heir to the Garimoran throne.
And where was the other man, the one King Soren had warned her about?
Evaraine’s father had attended Leisa’s “education” only once, appearing without warning while she was attempting to decipher the mysteries of the gavotte, a terrifying dance she could only pray she would not be called upon to perform.
He’d pulled her aside, looked at her with those piercing gray eyes, and handed her a tiny mirror.
She’d flinched, but he wrapped her fingers around it anyway.
“Only in an emergency, Leisa. Should your life be threatened.”
“I thought you said no one questions a princess,” she’d muttered back, wanting to drop the wretched mirror in the nearest hole and never look at it again. “Who do you expect to threaten my life?”
“There is a threat to your ruse perhaps even greater than any member of the royal court,” he said unexpectedly, looking somewhere over Leisa’s left shoulder—as if he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “He is almost always within earshot of King Melger, and they call him the King’s Raven. The royal bodyguard. He does not speak, and seems to exist only to do the king’s bidding. It is possible,” Soren admitted heavily, “that he is not a man at all beneath his mask and armor. But whatever he is, there are those who believe him to be the instrument of the king’s will in all matters regarding mages in Garimore.”
The king’s executioner was what Soren meant. The one who hunted and killed mages at the king’s command.
A pang of fear shot through Leisa as she recalled those words, and she nearly stumbled. But Zander held her up, and as they continued to climb the steps of the royal palace, she tried to surreptitiously scan the area for a dark, sinister figure. None, however, seemed in evidence, and all thoughts of ravens were soon driven out by a deeper panic as she suddenly remembered that she had only a dozen or so steps remaining before she would have to curtsy to the king.
Which curtsy was it?
Number thirty-two? No, that was for being presented to visiting royalty in her own court. Forty-one? No, not that one either. That one was only for formal state presentations, which she didn’t think this was, exactly.
Eleven. It was curtsy number eleven, which was generally appropriate for all introductions to reigning monarchs. Number ten was for royalty of equal rank, which would apply to Prince Vaniell. If he bothered to show up.
What did it mean that neither he nor his brother was present? What did it mean that the king’s personal guards also seemed to be missing? Did it signify that Farhall was a valued ally, trusted enough that guards were considered unnecessary? Or that they were too small and pathetic to be deemed a threat?
Sadly, it wasn’t as though there were any way to tell what they thought of her before introductions were made. So, with only the tiniest betraying wobble, Leisa removed her hand from Zander’s arm, ascended the last few steps, and sank into curtsy number eleven, nearly but not quite touching the ground with her left knee, and crossing her arms to touch each shoulder with the fingers of the opposite hand.
Balance. Balance was imperative. She had to make a suitably dignified yet reserved impression. Chin tucked just so, slightly to the left. The curtsy was to last for a count of five, and she was already on three when a quick puff of wind danced across the portico, carrying a few stray leaves and a tiny cloud of dust. It ruffled the queen’s skirts and disturbed the king’s robes only briefly before whisking right past Leisa’s carefully lowered face.
She sneezed. Not a tiny muffled sound easily concealed by a lace handkerchief, but a loud, explosive sneeze that knocked her right off her toes and into an undignified heap of skirts and petticoats and embarrassment.
She heard a collective gasp from the guards and ladies in her train, but was too busy trying to right herself to reassure them. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to find her own feet, but the accursed dress had so many layers… Fortunately, a hand appeared in front of her face for the second time.
But not Zander’s gloved one. This hand was alabaster-pale and covered in rings.
“Oh my dear, do let me help you.” The voice was warm, motherly, and somehow still slightly condescending, but this wasn’t a moment for rejecting an unexpected gift. Leisa took the queen’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled