heinous idea into my father’s head? “At least until after the wedding. What you do once you’re married is entirely up to you.”
I opened my mouth to ask if this was some practical joke, but only trapped air puffed out. I looked around the circle of men. My gaze lingered on Remo, who was positively gloating, before sliding back to Iba. The tightness between his eyes tempered my anger but in no way my docility.
“Nowadays, most people get engaged at thirty,” I said. “I don’t see why I need to rush into this.”
Gregor looked down his hooked nose at me. “Stability appeases people.”
Iba sighed, then rubbed his jaw, smooth from a fresh shave. “It would be a political match to reassure the people, Amara. As the future queen, you need to understand that politics will always play a role in your life.” His hand arced back toward his black tunic hemmed in gold thread. “Besides, this is an engagement, amoo, not a marriage.”
I understood what he was saying; I’d heard the story of how my parents ended up being married a thousand times. “So, I won’t have to marry whoever it is you want me to get engaged to?”
He didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure how to interpret his silence.
“Who’s the unlucky candidate?” I deadpanned, which made Gregor guffaw.
He tried to school his cheery features into his usual imperious mask, but his smile wouldn’t flatten. “You inherited your mother’s humor.”
“I also inherited her poisonous blood.” I directed my taunt at Remo, who didn’t even have the decency to flinch. What had I expected? That he’d suddenly grow a conscience and apologize for the rumors he’d spread when I was thirteen? “So, who?”
Gregor slid his arm around Remo’s shoulders. “My grandson.”
The ice inside my body expanded. “No way.” I shook my head and stepped back. “Absolutely not. Anyone but him.”
Remo raised twitchy fingers to his remarkably pale forehead, thrusting his amber bangs aside. Good. At least he’d been blindsided too. For some reason, that reassured me. Not much. But enough not to declare wita warfare.
Outside the great tree, thunder cracked.
Iba strode toward me and laid a palm on my shoulder. “Amara, please calm down. I’d like to avoid Neverra getting pummeled by a hurricane tonight.”
“I’ll get engaged, just not to him.” I was shaking as hard as every leaf on the calimbor.
Iba angled himself so that his back was to the three others. In a voice that barely carried over the rolls of thunder, he said, “Please, amoo. I need you to do this for me. Please.” Then, lowering his voice even further, he added, “I promise you won’t have to marry him.”
Tears of indignation stung my eyes. “It’s not fair.”
“Unfortunately, you can’t rule a kingdom with your heart; you must rule it with your mind.”
“You married the love of your life.”
Iba dropped his mouth to my ear. “And you will too one day. This is an alliance. Nothing more.” He pressed a lock of hair behind my ear as he pulled up to his full height, then gripped the back of my head and kissed my forehead, imprinting his apology on my skin.
Ugh. Remo Farrow. Out of the thousands of Neverrians, why did I have to braid my essence in the Cauldron with my wickedest enemy?
“Maybe he has a girlfriend?” I shot out, snatching at one last shred of hope.
“He has many,” Gregor said. “Had many. He’ll convene them all tonight and end things.”
Many? I wrinkled my nose. What girl in her right mind would voluntarily date the arrogant bagwa?
Remo’s face pinkened. Since I hadn’t called him the Gottwa word for jackass out loud, I assumed his high color was due to disgruntlement.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll behave appropriately during our engagement.”
Lucky. Me.
3
The Preparations
Although the downpour had thinned, my discontentment hadn’t. As we flew back toward the royal gardens, raindrops plopping on our bodies and hissing off instantly, Iba apologized for forcing my hand. I didn’t say anything because guards were trailing us, and I didn’t want to give them fodder for gossip. Their barracks were surely filled with enough juicy court tales as it was.
The moment my boots made contact with the garden moored to the Pink Sea by hundreds of anchors, our guards scattered to the different lookout points of the maritime castle. Only two hovered over our heads, high over our heads. High enough to afford us privacy.
My father’s undereye circles marred his tanned skin, somehow making his eyes appear darker, as though his fatigue had leaked into