she not nearly tripped over one of her five hundred flounces. Dratted court fashion.
“Is that her, Niell?”
The voice was deep, formal, and almost angry.
Leisa peered around the column to see Vaniell standing in front of a taller, broader, dark-haired man who was, now that she was standing near enough to tell, very obviously his brother.
Prince Danric. A close-cut dark beard hugged his stern, sun-browned jaw while fire lurked in his dark eyes. His clothing was designed along equally stern lines, without any visible embellishment, and Leisa gained the impression that he might have dedicated every breath, every thought, to being his brother’s exact opposite.
Except Prince Danric was the elder and his father’s heir. So perhaps it was Vaniell who had no desire to reflect his brother in any way?
The smile lurking on the younger prince’s lips offered a hint that this might be the case.
“Why, hello, brother.” He offered no other acknowledgment of their relationship or relative station. “And yes, the woman I escorted is my prospective bride, Her Highness, Princess Evaraine of Farhall.” He glanced around, and Leisa ducked hastily back behind the column, curious to hear the remainder of their exchange.
Perhaps Prince Danric was less concerned with his clothes and might be able to appreciate his brother’s future wife for the quality of her character, rather than the appearance of her wardrobe.
“Could they have made a worse choice if they tried?”
Well, it seemed that would be a no. Perhaps bluntness was an admired cultural trait in Garimore.
“And don’t try to claim you think otherwise,” Danric went on relentlessly. “She’s obviously shy, bland, and hasn’t a scrap of backbone. You’ll exhaust and humiliate her, and the court will eat her alive.”
Odd. In his blunt, uncompromising way, the older prince actually seemed concerned about Evaraine’s feelings.
“And what, dear brother,” Vaniell replied mockingly, “has compatibility or comfort ever had to do with a royal marriage?”
“Don’t pretend you’re ready to fall on your sword for the kingdom,” Danric growled back. “You’ve been avoiding sacrificing anything for Garimore since you could walk.”
“If you’re so eager to make sacrifices, why don’t you marry her?” There was venom in Vaniell’s tone.
Silence greeted that sally, so Leisa peered around the column again.
“Ah, that’s right,” the younger prince continued. “Because Father has bigger plans for you. He wants Farhall, but not enough to offer up his pride and joy on the altar of unequal matrimony.”
Danric’s jaw seemed to clench at his brother’s jab. “I hope you haven’t spoken of this to Evaraine.”
“Do you suppose she doesn’t already know?” Vaniell mocked. “I doubt a princess ever gains her majority without calculating her worth, even in a kingdom as small and relatively pointless as Farhall.”
Danric’s reply was caustic. “What gives you the right to speak of worth?” he said, sneering. “What have you ever done to justify your existence?”
“Why, agreed to shackle myself to a princess without beauty or wit,” Vaniell said smoothly. “Can you say the same, brother?”
The words stabbed, even though they weren’t truly aimed at her. But Leisa still needed to hear the remainder of their conversation, so she remained focused. She was so intent on the princes’ words, she almost missed the creeping feeling of dread that began by drying out her mouth and forming an ache in the pit of her stomach.
It felt like magic—a dark, angry swell of power—and as she pulled her awareness back into herself, Leisa could feel the pressure of a focused regard that left her hands shaking and her knees weak. Just like it had earlier that same day.
She knew who it was without turning and without seeing, just as she could feel the heat of the sun with her eyes closed.
But turn she did, and there he was—the Raven. His massive sword rested in a scabbard across his back, but that did nothing to diminish his aura of menace.
Leisa had always hated being frightened or feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it reminded her too much of the days after her parents disappeared, when she was helpless and friendless, too young to know what was happening or what to do next.
Her way of dealing with those fears had always been to attack. When she was younger, she’d fought like a tiny, snarling berserker until the king’s guards had taken her in hand and taught her tactics. Patience. Fighting skills that could keep her from being killed by the instincts that told her to rush in and destroy the fear before it destroyed her.
But now, this ruse in which she’d been forced