Page 14 of The Faceless Mage

“I was merely expressing my awe at the surroundings,” she replied innocently.

Which meant, of course, that he spent the remainder of their stroll to the ballroom pointing out exactly how remarkable the surroundings actually were.

* * *

It was with a vast sense of relief on Leisa’s part that they finally reached the royal family entrance and passed through it into a chamber of such soaring grandeur, she found herself reluctantly impressed.

The ballroom alone was nearly the size of the entire ground floor of Farhall’s royal palace. Supported by intricately painted columns down both sides of the room, it was decorated by jewel-toned murals and hung with silken draperies to lend it warmth. Enormous gilt-framed mirrors reflected the light from crystal chandeliers and lent vivid hues to swirling patterns of rose and gold on the ballroom floor.

The room was already halfway to being full, at least by her estimation, and more people continued to stream in. Sure enough, the maid had been right about the trends in Garimoran fashion—flounces everywhere. But nowhere were there as many as on Leisa’s own gown except perhaps…

Queen Portiana sailed into view, and Leisa barely remembered to curtsy as she took in the sheer volume of the queen’s dress.

“So much improved, my dear,” Portiana remarked, as Leisa rose from her hasty genuflection. “No one can find fault with your gown, at least.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Leisa replied, after she unclenched her teeth. “I am most grateful for your thoughtfulness in providing it.” Hopefully, she was a better liar than a diplomat. She had a feeling she would be bending—or at least omitting—the truth on a regular basis for the next few days.

But where was His Majesty?

Ah. Standing a handful of paces behind them, looking regal, watchful, and somehow as though he were expecting her to do something odd, like burst into song. Or perhaps he was hoping to gauge the size of King Soren’s purse by staring at his daughter’s head?

“Are we to mingle? Or will we be receiving guests formally?” Leisa asked her escort, unsure which of those options would be worse.

“The court will come to us, of course, and be presented to you as befits your rank,” Prince Vaniell assured her. “There is no need for you to distress yourself.” Again with that pat on the hand. She longed to reach out, grip his sleeve, throw him over her hip, and watch the smug smile vanish from his face.

Until suddenly it did, only to be replaced by a calculating glance that threatened to revise her opinion of him. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” he murmured, not waiting for Leisa’s permission before moving to intercept a man who appeared bent on approaching them. Apparently, he didn’t want this particular member of the court to be presented to her at all.

Whatever he didn’t want her to hear was probably the only thing worth overhearing, so Leisa slipped to the side—hoping she looked more shy than surreptitious—until she could duck behind a nearby column. It was an easy business to move from one to the next, or would have been had she not nearly tripped over one of her five hundred flounces. Dratted court fashion.

“Is that her, Niell?”

The voice was deep, formal, and almost angry.

Leisa peered around the column to see Vaniell standing in front of a taller, broader, dark-haired man who was, now that she was standing near enough to tell, very obviously his brother.

Prince Danric. A close-cut dark beard hugged his stern, sun-browned jaw while fire lurked in his dark eyes. His clothing was designed along equally stern lines, without any visible embellishment, and Leisa gained the impression that he might have dedicated every breath, every thought, to being his brother’s exact opposite.

Except Prince Danric was the elder and his father’s heir. So perhaps it was Vaniell who had no desire to reflect his brother in any way?

The smile lurking on the younger prince’s lips offered a hint that this might be the case.

“Why, hello, brother.” He offered no other acknowledgment of their relationship or relative station. “And yes, the woman I escorted is my prospective bride, Her Highness, Princess Evaraine of Farhall.” He glanced around, and Leisa ducked hastily back behind the column, curious to hear the remainder of their exchange.

Perhaps Prince Danric was less concerned with his clothes and might be able to appreciate his brother’s future wife for the quality of her character, rather than the appearance of her wardrobe.

“Could they have made a worse choice if they tried?”

Well, it seemed that would be a no. Perhaps bluntness was an admired cultural trait in Garimore.

“And don’t try to claim you think otherwise,” Danric went on relentlessly. “She’s obviously shy, bland, and hasn’t a scrap of backbone. You’ll exhaust and humiliate her, and the court will eat her alive.”

Odd. In his blunt, uncompromising way, the older prince actually seemed concerned about Evaraine’s feelings.

“And what, dear brother,” Vaniell replied mockingly, “has compatibility or comfort ever had to do with a royal marriage?”

“Don’t pretend you’re ready to fall on your sword for the kingdom,” Danric growled back. “You’ve been avoiding sacrificing anything for Garimore since you could walk.”

“If you’re so eager to make sacrifices, why don’tyoumarry her?” There was venom in Vaniell’s tone.

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