Page 6 of A Game of Veils

Is he putting me off-balance for his sadistic enjoyment, not really meaning what he implies? Or maybe he’s only referring to some additional step before the final confirmation, like having one of the imperial medics check me over to confirm my good health?

My parents hashed out all the details with his representative before I even left Accasy. That man inspected me as if I was a brood mare he was considering adding to the palace stables. Emperor Tarquin just said I’m who he was promised.

What could cause any hesitation?

The emperor is studying me as if evaluating my reaction. I reach for my deepest well of inner calm and keep my voice steady. “I would never overstep and rush Your Majesty.”

If there’s something more he wants from me, let him say so.

Emperor Tarquin pushes to his feet. His limbs might be as sharply angled as his face within the folds of his embroidered suit, but there’s still plenty of heft to his aging body, a sense of strength it’d be hazardous to challenge.

Marclinus watches in his casual pose. My future husband’s lips remain curved in a smirk as if he finds the proceedings amusing.

The emperor sweeps his penetrating gaze over the crowd of assembled nobles. I catch the briefest hint of a smirk, not unlike his heir’s, before his expression returns to impenetrable cool.

He spreads his sinewy hands toward our audience. “When I announced my son’s engagement, many members of my court expressed… concerns that I had selected a suitable match from abroad. Some felt that their daughters were not given an equal chance.”

A chill seeps through my skin down to my bones. This doesn’t sound like a lead-up to a medical exam.

The nobles stay as silent as I am. They know better than to interrupt a proclamation.

Emperor Tarquin peers down at them. “I would not wish to deny any of my loyal subjects your due. Marclinus must have the most suitable wife we can arrange. I believe all those who expressed their objections are with us today, so let us see your daughters. Leonette Cento, come forward.”

A curvy woman with chestnut-brown hair and deeper brown skin steps from the crowd and walks up to stand where the emperor indicates, just a few paces away from me on the thick violet rug. Her pretty face shows nothing but determination.

“Rochelle Salacia.”

A tall, broad-shouldered woman emerges with her fingers curled into the layers of her airy skirt. Her cloud of wheat-blond curls sways as she approaches the dais, her cheeks flushed beneath a sprinkling of freckles.

“Cadenza Leppum.”

This woman looks like barely more than a girl, her blue eyes innocently wide and her smile giddy as she hustles over to join us.

I hold my own posture still and straight despite the thudding of my heart. What exactly is Emperor Tarquin playing at?

He calls out several more names, bringing lady after lady to stand by me. It’s hard to keep track through the pounding of my pulse and my whirling thoughts.

The twelfth name comes with a note of finality. “Fausta Amata.”

The last noblewoman to join our array strides forward with an air of total assurance despite her petite frame. Her flame-red hair spills in loose waves down her back, artfully untamed. Her bright green gaze burns into mine for an instant before she focuses all her attention on the emperor.

He nods to the gathered women with a benevolent air, but I catch a bit of an edge in his next words. “In the interests of fairness, these ladies will be given an equal opportunity alongside Princess Aurelia to prove how loyal and dedicated they are. Marclinus and I have devised a series of trials to evaluate their devotion. Whoever impresses us most will win her place at my son’s side.”

I have to grit my teeth to stop my jaw from dropping. The lurch of my gut threatens to send my breakfast up my throat.

Murmurs break out among the nobles behind me, but most of them sound pleased. And why shouldn’t they? Now their daughters are being considered, when my marriage was meant to be settled with all certainty.

Emperor Tarquin can’t be serious. This is some kind of joke—or a brief test, to confirm my commitment and mettle?—

The emperor returns to his throne, motioning toward his heir. “The first trial begins now. Listen well. Whoever performs worst will be removed from the competition.”

Marclinus slides forward in his gilded seat, appearing energized by the turn of events. His gray eyes sparkle as he aims a cocky grin at the ladies gathered before him.

Merriment rings through his voice. “You will each tell me what you admire about me so much that you wish to take me as a husband. Please spare no detail.”

Gods help me, this is really happening.

Before I can fully wrap my mind around that fact, the petite, redheaded noblewoman—Lady Fausta—struts forward without a second’s hesitation. She kneels at the base of the dais in front of the imperial heir’s throne and bows her head deferentially.

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