Page 21 of Of Song and Scepter
Soren
The royal council chamber,a small, gaudy room, perches atop the palace’s west wing, squarely in line of the evening sun. The soft chatter of vendors in the streets drift up through the open window behind me, mixing with the crash of waves against the shore. Humidity glazes everything in a soft sheen. There’s no evening breeze to relieve the sweat clinging to my forehead.
A squat table with thick, pillared legs stands in the middle of the room. Its stone surface bears the topography of the six kingdoms of Adria. The map sweats with moisture, dew pooling in the grooves. Six gilded chairs surround the table—each occupied by an overdressed council member, with the exception of the spot opposite mine, where the queen should be. My mother is late. Again.
I straighten, wincing as pain flares in my side where the handmaid’s spines raked me earlier. The healers worked their magic on it this afternoon, but a residual sting lingers beneath the skin.
I scrape over the spot repeatedly, slowly, so as to not draw too much attention from the council. But they’re not watching me. Even as I bore my gaze into the side of Lord Ruven’s face, studying the soft skin that jiggles under his chin with each animated sentence, the minister of foreign affairs does not turn to look. He whispers to Lady Myrrh next to him, the only female member of the royal council aside from my mother. The mermaid chuckles, tugging absently at a stray curl of her graying hair.
Lord Varik avoids my gaze, studying a tapestry behind me, no doubt still offended over my rejection of his daughter. Beside him Lord Almar, a quiet old priest with a curling mustache, props his head on his fist, sleeping.
I might as well be invisible.
I deepen my scratch, digging my nails into the silk. If I weren’t in the company of the council, I would have removed this shirt, searched my skin for the point of irritation, and scratched it to my heart’s content. What did that handmaid do to get under my scales? Is she poisonous? Is this some dark-dweller magic I have yet to learn? And why in the six pools of hell does the princess need a handmaid likethat? The more I dwell on it, the more the sting intensifies.
Inhaling deeply, I recite my to-do list and relax in the knowledge that I’m down to my last two events with required attendance today: this meeting, followed by dinner with the princess. I just need to sit here, assert my presence, try not to scratch myself to death, and then leave.
The door clicks open. My mother breezes in, aiming for the velvet chair at the head of the table. The council straightens theirposture, their whispers sucked into stiff silence. Lord Almar snorts awake. She lifts her gaze and nods a greeting.
“The prince and I have a dinner to attend, a guest to welcome, and a wedding to plan,” says the queen. “Whatever you must say, make it quick.”
The council looks to Lady Myrrh, her violet face suddenly as blank as the moon. She smooths her hair, then clears her throat. “This council expresses concern about the princess. Your proposal was rather hasty, and we have a few questions for you, Your Majesty.”
The queen raises her eyebrow. “Does the council mistrust my judgment in selecting a suitor for my son?”
“No, Your Majesty. We just—” Lady Myrrh inhales deeply, steadying herself. The queen’s gaze grows colder by the second. “She’s Abyssal. And we have some concerns about, well—” Lady Myrrh trails off, searching the room for help.
Lord Varik smacks the table. Lady Myrrh flinches, then nods at him to take over.
“What is the crown’s verdict on the latest suitor? Is she a worthy match?” he asks.
“The crown has not yet decided, Lord Varik. I expect we will learn more at dinner tonight,” the queen says calmly.
“Not yet decided? Just a few days ago, the crown had plenty of opinions on a certain matchwithinthis court, did it not?”
“I rejected your proposal, Lord Varik,” I remind him rather bluntly. “Do not waste time asking again.”
The treasurer slides his eelish eyes to me and scowls. I keep my face neutral, passive. The corner of my eye begins to quiver, and my side flares once more, itching for my attention.
With a grunt, Lord Varik turns to address my mother directly.
“Your Majesty, if I may, the crown prince does not seem to be taking his duties seriously. Lines of suitors at his door, perfectlyamiable females, and has he courted even one? No! My daughter is more than worthy to sit on that throne.”
My mother stirs in her chair, flicking her fingers in a dismissive wave. “The prince may be… overly selective. But we have our reasons for being so.”
“Fact is, we need a royal match.” Lord Ruven touches the hooked tip of his large nose and sniffs, his mouth maintaining his permanent scowl. “The coffers will run out, Lord Varik, if we do not secure an alliance with another kingdom. The Kingdom of Frost has no match to offer, at least one capable of producing an heir with our prince. The Kingdom of Sands has their heads buried in their namesake. The Brine is more interested in chasing cloudwhales than aligning with anyone. And Estuary is, well, stubborn as ever.”
“But the Abyss is abhorrent,” Lady Myrrh protests. “They’re nasty, debaucherous dark-dwellers. The Abyss does not get along with this kingdom. Have we tried reaching out to the Brine one more time? They’re so pleasant and happy, and I hear their princess Nahla is lovely. Nice, happy face. That’s what this kingdom needs.” She smiles, as if demonstrating for the council what happiness looks like.
Lord Ruven waves his hand. “The Brine remains unreachable, my lady. What difference does it make if the dark-dweller looks unpleasant, if her brother is rich and the only king in all of Adria willing to bargain? The past is the past. Let’s leave it there. If the Abyss is willing to look past the incident with the dredgebeasts, then we should let them.”
“Then the prince should marry her and be done with it. He speaks of me wasting his time, when he’s rejected the past five suitors, all of excellent character. How many is too many?” The council shifts uneasily at Lord Varik’s remark, looking to me for my response.
Seven suitors—beautiful and quiet, but power-hungry—and not one of them fit to be my queen.
As my silence stretches, Lady Myrrh pipes up. “The princess does seem an excellent match, and our prince deserves the best. But we don’t know what type of manners they’re cultivating down in the deep.”
“Stubborn, racist bloodfish. The lot of them,” grumbles Lord Almar.
