Each time it made Amarande smile. This boy who would be king, so afraid of a mere look from a commoner. Power was relative, and Luca had a kind Renard never would.
One final switchback and the seat of the Pyrenee rose before them, its doors yawning open, aubergine-clad guards in motion on the ground and from the walls above. The Bellringe was carved from quartz-pocked rock, which meant its spiraling towers and dramatic turrets glimmered like diamonds in the high summer sun.
They’d been moving since just after sunup, eight straight hours into the heart of Pyrenee. Now it was past noon and Amarande laid eyes on the castle for the first time in four years. She’d last visited after King Louis-David’s death, making the same sort of procession that had just taken place in Ardenia less than a week ago. Then the Bellringe had seemed a dreamlike place—glittering and bright, as if the stars themselves were born in the walls before flying into the skies above. To a twelve-year-old girl, alone while the princes mourned, the secrets and corners of this place seemed celestial, wrapped in clouds and starlight, even under the pall of funeral rituals.
Now, rather than stars, the palace seemed to be carved of ice—cold, suffocating, an end.
As the road widened into a yard running an apron up to the castle, Renard took the lead. He trotted ahead, chin up, a look of triumph stretched upon his face. He’d made it a point to scrub himself clean and change his clothes before they left camp that morning, hoping to look every bit the definition of the new king he would be by day’s end.
He was right—his mother and her ambitions were waiting for him, looking down from the ramparts, over the parapet, surrounded by her advisors. Dowager Queen Inés and her honeybees swung into motion as soon as it was sure that the group approaching was indeed her two sons and the princess they’d promised to find.
Renard slowed enough so that Princess Amarande could come up alongside him for a grand entrance. The prince leaned over to the princess, smiling as if they really were lovers sharing a secret. He kept his face forward, speaking to her sideways, so that she was left looking at his profile.
“Now remember, Princess, I saved you from the stableboy and you cannot wait to marry me. Any murmur of dissent from you and your stableboy’s life grows more difficult.”
She wanted to rip his ear off and swallow it whole.
“The difficulty won’t be his; it will be yours. Harm him and I will kill you. I don’t care about the show you want to make for your mother, he will not feel an ounce of pain without you feeling it ten times over in kind.”
Renard met her with a look fleeting and cold.
“Smile, Princess,” was all he said.
Amarande did as she was told, only until the prince faced away. Then she allowed her features to settle back into blankness. It wasn’t necessary to put on a ruse for these people. Not a single person cared if she was happy. All they cared about was what transpired. Inés’s ambitions would not lessen with a smile from her son’s bride.
The party rode into the castle’s central courtyard, the guards and castle workers flooding the space to greet the party. As expected, the Dowager Queen and her group made their way down from the battlements and into the yard in a flood that parted the sea of onlookers like water. Surrounding her were clear members of her council. Their rich purple robes and stoic expressions were a dead giveaway that they spent their days in drafty rooms advising on matters of life and death.
Renard made it a point to speak before his mother got the chance to find the right words, preempting her with his perfect smile and a projected voice. “Loyal subjects of the Bellringe, I have returned with Princess Amarande of Ardenia. Rejoice, for we will have a wedding tonight!”
The castle workers and onlookers exploded into a flurry of applause and motion, while the Dowager Queen and the Royal Council stood stock-still in the center of it all, practiced smiles stiff on their faces. But Inés’s eyes rounded just enough for Amarande to know she was stunned. Maybe Renard had told the truth when he’d laid out his mother’s plans and he’d finally surprised her with a move that she couldn’t easily overcome.
A thread of unease shot through Amarande’s stomach as the Dowager Queen approached her son’s horse—suddenly she realized that until the vows tonight, she was the biggest threat to this woman’s ambitions. The moment they were married, Inés would have no way of gaining the throne of Pyrenee, no matter whom she coerced into wedlock. She’d simply be relegated to being the Queen Mother. Something to be trotted out for a smile and wave at all official occasions.
Renard dismounted and took his mother’s hand. The Dowager Queen leaned in, and when their embrace ended, her eyes danced around the party before settling on her son’s face.
“Tonight? I know you’re thrilled to have your beloved back safe and sound, but such a wedding simply isn’t possible. These affairs take months of planning to be grand enough for such a magnificent occasion.” The woman gave a musical laugh, turning as if to say, Oh, how silly, to the councilmen surrounding her.
Renard didn’t blink.
“Mother, I don’t want grand. I want a wedding. The star-born priest, vows, and the keys to my kingdom.”
Inés caught eyes with Amarande, searching for help in this madness, but the princess gave her nothing. Like Amarande was to be, Inés had been a bride at sixteen, and though the Dowager Queen’s face was still youthful, the worry that slipped across her features now aged her a decade.
The Dowager Queen continued. “That isn’t how this works, Renard. There is no envoy from Ardenia. My own wedding took nearly a year to plan, and the dress alone took six months—”
“The wedding is tonight, Mother. Be in attendance or wait a year for the perfect dress, but it will happen.” Renard turned to a white-haired member of the council, whose own jaw was hanging as low as the Dowager Queen’s. “Laurent, prepare the service.”
Inés said no more, only turning with her advisors and disappearing, preparing for her next move.
CHAPTER
43
ONCE his mother’s footsteps echoed up the stairs, onto the ramparts, and into the belly of the castle interior, Renard wasted no time in organizing his countereffort.
“Princess, come along. We shall get you bathed and fitted—if it was truly made with such care, my mother’s vintage wedding gown will surely do with a few adjustments. Though I daresay you’re quite a bit shorter and less voluptuous than Mother was on her wedding day.” His eyes settled on her chest in a way that made her want to gouge them out with only her thumbnails and fury. He shrugged. “Only she will mourn the seamstress scraps. Follow me.”
Renard turned for a set of stairs mirroring the ones Dowager Queen Inés had just taken. Parallel lives leading up to the wedding and coronation in every way.
In answer, the princess drew Luca’s bound hands into hers before moving an inch.
Renard swatted in their general direction, annoyance flickering across his features. “No, no, you and myself only, Princess. This is where you leave your stableboy.”
Amarande dug in her boot heels. “No.”
The people around them shifted as the atmosphere in the courtyard changed, charged. The open air seemed to press down upon them rather than reaching for the heavens. Renard’s eyes shot to his brother as if to get some sort of clue as to how to sway a woman. Taillefer simply shrugged and, always lightning quick to find humor, smiled. “Plants do my bidding, Renard, not women. I don’t know how to make her listen.”