In a whirlwind of fabrics and colors, the tailor and his assistant left, promising new clothes on the morrow. They’d left behind a pair of form-fitting trousers, a green and white vest overtop a white paisley tunic once belonging to Vanguarden. Mayestral pulled a gorgeous ermine-lined cape from the towering bureau.
“Now, Your Highness, you’re the perfect image of a prince.”
Ruenen dressed in the bathroom, suddenly shy in front of Mayestral and the servants. The clothing material was soft and comfortable, but the moment Mayestral put the cape around his shoulders, Ruenen felt the weight of the world placed upon him.
“It’s time for your speech, Your Highness,” the Groom said.
Ruenen gulped. Already?
Each step in the hallway was as stiff as an iron rod. Sweat dripped down his temples; the cape was quite stifling in the fair spring weather.
Mayestral led Ruenen to the second-floor balcony. Holfast, Vorae, and Fenir stood with nine other black-robed men: the rest of the Witenagemot. They eyed Ruenen suspiciously, but bowed as he approached. They introduced themselves and their titles, but Ruenen barely heard a word they said. So many people, names, titles, and faces, he didn’t know how he’d ever remember them all. Words were muffled in his ears as the roar of a crowd swelled from outside in the courtyard below.
Holfast handed him a piece of paper. “I wrote a short speech for you.”
“Thank gods,” Ruenen wheezed, and received a warning look from the Steward.
Ruenen tried to read the speech, but the inked words on the page doubled and fractured, turning into nonsense. His head spun.
A councilman edged Ruenen closer to the balcony, granting him a better view of the courtyard. It was packed, body to body. More people stood in the streets, snaking through the city down the hill. Citizens dangled out of windows for a better view. How had so many individuals gathered in such a short amount of time? How had Holfast spread the word so quickly?
Ruenen wasn’t ready. He didn’t know how to do this. His feet stumbled backwards.
A hand touched his arm. Ruenen glanced down to see Marai standing at his side.
Her face was clean and bright. Her hair had been brushed into a tidy braid. She still wore the same black Butcher clothes, a comforting sight in a swirl of rapidly changing events. The Lady Butcher was at his side, hand on her hilt, posing as his personal bodyguard. She was still there, protecting him from his inner thoughts and doubts.
Marai didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Ruenen merely had to stare into those sharp eyes and a sense of calm settled over him. There was a command in her expression, in her touch.
You can do this, she seemed to say.
This was just another show. Another audience. Another tavern.
Greet them as you would a room full of patrons.
He imagined the lute in his hands. He felt its weight, the strap cutting across his shoulder.
I am the Prince of Bards.
Ruenen stepped forward to the edge where a curling wrought iron railing encompassed the balcony. He spread his arms wide. The crowd hushed instantly; expectant faces turned up to stare.
He heard the lute’s clear tone in his head as he mentally strummed its courses; a song danced on the tip of his tongue.
“My good people of Kellesar.” His voice rebounded across the courtyard. His heart hammered against his rib cage as he clutched Holfast’s speech with steady hands, sensing Marai’s gaze at his back. The opening notes of The Lady Butcher echoed in his ears. “My honorable, beloved countrymen. I, Prince Ruenen, son and heir of King Vanguarden, have come home!”
Chapter 14
Marai
It took everything in her not to go to him.
Ruenen’s voice was clear, unwavering, and filled with genuine sincerity. The speech was brief, but it accomplished exactly what the Witan had planned for: hope. The people’s desperate need for guidance, for something to believe in, had them clinging to his every word.
When he finished, Nevandians cheered until they were hoarse. Children jumped up and down, clinging to each other. A man fell to his knees, sobbing. He whispered a fervent prayer to the heavens. A woman in all black near the front of the crowd held a man’s tattered hat to her breast. Hope was a wildfire and spread through the courtyard.
Ruenen certainly perfected the part of a noble prince, standing above the crowd with his arms wide and welcoming. A diaphanous ray of sun beamed down upon him. He smiled, but Marai saw the strain–no dimples, eyes tight. A mask. So different from the pure joy he radiated when he was onstage playing his lute.
The brief speech Holfast had written outlined Ruenen’s absence. The lie concocted outlined his life in the monastery as a child, then how he was sent abroad after Rayghast’s destruction of it.
When he stepped away from the balcony, Ruenen was swarmed by council members and richly dressed noblemen. Marai spotted Holfast at Ruenen’s side, whispering directions into his ear. Someone else put their hand on his arm, guiding him away towards the stairs.
“Much work to do,” Vorae stated pompously to the nobles.
Marai was shoved back through the cloud of lords and men until she was spit out against the wall.
As the Witan led Ruenen away, his eyes frantically searched until they found Marai’s. He mouthed, “I’ll find you later,” before being dragged down the stairs to the throne room.
The sun cast long shadows across the hallway. There was nothing left for her to do, with Ruenen so occupied. Marai blended in with those shadows, disappeared, and crept to the corridor where the fae were being housed. She heard muffled voices from the gap under Keshel’s door. She knocked. The room went silent.
“It’s me,” she said, pushing the door open.
For a moment, the fae froze, but then activity resumed when they saw it was indeed only Marai.
Keshel sat at his desk scribbling on a large piece of parchment. Raife and Leif hovered over his shoulders. Thora sat on the couch twisting Kadiatu’s wet hair into an elegant updo. Kadiatu’s feet were curled up under her by the fire. Aresti lounged against the throw pillows, fiddling with the gold hoop in her pointed ear. They all appeared strikingly . . . relaxed. The only sound was the scratching of Keshel’s quill on the paper.
“I suppose the prince gave his speech,” he said without looking up.
Annoyance flared inside Marai “Why didn’t any of you attend?”
