Protect the Prince Read online

  Even though it was early on a Monday morning, people filled the hallways. Servants carrying trays of food and drinks. Palace stewards heading to their posts to oversee their workers. Guards making sure that everything proceeded in an orderly fashion.

  Everyone went about their business as usual—until they saw me.

  Then eyes widened, mouths gaped, and heads bobbed. Some people even dropped down into low, formal bows and curtsies, only rising to their feet after I’d moved past them. I gritted my teeth and returned the acknowledgments with polite smiles and nods, but the bowing and scraping were nothing compared to the whispers.

  “Why isn’t she wearing a gown?”

  “Doesn’t she know how important today is?”

  “She won’t last another month.”

  The whispers started the second I walked by, and the hushed comments chased me from one hallway to the next, like a tidal wave that was surging up and about to crash down on me. If only. Drowning would be a far more merciful death than what I’d gotten myself into here.

  From the rumors I’d heard, the servants and guards had started a pool, placing bets on how long my tenuous reign would last. I was wondering that myself. I’d been queen for only about three months, and I was already thoroughly sick of the politics, infighting, and backstabbing that were the palace’s equivalent of the gladiator fights that were so popular in Bellona.

  Even Paloma with her spiked mace and the glaring ogre face on her neck couldn’t quiet the chatter. I gritted my teeth again and hurried on, trying to ignore the whispers. Easier said than done.

  Paloma and I rounded a corner and stepped into a long hallway, which was empty, except for the usual guards stationed in the corners. I focused on the double doors that stretched from the floor all the way up to the ceiling at the far end. The doors were standing wide open, and I could see people moving around in the area beyond.

  The throne room.

  Even though I had been here countless times before, my stomach dropped, and my heart squeezed tight, but I kept trudging forward, one slow step at a time. There was no turning back, and there was no running away. Not from this.

  A lean, muscled, forty-something man wearing a red jacket over a white ruffled shirt was standing by the windows off to one side of the doors. The sun streaming inside made his black hair and eyes seem as glossy as ink against his golden skin, and it also highlighted the morph mark on his neck—a dragon’s face made of ruby-red scales.

  The man was giving his full and undivided attention to a silver platter filled with bite-size fruit cakes perched on the windowsill. He studied the cakes carefully, as if he were making a most important decision, then selected a raspberry one, popped it into his mouth, and sighed with happiness.

  He must have spotted Paloma and me out of the corner of his eye because he glanced in our direction. He quickly popped another cake into his mouth while we walked over to him.

  “Ah, there you are, Evie,” he said. “I was just enjoying some treats before the main event.”

  In addition to being a former queen’s guard and ringmaster, Cho Yamato also had a serious sweet tooth, as did his inner dragon, since its black eyes were still locked on the tray of cakes.

  “I’m glad to see that Theroux is making himself at home as the new kitchen steward,” I drawled. “And doing his best to ply you with desserts. Or did you steal those from some poor, unsuspecting servant?”

  Cho grinned at my teasing. “I stole them, of course. Theroux’s desserts aren’t nearly as good as yours, but some treats are better than no treats at all, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer before he downed a kiwi cake.

  Joking around with Cho loosened some of the tension in my chest. I might not like being queen, but at least I had friends like him and Paloma to help me with the dangerous undertaking.

  He finished his cake, then eyed me. “Are you ready for this?” he asked in a more serious voice.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He gave me a sympathetic look, as did the dragon on his neck. “Well, then, let’s start the show.”

  Cho dusted the crumbs off his fingers and smoothed down his red jacket. Then he strode over to the open space between the doors.

  “Announcing Her Royal Majesty, Queen Everleigh Saffira Winter Blair!” Cho used his ringmaster’s voice to full effect, and the words boomed like thunder, drowning out the conversations in the throne room.

  He moved to the side, and everyone fell silent and peered at me. I gritted my teeth yet again, fixed a smile on my face, and stepped inside.

  The throne room was the largest one in Seven Spire. The first floor was an empty, cavernous space, except for the massive tearstone columns that stretched up to support the ceiling high, high above. Shorter, thinner columns also rose up to support the second-floor balcony that wrapped around three sides of the room.

  More gladiators, weapons, and creatures were carved into the columns, and the ceiling was one enormous battle scene made of gleaming stone, metal, and jewels. In the center of the ceiling, Bryn Bellona Winter Blair, my ancestor, was about to bring her sword down on top of the Mortan king, whom she had defeated in combat so long ago in order to create her kingdom.

  My kingdom now.

  As much as I would have liked to stare at the ceiling and pretend like everything else didn’t exist, I dropped my gaze and focused on what was in front of me.

  A wide blue carpet with silver scrollwork running along the edges led from the doors all the way across the room before stopping at the bottom of the raised stone dais at the far end. Bellonan lords, ladies, senators, guilders, and other wealthy, influential citizens lined both sides of the carpet.

  A brutal gauntlet if ever there was one.

  I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and strode forward, as though this had been my birthright all along, and not something that I had blundered into after the rest of the Blair royal family had been assassinated.

  People stepped up to both sides of the carpet, nodding, smiling, and calling out inane pleasantries. I returned the words and gestures in kind, not letting my worry or apprehension show. I might not know how to be queen, but I excelled at keeping my true feelings bottled up inside where no one could see them. Sometimes, I thought that was half the battle.

  Back behind the line of well-wishers, Paloma walked along, matching my pace. Her suspicious gaze scanned everyone, and she still had her mace on her shoulder. She was taking her duties as my personal guard seriously, even though I’d repeatedly told her that I wasn’t in any physical danger from the nobles.

  They would be quite happy to eviscerate me with their cruel words and sly schemes instead.

  Finally, I reached the steps that led up to the dais. Three people were standing off to the side.

  One was a forty-something woman and obviously a warrior, given the sword and the dagger holstered to her black leather belt. Her short blond hair was slicked back from her face, revealing the sunburst-shaped scar at the corner of one of her dark blue eyes. She was wearing a white tunic that featured a swan swimming on a pond, surrounded by flowers and vines, all done in black thread.

  Serilda Swanson, the leader of the Black Swan gladiator troupe and one of my senior advisors, executed the perfect Bellonan curtsy. I clenched my teeth a little tighter to hide another grimace. I would never get used to people curtsying to me, especially not someone as strong, lethal, and legendary as Serilda.

  The second person was also a woman, although she was older, somewhere in her sixties, with short red hair, golden amber eyes, and bronze skin. She was clad in a forest-green tunic and was leaning on a cane topped with a silver ogre head. The figure matched the morph mark on her neck.

  Lady Xenia, an Ungerian noble, tilted her head at me.

  The third person was a fifty-something, stern-looking man with short gray hair, dark bronze skin, brown eyes, and a lumpy, crooked nose that had obviously been broken many, many times. Like the other guards, he was wearing a short-sleeved blue tunic, b
ut my gaze locked onto his silver breastplate, which featured a feathered texture and my crown of shards emblazoned over his heart. Even though he had been sporting the breastplate for weeks, I would never quite get used to seeing him wearing my crest instead of Queen Cordelia’s rising sun.

  Auster, the captain of the palace guards. My captain now.

  Captain Auster’s fingers flexed over the sword strapped to his belt, and he gave me a traditional Bellonan bow, holding it far longer than necessary, as if each extra second showed his devotion—and his determination not to let me be assassinated like Cordelia had been.

  Auster finally straightened. I gave him a genuine smile, and his stern features softened a bit, if not his readiness to grab his sword and defend me until his dying breath.

  Even though they weren’t standing anywhere close to the carpet, Serilda, Xenia, and Auster all stepped back, as if further clearing my path.

  I stared up at the queen’s throne sitting on top of the dais. The chair was crafted of jagged pieces of tearstone that had been dug out of Seven Spire and fitted together centuries ago. The throne gleamed with a soft, muted light, shifting from starry gray to midnight-blue and back again, just like the columns did. The changing colors represented the Summer and Winter lines of the Blair royal family, as well as the everlasting strength of the Bellonan people.

  I had seen the throne many, many times before, but now that it was mine, I found it far more intimidating, especially since the top featured the same crown-of-shards crest that adorned my tunic, bracelet, sword, and dagger. I had never paid any attention to that symbol before the royal massacre, but now, it was everywhere I went. Sometimes, I thought I would have been far happier if I had never seen it at all. I certainly would have been much safer.

  Summer queens are fine and fair, with pretty ribbons and flowers in their hair. Winter queens are cold and hard, with frosted crowns made of icy shards.

  The words to the old Bellonan fairy-tale rhyme echoed in my mind, as though all the queens who had come before were whispering them to me over and over again. I listened to the phantom voices a moment longer, then exhaled, slowly climbed up the dais steps, turned around, and sat down on the throne.

  That was the signal everyone had been waiting for, and all the lords, ladies, senators, guilders, and others strode forward, stopping a few feet away from the bottom of the dais. They split into their usual cliques and began gossiping, while servants handed out sweet cakes, fresh fruits and cheeses, and glasses of blackberry sangria.

  I looked up at the second-floor balcony. More nobles milled around there, eating, drinking, talking, and watching me, although they were all poorer and thus far less important than the ones on the first floor.

  I started to drop my gaze when I noticed a man sitting by himself in the top corner of the balcony. He was wearing a long gray coat over a black tunic, and his dark brown hair gleamed under the lights, although a bit of stubble darkened his strong jaw. His handsome features were as blank as mine were, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, although his blue eyes burned into mine with fierce intensity.

  My nostrils flared. Even though he was as far away from me as possible, I could still pick out his scent—cold, clean vanilla with just a hint of spice—above all the others in the room. I drew in another breath, letting his scent sink deep down into my lungs, and trying to ignore the hot spark of desire it ignited inside me.

  Lucas Sullivan was the magier enforcer of the Black Swan troupe, a bastard prince of Andvari, and my . . . Well, I didn’t know exactly what he was to me. Much more than a friend, but not a lover, despite my pointed advances on that front. But I cared about him more than I wanted to contemplate, especially now, when I was facing another battle inside my own palace.

  So I dropped my gaze from his and studied the nobles again. Even though I had been queen for about three months, ever since I had killed Vasilia, the crown princess and my treacherous cousin, this was my first formal court session. Practically every noble from across the kingdom had journeyed here to discuss business and other matters, and it was important that things went well. I doubted they would, though. The nobles weren’t going to like some of the things I had to say.

  While the nobles chattered and downed their food and drinks, I discreetly drew in a breath, letting the air roll in over my tongue and tasting all the scents in it. The people’s floral perfumes and spicy colognes. The fruity tang of the sangria. The pungent aroma of the blue cheeses that the servants were slicing on the buffet tables along the walls.

  I opened my mouth to start the session when one final scent assaulted my senses—hot, jalapeño rage so strong that it made my nose burn with its sudden, sharp intensity.

  Most people scoffed at my mutt magic, but my enhanced sense of smell was quite useful in one regard—it let me sense people’s emotions, and very often their intentions. Garlic guilt, ashy heartbreak, minty regret. I could tell what someone was feeling—and often what they were plotting—just by tasting the scents that swirled around them.

  I’d had years to hone my mutt magic, so I knew that jalapeño rage meant only one thing.

  Someone here wanted to kill me.

  Chapter Two

  I glanced from one side of the throne room to the other and back again, searching for an immediate, obvious threat.

  Lightning sizzling in a magier’s palm. A morph shifting into their other, stronger form. A stone master cracking the ceiling above my head. A mutt yanking their sword free and speeding toward the dais.

  But I didn’t see anything like that. I didn’t see anything unusual, so I drew in another breath, tasting all the scents in the air again. The jalapeño rage was as strong as ever, although so many people were milling around that I couldn’t tell who it was coming from.

  I was going to find out, though.

  Determination filled me, along with more than a little cold rage. Too many people had already died, and I hadn’t survived the royal massacre just to be assassinated in my own throne room three months into my reign.

  I kept my pleasant smile fixed on my face, not giving any hint about the danger, and watched the nobles talk and eat. When their first wave of gossip and hunger had been satiated, I lifted my hand, calling for silence. Everyone on the first floor turned toward me, while the nobles on the balcony took their seats.

  “Welcome, my esteemed countrymen and -women,” I called out in a loud voice. “You honor me with your presence and most especially with your loyalty.”

  “As you honor us,” they said, echoing the traditional response with far less enthusiasm.

  Before I could begin the session, one of the nobles broke free of the crowd and strode forward, stopping at the bottom of the dais. Lord Fullman was a short man with thinning blond hair and a round belly that showed just how much he enjoyed his food and drink. As the owner of several fluorestone mines, he also controlled a lot of land, men, and money, and he was someone that I could ill afford to piss off.

  Fullman made a gallant bow, sweeping his hand out to the side, then straightened up. “My queen,” he crowed in a booming, confident voice. “Let me be the first to offer my formal congratulations on your reign.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, although I was inwardly bracing myself.

  Fullman had been at court for years, and he preferred to put his boot on people’s throats and grind them down until they did his bidding, the same way that his miners chipped fluorestone boulders into smaller, more manageable sizes.

  He smiled, although his expression took on a sharp edge. “Although I do have a question. What’s this nonsense I hear about you visiting Andvari?”

  Annoyance shot through me at Fullman speaking to me as if I were a child rather than his queen, but I kept my face fixed in its pleasant mask. Losing my temper and sniping back at him wouldn’t help matters, although I couldn’t help but sigh on the inside. I hadn’t thought word would spread so quickly about my upcoming trip, but I should have known better. All it took was the softest whisper, an
d within hours, everyone at court knew about my plans.

  Surprised murmurs rippled through the crowd. Not everyone had heard about my upcoming trip, and Fullman smirked at his friends and enemies alike, proud that he had broken the news.

  “Yes,” I called out. “King Heinrich has invited me to Glitnir for several days of hospitality and trade talks.”

  “And why should you journey so far?” Fullman asked, a sneer creeping into his voice. “Especially so early in your reign? We wouldn’t want you to be seen as bowing down to the Andvarians. That wouldn’t be good for Bellona. Outside influences never are.”

  He pointedly looked up at Sullivan, who was still sitting in the top corner of the second-floor balcony. Sullivan stared back at the noble. To anyone else, the magier would seem perfectly calm, but I could smell his peppery anger all the way down here on the dais. It was almost as strong as the jalapeño rage of whomever wanted to kill me.

  Sullivan was the bastard son of the Andvarian king, something that no one at this court—or any other—would ever let him forget. From the rumors I’d heard, everyone was gossiping and speculating about why Sullivan was here and especially what his relationship to me really was.

  Most people thought that he was my lover, even though we rarely touched in public and had never so much as kissed in private. But I was a queen, and he was a handsome prince who had spent the last few months in my court, so of course there would be rumors about us, even if we did nothing to encourage them.

  For once, I wished the gossip were true. At least that way I would have gotten a little bit of pleasure out of the situation. My gaze traced over Sullivan’s broad, muscled shoulders. Quite a lot of pleasure.

  So far, I’d managed to ignore the whispers and innuendos, but no longer. I didn’t know what Sullivan was to me, but at the very least, he was my friend, and I wasn’t going to let some pompous lord look down his nose at him just because Sullivan was a bastard.

  “I’m visiting Andvari because it wouldn’t be proper to ask King Heinrich to come to Seven Spire,” I said, a hard tone seeping into my voice, “considering the fact that his son, Prince Frederich, was murdered here, along with Ambassador Hans and several other Andvarians. Or have you forgotten about that?”