Page 11 of The War Queen's Daughter

“Your Overmajesty,” I say. “I bring greetings to you from my mother. Queen Jhanette wishes you great health and prosperity.”

He shifts inside his robes of deep blue and gold, lips pursing. He looks older than I expected, his face stern, blue eyes sharp. Beside him, across that gap that feels like miles, the second, smaller throne is vacant, presumably for the Overprince. My heart thuds once. Can my future husband not spare a moment for our meeting? My stomach clenches, a mix of apprehension and a strange, grudging acceptance settling around me.

“Greetings and welcome, daughter of Heald,” the Overking says in a surprising tenor that’s polished and kind. I hadn’t expected kindness. “Your ride was uneventful?”

I nod, motion catching my attention as I do, a small cluster of women hurrying forward to take their places on the right. They arrange themselves in rows, though their hierarchy is beyond my knowledge. I can’t help but note they are all as exquisitely dressed in silks and jewels as any lady here, their eyes locked on me, expressions bound to varying degrees of eagerness, nerves, and calculation.

Whispering. I’m so tired of the whispering.

“Thank you, Your Overmajesty,” I hear myself speaking, though I’ve not willed the words to come. “It was.”

“Excellent,” he says. “And thank you, Princess Remalla, for presenting yourself upon your arrival. We appreciate your sense of duty.” If that’s a jab at my present attire or the fact that I now distinctly smell myself, he doesn’t show it. Did he mean it, then? I’m so lost, unable to read anyone in the room.

I would rather be on a different kind of battlefield.

“I’m sure your contemporaries will be happy to guide you to the Princess wing,” the Overking says. “Let’s reconvene and discuss the current state of affairs in Heald when you’ve had time to settle into your new accommodations.”

Contemporaries? The women who watch me exchange more murmurs and a few giggles, looking me up and down. But the one in the lead, in the prime position in front and closest to the throne dais, bobs a graceful curtsy to the Overking.

“It is our honor and pleasure,” she says, flashing dimples, the tiny blonde turning to me. “Your highness,” she says in a light voice, gesturing as she turns. “If you would, please?”

I hesitate. I don’t know what to expect, and I left Gorgon in the courtyard, planted in place. I will not abandon him.

But everyone is watching, and it won’t hurt him to stand a little longer.

Tension carries me carefully, my footsteps no longer making a sound as I follow the first of the women who addressed me as court carries on now that we’re leaving.

As one of the others whispers at me on the way by. “The baths are this way.”

And giggles.

Duly noted.

It’s not until we pass beyond a doorway behind the thrones that I look around, take in the chamber on the other side, the chattering women who join me. Twelve of them, each wearing colors and badges.

“Kingdoms,” I say out loud, frowning as I realize what their badges mean. “You’re all…”

The blonde leader turns back and flashes me those dimples of hers. “Princesses of the Overkingdom,” she says. “Yes, that’s right. You’re…one of us.”

But she doesn’t realize that I’m floored by this reveal. Wait, someone mentioned something. The guard at the main gate. I hadn’t had time to process.

Twelve other princesses.

Another one, eh? The Overprince has his pick of the litter.

My feet falter, my rigid control lost. My eyes dart from one beautiful, perfectly made up face to another, then back to the blonde who wears the badge of Sarn. She’s still smiling.

“You seem surprised, Remalla,” she says. “Wait, did you think you were the only one?”

I can’t comment, can’t breathe. What is this? What has my mother done to me?

“You’re not special,” one of the other women mutters, though the Sarn princess silences her with a wave.

“Like the rest of us,” the blonde says in that same soft, light tone, “you are here toviefor the Overprince’s hand.” She gestures at herself and then the other beautifully dressed princesses.

My mother’s cunning, her twisted ambition, her carefully crafted vision of my “glory” suddenly shatters into a million pieces. Marry the Overprince? No, of course, it’s not that easy. What of my mother’s schemes ever is?

I’m here to compete for him. Compete with twelve other women, all of whom are likely far more adept at this courtly dance than I, the warrior in dusty, well-used armor. The scent of lilies suddenly suffocates me, a sweet, cloying trap. Shame, humiliation, and a burning, cold fury war within me. My mother hasn’t sent me here for the glory or rise of Heald. No, she’s sent me here for a contest, a spectacle. And I am utterly, hopelessly, unprepared.

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