RE: Monarch

Leaving the wagon and caravan behind, the servants ushered us into the main gates and through a side entrance. Before we were through, I glimpsed the major thoroughfare to the palace, lined with people and streamers of pennant flags.

“What are we doing?” Maya whispered as we trailed through the stony corridors, following a servant.

“Making a proper entrance,” I answered.

While many things about my father had changed, this was more or less the same. Every victory—no matter how inconsequential or difficult—was celebrated with the same formula: a grand entry with the people in attendance, followed by a party, finished with a feast that usually wound down sometime the next morning’s early hours.

“I trained for this… but…”

“But?”

“My feet are killing me.,” Maya admitted. I noticed, belatedly, that she was walking with an odd gait.

I eyed the stone floor, finding it freshly swept, then her shoes. “Alright, we have a narrow window. Take them off.”

“I couldn’t,” Maya blinked at me, horrified. “It’s colder here than it was on the road. My feet will freeze!”

“The hose will dirty,” Maya said, with a scandalized tone that made me feel like I was asking her to do something profane.

“Noble ladies’ shoes are terrible, and they give much less insulation than you think. Take them off, carry them, put them back on when your toes numb. Right as the numbness sets in. If you wait too long, you’ll have the misfortune of wearing ladies’ shoes with deadened feet—which now that I think about it, might be an improvement.”

“Not if my toes fall off,” Maya said. But she followed my direction, and soon enough, the tension in her spine evaporated.

“… Well?” I prodded her.

“Don’t gloat.”

We entered the staging room, a cramped area full of servants and a few of my father’s bannerlords. Maya continued in. I was frozen in the doorway, utterly shocked.

King Gil hunched forward on a stool, squinting at his own reflection as a Panthanian man with sharp, contoured features dabbed at his face with a powder brush.

“Boy!” He bellowed, startling me out of my stupor.

“Yes, father?”

I walked towards him with the careful steps of a man approaching a pegasus in the wild.

My father chucked a thumb at the diminutive Panthanian. “This… gentleman seems to think the kingdom expects a blushing bride, rather than a conquering King.”

“Here he goes,” the Panthanian murmured, tutting disapprovingly.

“Watch your lip,” my father growled.

“Too busy watching yours, my liege.”

I immediately cut in, for fear of the man’s life. “I-uh. What’s the problem?”

Ignoring the King, the Panthanian turned to me, proffering a small octagonal box. I flipped it open, finding a red powder within. “Lych powder.”

“Litch powder?” I asked, not sure if I’d heard correctly.

“As in the vibrant red constrictor snake native to my homeland, not the immortal undead.”

“It’s… unfortunately named.”

“It translates badly.” The Panthanian tugged at his ruffled collar in irritation. “He’ll let me smooth out his wrinkles, strengthen his jaw, but gods forbid I add a little color to his face.”

“Blushing. Bride.” My father grumbled.

“Do you know why they blush?” The Panthanian whipped around dramatically. “Because they’re excited. Warm. Not freezing their asses off in the armpit of a mountain.”

Well, I tried. Not even the gods could save him now.

My father stuck a finger at the man. “I should kill you for that.”

Not should. Would have. With absolute certainty.

“Not unless you want to cause an international incident,” the Panthanian said, his voice vaguely sing-song.

“I’m missing something,” I said. It felt like I was missing a great deal.

The Panthanian extended his hand to me, palm facing down. “Pardon my manners. I am Brenden of Garnier, third of his name, Ward of Whitefall, heir to the Sapphire Isles.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I took his hand and bowed in the traditional Panthanian manner, keeping his hand aligned with my forehead to show equal standing. That wasn’t quite true—if Brenden was a ward, he was essentially a political hostage, and if I remembered correctly, he was much further down the chain of succession than I was—but it didn’t hurt to be polite. The bigger question was, why was he here? We’d had little to no relations with Panthania during my previous life, save a small degree of growing hostility because of my father’s isolationist tendency to destroy any Panthanian ship that navigated too close to our coastlines.

Brenden apparently noticed, and his green eyes twinkled. “You’re more generous than I’ve heard.”

“What did you hear?” I asked.

Brenden hesitated.

My father cut in, staring us down. “If the two of you are done prattling on?”

“Right.” He’d wanted my opinion. I flipped open the box and dabbed a finger in, paused. Never in previous life would I have dared, or even entertained the thought of touching him. “May I?”

While King Gil didn’t volunteer, he didn’t refuse, either. I reached out tentatively and smeared a small portion on his cheek. It wasn’t even close to as vibrantly red as I’d expected.

“Brenden’s correct,” I said, after a moment. “You’re pale on account of heritage, so the lych powder adds warmth to your features. Speaks of strong, northern blood. So long as it’s applied sparingly on your cheeks, you won’t be picking out a matrimonial shawl.”

I froze, immediately wishing I could take the joke back.

But like so many similar incidents since our reunion, my father let it slide. It was almost like he didn’t hear me at all.

“The tip of the nose as well?” he asked.

“Um,” I did a double-take. “No. Probably not. If the point is making you look warm, that’ll do the opposite.”

My father slowly turned and glared at Brenden.

Brenden sighed. “It was endearing.”

“I will send a courier across the gods-damned ocean and exchange you for another, Brenden,” my father growled.

The preparations went quickly after that. Once Brenden was done with my father, he moved on to me, then to Maya, apologizing profusely that he had little in her color. Unexpectedly, Eckor arrived, dressed in rich, gaudy mage’s robes that had to be on loan. Apparently, my father had taken the credit I’d given him seriously and arranged for him to join us at the front. I listened in idle amusement as Brenden lamented Eckor’s disposition, and how there wasn’t enough blending powder in the world to cover the deep bags under the mage’s eyes.

“What do you think of our guest?” my father asked, his rumbling voice quiet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to him giving a single sodden damn about my opinion.

“The Panthanian?” I asked.

“No, the elf in the cage. Yes, the gods-damned Panthanian.”

I didn’t have nearly enough information about the man, but my father wouldn’t accept that as an answer. “Knows his way around cosmetics. Quick on his feet, charismatic. Didn’t jump at the possibility of returning home, so at the very least he’s not stupid. That’s about the extent of my read. Why?”

“He’s engaged to your sister.”

My mouth went dry. “Isn’t Annette a little young?”

“Not her.” My father waved me off. “Sera.”

“Ah.”.

Gil frowned in disapproval, and I tried not to snort at how intensely displeased he was with his own machinations. “And though he’s a pitiful swordsman, he’s competent enough in matters of state. Their union will solidify our ties with Panthania—“

“—I didn’t know we had ties with Panthania.”

“—Keep pace,” King Gil snapped. “At the very least, with the two of them joined, there will be a woman in the relationship to ensure they look presentable.”

My father’s outdated views on gender notwithstanding, his solution had merit. Probably more than he realized. Sera’s attempts at courtship in my previous life left behind more mangled bodies than a war party. It went well enough until the unfortunate suitor jokingly—out of curiosity or insecurity—heard enough of her reputation to ask for a spar. After which, Sera gave them exactly what they asked for, more often than not ending the courtship as a matter of course, sending them back to wherever they hailed from, nursing wounded pride.

By pairing her with someone effectively her opposite, Sera’s competitive streak would be harmless. Nor would a Panthanian care about her mixed blood. Sera didn’t hate dressing up, exactly—she hated being told to. Especially by a suitor. And I had a feeling that her vehement resistance to presentation and attire wouldn’t be so vehement if the suitor was actually helping her make that happen, rather than casting disparaging comments from afar.

Of course, none of that would matter if Sera hated the idea.

I shook my head, reminding myself that most, if not all of this was a distraction. That night at the coronation, though Thoth had wounded me heavily and expedited the process afterwards, Sera dealt the fateful blow.

To avoid a similar inevitability, I had to first understand why. It was possible she’d turned on me late—another victim of Thoth’s persuasion. But I had a feeling it was more complicated than that.

It always was.

The illusion of safety was insidious. Fate itself, fickle and cruel. There were hundreds of threats in the capital and any of them could be my undoing. Difference was, most of those threats wouldn’t kill me outright. And while that seemed initially like a positive change of pace, it carried a serious downside.

I might only get one shot at this.

My gaze landed on Thaddeus, lingering by the door. It looked like he was waiting for a suitable moment to slip away.

“Stay on him.”

“And when he parts with the letter?” Vogrin asked.

I considered that. “Go with your gut. But from my experience? Thaddeus never limits himself to one iron in the fire.”

I felt the telltale uncoiling in my chest as Vogrin departed.

Brenden clapped his hands twice. The bustling of servants and nobles alike fell silent. “Let’s get this show on the road. Noble family and friends, please stay in your seats until you reach the palace and avoid halting the procession if possible. Everything is coordinated and timed out, and if you stop for mammoth-on-a-stick it could—potentially—throw all my hard work in the refuse pile.”

King Gil pushed past him, muttering something irritably. I followed him, Maya, Eckor and Melody trailing behind me. He gave us all a once-over, lingering on Eckor and Melody.

“At least try to look intimidating,” King Gil said.

Eckor straightened. Melody scowled, struggling to maintain the expression.

“Never mind.” My father rolled his eyes and threw open the door, letting in a burst of cold air. We loaded into an open-topped carriage, pulled by four massive white horses. My father sat at the rear of the carriage on an elevated throne, alongside a hooded mage I didn’t remember having seen on the road.

Maya settled beside me on one of the horizontal cushioned benches, while Eckor and Melody sat across from us. As much as I wanted to forgo the parade and race to the palace, it was important to start this on the proper foot.

That commitment lasted all of a minute, until I spotted a familiar face in the crowd.

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