Page 5 of Of Song and Scepter
I swallow the thought with a frown, then tuck one ankle under the other and lean on the armrest. The soft fabric of my pants slides over my skin, wicking the sweat beneath my thighs.
Beside me, my late father’s attendant—now mine—tuts his disapproval. The familiar sound conveys his reprimand for unfit posture of a future king. He pinches his long, thin nose.
I’m here only because my kingdom requires it of me. I’ve been trained from the day I hatched to fill this seat, doing my duty with a practiced smile.
To save Hugo and I both the argument, I stiffen into the proper position and raise my hand for the next supplicant.
The royal treasurer bows when he reaches the steps. “Ah, Your Highness,” Lord Varik says, greeting me before I greet him. The treasurer has never respected my authority. His eyebrows knit in feigned confusion. “I was expecting—”
“My mother?”
“My business is with the queen.” His voice is slippery as an eel.
“I am hearing the requests today.” I focus my stare, unblinking, as if I could dissolve him with a mere look. He has distinct eyes—yellow, with thin black slits—and a round, dark green face. His smooth siren ears signal magical blood in generations past, but he is no magic-wielder.
“She’s dealing with matters of state,” I say. “Lord Varik, state your business with the crown.”
“Yes. Well. This eliminates the middleman, doesn’t it?”
“Speak plainly, Lord Varik. You waste the crown’s time.”
He bows his head, then flashes a devilish smile. “Your Highness, I hear you are still in need of a wife.”
I drum my fingers on the armrest. “I am. But certainly not from one of your caves, my lord.” The treasurer oversees many financial sectors, most prominently the underbelly of the reef.
“She’s not from my caves, Your Highness.”
Hugo eyes my twitching fingers, and I force them to lay flat against the marble.
“Your Highness, I’d like to introduce you to an eligible young lady for your consideration.”
It was not a question of permission, but I once again ignore his slip in decorum and nod my assent.
He gestures to the gilded door behind him, and a tall female walks through.
I lean forward and press my fingertips together. She’s young, not more than two decades old. The female is pretty, her youthful skin a glowing spring green. Curly brown hair styled in an exquisite Coral fashion. Bits of shell and pearl weave in elaborate patterns. A stray curl has worked its way out of the knot and dangles over her forehead, much like my own curls. I smile at that.
When my assessment reaches her eyes, yellow with rounded irises, the resemblance to Lord Varik is undeniable. The female appraises me with admiration, lingering on the lines of my physique. She flicks her gaze to the floor, but not before I catch the flash of ambition there, a burning lust I’ve seen all too often.
Lust not only for me, but for the throne.
Disappointment twists in my gut. It’s a pity I must reject her—she has the natural poise of a queen.
“Your Highness,” Lord Varik continues. “May I present to you my daughter, Miss Francesca Varik.”
Miss Varik steps forward and curtsies. She holds her posture, waiting for my response.
I need a wife. I cannot claim my right to the throne without one. But here stands yet another female, ready to sink her fingers into my power.
“Miss Varik,” I say. “How lovely to meet you.” At that, she straightens and flashes her perfect teeth. Her eyes shine with triumph.
“Thank you for your generous offer, Lord Varik,” I say. “I decline.”
Francesca’s nostrils flare. The smile dissipates, her mouth contorting into a snarl to match her father’s.
Lord Varik clenches his jaw. “Your Highness—”
I hold up my hand. “You are dismissed.”
