Ulfnar stumbled as he followed Marshal Olean to the Room of Whispers. The marshal set a quick pace, and Ulfnar was having trouble trying to keep up. It didn’t help that Lady Larella had dressed him in a long dressing gown, telling him that it was the fashion among Tambrynese nobility. Since the archduke was regularly seen in a dressing gown, she believed that everyone would be wearing them soon.

  Except they weren’t. In the parlor, he was regularly mocked for dressing like a woman. He tried to play it off like he was a trendsetter, always pointing out that the archduke dressed in a similar fashion.

  “The difference is that the archduke looks good in a dressing gown, whereas you…look like a woman,” Count Voff has said of it.

  But she insisted, and he had to make the appearances that he was excited about their courtship, even though he wasn’t. As he’d begun to learn more about her, he found, despite his reservations about the courtship, that he enjoyed her company.

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ Lina said.

  He agreed. Even though he was doing what Lady Tylenna wanted, he still felt like he was betraying her in some way. It wasn’t like he wanted to marry Larella, but he had exactly zero control over it. He had become a slave in everything but name.

  He tripped over another step chasing after Olean. The tight round staircase was not designed for the garment he was wearing. He didn’t know how women did it—their ability to glide effortlessly and gracefully while wearing dresses like this was astounding to him.

  ‘No need to hurry,’ Lina said. ‘He’s probably found out that Lady Tylenna is still alive and now he’s going to throw you out the window. Remember to go headfirst so you die faster.’

  “Shut up,” he muttered.

  He wasn’t worried about that. He’d slyly asked Larella whether the archduke had found Tylenna’s body yet, and she wasn’t aware either way. Considering she was his closest advisor; she would be the first to know.

  Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the archduke consulting with anyone else, so he wondered if she was his only advisor. That didn’t seem right. He had to have some sort of privy council, right? Ulfnar’s father had a bunch of advisors in his council—some who he absolutely despised. There was no way Rovaielle could rule a duchy as large as Tambryne was. It was nearly the size of Camulan!

  The archduke was seated at the table by the window today. A large glass of wine sat on the table beside a plate filled with fruit. He was gazing listlessly out the window, trying to avoid the curtain that seemed intent on whacking him in the face every time a breeze ran through. Ulfnar was surprised that he didn’t have a servant holding the curtain back.

  “Ulfnar of Camulan, Your Grandness!” the Lord Marshal shouted when they entered.

  The archduke spun around, startled, hand going reflexively to his sleeve. Ulfnar recognized that move—it was one he was still constantly doing. Rovaielle had a dagger hidden up there. Ulfnar made a mental note.

  Without even thinking about it, Ulfnar raised his hands up, showing the palm first and then the backside. Not that he needed to. His pale skin made it obvious that he wasn’t of the Spires.

  The archduke stood and returned the gesture.

  Lady Larella wasn’t here. No one was. That was very unusual. In every audience he’d had with the archduke, it had always been in the presence of his betrothed. He wondered why she was absent this time. Was she not invited, or was she just late?

  “Well, met, Ulfnar,” the archduke said. “Your gown is stunning on you. Very manly.”

  Ulfnar wasn’t sure if that was a backhanded compliment or a true one. He could feel his face turning red and tried to shove down the feelings of embarrassment that were creeping into his emotions.

  Without anything else to say, all he said was, “Yours as well, Your Grandness.”

  The archduke gestured to the seat beside him. Ulfnar hurried over, doing his best to not trip in the gown. The last thing he needed was to accidentally stumble this close to the window and throw himself to his doom.

  ‘All your problems would be over,’ Lina commented. No, they wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t be able to do anything about them anymore.

  Rovaielle pushed a cup towards Ulfnar. He took it and drank deeply. A warm sensation followed the wine down his throat and into his stomach. It was mulled wine that had been kept warm. An excellent thing to have on such a cold day. One made even colder in the dress he was wearing.

  “Lovely view,” Ulfnar said. He could feel Lina’s eyes peering down the balcony, wondering how fast you’d have to jump to make it over the railings. He ignored the unnerving sensation.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I come up here often and wonder about the lives of those down below. Whether they love me or not.”

  “I am sure they do, Grandness.”

  The archduke shrugged. “Perhaps. It was not so when I first put on the ring. I was unpopular and there were many riots.” He paused, twisting the ring on his finger. “But that was many years ago, and the rioters were punished harshly.”

  Ulfnar wondered what happened when the archduke first came to power. He knew from Larella’s vague descriptions that there was some sort of fight for control of Tambryne. The loser—the woman who Lady Tylenna referred to as her queen—was either killed or exiled, and her name was forbidden to be spoken.

  What had actually happened? No one knew. Or, if they knew, they didn’t dare to talk about it aloud. Even Tylenna was hesitant, even when they were miles away from the capital city.

  “But my past must be a great bore to you. We are far from the excitement of Teorton.”

  “On the contrary, Grandness,” he said. “I find Tambrynese history fascinating.”

  He didn’t, really. He could care less about the history of Tambryne. He just needed to play up to the archduke’s ego. The stories of Rovaielle’s temper were things of legend, and all the nobles lived in fear of him. Not that they would admit to it publicly, of course. But the way they gossiped about the servant strangled with the archduke’s bare hands, or the previous Earl of Ableton who was gutted like a fish in this very room indicated that they were all very, very, afraid of him.

  “Of course you do,” the archduke said, smiling. He clearly didn’t believe a word of it. Strange—Ulfnar thought he was a good liar.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The archduke took a long drink from his cup and then waved it in the air. A servant scurried out from some side door that Ulfnar had, as of yet, not noticed. The servant refilled both of their cups, despite the fact that Ulfnar still hadn’t finished his.

  “I have decided to approve your request to wed Lady Larella,” Rovaielle said after a few moments. “It is an excellent match that will benefit both our nations.”

  ‘When did we ask permission to marry?’ Lina asked.

  They hadn’t. This was just the archduke’s way of saying that he’d decided that they were both going to be wed. Ulfnar found himself breathing a sigh of relief. If Rovaielle was still comfortable with the idea of the wedding, that meant that he didn’t suspect Lady Tylenna was still alive somewhere.

  “Thank you, Your Grandness,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s a bit of a wrinkle that I hadn’t thought about until recently.”

  This was his last-ditch effort to stop the wedding. He’d decided that he was fine with the courtship rituals and the attempts to get closer to Lady Larella, but a wedding seemed so permanent. He felt like once the wedding was complete that he would lose any chance between him and Lady Tylenna. He couldn’t exactly take her as a mistress once Larella was his wife.

  “What is that?” a hint of anger sounded in the archduke’s voice that sent shivers down Ulfnar’s spine.

  Ulfnar took a few quick breaths to try to calm his nerves. He looked nervously at the window and tried not to think of how far down it was to the bottom.

  Here goes nothing.

  “I am a prince of Camulan, Your Grandness. By rights I am second in line to the throne, behind my brother Wolfryn. By law and custom, I can’t get married without my brother’s permission.”

  That was all true, although it was a stretch to say he was in line for the throne. After his father had decreed away his suffix, he was technically outside the line of succession. But, of course, if Alfyn and Wolfryn were both killed, he would have a strong claim to the throne, suffix or not.

  “I see,” the archduke said curtly.

  Ulfnar braced for his reaction. Would he be thrown out of the window? He suddenly wished he could fly. He couldn’t, of course, so he would have to remember to take Lina’s advice and go headfirst.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grandness.”

  The archduke smiled. “That is no bother at all,” he said, taking another long drink of his wine. “I will just send a messenger to your brother and ask his permission for you!”

  “What?”

  ‘What have you done?’ Lina asked. ‘You know how unstable Alfyn is. If he finds out you’re here, it’s not just the archduke you’ll have to worry about. Anyone might be coming for your neck.’

  “It is no bother, truly. I’ve been meaning to send my congratulations to the new king anyway. Your father and I were on agreeable terms. I am sure your brother’s permission will come with gratitude.”

  This couldn’t be happening. Ulfnar unconsciously rubbed his neck, and felt a stabbing pain in his back where he imagined an assassin’s knife would be plunged.

  “In fact, I will invite him to the wedding! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see your brother again?”

  ‘Uh, no.’ He could feel Lina shuddering.

  Of all the people in the world, his brother was the last one he wanted to see again. Especially with Ulfnar an unwilling guest and groom. Alfyn had always said that Ulfnar’s impulsiveness would be the death of him, and now it that sounded like it was going to come to pass.

  “That will be wonderful,” he heard himself saying. His head was spinning. How was he going to get out of this one? He couldn’t escape, the bracelet made that impossible. The only thing he could hope is that the archduke and Lady Larella would protect him from his brother’s assassins.

  ***

  Alfyn had continued the weekly family dinner tradition that their father had started, and Filliya hated it. She’d hated it when their father was still alive, and she hated it now. It was fun when she was little, and the king was invincible, and her family all loved each other.

  Well, except for Alfyn. She wasn’t sure if he’d ever loved anyone.

  The room was as extravagant and opulent as it had always been. The frigid wind blowing in from the balcony made her shiver. It had rained the last few nights, making it even colder. At least it hadn’t started snowing yet.

  Alfyn had the servants bring in a massive brazier that they’d lit a blazing fire in. It was still cold, despite the heat. Not just from the weather. They’d gone through two courses already and no one had spoken.

  There weren’t many of them left anymore, so there wasn’t much to say. Wolfryn was dead, Aeolwyn and their mother were off at Fort Camulan, and Ulfnar…well, only Laryn knew where he was. Of all the missing family members, she missed him the most. He was the only one who showed kindness to her and understood how uncomfortable people made her. He never forced her to talk, and always defended her when everyone else tried to ‘pull her out of her shell.’ She wasn’t in a shell. She just couldn’t handle the pressure when people tried to force her to participate.

  Not that she wanted to be excluded. She valued her time with other people. She would just rather sit back in the corner and watch and listen. Ulfnar understood that. She thought he was the only one that had ever really loved her.

  And he’d left her. Right after Aeolwyn got caught in the Star Children’s hide out. Ulfnar got blamed for convincing him to go, and their father had put him under house arrest. His roving spirit wouldn’t be denied, and he fled. She just wished he would have taken her with him.

  This room was lonely now. So many empty chairs. It was just her, Davinya and Alfyn. They could have all had dinner in Alfyn’s room. Why drag them into this haunted dining room with all of its ghosts? More punishment, she supposed. Now that he’d failed in killing her, he had to come up with new ways to torment her.

  Like this whole marriage thing. Davinya claimed that it was for her own good, that she would be protected from Alfyn’s evil desires, but she thought Davinya was relishing the chance to hurt her by forcing her to go through with it. She was certain that they were going to add insult to injury and marry her off to that disgusting old man from Fennland.

  She didn’t know what happened to Davinya. She used to be so pleasant and joyful, but now acted like a mean old crone. Ever since her father died and Alfyn took the crown. Her and her brother had suddenly become inseparable. Davinya had always told Filliya that she found Alfyn revolting. But now she doted on him like a mewling courtesan.

  What had happened to her? Had Alfyn or his new wizard gotten to her in some way?

  “I have wonderful news for you, Filliya,” Alfyn finally said, just as they’d finished the main course and were waiting for the dessert to come.

  “Am I going to be taken out to the courtyard and beheaded?” she asked. She almost hoped so. It would be preferable to having to sit here and pretend to like the man who had tried to poison her.

  Alfyn laughed as though she had made a great joke. She hadn’t. Not that she honestly wanted to die—but after the poisoning and death of Wolfryn, she was expecting it, and the waiting was the hardest part.

  “No, dear sister, no. Davinya and I have been weighing the pros and cons of each and have finally chosen a suitor. You are going to be married! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  She choked and almost threw up a little. How would it be wonderful? The only person she’d felt any inkling of attraction to was Prince Rottrem. He reminded her of Ulfnar in many ways. They’d spent some hours on the veranda, with him holding her. She liked it. She felt safe.

  And that meant that he was out of the running entirely. He was the only one who might make her happy—but her happiness was irrelevant. This was only to benefit Alfyn. He would pick whoever gave him the most money, and that gross old man from Fennland was wealthy.

  “Who am I destined to be miserable with for the rest of my life?” She asked.

  “Don’t be like that Filliya,” Davinya chastised. The woman was insufferable now. This whole charade was her idea, to supposedly protect her from Alfyn, but Filliya knew better. This was one giant ruse to make her miserable. Since the poison hadn’t worked, they’d had to think of other ways.

  “I don’t know about that,” Alfyn said. “You seemed to enjoy his company so much. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should choose someone else.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Prince Rottrem,” Davinya said. “The only one who you didn’t outrank.”

  Her heart leaped into her chest. While, from Rottrem’s description, Fortru didn’t sound like the most pleasant place to live, but she thought he understood her like no one since Ulfnar. This had to be a joke. They were going to attempt to lure her into some happiness before ripping it once more out of her hands. They wanted to raise her up, just so she’d fall from a greater height.

  “He really was the only choice,” Alfyn said. “A Fortruvian alliance really makes the best sense. Having an ally on the elves’ northern border will be invaluable. And to be able to call on their army when we need aid? They are exceptional warriors. Your sacrifice means our kingdom will be secure for generations.”

  They were serious? She wasn’t going to get married off to the disgusting Fenn? She couldn’t believe it! Unless they were playing a longer trick on her. That had to be it. They were going to keep the prank going up until it was time to leave, and then pull a switch on her. When she entered the carriage, instead of her Fortruvian prince, it’d be a crusty, lecherous old man.

  And there was nothing she could do about it.