Chapter Three
The main audience Hall of the Pushtani Palace was modestly grand. At least, that’s how her father had described it. The ceiling was tall, but not tall enough to seem ostentatious or intimidate visiting dignitaries. The décor was ornate, but not extreme. The floors were marble, but the walls simple granite. Gilding was kept to a minimum, and light came from oil lamps instead of chandeliers. Here they hosted lesser houses, those who didn’t, in her father’s mind, deserve the throne room itself.
Her father sat on a wooden throne, on a slight dais, looking out upon the man and woman who had approached. Makari sat to his left, with Kendshi and Captain Bauti like statues behind them. The dark-haired Nishi’iti girl with her tilted eyes was quite the contrast to the white-topped mountain beside her.
Lord Brendar wore the most ridiculous costume Makari had ever seen. He tried to mix-and-match a blue doublet with black vest to represent her family’s colors, with purple hose and a flowing yellow cape to represent his own house. It was a shame Brendar’s wife had died, or he might have been better dressed. As it was, his sister stood with him, face pale and features pinched, her own dress a muted combination of purple and yellow with a simple blue and black necklace to represent the Royal family.
Not that Makari liked her own dress any better. Her father had insisted she wear the yellow dress—which had been her late mother’s—with purple highlights to honor their guest. The yellow washed out her skin, making her look like she’d been dead for three days, and the purple made every vein stand out under her skin.
She tried to pay attention, acted like she was listening as the old Lord droned on about her beauty, her intellect, and how he would love and cherish her. But the fact remained, Lord Brendar had sons her age. He could no more love her then she could him, so all his words were just wind in the leaves. She found herself staring not at the man, but at the stack of boxes and chests he’d left as gifts. Offerings.
Payment.
“If Her Highness recalls,” Brendar said, shifting from one foot to the other, “my estate lies in the north, in the northeast foothills to be exact. On the border with Nishi’iti. I control nearly twenty-five percent of the kingdom’s gold mines, thirty percent of their silver mines, and a good portion of precious stones as well. Such wealth will go a long way toward paying down the debt the crown has accrued.”
For the first time in an hour, he had Makari’s attention.
“Is one of your mines near Trellwin?” she asked.
Her attention seemed to catch him off guard, and he stammered for a moment. Seeing his discomfort, his sister answered for him.
“No, Princess. As my brother said, our holdings are in the northeast, directly adjacent to the Great Chasm. Thus, the crown would have direct control over crucial defensive position, which—”
“Never mind then,” Makari snapped. She’d hoped to demand Pachat’s release, but Brendar had nothing to do with those mines. “Tell me, Lord Brendar, if I were robbed in the city square by an orphan boy, how would you respond?”
This didn’t seem to fluster the Lord as much as her first question.
“I’d have his head. No one assaults royalty and lives.”
Her father put his head in his hands, while Makari stifled a grin and let her mind wander back to that day in the square, when she first met Ashai. She remembered the shock on his rugged face when Captain Bauti drove his sword through the boy’s chest, how he turned deathly white. That boy’s death had touched the cloth merchant, meaning he had something Lord Brendar did not: a heart.
And having a heart made him more of a man than almost anyone in the hall.
“Then I would find the orphanage he came from and burn it to the ground. That should be lesson enough for the thieves to never bother you again.”
“You would kill innocent children because someone they knew stole coins from me?”
Brendar’s face turned bright red. His lower lip quivered, and his sister again answered in his place.
“What my brother meant to say—”
“Let your brother explain this,” Makari snapped. “If I’m to marry someone old enough to be my father, whose only interest in me is power, who will bed me nightly until his heart gives out, I would hear from his own lips why the lives of dozens of innocent children are a just price for the actions of one.”
“Princess Makari,” Brendar said, drawing himself up and puffing his chest out, “being a woman, you may not know the importance of a strong response to aggression against the throne. One cannot allow commoners to lay even a finger on someone of your stature.”
Makari drew her dagger so fast Lord Brendar actually jumped, while his sister squeaked, looking like she might turn tail and run. Makari raised the knife over her head and drove it point first into the soft wood of the table. Her father looked up, winced, and put his head back in his hands. Behind her, Captain Bauti chuckled.
“Makari,” her father muttered, “the table was a gift from the king of Slevonia on the anniversary of my tenth year with your mother, the late Queen. Try not to scar it.” Eyes smoldering, Makari pulled the knife from the wood and returned it to the scabbard at her belt.
“Never presume that what’s between my legs has any bearing on what’s between my ears, Lord Brendar. I guarantee I know as much about forceful responses as you, or did you forget who my father is?”
Brendar bowed his head, a look of defeat flickering on his face. He had to have known his chances were small. He was just so … old.
“Those dozens of children you would’ve killed are citizens of this realm,” she continued. “Such violence might work in your duchy, but when you’re ruling a nation, you must think of your people’s support. And killing children never wins anyone’s heart.”
Lord Brendar departed with little ceremony, his sister shuffling along behind him. As soon as they were gone, her father slapped both hands on the table, shoved his chair back, and vaulted to his feet.
“Makari, stop this childish behavior! We must find you a suitor, and Lord Brendar would have been perfect. He’s a strong leader, and he controls much of our kingdom’s wealth. You could at least have been respectful!”
Makari pushed her chair back, stood, and walked to her father. She took his face in her hands and watched his expression return to normal. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, and he took a deep breath.
Smiling, Makari folded him in a hug and kissed him on the cheek.
“Father, please trust me. I’m not going to marry someone as old as you. I am not going to marry anyone who doesn’t make me happy.”
Her father put his hands on her shoulders and stared deep into her eyes.
“But you must marry someone,” he said. “And you can’t keep angering everyone who comes to try or suitors will stop coming.”
Makari had half a mind to be even crueler in hopes that suitors would stop coming to the palace. She was tired of being paraded like a prize horse, a fine dress, or prime cow in front of the men her father considered worthy.
Thinking of it fanned her anger, and she lost control. “If you’re going to force me to marry someone, Father, you may as well make Ashai a Lord and force me into his bed!”
The entire room gaped at her, even Bauti’s jaw hanging down. Heat crawled up her neck and into her cheeks. What in the world had made her say that?
Her father turned away, planting his hands on his hips and pacing toward the far wall. A serving girl dodged him, then dashed for the service door.
Makari kicked herself for letting her words slip. Certainly Ashai had shown courage and humility. And he was handsome, true. But still, that would be like Kendshi marrying Lord Brendar.
The thought made her snicker, and her father wheeled on her, face purple.
“This is not funny!” His voice came out taut as he fought for control. “Marrying an up-jumped lord would weaken our position. Everyone would know his nobility was a gift, a reward for saving your life, and whatever duchy or territory we gave him would be small and insignificant. It would leave you vulnerable to the stronger houses.
“You must understand, Makari. You’re a Princess. Your duty is to this kingdom, not to yourself.”
Makari opened her mouth to confess her fib, but her father silenced her with a wave.
“We will speak no more of this. Where’s the Nishi’iti wench of yours?”
Kendshi appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Yes, Majesty?”
“Take the princess to her chambers and remind her why we have classes in our society.”
The King spun on his heel, and marched from the Audience Hall.
Moments later, as they shuffled down the corridor toward Makari’s chambers, Kendshi patted Makari’s shoulder.
“That was quite cruel of you, princess,” she giggled. “One might think you were trying to frustrate your father.”
Makari snickered, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Sometimes the half-Nishi’iti woman seemed to read her mind, even peering into its darkest, most hidden corners.
“Did my father actually think I’d agree to marry Brendar? I understand my responsibilities, but I’m a Princess, not a corpse.”
“A corpse would be more appropriate for—”
Shouting erupted behind them, followed by the clatter of armored men at a run. Makari and Kendshi exchanged a glance, then ran back toward the hall.
A squad of Royal Guard members, their armor gleaming blue, ran past them, toward the hall.
Bauti’s voice thundered over the rest. “Defensive perimeter! No one enters this room! And bring me Lord Brendar and his sister. Now!”
Makari and Kendshi skidded to a stop in front of the guards. Their leader, a grizzled sergeant with a scar on one cheek, raised an eyebrow, and shouted back over his shoulder.
“Captain, does that order include her highness, the Princess?”
Someone mumbled inside the hall, then Bauti appeared behind his men. He pointed at Kendshi.
“The Nishi’iti stays outside, but allow the princess to enter.”
Makari narrowed her eyes. Bauti had never singled out Kendshi before. Why now?
She nodded to Kendshi and went inside. Her father sat on the steps leading up to his throne, head in his hands, staring at a box on the marble floor between his feet. When he saw Makari, he scrambled to close the wooden lid and put his foot on the box.
“Father, I already saw the box. Now what’s in it?”
“Makari, some matters are best handled by—”
She stomped and used her eyes like daggers to his throat. “If you say ‘men,’ I swear I’ll scream.”
“… your father. I was going to say your father. Me. Children shouldn’t see some things.”
She moved to his side and put a hand on his shoulder, the midnight blue velvet of his doublet smooth and warm.
“I’m hardly a child any longer, father. Aren’t you trying to marry me off to men with a foot in the tomb?”
That brought a chuckle, albeit a weak one. With a deep sigh, her father, King Abadas I, reached down and opened the plain, wooden box.
She gasped, and her heart stopped for a beat.
Inside the box, on a blood-red cushion, sat a curved dagger, its blade impossibly black and etched with strange markings, with the darkest granite she’d ever seen as a handle. It was a simple weapon, plain but effective. Efficient, even, as the pommel formed a second, smaller blade. She recognized it immediately: the Denari Lai had left their warning.
Her father would die.