered across the wide tent, which reminded her of her father’s office, save for the stand of weaponry. She considered for a moment her chances running over and brandishing one of the smaller swords, stabbing herself in the ribs. That was a sure way to die, wasn’t it?

“That would be unwise, princess.” The prince’s voice startled her, and she flushed at being caught and looked down at the grass.

“Come here,” he said.

Amali walked over, still looking down.

“This is Morden,” the prince said, gesturing to the man next to him.

Amali looked up and recognized the man whose dried meat she’d eaten the day before. He put a fist to his heart and inclined his head. She awkwardly dipped a curtsy in response, returning her gaze to the ground.

“He is the captain of my guard, and he will be watching over you whenever I cannot. Consider him your shadow.”

Amali nodded to show that she understood.

“Look behind you, princess.”

Amali turned, and the two soldiers that had followed her did the same as Morden had.

“The one on the left is Janets, and on the right, Ziler. One of them always stands guard outside my chamber. If anything should happen, you have only to call on them.”

Amali nodded again, repeating the strange names in her mind.

The prince uttered a single word in Oghian, and Morden saluted and left. “Come sit,” he told her, gesturing to a stool.

Amali took a seat further away and he sighed, moving to sit next to her.

“There is a question I should have asked you yesterday, princess, that I will ask you now,” he said quietly. “The only answer I wish to hear is the truth, no matter what that is.”

She stared blanky ahead, wondering what it was he so dearly wished to know.

“The men who killed your father,” he began, “did they hurt you as well?”

Amali lowered her eyes to the table, which was covered in a large map of her homeland, punctuated by stacks of papers in the spiky Oghian script. She shook her head. Horan’s men had manhandled her and bound her and leered hungrily at her body, but they hadn’t violated her.

“You needn’t lie to me, princess,” he said softly. “Hanya told me you were covered in bruises this morning.”

Amali closed her eyes in shame. Of course the serving-women he’d sent to her had reported back to him. Firmly she shook her head again.

“I will not be angry with you, even if you have lied,” he insisted gently.

Amali recalled that for Serutusians, lying was one of the greatest possible crimes, an insult to their gods, almost. Did he think her a fool, to risk the wrath of an imperial prince? She shook her head a third time, growing irritated at his persistence. If he really wanted to know, why didn’t he check for himself?

“Very well then,” he said. “But if you do not bleed by this time next month, that will complicate matters. It would be better for you to be honest with me now.”

“Three days,” Amali blurted out.

He cocked his head at her in a silent question.

“I will bleed within three days,” she clarified. She had watched the waxing crescent moon set the evening before her father had died, and had known her time was near.

“Then I shall look forward to it, princess,” he replied evenly.

Amali closed her eyes again. Was that what he was waiting for? Proof that she wasn’t with child, to ensure whatever bastard she bore him would be his?

The prince’s next question startled her out of her dread. “Would you like to see your father now?”

She snapped her head up, turning to look wide-eyed into his pale gray gaze, flinching as she did so.

“Lord Horan gladly gave over his body when I asked for it,” he explained, lip curling with distaste. “My people are preparing him for burial, but I thought you might wish to see him one last time.”

Amali blinked furiously, not wanting to cry in front of him again. Looking away, she nodded, then stood.

The prince called for Morden, who appeared and saluted. Amali listened as the prince spoke rapidly in Oghian, supposing that she should learn it now that she’d be returning with him to Serutus, she assumed. But as of yet the sounds all bled into each other, and she recognized not a single word.

Morden bowed his head at his prince’s orders. “Follow him,” the prince directed her, and she did so.

The captain set a slow pace, which she was thankful for. She was sore from all her walking and riding the day prior, which accounted for most of her bruising. She wondered absently why the prince cared so much if she were still a virgin; she hadn’t thought Serutusians minded such things among their concubines at least.

Every now and then a soldier would stop Morden, perhaps to speak with him, but he would shake his head and gesture to Amali behind him. She kept her eyes to the ground, not wanting to see their stares. She was used to men’s attention when she appeared at her father’s court. But being surrounded by an army of men was entirely different.

At last the captain stopped before a small tent, holding open the flap for her to enter. There was little inside besides a table, upon which a body lay, covered in a white sheet.

Not just a body, she realized. It was her father.

A sob wrenched its way out of her, and she heard a small noise behind her. She whirled to face the captain, who was looking pointedly at the ground.

“I wish to be alone,” she said loudly, hoping he understood, but he made no move to leave. “Get out!” she snarled, and he looked up, hesitating for a moment before bowing his head and exiting the tent.

Amali turned back to face the table. Holding back her tears, she approached her father’s body and withdrew the sheet from his face, careful not to pull too far lest she be confronted with his death-wound.

King Orist Lethar of Berenul looked almost peaceful, as though he were sleeping. Unlike when she’d seen him last, his eyes were closed, though his mouth was still crooked in a frown. But he was so pale, so cold. Amali sobbed once more, bending over her father’s newly-washed face, his wet hair.

“Forgive me, Father,” she whimpered. “I should have been a better daughter. I shouldn’t have made you choose me over our people.” Berenul all but belonged to Serutus now, just as she belonged to the prince.

She closed her eyes, remembering the last time they had spoken. He’d bid her goodnight and kissed her forehead, and she’d complained that she was no longer a child to be treated so. How she wished she could take back those words now. If only she could speak to him one more time, tell him how much she longed for his affection. It had only been her pride that made her speak so.

Amali stayed bent over her father until her tears flowed no more, and then she collapsed exhausted upon the ground, pulling her arms around her legs, lying her head on her knees. She closed her eyes and tried to remember her father’s laughter, his smile, the bittersweet way he looked at her when she reminded him of her mother….

After a time she heard a small cough and looked up. Morden was standing there, looking apologetic, and he held out his hand to help her up.

She struggled to her feet without taking his hand, brushing off her clothes. He bowed his head and opened the flap for her to exit, then led her back the long way to the screened-off tent. Janets saluted to Morden and stood back for her to wind her way around to the tent entrance proper. The serving-woman who had helped her bathe was waiting for her there, with a basin of water and a towel.

Amali allowed her tear-stained face to be washed and dried, and then the woman led her to the table where a meal was waiting for her. She ate resolutely, not feeling hungry, but knowing she needed to keep up her strength. When she was finished, the woman cleared the table and left, and Amali threw herself down on the bed, boots and all. She didn’t bother trying to keep her eyes open. Her grief and fear had drained her strength, and besides, there was nothing else to do but wait. She might as well sleep.

Amali awoke blearily in the low evening light. Had she really slept for so long? She stretched and found herself hungry again, and there was her supper, steaming in the cool air. She ate her fill and sat back, sleepy again, but was startled out of her stupor when the prince appeared before her.

She stayed frozen in her seat as he ambled over and sat across from her at the small table. He brought no drink this time, instead surveying her appraisingly.

Amali swallowed and looked down at the table, clenching her fists. She thought he’d leave her alone until after she was done with her monthly courses, at least. Or perhaps he was waiting for her to change her answer to his earlier question. Then there was the matter of her father.

“Thank you,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“For what?” he replied, sounding genuinely puzzled.

What else? “For taking care of my father.”

He sighed. “Do I have such a terrible reputation in Berenul? It was the least I could do for my father-in-law.”

Amali furrowed her brows. Did a concubine’s family count as kin among the Serutusian imperial family?

“You needn’t look so surprised, princess. What else would I do with the heir-daughter of Berenul but marry her?”

Cautiously she lifted her eyes to meet his own, searching his pale gaze for signs of deceit. Was this the reason he cared so much if she weren’t untouched? Serutus’ ambassador had said nothing about a wedding, only that she should be handed over. She had assumed, like everyone else, that she would be nothing more than the prince’s plaything.

Amali swallowed. Had this terrible misunderstanding brought about her father’s needless death?

“I do regret that things turned out this way,” the prince said softly, as though sensing the direction of her thoughts. “I was prepared to wage a war for your hand, not to bury your father. But the result is the same. Through you I shall become king of Berenul.”

Amali felt her throat burn with sudden rage. Who was he to covet her homeland, to rule over her people? Berenul was a peaceful kingdom that held little of value for an empire.

“Temper your anger, princess,” he said, voice low.

She shut her eyes, frazzled that he could read her so easily. She had learned how to compose herself at court, but sorrow and exhaustion had sapped her stoic veneer. Or perhaps the prince was just a master at reading people. He had grown up at the imperial court and would have learned as much about statecraft and politics as warfare, she supposed.

“Why me?” she asked. “Surely there are many noble women in Serutus more suited to be your wife.”

“Yes,” he replied, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Each of them with a family itching to gain power, and none with a dowry so magnificent as yours.”

“What could you possibly want with Berenul?” she huffed. “Our coast is rocky, our fields are poor, our mines are small.”

“A country to call my own,” he replied lazily. “And a princess I have only to wed to rule over it.”

She looked away, unable to hide her pain and fury. Even if she were truly to become his wife, Berenul was nothing more than a toy for him, a small piece on a large chessboard.

“But most importantly, marrying you is the emperor’s command.”

Amali blinked. She supposed there was no arguing with the Red Sun of Serutus. But still….

“How can I trust you?” she asked, emboldened by his easy manner.

“ ‘Trust,’ ” he repeated, as though feeling the word on his tongue. “What actions of mine exactly do you need to trust, princess?”

“That you will marry me, and not just….” Amali let the implication hang unsaid.

“You misunderstand,” he said, affecting patience. “You became my betrothed the moment my father ordered it so. And you have been my bride since your people gifted you to me.”

“Horan,” she corrected. “Horan did that.”

He sighed. “Yes, princess. I do understand you were betrayed by House Riotaz in particular.”

She shook her head. “He killed my father.”

“I am aware.”

“I want him dead,” she said firmly, daring to raise her gaze to hold his.

He narrowed his eyes. “By what right do you demand this?”

“As your wife,” she replied. “It is the custom in Berenul for a husband to give his bride a wedding gift. So I ask this of you: End House Riotaz for me.”

He put his elbow on the table and set his chin on his fist, regarding her with some emotion she couldn’t name. “A gift for a gift,” he said finally. “House Riotaz shall be at your mercy. But to observe this Berenulian custom, we should first be wed, no?”

Amali swallowed. In Tauria, marriages were not solidified until they were consummated. “You have only to bed me,” she said flatly. She would endure the prince’s touch if it meant obtaining her revenge.

“I do admire your bravery, princess,” he replied, “but I am still waiting for you to bleed.”

Amali curled her lip in a silent snarl. “Take me now, and I will bleed for you this very hour.”

“Now that is the princess I was hoping to bed.” Was he… smiling at her?

Amali forced her face to relax and looked away. If it was her fight he enjoyed, she would not give it to him.

“Keep your pride, princess,” he said. “We go to Lirean tomorrow, after which Lord Horan will most kindly escort us to Juna, where we shall be married and crowned according to the customs of your people.”

Her home, the capital of Berenul. They should never have left. They had only traveled to Horan’s lands because a messenger had brought word the prince wished to parley in person before making a final decision. Or had that, too, been Horan’s trickery?

“Did you truly mean to meet with my father?” she asked him.

“I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings about my intentions. If he were going to refuse my offer, I wanted him to do it after I promised to make you an imperial princess.”

That’s what she was now, she realized, and why he kept referring to her that way.

“I see now it was a mistake,” he continued. “I should have simply sent back the ambassador to clarify my father’s terms.”

Amali couldn’t disagree, and so said nothing.

“I do bear some guilt in your father’s demise,” he said finally. “I would never trust a king-killer among my vassals anyhow. But I shall leave it to you to determine their fates, as my apology, princess.”

“I am grateful for your apology, your imperial highness.” It had been rude of her not to address him so earlier, but she ignored that.

“ ‘Your highness’ is sufficient,” he replied. “Or you can call me garadin. It means ‘husband.’ ”

She rolled her eyes and he chuckled softly. “I will see you tomorrow, princess.” And then he left.

The serving-women returned to help ready her for bed, and soon enough she was under the bedcovers, curled around a pillow.

Married. She had always known that was in her future, as her father’s only child. Whichever man wedded her would inherit the kingdom, as was the custom among Taurian-speaking peoples. Her father had refused to consider any offers until she was of age, and after that, he had always found some fault by which to reject her would-be suitors. He’d been waiting for the right man, she knew, not just to rule, but to be her husband.

And then the emperor of Serutus had simply decreed she would wed his son, as though Berenul were already theirs. She kicked under the sheets, angry at her kingdom’s powerlessness, and her own, and her father’s even. No vassal of theirs would have dared commit such treason otherwise. If only she had been more aware of their precarious position, she would have agreed to the emperor’s demand on the spot.

But why had he even decided such a thing in the first place? Had he been waiting until his son was of an age to marry, or had he been saving this offer for Berenul – and her – in particular? Amali shivered. If she’d been married already, would the prince simply have slain her husband and taken his place? Or would he have conquered Berenul as he had Kodeb and Filis and all the rest of Tauria?

He would make a formidable ruler. But what of being her husband? Garadin, he had said to call him. She spoke the word aloud, feeling it on her tongue and teeth. He was her husband, but he was waiting for her to bleed to ensure that she wasn’t already with child. That showed how little he trusted Horan and his men. And how little he trusted her, too.

Not that she had any complaints. His restraint would give her several days to prepare herself. Amali thought back to what her nurse had explained to her when she first began to bleed. Women had a hole between their legs, through which they conceived and birthed babies. Men had the opposite, a member to put inside a woman and give her his seed, from which a baby might grow.

But clearly there was more to it; she had known enough to put his hand on her breast the night before, and he’d obviously enjoyed it. Her cheeks burned at the thought. What else might be involved? Kissing, she knew that one too. She had almost kissed one of her suitors, once, but her nurse had found them before they were able to touch their lips together. And just as well, for she discovered later that he was a cruel oaf of a man.

What kind of man was the imperial prince? Curt, commanding, used to being obeyed. But he had tolerated her small acts of defiance, made sure she was well-treated, and taken care of her father’s body. Perhaps he’d even asked her if she were harmed because he genuinely cared to know if she’d been hurt. He already saw her as his wife, it seemed. What would he have done if she had said yes, that she’d been used before being presented to him? Amali shivered again. He could have laid siege to Lirean that very day at her word.

The unquiet thoughts chased each other around in her head until she grew weary of thinking and finally gave in to sleep.

Chapter 3

Amali awoke early, feeling less sore and more rested than the day before. She called for the serving-women to attend her and was quickly readied for the day. Instead of the usual skirts she was used to, she was dressed in two shifts, one with a high split seam down the front and back, another down the sides, and over this she was laced into a heavy gown with splits in all four places.

“What is this called?” she asked the serving-woman who spoke Taurian.

“It is a koslom, for riding,” she replied, and Amali memorized the word.

Her boots and cloak were the same as before, but her hair was braided in double plaits close to her head, like the mane of a horse, before being gathered together and tied off. After this she ate a hearty breakfast, feeling better knowing that the prince wouldn’t touch her for the time being.

She had thought she’d risen early, but he was waiting for her when the serving-woman led her outside. The screens had been taken down and all around them the tents were being dismantled and packed up. She spared a moment to look about, awed at how quickly the camp was returning to barren moorland.

“Princess,” he said, turning her attention back to him. He was holding the bridle of a dappled gray mare, taller than she was used to but still dwarfed in size compared to his stallion, who stood nearby. “This is Pranitsa. I brought her from the imperial stables at Domogr for you.”

“For me?” she echoed. She had never heard of Domogr, but it must be in the Serutusian heartland, where their strong, bold Kian horses had first been bred.

“Yes, princess. She is yours.”

She glanced at him and looked away from his smile. Slowly she advanced and greeted the horse, who huffed in reply.

“Hello, Pranitsa,” she murmured, stroking the mount’s velvety nose. The mare whickered, recognizing her name. “You’re beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like her,” the prince said. “Truthfully I was unsure if you even knew how to ride.”

He must have chosen this horse for her before he left Serutus; a gentle-mannered ride that could still keep up with the prince’s larger warhorse.

“Thank you, your highness,” she said quietly.

“It is only proper for an imperial princess to have a horse of her own,” he replied, a hint of pride in his voice.

Amali ignored it and took the reins from him, mounting up easily in her split skirts. After settling in her saddle, she looked down to see the prince watching her and blushed. He only chuckled and mounted his own great stallion – Tuma, he had called him – conversing easily with Morden as they waited. Then the man left, presumably to find his own horse, and she was left alone with the prince.

“The color suits you perfectly,” he commented abruptly.

She glanced over and saw him gazing at her blue koslom beneath her cloak. She blushed again and looked away, clutching the reins more tightly, which made Pranitsa shift with worry. Amali focused on soothing her new horse, murmuring soft words and petting her. In all truthfulness, she was the one who needed calming, for her heart was beating hard already at the prospect of returning to the place her father had been killed.

Amali was grateful when they finally rode out, up the large hill. She looked back as they crested the top, seeing fully two-thirds of the camp still remained.

“They will be following in the next few days,” the prince said next to her. “It takes time to move such a large encampment.”

He didn’t add, but Amali understood, that having her in hand was worth more than half his forces. She gritted her teeth, hating being thought of as a pawn in this game of conquest.

“Yes, princess,” he continued as they rode on. “You are the key that will open the doors of Berenul for me. Surely as the heir-daughter you understand your duty towards your people now?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she hissed softly, looking away.

“For some, their pride is more important than their life. Is that not why you considered taking your own life, in my tent yesterday?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she replied, more harshly than she should have dared.

“I understand perfectly,” he countered. “A princess’ virtue is her honor. To lose that is worse than death. That is why you denied my proposal outright.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me as a wife,” she said quietly, not wanting to rouse his anger, but this only seemed to irritate him all the more.

“Your people must hold a terribly low opinion of me,” he retorted, nostrils flaring.

It was true, so she made no reply. They continued in uneasy silence, not stopping even when the sun reached its zenith. Bored, Amali scrounged her saddlebags, pleased to find a wedge of cheese, some apples, and a flask of water. She ate these as the afternoon wore on, every now and then turning behind her to take in the view of the imperial forces stretched out in a long ribbon behind them.

The sun was shining in their faces when Lirean Castle came into view. Amali tensed, and Pranitsa came to a halt. She tried to make her walk on, but the mare wouldn’t budge, and Amali flushed with embarrassment, aware that she was holding up the entire convoy.

Suddenly the prince’s gloved hand covered hers, loosening the reins that she’d been clutching too tightly. “Pranitsa is sensitive,” he said calmly. “She will not want to go somewhere you fear to send her.”

Amali swallowed, her throat dry. Glancing behind them, the prince took her reins and led her to the side, nodding for his entourage to continue forward without him. She sat back and lowered her gaze to Pranitsa’s withers, not wanting to see what his men must think of her.

“You are right to be afraid,” he said quietly. “But you will be safe so long as you stay by my side.”

“My father died there,” she said. “They dragged me from my bed to see. And Horan laughed at my screams.”

The prince made no reply, and she continued speaking, unable to stop.

“They didn’t use me. I know you don’t believe me, but it doesn’t matter, because it feels as though they did. And if they had, at least then I wouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to follow after Father and join my mother. I wouldn’t feel so terrible for not wanting to be here any longer.”

She was crying freely now, not bothering to staunch her tears. The prince stayed silent, bringing forth a handkerchief and wiping her face gently, but this only made her cry more. He handed her the cloth and took her reins once more, leading her further out from the convoy.

Amali continued crying until she ran out of tears, her eyes aching. The handkerchief was soiled and wet now, and he mutely took it from her, bringing out his flask and putting it in her unsteady hands.

“Drink,” he said, and she did.

When she was done she handed it back to him, and he recorked it without comment. Amali felt foolish in front of his stoic frame, and she looked away, north towards Juna. How she longed to be home.

“Do you remember the word for ‘husband’?” he asked her.

She sniffled. “Garadin.”

“Garad means to look after, to protect, to care for. That is what a husband and wife should do for each other. That is what I will do for you.” He took off his glove and slowly reached out, taking her hand. “I am glad to know that you were unharmed. But even if you were, I would still have you. Even if you conceived a child because of it, I would still make you my wife. And I would burn alive any man who had dared to touch you.”

Amali hiccupped, unsure of how she was meant to respond to this declaration.

“When my mother died,” he continued, “I, too, longed to follow after her. But we are not such people as can do whatever we please. Our every action is worth a thousand of those below us.” He sighed. “But more than that, princess, I promise you the pain will fade. It will never go away, but it will become bearable, and there will be space in your heart again.”

“Space in my heart?” she murmured, glancing shyly at him.

He smiled crookedly. “A poor translation of a beautiful word, princess.”

“What word is that?”

“Sparik,” he replied. “It means… room for the heart to breathe freely.”

“Sparik,” she repeated.

“Yes, princess.” He squeezed her hand and let go, regarding her carefully.

Amali bit her lip. “I’m not always so weepy,” she said defensively.

“I didn’t think you were, princess.”

His gentleness was becoming uncomfortable, and she looked away, back toward the sun and Lirean Castle. He followed her gaze, then looked back at her, frowning.

“Stay by my side,” he said, in the gruff tone she was more accustomed to, and she nodded. “Then let us go.”

He kneed his stallion into a trot and Amali followed. Pranitsa’s gait was smooth over the grassy hills, and Amali wondered if the moors reminded her of the grasslands of Serutus. They approached the line quickly, slowing as they reached the front. Morden eyed them as they returned to their place at the head of the convoy, perhaps unhappy to have lost sight of his prince for so long. But he made no comment, and presently they were within signaling distance of Lirean Castle.

Amali forced her face to smooth over her disgust and hatred as they rode through the gate, followed by the prince’s guard and a small detachment of armsmen. She avoided the eyes of Horan’s men, keeping her gaze meekly downward. She accepted the prince’s help dismounting, allowing his hand to stay at her waist even as Horan came forward and bowed deeply.

“I hope you have been enjoying your gift, your imperial highness,” he said, smiling widely.

“I have,” the prince replied lightly. “I thank you once again for bringing her safely to me.”

Horan caught the prince’s meaning and grinned. “I could do no less for your imperial highness. Come, I have prepared the highest seat for you at my table.”

Amali clung to the prince as they swept through the corridors into the great hall, where the prince took Horan’s chair after setting her squarely at his side. Her gaze darted about the room, trying to catch sight of any familiar faces. But if her servants were present, she could not find them.

All through the meal she endured Horan’s harsh laughter and crude jokes, which the prince did nothing to dissuade. She wondered vaguely at Horan’s sister’s absence – the girl was his only remaining kin, and Amali had sat beside her for several nights of feasting before Horan’s betrayal. She supposed Horan had locked her away for her own safety, or the precious alliance her eventual marriage would make, if nothing else.

At length Amali began to droop, exhausted from a day of riding and an evening spent trying to still her nerves. The prince seemed to notice, for he whispered in her ear to hold on a little longer.

“Your hospitality impresses, Lord Riotaz,” he said after a little while. “But my gift grows weary, and I should like to retire.”

“Take my chamber, your imperial highness,” Horan said.

Amali’s eyes widened and she clutched the prince’s arm. That was where her father had died.

“That won’t be necessary,” the prince replied.

“But I insist, your imperial highness. Nowhere else could be so fitting.”

“Nowhere but the princess’ chamber,” the prince said easily. Amali blushed at the guffaws of the men, lowering her eyes to the table.

“It shall be as you say, your imperial highness,” Horan relented.

A page led the way to the room Amali had not seen since she was awoken that terrible morning. It looked much the same, with her belongings still present, though not her serving-women.

She bit her lip, looking about the chamber. Where was Gilda?

“What troubles you, princess?” the prince asked.

“My servants,” she answered. “I haven’t seen them since – Gilda!” she cried as the woman opened the door and scurried toward her.

Gilda paused and curtsied to the prince, who looked to Amali with his brows raised in a silent question.

“She is my serving-woman,” Amali explained, and he nodded.

Gilda took Amali’s hands and clutched them tight. “I am so glad to see you, your highness! Are you” – she glanced back at the prince – “unharmed?”

“I belong to his imperial highness now,” she replied softly, knowing how Gilda would interpret her words. Her serving-woman squeezed her hands more tightly, tears in her eyes. “But I am well, Gilda,” she said. “Where are Basti and Elia?”

“Basti is dead,” the woman replied, and Amali shut her eyes for a moment to steady herself.

“And Elia?”

Gilda shook her head. “I have not seen her since that morning, when Lord Horan’s men dragged her away.”

Elia was younger than Amali, a renowned beauty who was always brushing off the attentions of men. Amali had seen the way Horan’s men watched her, and felt a heavy pain in her stomach.

She turned to the prince. “Please, we must find her.”

He nodded and called out in Oghian, and Ziler entered the room. The prince issued a short command, and the man disappeared. Presently Morden appeared at the door, bowing his head. The prince spoke to him, gesturing to Gilda and speaking Elia’s name.

“This is the captain of my guard,” the prince told Amali’s serving-woman. “Go with him and find the girl, and he will escort you to my camp, where my own women will tend to the both of you.”

Gilda hesitated, still holding onto Amali. “Trust him, Gilda,” she assured her. “His serving-women have been attending me these past few days. And you’re safe with Morden.”

Hearing his name, the man smiled encouragingly, and Gilda relented, nodding. “I will return in the morning, your highness.”

“No,” the prince said. “Better to stay away from this place. You may attend the princess tomorrow evening.”

Gilda curtsied to him. “As you command, your imperial highness.”

She gave Amali one last look, then allowed Morden to usher her out of the chamber.

Amali paced nervously, trying not to imagine what terrible things her young serving-woman had endured. Horan’s own servants came to ready her for bed, and Amali let them do so, barely aware of the prince’s presence. Once she was washed and dressed, the serving-women turned their attentions to the prince, but he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Amali looked away as he undressed himself, chewing her thumbnail.

At long last there was a knock at the door, and the prince, dressed in a long shirt, answered it. He spoke in low tones to whoever was there, then nodded and shut the door once more.

Amali faced him, wide-eyed. “Be at ease, princess,” he said softly. “Morden delivered both your women to my servants. They’ll be well taken care of tonight.”

She shut her eyes and let out a long breath. “Thank you, your highness.” Opening her eyes, she saw his sad smile, and her stomach lurched. “How is Elia?”

He shook his head. “Morden had to carry her. He didn’t say anything else, but… Hanya insisted that both your women be taken to see a midwife,” he finished gently, and Amali winced and looked away. “We will reach Caranog in two days, and they can be tended to properly there.”

“Thank you, your highness,” she repeated.

“Your people are now my people,” he replied simply. She nodded. He would be king of Berenul soon enough. “Now come to bed, princess.”

She bit her lip and glanced at the bed nervously. She regretted her outburst earlier, for if he believed her untouched, he might no longer wait to take her.

“Calm your fears, princess. I will not consummate our union until after our wedding.”

Amali blinked and looked over at him. She could see his dark chest hair peeking out from his shirt, which barely covered his thighs. She turned away, blushing.

“If you don’t trust me, then set a pillow between us,” he said mildly.

Amali nodded and went to the bed, pulling back the covers and placing a long pillow down the middle. She climbed in, pulling her skirt down, and lifted up the covers, facing away from him and closing her eyes tight. She felt the mattress give way as he clambered in after her, the tug of him pulling the covers over himself.

“Sleep well, garadsash,” he said.

She wondered if the word was similar to garadin. Had he called her his wife? She would ask him later, she decided, when they weren’t sharing a bed.

 

---

 

Amali dreamed she was on the moors, riding her bay gelding, racing away from Horan’s men. Then suddenly her horse fell over, and she lay crushed under his weight. She tried to get up but couldn’t move, and Horan’s men were fast approaching, so she opened her mouth and tried to scream –

She gasped and opened her eyes, breathing hard. It was just a nightmare. She stretched out her hand and felt the smooth sheets. That’s right. She was safe in bed, with a pillow between her and the prince.

Only it wasn’t there. She could feel him next to her, warm and hard, hear his easy breathing.

Amali tried to sit up but found that she couldn’t. It was just like in her dream, only instead of being pinned under a horse, she was trapped in his arms. They encircled her, holding her by the waist. Cautiously she tried to pull away his hand, but this only made him clutch her tighter.

“Your highness,” she whispered. “Please let me go.”

But he didn’t, instead nuzzling her closer, his breath on her hair, and against her back – Amali blushed furiously. She knew that when a man was aroused, his member became long and hard, and she could feel his now, pressing against her.

“Your highness,” she said more loudly. “Garadin.”

He stirred, then mumbled in her ear. “Yes, garadsash?”

“Please let go of me.”

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Why should I?”

“Because you’re on my side of the bed,” she said, trying to keep her thoughts straight. His breath smelled musky and sweet, and his body was so warm.

“I believe you are on my side of the bed, princess.” She could hear the lazy smile in his voice.

“What?” she squeaked. She stretched out her arm, trying to find the edge of the bed, but there was only more bed, and then the pillow. How had it gotten all the way over there?

“You moved it,” she said accusingly.

“I didn’t have to,” he replied. “I can take you in my arms whenever it pleases me, garadsash.”

Amali flushed and tried to pull away from him once more, but he didn’t release her. “You said you wouldn’t – not until our wedding,” she pleaded.

“And I won’t.” His lips were skimming her ears now, brushing against her hair.

“I’m not a fool,” she said, somewhat hotly. “I can feel that you want me.”

“So what?” he murmured. “I wanted to kill Lord Horan the moment I saw him yesterday, but I did not. Anyone who only ever does what they want, when they want, is no more than a child.”

She struggled against him, but he held fast. Amali gave up and went limp, tears of shame pressing hot on her eyelids.

“What are you thinking, princess?” he asked, voice low.

“You can do whatever you want with me, and I can’t stop you,” she answered, perhaps too honestly.

To her horror, she felt his member twitch against her. “Mmm. I like the sound of that. But it seems you don’t, princess.”

Amali didn’t dare to reply.

“I do wish you would trust me, garadsash,” he said softly, a hint of longing in his rough voice.

She shut her eyes, trying to breathe around his arms holding her close. It was true that he treated her better than she could have hoped that day Horan gifted her to him. But it was all too sudden, her father being murdered, and then being given over to the prince, and now finding her servants abused at the hands of Horan’s men.

“I need more time,” she said. “To you, I’ve been your betrothed since you left Iljimon. But I haven’t even known you a week.”

“Should I have sent a letter when I departed, asking you for your hand?” he murmured. “I assumed you would never accept me by choice.”

Amali swallowed. “Perhaps not. But I would have understood your intentions. I would have had time to accustom myself to the thought of… being your wife.”

“That’s why I’m waiting, garadsash. I don’t mean to disrespect your people’s customs, or your heart.”

“Then why do you insist on pretending like this? Everyone already thinks that we – that you –”

“Let them think what they want,” he said firmly.

“Can we at least sleep separately?” she begged.

“I can’t risk anyone trying to rescue you from me, garadsash,” he replied, amused.

“You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”

“ ‘My sweet wife,’ ” he murmured, then kissed the shell of her ear.

Amali was sure she had turned a bright shake of pink. “I need to use the chamber pot,” she said, reaching for the first excuse that came to mind. “Will you let me go for that at least?”

He sighed. “I suppose so.” He loosened his hold, and she unwound herself from him.

The flagstones of the floor were cold, as was the chamber pot. When she was done, she called for a servant to rouse the fire and stood shivering by the door as she waited.

“Come back to bed, princess,” the prince said. Amali shook her head. “Suit yourself, then,” he murmured, and turned over.

Horan’s servants were slow to appear, but once they did the fire was soon roaring and she was being dressed in her koslom, which had been washed and dried. The prince once again waved away the servants, and she turned her back to him as he washed and dressed himself.

He put his arm around her waist protectively before steering her out the door. Breakfast was a silent affair, and then they were heading out into the yard, where Pranitsa and Tuma were already saddled.

“Wait,” Amali said as the prince led her to the stool to mount up. “Where is my father’s horse, and mine?” she asked the hostler.

The man shot a nervous glance at the prince, who scowled. “The princess asked you a question,” he said, voice short.

“I shall have them prepared at once,” the man replied, bowing low and handing the reins to a stable boy.

Soon enough she saw her father’s white stallion and her own bay gelding, Tomfey, being led toward them.

“Which is yours?” the prince asked her.

“The brown one,” she answered.

He nodded, then issued a series of commands to one of his men, who took the reins from the hostler and led the stallion out the gate.

“You should ride this one today,” the prince told her, nodding to Tomfey. “Pranitsa will follow behind.”

“Yes, your highness,” she said meekly. Pranitsa was led away and Amali’s bay gelding brought before her instead. She stroked his nose before mounting up, then waited for the prince, who led the procession out the gate.

Amali felt uneasy watching Horan’s men follow the prince’s, proudly led by the red-and-blue banners of House Riotaz. But the entourage of the prince’s red-cloaked guard made her feel safer. She was beginning to recognize more faces than she knew names – like the lean pale-haired man who led Pranitsa by her halter. The man bowed his head when he saw her looking, and she nodded in return, then turned back to the prince.

“Where is my father’s horse?” she asked him.

“Following your father,” he replied curtly.

“And Basti?”

“I left a unit of men behind to bury your dead, princess. They will draw their faces and mark their graves, so their families can find them once all is settled.”

It sounded remarkably efficient, and cold. Amali shivered. The prince eyed her but said nothing further. She searched her saddlebags as the day wore on, pleased to find them restocked with bread, soft cheese, two pears, and a warm flask of ale. There was still no knife, not even the small kind all travelers used, but she managed without it.

The landscape changed from moors to grazing fields of sheep. The young shepherd boys gawked from under the occasional trees, a safe distance away. The sight made Amali wonder how the prince kept his army supplied. She supposed they had packed a great deal of foodstuffs in preparation for the campaign. How much did it all cost? It might be a pittance for the empire, but in Berenul it was worth the yearly pay of thousands. All of that just to marry her.

She glanced at the prince, who was chatting with one of his men. He looked less gruff, more amiable, even. His companion caught her watching him, and he motioned to the prince, who turned and chuckled at her blushing countenance. Amali pulled up her hood to hide her face, staring resolutely at the landscape ahead.

They made camp late in the day, with just enough light left for her to pick out the prince’s tent and head toward it after handing her horse over. There she found Gilda, who stood dazed, surrounded by half a dozen large chests.

“What are these?” she asked her serving-woman.

“Hanya said they are bride-gifts,” Gilda replied, eyeing them dubiously. “Does he truly mean to wed you, your highness?”

Amali lifted the lid of the nearest one, finding it full of bright bolts of silk. “He does,” she said, fingering the smooth fabric.

Gilda let out a long sigh of relief. “Come, your highness,” she said, “your supper will grow cold.”

Amali looked back to see another serving-woman had entered bearing a bowl of stew. She ate slowly under Gilda’s watchful eye, then resumed exploring the chests. One contained furs, another leather. She was reaching for the fourth one when she heard heavy footsteps and looked back to see the prince. Gilda curtsied low and hovered, unsure, but the prince ignored her and made for the bed, tossing off his cloak and unlacing his boots.

“Did you find the clothes?” he asked Amali. “I meant to wait until we arrived at Juna to show them to you, but I was informed you lacked proper riding clothes for the season.”

“Not yet,” she replied. She opened the fourth chest and was met with a set of richly embroidered cloth. “Is this it?”

“That’s for the wedding,” he replied, going to the fifth chest.

“Here,” he gestured, and she looked over to see a deep green overdress lined in fur. “It doesn’t rain as much in Serutus proper, so I had these made in the Taurian style. This one is for winter, and that one” – he pointed to the sixth chest – “is for summer. The rest can be made into whatever you like.”

Amali sat back, stunned. “This is worth a fortune,” she murmured.

“It’s nothing compared to what I will gain,” the prince replied, and she blushed and looked down at the red-embroidered gold cloth.

Suddenly she felt his arms around her, his face nuzzling the crook of her neck. “Stop!” she whispered, feeling her face grow flush. “Gilda’s still here.”

“She isn’t,” he murmured. “I sent her away.” Then he kissed her jaw, filling her with even more heat.

Slowly, delicately, he left a trail of kisses along her jawline, turning her to face him. Amali shut her eyes, knowing her lips were only a hair’s breadth away from his own. She could smell the clean warmth of his breath as he exhaled raggedly. The next moment she felt his lips on hers, his tongue pushing between them into her mouth.

He tasted sweet and smoky, and she moaned as his tongue explored the depths of her mouth. Tentatively she reached out her tongue to do the same, turning her head and putting her arms around his neck. He pulled back for air, then cupped her face in his hands and dove into her mouth again, more fiercely this time.

A man’s voice called out in Oghian, and the prince pulled away to shout back. “Hame’va!”

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

“ ‘Go away,’ ” he murmured, then caught her lower lip between his teeth.

“Oh,” she whimpered, surprised at how good it felt, despite the pain.

He relented and then bit down again, moving his hand to the back of her neck as she moaned.

The voice called out again, and the prince released her to press his forehead against hers, groaning. “We must continue this later, garadsash,” he said huskily, then kissed her cheek in parting.

He stood up and stomped out the tent, feet bare on the grass, and shouted irately at whoever had interrupted them. Amali stayed crouched on the carpeted floor, brushing her fingers over her swollen lips.

After a moment she shook her head, turning to the chest of winter clothes the prince had shown her. Next to the green overdress were a matching fur hat with flaps for her ears and a pair of women’s gloves. She pulled them onto her hands and found they fit perfectly, just like the koslom. She sat back, considering the likelihood that the prince already knew her measurements when he commissioned these gifts. The thought would have chilled her to the bone a mere week ago.

Gilda entered, followed by the serving-woman who spoke Taurian, eyeing her face but saying nothing other than, “Come, your highness, Hanya and I shall ready you for bed.”

So that was Hanya. Amali rose and allowed herself to be undressed and washed and redressed in a soft woolen shift. She climbed into bed after dismissing the women, waiting for the prince to return. Did he mean to continue kissing her that night? She felt her lips with her fingers, wondering how much more he would want from her before their wedding night.

She had almost drifted off to sleep when the prince returned. She closed her eyes and listened to him walking about the tent, then felt him join her in bed. He wrapped his arms around her as he had that morning, kissing the nape of her neck.

“Is it later now?” she asked him, unsure of how she felt about either possible answer.

“No, garadsash. I sat in the stream to cool my loins, and if we kiss they will awaken once more.”

She blushed at his blunt words, then remembered she was due for her courses. “I’m going to bleed soon,” she told him.

“I remember, garadsash.”

“Do you still want to stay so close?” She knew it disgusted many men, and didn’t want him to be angry in the morning.

“It’s only blood,” he replied, kissing her temple.

“But you will have to stop kissing me, or else I’ll never sleep,” she complained.

He chuckled. “Very well, garadsash.”

Amali closed her eyes, trying to forget the taste of his tongue, the scent of his breath, and how warm he had made her feel, kneeling on the carpet together.

Chapter 4

Amali was riding Pranitsa, wearing an embroidered gold gown, galloping through the grassy hills of eastern Berenul. Her father was astride his white stallion ahead of her, which disappeared into a cloudy flock of sheep. She stopped and looked around, trying to see where he had gone. “Father!” she called, but heard only the bleating of sheep. “Father!”

She opened her eyes, and above her the prince’s face blurred into view. She blinked, feeling a tear run down her temple.

“I heard you crying out in your sleep,” he said, frowning with worry.

“Father,” she whispered. “I lost you again.”

The prince’s frown deepened, his eyes storm-gray in the dark of morning. “Is that who you were calling, garadsash?”

“He was right in front of me,” she murmured, closing her eyes, trying to remember before it slipped away like water through her fingers. “But then I lost sight of him.”

Amali felt the prince’s arms tighten around her, felt him kiss her tear-stained temple.

“You must bury him next to my mother,” she said, opening her eyes and turning to face him. “Please, garadin.”

He gazed into her eyes, then kissed her forehead. “As you say, garadsash.”

Amali closed her eyes and snuggled closer. His body was warm and hard, and she felt secure in his arms. Idly she stroked his chest, his stomach, admiring how solid he felt beneath her hand. She heard his breath hitch, and she froze.

“You shouldn’t go any lower, princess,” he said, voice thick, “or else you’ll touch something you don’t want to.”

Amali pulled away and sat up, face burning. The prince sat up after her, eyes glinting in amusement and something else she recognized – lust.

He put a hand to her warm cheek. “You look lovely when you blush, garadsash.”

She turned away, blushing even more, and made to leave the bed.

“Wait, princess,” he said, catching her hand. “Give me a taste, at least, to last the day.”

She turned back to him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I need time to myself this morning,” he said, voice low. Amali blushed yet again, understanding his meaning. “But first, garadsash, I need a taste of you.”

His gaze flicked down to her lips, and she realized he wanted to share another kiss. Hesitantly she leaned down, opening her mouth, and he kissed her deeply, hungrily. His taste was making her warm again, heat that moved and pooled between her thighs. He reached up and cupped her breast in his hand, then pinched her taut nipple as he had done the night they first met. Amali moaned at the feeling, nearly falling on top of him.

He broke off the kiss and pushed her away gently. “Get off the bed now,” he said huskily, “or else I won’t be able to keep my promise to you.”

Amali blushed anew and slipped onto the floor. She called for Gilda, who was followed by the other serving-women. As they washed her, Gilda discovered she was bleeding and went to fetch the cloths among her belongings that had been brought from Lirean. This accomplished, she was dressed in her koslom and the overdress from her new chest of winter clothes. Gilda informed her it was raining, so Amali donned the hat and gloves she had discovered the night before and stepped out into the drizzling morning. She was led to an awning where she ate breakfast with the rest of the women, waiting for the prince to emerge.

When he finally did so, he had a spring in his step that made the serving-women giggle. Amali ignored their curious glances, saving the crust of her day-old bread for Pranitsa, who was being led toward her. The mare snuffled her great lips against Amali’s flat palm, chewing the treat contentedly. She pet her a little while, then mounted up. The prince rode up beside her with a grin, making her flush and look away.

The rain dampened the spirits of the imperial soldiers, though Horan’s armsmen were used to the wet. Amali worried this put them at a disadvantage, though they had surely encountered similar weather in the past few years it had taken them to conquer Tauria. Compared to that time, this must be as easy as a spring breeze for them, she supposed. With her at the prince’s side, there was little chance of fighting.

Amali realized this pleased her, not only because her people would suffer heavily in a war, but also because it kept her husband safe from harm. Unless the emperor had further plans for him, to the east or the south. She frowned, glancing over at his large frame. He was only here to marry her at his father’s command. Was she his reward, perhaps, for conquering this edge of the continent?

She ruminated on this as she ate her midday fare, troubled by the thought of being nothing more than a war prize, as well as by the cramps that accompanied her bleeding. The prince must have noticed her discomfort, for he asked if she needed to rest, but she turned this down. She wanted to reach Caranog as soon as possible, before the dark rolled in early with the storm clouds. Still, he walked with her a while, and she finally found the courage to ask him.

“Why did your father order you to marry me?”

The prince was silent for so long, she thought he had failed to hear her. “I intended to march on Berenul this time last year,” he said at last, “but my father recalled me to help my uncle subdue Kisht.”

Amali remembered how the imperial army had suddenly pulled back. At first her father’s advisers thought they were simply waiting for the spring, subdued by Tauria’s wet winters. But then they hadn’t returned by summer, and the whole of court had breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the empire had no interest in Berenul.

“While I was away, my father heard that the former prince of Filis intended to seek your hand. This defied the terms of his surrender, and he was easily dissuaded,” the prince continued, with a wolfish grin that made Amali shiver. “But my father was intrigued. He obtained a portrait of you, and in so doing learned of your people’s particular custom regarding female heirs to the throne. Such that when I returned victorious from Kisht, he told me he had found a different method by which to complete our conquest of Tauria.”

Amali frowned. So she really was just a tool to the emperor.

“Of course,” the prince added, “he also told me it was high time I be married and father heirs of my own. I was skeptical at first, but then I saw your likeness.”

“You must have been disappointed, then, to see me in person,” she said, remembering her tear-stained face and unbound hair.

“On the contrary, princess. You’re more beautiful than any painter could draw.” She blushed and looked away. “Though I was disappointed in the manner by which we met.” She glanced back and saw he was wearing the same dark expression he’d held when she first set eyes on him.

“I thought you were displeased with me,” she said softly.

“I was displeased that any man had dared treat my betrothed like a calf meant for slaughter,” he growled, and Amali felt her heart quicken in fear.

“Is there nothing you wish to know about Caranog?” she asked, to change the subject.

“Trying to be helpful, princess?” He smirked at her, and she flushed but carried on, determined.

“Lord Kowel knows me. His brother is – was – one of my father’s advisers.”

The prince nodded. “What else?”

“House Pirian governs most of Sairea, save for that held by House Riotaz and House Jorgen. They guard the fork of the Aldis River, and the largest bridge in the south.”

“That much I already know, princess,” he said, and she bit her lip. She had meant to prove her worth, even just a little.

“What manner of lord is Kowel Pirian?” he asked her.

She considered a moment. “He is stern but fair, and slow to anger, except when it concerns loyalty to the crown.” She frowned. “But that may have been for my father’s benefit.”

“And how is he likely to react when he hears his king is dead?”

Amali shivered. “He’ll want to know how. And if he finds out the truth, he will call for Horan’s head.”

“Even in my presence?” the prince asked.

“Most especially,” she replied. “His honor demands it.”

“And will he take up for your honor as well, princess?”

She glanced over at him. His tone had been light, but his frown gave away his worry. “He is not fool enough to challenge you… but he will demand that you marry me.”

He was quiet awhile, then said, “I don’t trust Horan’s men to stay silent. You must speak with Lord Kowel yourself and explain the matter.”

She looked at him, surprised. “Alone?”

“Within view, but yes.”

“I didn’t think you trusted me so much,” she said.

“We both know that if you flee to Caranog, princess, it will only delay the inevitable.”

She looked away. Of course he was right, but it still grated on her.

They continued in silence until Caranog came into view. The outskirts lay deserted save for a few stray dogs, though Amali thought she could make out smoke from some of the chimneys. As they neared the city gates, the bulk of the convoy spread out to make camp, while the prince’s entourage continued their slow approach.

“Who goes there!” shouted a man from the watchtower.

“I, Kirilos Underen, seek hospitality this night for myself and for your princess!” the prince bellowed back.

The man disappeared a moment. “What proof have you that our princess is among you?”

“Let Lord Pirian himself ride out and speak with me!” Amali shouted.

They waited a few minutes, and then the gate groaned open and a lone rider walked out.

Feeling her heart beating in her throat, Amali kneed Pranitsa forward. As she approached, she could make out Lord Kowel’s features through the drizzle. He must have recognized her too, for he sidled up to her, their knees nearly touching, though he kept his eyes on the prince.

“Where is his majesty?” Lord Kowel asked her.

“Listen only and say nothing,” she directed him. “My father is dead. House Riotaz betrayed me, but his imperial highness has promised me vengeance as my bride-gift, once we are married in Juna.” She paused, assessing his hard face. “Do you understand, my lord?”

“Are you unharmed, your highness?”

“He already considers me his wife,” she said by way of answer.

Amali watched him tighten his jaw. “I understand, your highness.” He circled round her and approached the gate. “Make way for the princess!” he called.

The doors were slowly pushed open, but Amali waited until the prince’s entourage had surrounded her once more. They followed Lord Kowel all the way into the castle yard, dismounting side by side.

The lord bowed to Amali first, and then to the prince. “Forgive our poor hospitality,” he said curtly.

The prince looked to her to respond. “Forgive us for not sending word,” she replied smoothly.

“Would you like to retire first, your imperial highness?” Lord Kowel asked.

The prince eyed her. “I will eat first. But you should bathe, princess, lest you catch a chill.”

“Yes, your highness,” she agreed.

Lord Kowel instructed his steward, and presently a serving-woman appeared and led Amali to a great chamber where a bath was already being prepared, Morden and Janets following behind. Soon a pair of manservants appeared bearing the trunk she had packed from home, accompanied by Gilda.

“Should you not be visiting the midwife?” she asked her serving-woman.

“I will go once you are bathed, your highness,” Gilda replied.

“Good. How is Elia?”

Gilda paused at her scrubbing. “No longer bleeding, but still unable to walk very far. She rode in a cart instead.”

Amali lay back against the tub. “She should stay here until she recovers. I will ask Lady Pirian.”

Gilda made no reply, but carried on with Amali’s bath. Once she was dried, she bade Gilda dress her in one of her finer gowns, then made her way down to the great hall. She seated herself at the high table next to Lady Pirian, to whom she said little besides requesting that Elia be given a place to stay among her serving-women. The other woman readily agreed, asking no questions, and the rest of the meal passed in rather uneasy silence.

Amali was glad when the prince caught her eye, standing as he did the same and took his leave. They walked quietly together to her chamber, where the prince unlaced her gown for her. She went to bed first, closing her eyes as he undressed. He slid into bed soon, wrapping his arms around her as he had the night before.

“Did you speak with Lord Kowel?” she asked him.

“He said he’ll send word ahead and accompany us to Juna,” the prince murmured in her ear.

“Good,” she replied. Lord Kowel’s presence would ease their journey.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“I’m fine.”

“It doesn’t hurt too much?”

“My courses are light,” she assured him, and he sighed and kissed her cheek.

“You are fortunate, garadsash. My third sister scarcely leaves her room three days out of every month.”

“You have sisters?” she asked, surprised. She’d never heard of the emperor having any children other than the prince himself.

“Yes, six of them.” Amali gasped, and he chuckled. “Two of them are older than me, both married, and the third as well. My fourth sister will be wed this spring, and the fifth will soon be old enough to be betrothed.”

“And the youngest?”

“Not even old enough to ride a horse. She is not my mother’s child, but my father’s second wife’s.”

“Your half-sister, then,” she said, wondering how he ever kept track of them all.

“Yes. She’ll have a sibling soon, come late winter.”

“Your mother must have been a busy woman,” she mused.

“Indeed,” he murmured in her ear. “My father kept her very busy, as I intend to keep you, garadsash.”

Amali blushed. “Do you really want that many children?” Her own mother had died in childbirth, and she was apprehensive at the thought of risking her life so many times.

He kissed her hair. “We shall see after the first.”

“Mmm,” she replied, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. It was so warm in his arms, and he smelled like sweat and rosewater.

“Dream of me, garadsash,” he said softly, and she drifted off to sleep.

 

---

 

It rained their entire journey toward Juna, the clouds breaking only as they neared the city, bathing the royal castle in shining rays. Amali felt her heart expand at the sight despite the ache that had settled into her chest. Lord Kowel had procured a golden cloth to cover her father’s plain coffin and a set of dark-robed pallbearers to carry him. Her father’s white stallion followed behind, riderless, and this solemn procession led the way through the city gates.

Her people lined the streets, silent and wary. They would have heard of their king’s death, and how the imperial prince had claimed her as his bride. Amali held her head high, trying to look less apprehensive than she felt. The prince sat tall on his stallion beside Pranitsa, the two Kian horses matching their steps neatly.

He slowed at the sight of a woman holding up a bunch of blue salvia, and Amali leaned over to him. “Those are for me,” she said softly, and walked ahead to the woman, reaching down to accept the flowers.

She nodded as the woman curtsied, and held the bell-shaped blossoms close to smell their anise scent. The prince looked at her quizzically, and she quietly explained to him the symbolism of the dark blue flower. He nodded in understanding, then gestured ahead to where another young woman held out a precious late-blooming iris.

This continued until Amali was holding a veritable bouquet of mourning flowers, guiding Pranitsa one-handed through the main gate to the castle. The courtiers had all come out to greet their new monarchs, and she handed the armful of blooms to a serving-woman before dismounting.

The lord chamberlain was the first to greet her, bending on one knee. The rest of the court followed in silent recognition. When he arose, he bowed low to the prince.

“My most humble greetings, your imperial highness. I am Askar Rasted, lord chamberlain of the Golden Keep.”

The prince inclined his head. “Well met, Lord Askar. I trust Juna has fared well these past weeks in your care.”

Lord Askar glanced at Amali, who gave a small nod. “Indeed, your imperial highness,” he replied. “We have been preparing for your arrival since Lord Kowel sent word.”

“Then how soon can we expect a wedding ceremony?” the prince inquired.

Lord Askar again looked over at Amali, who smiled reassuringly. “No earlier than tomorrow, your imperial highness, although protocol dictates that his majesty should lie in state three days before –”

“We shall mourn him after my betrothed is crowned,” Amali interrupted firmly.

The lord chamberlain paused for only a moment before bowing to her. “As you say, your highness.”

“Escort his imperial highness to the royal bedchamber,” she continued, ignoring the pained look Lord Askar gave her.

“Yes, your highness.” He waved forward one of his underlings, who bowed low and gestured for the prince to follow him.

Amali watched him disappear inside the castle doors flung wide open, accompanied by no less than a dozen imperial guards. Morden, Janets, and a man whose name she did not know stayed behind, flanking her.

The lord chamberlain gave a small cough, and she turned her attention back to him. “Your highness,” he said, eyeing the red-cloaked men, “where are the royal guards?”

“Dead to a man,” she replied bluntly. The prince had sent his men in search of any who remained, but Horan’s armsmen had been thorough.

Lord Askar blanched. “What happened, your highness?”

“You shall learn after the wedding,” she replied. “I should like us to be crowned the following day. I know it is hasty,” she added, seeing his stricken face, “but the emperor himself ordered us to be wed. I want him to hear the news as soon as possible.”

The lord chamberlain grimaced but said nothing, and Amali wondered at how discomposed a man could have risen to such a lofty position.

“I shall retire until supper,” she said loudly, and Lord Askar beckoned for one of the ladies of the court, who escorted her to her chamber, glancing back at the imperial guards every so often.

Amali ignored her fearful glances, waving her away as she reached her room. She would need to appoint ladies-in-waiting, she realized, as well as manservants to serve the prince. His imperial guard could be inducted as the king’s guard, but she would need her own queen’s guard as well. She frowned. What colors would the prince want to use? Would he keep the Berenulian gold, or replace it with the imperial red?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap at the door, which opened before she had the chance to answer.

“Your highness!” Amali recognized her nurse by her voice alone, so swiftly did she rush forward to take her in her arms.

“I am well, Ismalia,” she said, but the woman shook her head and held her hands tight as she looked her over.

“I heard he forced you to share his bed,” she said tearily. “Did he truly take you, your highness?”

“It matters not,” Amali replied, tiring of the question. “He will be my husband soon enough.”

“Oh, your highness,” her nurse whimpered, wiping at her eyes.

“I am well,” Amali repeated, squeezing the woman’s hand.

Her nurse nodded and set to helping her undress. Presently Gilda arrived, and Amali was soon redressed in dry garments and sat by the roaring fire with a glass of spiced wine to warm her bones. She called for paper and ink, then sat at her writing desk, listing all the matters she could think of that needed tending to.

The prince arrived in the early evening to escort her to the great hall, where a small banquet was laid out. The musicians made a gallant attempt at rousing the sober courtiers, but the air was thick with apprehension and unease. Amali kept her face blank, but her heart beat loudly in her ears.

She touched the prince’s arm and he turned to her, a silent question on his face. “Stay with me tonight,” she told him.

He glanced over at Lord Askar, who sat beside him glumly. “I fear that would be the end of our poor lord chamberlain.”

“He’ll survive,” she replied evenly. “You will be safer with me.”

The prince nodded, then continued eating his roast duck. Amali sat back, the foul mood making her insides curdle. At last the prince rose to leave, and the courtiers followed suit to bow and curtsy to him. Amali took his arm and guided him to her chamber, where Ismalia met them with a small squeak. Amali gave her a hard look, and her nurse relented.

A bath had been prepared, and the prince gestured for her to go first. Gilda and Ismalia reluctantly helped her out of her garments while the prince busied himself with inspecting the tapestries and paintings that decorated her walls. Amali grew tired of her serving-women’s furtive glances and whispers. She dismissed them and settled back, luxuriating in the hot rosewater.

“Finally,” the prince said, and she nearly yelped as he appeared before her, naked but for a loincloth of sorts.

She looked over and saw his clothes in a heap on the floor, wondering how he had undressed so soundlessly.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he said, though he didn’t sound at all apologetic.

Amali dropped her arms into the tub, conscious of the water lapping at her breasts. Did he truly mean to join her?

He grinned mischievously. “There’s space enough for two, princess.”

She relented and pulled up her legs to make room for his large form, and the water sloshed over the edges. At least now she was covered, she supposed, though the way he looked at her made her stomach knot.

The prince ignored her for a time, scrubbing his wide chest and strong thighs, his feet nearly touching hers. Then he said, “Will you wash my hair, garadsash?”

“I don’t know how,” she admitted.

“I’ll close my eyes when you get out,” he offered grudgingly.

“No, I’ve truly never done it before.”

“My back, then,” he said, and she nodded.

He turned around, spilling yet more water, and sat tall. Amali took a cloth and wet it, then slowly wiped behind his ears, then his neck, moving across his broad shoulders and rippling back, until she dared go no lower.

“It’s done,” she said.

“Can you dry yourself, garadsash? I should like to lie down.”

She glanced at the stack of thick towels. “Promise not to look.”

“I’ve already seen all of you,” he reminded her.

“Promise, or I’ll call for Gilda.”

He sighed. “Have it your way, princess. But I will have all of you tomorrow night.”

Amali stood, pink from the hot water and from his words. She wrapped a towel about herself and stepped out onto the linen-covered floor, turning to look as she dried herself, to make sure he wasn’t peeking. Then she found her shift and her slippers and sat with her back to the fire to dry her hair.

It was nearly dry, and she was beginning to feel toasted, when the prince stood up without warning. She squeaked at the sight of his large, muscled body, nearly naked. He turned and grinned at her, but she flushed and looked pointedly away.

“Do you not wish to see me, princess?” he teased.

“No,” she replied, glancing at the door. What if a servant came in unannounced?

She watched his shadow strip off his final garment and closed her eyes.

“If you will not look at me, then will you touch me, garadsash?” His voice was close, and she could almost feel the heat of him despite the fire at her back.

“No,” she said again, keeping her eyes firmly shut.

“Not even the part of me that wants you most?” His voice was full of longing, as though it pained him to want her.

“Please don’t make me,” she whispered.

His finger brushed her cheek lightly, and she gasped at the touch. Was she crying again?

“One day,” he said softly, “I hope that you will ask me for something different, garadsash. That you will want me as much as I want you.”

“What if I don’t?” She was surely crying now, and he brushed her tears away gently.

“Then I will only do what is necessary for you to bear me children,” he said, almost resigned.

“Isn’t that what you wanted from me?” she asked. What more could there possibly be?

He was silent a while, then kissed her forehead. “Then I will content myself with your body, garadsash.”

Amali held her breath, listening for his footsteps, but heard nothing.

His voice came from across the room. “You can open your eyes now, princess.”

She looked over carefully and saw that he was dressed in a long shirt, combing his hair with her mother’s tortoiseshell comb.

“Not that one!” she blurted out, then covered her mouth.

He looked puzzled rather than angry and set it down on the table with a shrug. She went over and opened a drawer to find her cedar comb.

“That one belonged to my mother,” she said, pushing the delicate comb back in its place on the dresser.

Amali tried to hand him the fine wooden comb, but he shook his head. “Will you do it, garadsash?”

This she did know how to do. She bid him turn around and gently detangled the ends of his dark locks. Then she had him sit, so she could reach the top of his head and brush all the way through. Lastly she began a simple braid down his back, and he wordlessly handed her a leather thong with which to tie it off. She was just finishing when a knock came at the door.

“Your highness?” It was Gilda’s voice.

“Come in,” she called, then to the prince, “It’s done.”

Gilda eyed the remains of the bath but made no comment, instead busying herself with doing Amali’s hair. A trail of serving-women began to haul away the bathwater, and when it was emptied the prince himself bore the tub out the door. She supposed he didn’t want any of the manservants to see her, and then remembered how he’d erected a wall of screens about his tent the first night she stayed in his camp. She’d thought then it had been for her benefit alone, but perhaps he had felt protective of her, who had been hauled before him barely dressed.

Thinking back on that day, she understood why the prince had worried she’d been violated. What else could he have assumed, seeing her dragged like a prisoner before him? She herself had feared for her chastity before learning what Horan intended for her. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. By the time the fire had been banked, Amali felt as smoldering as the glowing embers.

It must have shown on her face, because the prince frowned as the last of the servants took their leave. “What troubles you, garadsash?”

“Horan,” she said acidly.

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, regarding her with interest. “Have you decided what to do with him?” he asked her, in that tone she was beginning to recognize, the one he used when he cared greatly about something but wished to hide it.

“His armsmen should all be hanged. But spare their families, losing their menfolk is enough. As for his minor lords, let them spend time in the stocks before being hanged as well. Their widows shall be forbidden to remarry, and I shall personally oversee their children’s marriages.”

“Is it not more prudent to eradicate their houses?” he suggested.

She shook her head. “Berenul is not Serutus, where entire families pay for the treachery of their kinfolk. Such a thing would only foster greater anger here.”

He nodded. “And House Riotaz?”

“His sister is too young to marry, but she should be betrothed forthwith. Perhaps to one of your men. As for Horan himself….” She considered for a moment.

His eyes widened. “You look like a cat about to pounce, princess.”

“I shall think on it more,” she decided, smiling grimly.

The prince wrapped his arms around her, and she did not protest, even when one of his hands slid down to palm her backside. “This time tomorrow, garadsash, we shall finally come together. I will lay you down on my bed, and open your legs, and enter your body.”

Amali shivered, whether in fear or anticipation, she couldn’t tell.

“But tonight,” he continued, “I shall only hold you close, osmanta.”

“What does that word mean?” she asked him, but he didn’t answer, even after they had gone to bed.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Brides of Berenul