The Heir straightens, looking down at her with eyes that have frosted over again. “I will be your queen,” she reminds Ruti coldly. “You are mine by definition.”
Ruti snorts. “You’ll be the queen to the merchants and the farmers and the craftworkers. Never to the Markless. We don’t exist in your world. You’ve all made sure of that.”
The Heir glowers at her. “Run,” she says.
Ruti stares at her. “So now you’re just going to … what, throw me out of the palace? Is this some sort of test?” She can’t make heads or tails of the Heir, and it’s growing more and more frustrating. “Are you going to send guards after me and have me tried as a—”
“No, you idiot,” the Heir hisses, and she seizes Ruti’s hand and yanks her away from the staircase they just descended. Ruti opens her mouth and the Heir claps a hand over it, pulling her into the shadows beneath the stairs just as voices sound nearby.
“It’s right past here, Your Highness.” One of the Regent’s main attendants is speaking, his voice low. “We are so thrilled to have you here. The princess has been so hopeful that you might be her soulbond.”
“As am I,” a man’s full, booming voice responds. He makes no attempt at quiet. Ruti cranes her neck to peer past the staircase at him. He’s considerably older than they are, past thirty years with a paunch only a royal could have, and he wears a gaudy velvet robe. Prince Kobe, she guesses. He speaks their language with the practiced accent of well-educated royalty. “I am the third son of a second son, and I have little chance of amounting to anything without a Bonded.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” the attendant says soothingly.
“I hear that the princess is a great beauty,” Prince Kobe says, licking his lips. “And young, too. Does she have childbearing hips? We are the land of the Toothed One, you know. The princes of Machajabe are as big-headed when we emerge from the birth canal as our patron spirit. My poor mother was bedridden for years after having me.” He guffaws. The attendant is looking more and more uncomfortable by the moment.
Ruti twists around to glance at the Heir. The Heir is flattened against the staircase, wind flying around her, and she looks absolutely petrified. Her eyes are wide and horrified, and she turns her palm, staring down at the mark on it. “He seems nice,” Ruti whispers, suddenly enjoying herself.
“I will have you cut to pieces and buried beneath the flower beds in the courtyard,” the Heir snarls in a low voice. The prince and his entourage are retreating, moving past the kitchens to a complex beyond them.
“I mean, he was empathetic,” Ruti says, grinning. “He was very worried about your … hips.” She glances down at the Heir’s hips, which are very nicely shaped indeed, though probably not for a big-headed Machajabe baby. “And he thinks you’re beautiful, so he isn’t unconscious.”
“Must you continuously do that?” the Heir demands, glaring at her. She is discomfited, a new look on her that Ruti thoroughly enjoys. Ruti has been confined in the palace for long enough that it’s a treat to see the Heir looking just as trapped as she feels.
“Do what?”
“Mock me,” the Heir bites out. “Put me in a position where I have no choice but to execute you for your insolence. You overestimate your worth, Markless brat.” But her words lack the smooth certainty that usually accompanies them, and Ruti realizes that the Heir is truly afraid.
She might deserve a soulbond like Prince Kobe, but Ruti isn’t mean-spirited enough to wish him on her. “My magic will hold,” she says firmly, and she struggles to muster up the confidence she wants to feel in it. “And there’s no way he’s your Bonded. Isn’t a bonding supposed to be between two perfectly matched souls?”
The Heir watches her for a pained moment, the air in the hall very thin. Then she exhales, a breeze on Ruti’s skin, and straightens. “Yes, of course,” she says, her arrogance returned. “He will be an excellent test of your abilities, though.” She turns, heading back to the stairs.
“Wait,” Ruti says, puzzled. “I thought we were going to go outside to strengthen the magic.” She pauses for a moment, piecing together what she knows of tonight, and says, “Did you know they’d bring the prince through this room? Did you just drag me out of bed to spy on him?”
The Heir raises her chin. “I couldn’t bring Orrin,” she says coolly. “He would be outraged on my behalf and pick a fight.” Ruti is about to agree when the Heir adds, “And he needs his sleep.”
“More than I do?” Ruti says dubiously. “At least I’m useful to you. He’s a boor who spends all day hovering behind you.” Orrin’s only redeeming quality, as far as Ruti sees, is his unwavering loyalty to Dekala.
“Watch your tongue,” the Heir snaps. “He is your future queen-consort.”
“Not mine,” Ruti reminds her stubbornly. The idea of Orrin being ruler of anything is laughable. He exists to linger in Dekala’s shadow.
The Heir swoops close to her. Ruti stands her ground as the Heir places a finger beneath her chin to pull it up, glaring down at her with those sharp, imposing eyes. Ruti is wordless, caught in the Heir’s stare, and she isn’t sure if it’s fear or defiance that stops her breath. “We shall see,” the Heir says, her voice dark, and she drops her hand and stalks past Ruti and up the stairs.
The Heir is formally introduced to Prince Kobe at dinner, where he is seated between the Regent and the Heir and eats half of the food off her plate while he talks about his family’s great fortune. “And I’m the heir to one quarter of one portion of that,” he says self-importantly. “Nearly six farms and a large estate.”
The Regent’s eyes narrow. “I was told you were a favorite prince of your land,” he says.
“Well, I’m certainly not the least favorite,” the prince says heartily. “That would be my cousin the king, who nearly disowned me because of a few tiny card debts when the message came from your kingdom that you thought I might be sweet Princess Dekala’s soulbond.” He puts an arm around the Heir’s seat. The air chills. “I love this quaint little idea she had to have a chat before we bond. She’s going to be such a delight in our kingdom, I imagine.”
The Regent looks a little ill. The Heir says, “I am ready for the soulbinding.” She stands.
The Regent blinks at her, startled. “This was enough time for you?”
The Heir smiles, thin-lipped and cold. “When you know, you know,” she says, turning to face Prince Kobe. “Why don’t we go for a walk in my gardens?”
Orrin’s eyes are thunderous from behind the Heir, and Ruti is nearly enjoying herself as she observes him. But still, there’s a pit in her stomach as she stands up to follow them, the Heir sandwiched between the two men and nodding slightly to keep Prince Kobe speaking.
“I have to say, I was a bit surprised when I heard that Princess Dekala’s scholars thought I might be her perfect match,” he says. “After all, you are practically a child, and a headstrong one, from what I hear. Hardly an appropriate match for a man of my intellect. But you are so lovely.” He puts a hand on her back. Orrin steams. Even Ruti has to fight the urge to shove him away. The Heir is untouchable, aloof, and the role she plays tonight—demure and sweet and innocent—doesn’t sit well with Ruti. If she’s uncomfortable, though, she doesn’t show it.
“Perhaps I need someone like you to remind me of the lighter things in life,” the prince says, and he turns to face the Heir. “And perhaps you need someone like me to keep you leashed.”
He raises his hand, palm out, and the Heir lifts her chin as though to gird herself for battle. She holds out her hand to match his and Ruti steps back, watching through the leaves as the Heir’s hand hovers in front of Prince Kobe’s. Carefully, in a low voice, Ruti chants to the spirits.
One last time, she begs them. One more time. Hold the magic. Prince Kobe presses his hand to the Heir’s, and Ruti feels the magic straining between her and the Heir, the spirits undecided. Ruti sings and sings, calls to every spirit she knows, and there is a sheen of light over the Heir’s palm that is so faint it’s nearly invisible.
Prince Kobe’s brow furrows and he presses a little harder. The magic shatters, the spirits retreating, and the light vanishes from between their joined palms. Ruti lets out a quiet curse and Orrin looks sharply at her. “It failed?” he hisses.
“I don’t—” Ruti wrings her hands and sings again, a low, desperate chant, but there is nothing but silence in response, nothing from the spirits but a flash of claws and teeth in warning.
The Heir stands stiffly. “It doesn’t seem to be taking,” she says at last. Ruti has been lucky, even with the shattered magic. There is no magic joining their hands, no glow between them. They are no match. When the Heir pulls her hand back, her palm still carries only the half circle of sewa.
The prince frowns. “That can’t be. I was certain you were my match,” he says. “And you were certain you were mine.”
The Heir gives him a regretful look that doesn’t quite mask the darkness in her eyes. “You would be a magnificent match,” she lies blatantly. “But I must be Bonded. Farewell, Prince Kobe.” The Heir turns away from him. “I hope you’ll leave me with my disappointment.”
