Amarande punched out a breath and checked Mira’s haunches, searching for any injury from their ordeal. But the horse seemed untouched. No nicks, cuts, or slashes, no welts or sure-to-be-bruises. The princess patted the filly’s back and sighed.
“So that was battle,” she said to the horse, resetting the straps of her saddle that had loosened in the ordeal. “Not quite as we’d practiced.”
Which was true—Amarande had never lost her sword in sparring.
She hadn’t been smashed in the hand either.
She also hadn’t ever felt vulnerable like that before. Not in practice. Not in voicing her demands in front of all those people at her father’s funeral. Not ever.
Worse than that, though, was something else: In practice, with a dull sword, she’d never once hesitated to deal a killing blow.
But here, with her life in danger—with Luca’s life in danger—she couldn’t manage it.
Amarande had looked that man in his eyes, his life in her hands, and she couldn’t do it. Even with all he wished to do to her.
The princess’s heart skidded with the truth of what could’ve happened—what could still happen. She took a deep breath. Whatever the unknown threats out here, the present one was clear: Someone had seen her.
These men had her description, Mira’s description, and her saddlebags in hand, which they could likely trace to the Itspi. Plus, that man she didn’t kill knew exactly who she was looking for because she’d told him.
Amarande had survived her first battle with her life, yes. But she’d lost much more than water, food, and time.
CHAPTER
14
THE contract proclaiming Princess Amarande’s union with Prince Renard sat on the polished table inside the council room in the Itspi’s north tower. Outside, the grounds of the castle were blinding white with late-morning light.
But inside, the mood was edged in coming dark.
And the prince thought he knew why.
The parties from Myrcell and Basilica had moved out earlier, the news of the signed contract an invitation to exit. A chance to go home, regroup, and decide if they really wanted to try their men on General Koldo, who Renard understood had left for the southern borders immediately after the funeral.
Renard had wasted no time in informing his competition of his victory for the princess’s hand. It was that confidence that held him up, casting him in the brightest light from the open window, as he stood before the council, each member’s shoulders sloping, grave.
He’d taken on Princess Amarande last night, and for all they knew, he’d won. And now he was before her council, verifying his prize.
His throne.
Her throne.
And his mother watched it all, sputtering in her stays as she pretended to be pleased.
Councilor Satordi looked up from the final words of the agreement, dark eyes falling heavily on Renard. The prince stood tall under the weight of them, shoulders straight and back, one hand cuffing the opposite wrist, his emerald-tipped sword resting silent at his hip. His younger brother, Prince Taillefer, was planted to his right; his fleet of guards was lined up at his back, Itspi castle guards fanned out in front on either side of the council table.
Dowager Queen Inés sat regally behind—she would not stand for a meeting such as this. The princess was not in attendance, but Renard did not expect her—she’d been absent from every meeting he’d had with the council thus far on the subject. Even after her impassioned plea literally over her father’s dead body, he did not expect the council to invite her unpredictable energy into a discussion such as this.
“Your Highness, she signed this? Last night?” Satordi prodded, and though Renard worked not to show it, he was disappointed in the man’s arched eyebrow and sardonic tone. Taillefer had perfectly copied her signature from the letter she’d sent following the death of their father. The signature had years between now and then, but the prince doubted Satordi or any of the council would have something more recent to compare it to. Among the network of Sand and Sky royalty, the princess was known for her love of being outside, playing in the yard, not for sitting inside, scribbling on parchment.
Renard bowed slightly for emphasis. “During our lovely dinner.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Councilor.”
Renard tried not to peer at the other councilors—an old woman and a young man, both swaddled in their robes, silent—for a sense of why this line of questioning was occurring.
After dinner, it had felt like the right gamble—to appear a winner at the feet of Ardenia’s council before the princess could call his bluff—but now? Stupid. Would Satordi and the others truly believe the Warrior King’s daughter would sign a contract without loudly demanded amendments and a notary on-site? They might want to keep her energy out, but could they?
Still: He was the most natural suitor. Similar age; her nearest neighbor; as handsome as she was beautiful. And despite what the princess had spat at him last night, he knew from earlier meetings that these councilors did not object to any of the provisions in his contract.
The lead councilor’s eyebrow arched impossibly higher. “And you haven’t seen her since your lovely dinner?”
A whisper of uncertainty crawled up Renard’s neck.
What did Satordi know about last night? Renard was unsure of the correct answer here. Did no admit that perhaps Amarande wasn’t enamored with him? Did yes mean he was being improper?
So, instead of uttering either the truth or a lie, he simply looked each councilor in the eye and carefully asked, “Where is the princess?”
It was a simple question, but no one—not Satordi nor any other member of the council—answered it immediately.
As the silence stretched, that cold uncertainty blew the length of Renard’s spine.
After far too long, Satordi spoke. “We are unsure. The castle staff has not seen the princess since the maids dressed her for dinner … with you.”
“What do you mean, you haven’t seen her?” Renard grasped hard to his internal script, his stomach plummeting into his well-shined boots. “She left our meal in great spirits.”
“Regardless of what actually happened at this dinner,” Satordi said, each word as distinct as a footfall, “the princess is missing.”
“Missing?” The word felt fat on Renard’s lips. Behind him, he was sure he heard a crack of wood settling as his mother shifted in her tiger’s-head chair to get a better view.
“Yes. Missing.”
“There must be some mistake.” Panic was rising in Renard’s voice, and he fought with every inch inside him to keep it down where it couldn’t be seen. “She would not disappear after the night we had.”
“No mistake. The night maids never saw her. The morning maids met unused sheets. And her horse is gone from the stable.”
As that news settled over the crowd, Renard knew what they were all thinking: another Runaway Queen, this one a queen-to-be. Maybe Amarande was more like her mother than anyone knew. Or maybe they suspected he knew something about her disappearance. He’d suddenly made himself a suspect.
Renard began to sweat. Possible responses swirled around his mind—a weak defense, an excuse, a threat. This was not good.