Page 16 of The War Queen's Daughter

“Daywear and evening are two different things,” she says, drifting past me. “I can’t wait to see them die of jealousyat dinner.” She laughs again, that lovely sound. “You’re not comfortable here, are you?”

What possesses me to speak? I’ll never admit it out loud, but a bit of kindness goes a long way with me, and now who has been reading who? I sigh, a sound of frustration I didn’t intend to share. “I don’t know what I am doing here,” I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My voice is tight, thick with the shame of my earlier scene, the frustration of my mother’s deceit. “I feel…out of place. Like a clumsy bull in a flower garden. I don’t understand these rules, these games. I’m a soldier. I don’t know how to prove my worth here. This has been a huge mistake.”

My mother’s voice comes fast, sharp, and condemning, echoing in my head.Weakling child to whine to your betters!

Mother would be horrified by my lack of control, my admission of vulnerability.

Vae has crossed to me, one hand gently touching mine, her fingers cool and soft on my skin. “We all feel that way, Remalla,” she says, her voice soothing. “You are simply different. And different is often a strength in this place, if you know how to wield it.” Her touch is surprisingly comforting, the scent of lavender from her gown soft and calming. She points at the dress in my hands. “See this?” She fingers it briefly as though admiring the weave. “This will be stunning on you. With your hair, your eyes…it speaks of the earth, of strength. All eyes will be on you in this gown. No one willeverforget you.”

I look down at the shining bronze, limp and silken in my grasp. Yes, like the soil of Heald, the copper threads catching the light, echoing the fire in my eyes. But it is thin, flimsy, nothing like me. Then again, unless I give it a chance.

I don’t want to stand out, though. I’ve already decided that. This dress will attract the Overprince’s attention, and I want himto look the other way. Still, there’s an appeal to the color that draws me in, and when I meet Vae’s eyes, she’s smiling again.

“Choose what suits you,” she says before going to the door again. “I’ll see you at dinner.” And then, she’s gone as a flicker of something akin to hope ignites within me. Could it be that simple? To just choose what feels right, instead of what is expected?

Perhaps things won’t be so bad after all. Maybe I can find my place here, even if it’s not the one my mother envisioned. If I can befriend the other princesses, even the ones from lands my mother has warred with, such alliances could be incredibly beneficial to Heald down the road. If I don’t marry Altar, if I’m not the Overqueen, perhaps I can still forge connections, gather intelligence, influence the court from a different angle. Then return home with some triumph instead of disappointment.

This is the only road available to me, and I must make the most of it. Surely, this isn’t a complete waste. No matter what Amber thinks, I have no illusions about my chances against these delicate, accomplished women, but perhaps, just perhaps, my presence here can still serve Heald, and maybe even myself.

With that thought in mind, I go in search of a bath.

Chapter 10

The hall outside my door is quiet as I venture out of my quarters into the gilded corridor. Mine is far from the only door to line the tall, dark wooded way, each marked with the banner of their kingdom. I pause near a few, contemplating making more connections, listening for a chance to interrupt. But it’s clear to me that they are all busy, their doors shut, their maids bustling within, preparing them for dinner. I hear muffled laughter, the rustle of fabrics, and the faint scent of perfumes wafting from behind closed doors. It’s a world I don’t understand, a preparatory ritual for a battle I haven’t been trained to fight.

Rather than embarrass myself further, I retreat, the loneliness pressing in on me. The final door at the far end of the hall is a bathing room, a large tiled space with two pools of clear water, one hot and one cold, and another that steams, large enough for many to soak in.

There’s no time for that, as alluring as an hour in hot water is at the moment.

A young woman approaches me, bowing and offering a robe, and I accept, shedding my armor and donning the wrapping. It’s soft on my skin, though the hot water tempts me far more than the smooth fabric, and I’m quickly taking down my hair and submerging fully in the smaller, hot tub.

She tries to help me, but I’m impatient and send her away, attacking my skin aggressively with the soaps, scrubbing mitts,and scented sugars I find lining the edge of the tub. My scalp tingles by the time I finish scouring it, the tension headache from my braids and my predicament finally easing.

My hair’s gotten longer than I like, falling past my waist when unbound now, and I struggle to pull a wide-toothed comb through it, groaning at the tangles even the tight plaits I usually wear couldn’t prevent.

I know I’m running out of time, that the hour I’ve been allotted before dinner is likely up, which means I’m braiding my long, black locks into a single, heavy plait over one shoulder, far too much like Mother’s for comfort. There’s a small pot of some spicy scented oil that I rub into my elbows and hands that makes my skin soft, but that’s all I manage before I don my robe, turning to retrieve my armor.

Only to find it’s gone. With the girl I sent away.

Panic punches me in the chest, and I’m panting, furious, rage a living thing inside me while I fight the urge to race out the door into the hall and scream.

It’s a valiant effort to control my fury, to return to my room and close the door without breaking something or someone. No armor waits for me there, either. This time, I do shatter a glass I carefully choose from a selection by the sofa, throwing it with my full strength into the hearth. Its sudden exploding destruction helps somewhat, but now I’m far less angry and much more shaken.

I prefer anger.

Surely, they’re just cleaning it. Or storing it. I wince over the first since it’s fitted perfectly to me and, all unknowing, can be misshapen if improperly treated. I don’t relish the blisters and chafing that poorly cleaned armor can cause.

Storage will be better, but still anxiety-triggering because I want myarmor.

No explanation should be necessary.

I can do nothing about it at the moment, and now I’m sure I’m late. The dress on the bed isn’t complicated, at least, a simple sheath of fabric with two thin straps to hold it up, though I find it so low in the front—and even more so in the back—that I end up criss-crossing the straps so that it rides higher and forms a sort of X across my throat.

My bag was delivered, so I have some jewelry at least, the thick gold wristbands a gift from Aunt, the heavy hair clasp of the same metal from Mother. A single ring around my right thumb, as thick as my knuckle, and I’m as adorned as I plan to be.

With my riding boots also vanished, I’m forced to hunt for footwear, a pair of slouching half-boots of dark brown suede likely intended for another outfit, but the most practical thing in the closet.

I’m flustered and irritated when I pause to look at myself in the mirror, but I do agree with Vae. Copper suits me, and the cut of this slim-fitting gown proves I’ve earned the scars that show with the muscles that do, too.

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