Page 4 of A Game of Veils

And if a whiff of hysterical laughter bubbles inside me at that thought, I certainly won’t let it out.

Inside, the imperial palace is just as overwhelming. The central hallway sprawls as wide as my bedroom at home. The ceilings loom far above my head, painted with vines and flowers framing open sky as if to give the impression they aren’t ceilings at all.

I suppose the spaciousness makes sense given the difference in climate. Accasians prefer narrow halls and cozy rooms that are easy to keep warm during the frigid winters. These airy open spaces must be much cooler during the southern summer.

More marble gleams everywhere I look, alongside panes of etched gold, delicate mosaics, and oil paintings of majestic landscapes. Flute music carries faintly from up ahead, mingling with distant laughter. Potted plants with crimson and fuchsia blooms give off a heady floral scent.

Our footsteps tap across the tiled floor until we reach a set of double doors framed with gold. My escort marches a few paces ahead of me and declares my arrival to the room at large: “Princess Aurelia of Accasy!”

Clearly my impending arrival was noted well in advance. The vast audience hall I step into holds dozens of people, all turning to watch my approach.

Most of my audience is gathered on either side of the violet rug that runs the length of the room. The men and women wear similar clothes to those I saw in the nearby park: gauzy dresses and silky shirts.

I wore my lightest gown in recognition of the warmer weather, but it seems to drag against my limbs as I make my way past their curious stares.

On the dais I’m heading toward, two gilded wooden thrones gleam, their backs pointed in elegant spires as if to mimic the crowns on their occupants’ heads.

In the larger throne in the middle of the dais sits a tall man with a sharp-edged face and a pale scalp nearly as shiny as his seat. I’ve heard Emperor Tarquin took to shaving off all his hair as soon as it started to thin.

His eyebrows, just below the rim of his ornate golden crown, are such a light blond they blend into his skin, giving the eerie impression that he has none at all. A suit of black, gray, and indigo covers his sinewy frame.

As I force my legs to keep moving toward him, his steady gaze pierces straight through me.

I drag my attention away from the emperor’s ominous presence to the younger man in the throne at his right.

This has to be Marclinus. A matching if simpler crown adorns his hair, which is nearly the same shade of gold as the metal. His angular features echo his father’s, though much more appealing with some lingering softness of youth.

Unlike his father, he sprawls in his throne as if he’s lounging at a tavern rather than conducting an official audience. His golden-blond curls drift carelessly across the tops of his ears and down to the nape of his neck.

When our eyes meet, he licks his lips.

That’s how he greets his future wife?

The emperor is flanked by a few pensive-looking middle-aged figures I’d guess are advisors of some sort, one of them in a cleric’s robes. Beyond the imperial heir’s throne stand four men too young to have likely risen to such prominence. Three of them can’t be much older than me, and the other looks to be in his teens.

Who are they? As far as I know Emperor Tarquin only has one son, and they don’t look anything like him besides.

The tallest fills out his silk shirt with broad shoulders bulky with muscle. The cream-colored fabric sets off his tawny skin. His dark brown hair is pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck.

His eyes, so light blue they’re noticeable even from a distance, sear into me along with his scowl.

The leaner but still well-built guy next to him has a rich brown complexion in starker contrast with the imperial men. His thick black hair appears rumpled even cropped close to his handsome face. His dark eyes follow me, his hands balling at his sides.

Their somewhat shorter companion looks as if he’s been denied a few meals. There’s a hint of gauntness to both his pale face and his frame. But his features are still striking, his reddish-brown hair and deep green eyes giving his expression a kick of intensity. He’s folded his slender arms tightly across his chest.

Even the teenager is glowering at me from beneath the fall of his white-blond hair. His gangly limbs make me think of an overgrown puppy, but his fierce expression is all guard dog.

What about me has provoked all this hostility?

I jerk my attention back to the emperor and stop a couple of paces from the dais. There, I drop into my lowest curtsy.

I need to stay focused on the man with the real power here.

“It’s an honor to be in your presence again, Your Imperial Majesty.” I’ve only seen the emperor once before—a brief introduction when he toured his territories when I was six—but he’d expect me to remember that.

The emperor’s smile is as sharp as his face. “Welcome to my court, Princess Aurelia. Let me formally introduce you to my son, His Imperial Highness Marclinus.”

He sweeps his hand toward the lounging, golden-haired man, who sits up only a little straighter and gives me a jaunty wave. His eyes, the same gray as his father’s, slide down my figure as if he’s stripping off my gown with them.

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