I stood not in a stadium this time, but in the king’s council room.
Apparently, this was where the Council, the union between all the kingdoms in Alondria, gathered whenever their meetings were to be hosted in Dwellen. The room was vast, with a circular table in the middle large enough to accommodate at least fifty royals. Dark wooden stands fanned the edges of the chamber so citizens could witness the Council’s public meetings. Though I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to attend. It seemed to me that any conversation the Council chose to make public was likely scripted and of little consequence.
Now, to sit in on an actual Council meeting? One involving treaties and uprising and trade? That, I might actually enjoy.
Careful, or you might get used to the idea of being queen, a little voice inside my head whispered.
I wondered whether queens were allowed on the Council. Surely some of them were, for the Kingdom of Mystral was ruled by Queen Abra alone. At least, it had been since her husband died a mysterious death that everyone in Alondria knew to be at her hands, though there wasn’t any physical proof. Surely she attended the meetings. But with a husband tying me to my status, would I be allowed admittance?
Many things that might not happen at all would have to occur for that to be the case. First, I couldn’t die in these Trials. Second, the king would have to die one day in order for Evander to take the throne. Perhaps by then I could convince Evander to bring me along. Though I had little training in politics, I figured I would have ample time to learn, as I couldn’t imagine that the entertainment duties of a princess could be all that taxing, especially when the queen already did most of it herself.
What a strange thought.
I was beginning to think of myself as a future princess. And not hating every bit of it.
Well, if my mother had taught me anything, it was that the resilient could always make the best of an unpleasant situation.
Surely that was all it was.
Surely.
I shook the thoughts from my head and returned my attention to the event unfolding before me.
Evander sat on the other end of the table, the crowd encircling us buzzing with excitement. He combed through a pile of letters, though combed was probably too strong a word. Instead, he flicked his eyes over the first few lines before tossing the letters to the side. Sometimes it appeared as though he wasn’t even reading the letters, just noting their length before disqualifying them.
Clever male.
I couldn’t help but smile in anticipation, surveying the edges of his smirk, the corners of his bright eyes, for the flicker of amusement that would surely overcome his face when he found my letter.
The task was simple, and much less dangerous than the previous, thankfully. A scribe had appeared at my door last evening and had informed me I was to dictate a love letter to the prince. The scribe had visited a plethora of other eligible women in the kingdom during the past week and had collected countless love letters.
The idea was that if Evander and I truly knew each other, we would be able to figure out which love letters were written by the other. If we each guessed correctly, we passed the trial. The dictation part was to keep us from recognizing each other’s handwriting.
Though even the assumption that we’d written to one another before was laughable.
Evander’s eyes lit up and darted across the table to me. He turned his chin to the side and flashed me that dazzling smile, the one where he opened his mouth just barely so his teeth didn’t touch. I returned the amused grin, pleased with myself.
Evander held up the single piece of parchment, signaling the scribe to waltz over and select it from his hands.
The scribe took one look at the paper, his eyes flitting with exasperation, before saying, “The first portion of the second trial is complete. The prince has identified his betrothed’s letter.”
The crowd erupted into a roar, and I wondered not for the first time whose side they were on. Though the Kingdom of Dwellen unanimously hated their prince, they had seemed excited by our success so far. Maybe it had nothing to do with Evander at all. Nothing to do with how fit they found him to inherit the throne, nor how fit they found me. Perhaps they would have cheered just as loudly during the first trial if the two of us had been gobbled up by the myrmecoleon. Perhaps all they wanted was a show, an afternoon of entertainment to distract them from their menial lives.
I tried not to let my bitterness show as the attention of the crowd shifted to me.
My turn.
The pile stood as high as the length of my forearm. I wondered if it would be as easy to spot Evander’s letter through the pile as it was for him to find mine. I snuck a peek at him. He pressed his lips together, as if he were trying desperately to hold back a laugh. Warmth and amusement filled my belly at this confirmation that we had both taken the same approach to this task without plotting together.
The crowd went hushed as I opened the first letter, which I found to be ridiculous, since it wasn’t as though I was going to be reading the letters aloud. There was no need for the audience to remain silent.
As I unfolded the parchment, I immediately had the urge to toss this paper to the side. The letter was five pages long, written in the scribe’s tiny, parchment-saving scrawl. There was no way that Evander had spent this much time on crafting a letter for me. Still, my desire for perfection, my inherent need to be so thorough that I never questioned my own decisions, overcame me, and I felt compelled to read at least a bit of it, just in case the five pages were full of insults.
My dearest betrothed,
When I consider all the women of Alondria, the vast number of events that must have occurred—the stolen glances of our great-great grandparents, the decisions of where to live, who to associate with, the millions of seemingly inconsequential moments that had to occur to bring the two of us into this world, to set our paths so that they would cross at the perfect time, so that our souls could collide, so that we could fall so desperately in love…
Okay, so that one was going in the “not it” pile, for sure. I tossed it aside, trying to suppress a snort, and started on the next few letters.
My dearest betrothed,
You are as beautiful as…
I scanned the letter to make sure there was nothing in there about me being as captivating as a rhinoceros. When all I found were mentions of sunsets and daisies—my least favorite flowers—I tossed this one aside, too.
The next several minutes were spent in a similar manner. I would open an envelope, find a generic letter that could have been written to anyone and no one in particular, then toss it. One of the letters was actually a poem, an ode to my beauty, and it actually compared my skin to goat’s milk, which I couldn’t help but think would be offensive even to pale-skinned women. In fact, I was quickly struck by how many of the letters focused on my beauty alone. Even in the letters from men who seemed to have a clue about who I was and what I looked like, I found them all to be empty, devoid of anything substantial, and I wondered how many women in Dwellen received love letters so bland. And if any of them actually enjoyed them.
Not that I minded the occasional appreciation of my appearance. I wasn’t that prudish. But still.
The next letter I opened was the shortest one yet.
Ellie,
Thanks for talking to me the other night. If I’m to be forced into a celibate marriage, I’m glad it’s with you.
Not in love,
Your reluctant betrothed
