Hello, everyone! This is a rewrite of chapter three, but I would recommend that you read it, as some crucial plot points are explained here. I know I haven't updated in a while, but I wanted to make it perfect! Thanks for your patience.
Chapter Three
Ariana
I stood outside the door to the banquet hall, my shaking palm on the carved wood. The King Braxton had arrived around noon, riding on a sleek black horse and accompanied by his chief advisor. The only glimpse of my future husband was the one that I had caught from my tower as he strode up to the palace doors, and though I was not afraid of him, I was still anxious. "Mother," I whispered suddenly as she came up behind me, "will I like him?"
"Of course you will," came the brusque, and, rather expected, answer. Even if I didn't, I knew that there was nothing I could do about it now. I glanced around for Marielle, but she was already gone – seated, probably, at the table for the engagement feast we were to give. My parents and I were supposed to enter through the enormous double doors of the hall and sweep down the grand marble staircase, showcasing ourselves as first-class royals… though I had to admit that I wasn't nearly as thrilled about that idea as my mother was. She got a kick out of feeling like she was better than the others. For me, showing off had started to lose its appeal when I figured out that people liked me less, not more, if I bragged about my title – at four years of age.
I came back to the here and now as the trumpets began to sound. I bit my lip and removed my hand from the door as I gave myself a mental shake. I was a princess; taught by the finest tutors, given the best education in all of Marquia. I was not going to let a silly public
appearance rattle my composure. As I frequently did, I pictured myself as a traveling player, putting on an act for the world to see. To my subjects, I was not Ari, but Her Royal Highness the Princess Ariana, and I would have to act like it. I used the trick my old nurse had taught me to calm myself – count to ten as you walk, and keep your mind focused on the numbers.
"Time to enter, Ariana, dear," Father whispered as two of the guards opened the door. Beaming jovially, he stepped into the enormous room, holding my mother's arm. She smiled and nodded at the crowd, and I could just see the gossip about whichever unfortunate lady happened to catch her eye circulating in her brain. I came last, my pale blue gown trailing on the floor behind me, and my ridiculous hair not far behind. One. I kept my eyes trained on the tapestry of the unicorn on the wall above the high table, trying not to look at the faces of the courtiers. Two.
Our banquet hall is made of stone, as is typical, I suppose, but with several brightly colored tapestries and paintings adorning the walls so that it seems less stern. The floor is stone as well, an embroidered rug underneath the high table. My father's hounds often wait underneath the tables for scraps, but there was no sign of them tonight – and (three) I assumed that the cooks had kept them in the kitchen so that they would not disturb the guests. Four. The aforementioned guests were seated by rank, with the nobles closest to the high table, and the commoners sat near the back of the hall, looking excited and pleased to be invited to such a celebration. Honestly, I was a little surprised – not unpleasantly – that they'd actually been invited. Five.
Six. My right foot connected with the stone floor at the same time my eyes connected with those of my fiancé, and I involuntarily gave a shudder. Seven. Not because my shoe was so
uncomfortable that I could feel the smooth ground through the soles (though it was), but because those eyes were cold, distant. Eight. The same color as the churning gray clouds before a storm over the forest, they were green and purple and gray all at the same time, and carrying the same kind of repressed fury and power. Nine. There was no warmth in the king's face – and I knew in that instant that he would never love me. Ten.
Slowly, as though my legs had turned to iron, I made my way to the chair next to King Braxton's and sank into it, head down, eyes on the gold-rimmed plate before me. My father stood and began to drone about how pleased they were to make an alliance with Libonessen via my marriage, but I didn't hear him. Still shaken, I was furtively stealing glances at my future husband.
Stony-faced, his tanned skin still bore traces of dust from travel, and he stared not at my father, but straight ahead, just as I had done. His hands were strong, powerful, and he clenched and then relaxed them as I sat down. Braxton was neatly shaven, and his shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back like a true gentlemen's, but I could not shake the sinister feeling that there was something about him that just wasn't quite right.
"And now, let us begin our feast!" Father finished, sitting down firmly upon his chair. Next to Father, I noted as I glanced up, was Braxton's traveling companion and advisor – a quiet, middle-aged man dressed in black. I waited until he, Father and Mother had dipped their fingers in the bowl of water before I did, and sat back as the servants began to dish out the appetizers and the hall filled with idle chatter. I was being silly, I told myself, a silly little princess who knows nothing and jumps to conclusions about things she doesn't understand. Of course King
Braxton and I would be happy together. After all, my parents would never do anything that might hurt me.
Still, the fact that Braxton and I dined in silence did not escape me, and even as I found Marielle after the meal, the cold look in his eyes haunted my thoughts.
--
The coldness of my fi – of Braxton's eyes (I could not yet bring myself to say fiancé) kept me skittish and quiet throughout the next few weeks. Though my parents provided lavish entertainment, as Mother hoped to truly impress him, he had yet to even smile. He was somber throughout the performances of singers and actors, of storytellers and dancers – and as soon as the act was over, Braxton merely stated that it had been pleasant in his somber monotone. Mother took this as a challenge and began, ridiculously, to hold more and more extravagant festivities – balls were planned for our official engagement party, fairs for the citizens were arranged for the sake of the citizens. Still, the king remained cool and remote, though he did politely express his gratitude for our hospitality. He hardly spoke to me or my mother, or any woman for that matter, preferring to converse my father or one or two of the courtiers, and, of course, with his taciturn advisor Lord Griffyn.
His cold silence made me tense and edgy, and although we exchanged pleasantries, Braxton did not seem to be made for conversation. Though he spoke perfect Irentian, he often spoke only to Lord Griffyn in their language, a strange dialect in a different alphabet than our own. It had been my least favorite to learn, and even after four years of study I had not yet mastered it. Though the king did not typically speak it in front of me, I often noticed him standing with his advisor in an inconspicuous corner, speaking seriously in a hushed voice.
Clearly, he was not shy; however, it wasn't until the day the council met that I actually heard my fiancé speak more than three sentences.
The Marquian council was small – consisting of six noblemen and three commoners, as well as the king and his heir, it helped to, for the most part, keep a balance between our people. I had been considered a part of the council since I was thirteen, though this was more to do with tradition than respect for my intellect or political insight. Most of the time, I just sat in the back and tried not to fall asleep – the most common thing we discussed was peasants' land disputes with the Irentians, and, as fascinating as that is, I had better things to think about.
Four centuries ago, Marquia had seceded from its controlling mother country, Irenta, back when the former held several colonies between us and ignored our troubles with the indigenous people already living here. Our choice to secede resulted in a twenty-year, bloody civil war that ultimately guaranteed our freedom, but at a high cost: we had become the enemy of one of the most powerful nations in the world. As Irenta gained more land, and the gap between us narrowed, the fights broke out again. We made peace and became allies around one hundred and twenty years before hand, but it was during that period that the army became central to our government. Upon his twentieth birthday, every young man had (and still has) to serve two years in the military. It was whispered of us that our adventurous ancestors had become barbaric warriors; though we tell the schoolchildren only good things, our first kings (being brothers), were the most fearsome barbarians of all. I had heard it said that that same, hot-blooded ferocity flowed in the veins of the royal line even to that day. I felt that the statement was ridiculous; I'd never wished to harm anyone, though I could if I wanted to. When it became clear that Mother was not going to have any more children, I'd been trained to wield a sword, as well as learned several basic forms of martial arts. My nurse had pushed it, stating that she believed I needed to
be able to protect myself; father had sanctioned, stating that it made for a powerful queen; Mother had only sat back and sulked because she couldn't deny the request. Being only eight years old, I had thought nothing of the whole situation.
I filed these thoughts away as I entered my father's study, where the council members had already gathered. Each one got to their feet, with the exception of Marielle's father, Sir Ian. One of my father's closest friends, he knew me almost as well as my father did and, therefore, did not need to rise in my presence. The fact that he did not believe in such things did not matter to me. "Good afternoon," I greeted them, sweeping a quick curtsy before crossing the room. My father's study is filled with bookshelves, desks, and several comfortable armchairs – so you see my dilemma in struggling not to fall asleep. Still, the room is filled with light from several windows that all look out over our city. While not as reputable as some, our capital does carry the prestige of the castle, as well as the collection of wealthy merchants and nobles who live there. The marketplace was set up directly below one of the windows, and, whenever I could get away with it, I would sit on the sill and watch the tiny people down below me, busy with whatever was happening in their lives.
Today, however, was apparently not one of them. The council members looked rather perplexed, with the commoners chafing in their council-meeting finery and whispering to one another. Apparently, I was able to decipher from the whispers, my fiancé had called the meeting to state a proposal. What it was, however, I had no idea, though I was sure that whatever Braxton's plan was, it was either incredibly dull or pertaining to my dowry. Still, I wondered what, exactly, he was going to say as I settled into my chair.
I sat for a moment before Father, King Braxton, and Lord Griffyn entered, one after the other, at which I hastily rose to my feet, curtsying as the rest of the council bowed ceremoniously. The council was not usually so formal; I supposed they wanted Braxton to understand the sense of propriety embodied here in Marquia.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," my father greeted everyone, settling behind his desk. "Is everyone present?"
"Yes, sire," Sir Ian, the council secretary, nodded, taking a quick glance around the room, his eyes halting momentarily on Braxton. "The date is the twenty-first of June, in the year…" as Sir Ian continued with the formalities, I was watching my fiancé as he stared at the sheaf of papers in his hands. He wasn't nervous – the papers weren't shaking, at any rate – but something was different around him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself suddenly: strong, and with a confidence that bordered on cockiness. It was odd to see him this way, though I felt a sudden burst of hope that he would speak and behave in the same manner once we were married; I had been worried about how I would bear a husband who never spoke to me. Distantly, I heard Sir Ian state my name; "Present," I answered absently, caught up in the ecstasy of that one little hope.
"Then, we are all officially here. Your highness, you may begin when you feel ready." Sir Ian nodded at Braxton, who, giving a brief nod, went to stand before the semicircle of chairs.
"Once I have married the princess," he began, and my heart sank; his voice was as detached as ever, "then not only will I have access to governing both Libonessen and Marquia, but I will consider both countries my home." Braxton stopped for a moment, and shuffled the papers in his hands before looking straight at me.
"Libonessen has sunk into a depression," he continued, his eyes boring into my head. "The end to the slave trade over fifty years ago has finally caused an economical crisis that we cannot recover alone; our crops are failing, and there is hardly enough food for any of my citizens. During his reign, my grandfather squandered the royal coffers, and, therefore, we are next to destitute. However," Braxton announced, a sudden gleam in his eye, "I have come to believe that the Bright Isles would be a wonderful asset to Marquia."
There was a collective intake of breath. The Bright Isles had once been a colony of Irenta, and now… well, to be honest, I wasn't sure what it was now. Though it had its own government, an oligarchy composed of the governors of each island, the Bright Isles ultimately took orders from Irenta. If King Braxton was proposing what I thought he was…
"Are you suggesting that we seize land from our friends and neighbors? Irenta is our ally," Lord Curie, a large courtier with a long beard and booming voice, demanded suddenly. "As well as the most powerful kingdom in the world."
"You have a weak alliance formed only to end senseless bloodshed; the Marquian military is clearly superior to that of any other nation," Braxton stated firmly. "Irenta mismanages its colonies; you know that. The profits of the sugarcane plantations would boost both Libonessen and Marquia to the top two nations in the world."
"That is dangerous," Father said plainly, shaking his head. "A clever idea, but it is never wise to cross friends, especially one as powerful as Irenta is. I will have to say that I do not agree, though when you and Ari do marry, we will do all we can to stabilize Libonessen." Braxton looked, for only a brief moment, as if he wanted to argue, but his face quickly reverted back to the solemn expression it typically held as he nodded once.
"All in favor of his highness's proposal?" Sir Ian called out formally, though he looked as though he wanted to spit. Marielle and her father both stressed the importance of loyalty, and I could see that Sir Ian was appalled by the idea of backstabbing.
One hand went up – the youngest council member aside from myself, one of the commoners – but the rest stayed down, and I was quiet as the meeting was dismissed. I certainly had no intention of agreeing, and I realized, panic rising, that I was supposed to marry the man who would condemn a thousand soldiers to death on the grounds that we would leap from being the fourth most influential nation to being the first? I caught his eye as we stood up to leave, and, without warning, my fiancé smiled for the first time since I'd met him. It was a cold grin, one I supposed was meant to be friendly, but, without warning, its chill sent shivers down my spine.
Okay, so I rewrote this chapter because I realized that a) I desperately needed to because it was horrible, and b) it was more in keeping with the rest of the plot. I hope you enjoyed it! Read and review.
