Rise of the Vicious Princess Read online

“Your Highness!” a woman’s strident voice called from behind Charis, but she kept moving forward. A drink. That’s all she wanted. Just one drink and a few minutes in front of the open windows so she could collect herself and be ready to face the room once more.

  Snatching a fluted glass from a waiter’s tray, Charis made for the windows where the blue light from the two sister moons spilled over the ledge like liquid sapphire. The music at her back fell silent as the orchestra set down their instruments and reached for a drink instead, and Charis ignored yet another call of “Your Highness.”

  Reaching the windows, she turned her flushed face into the breeze and took a long sip of the sparkling plumberry cocktail she held. The curtain closest to her fluttered, and behind it she caught a glimpse of a tall boy with sleek black hair, golden skin, and wide brown eyes.

  “What are you doing, Holland?” Charis asked, bemused as he made a shushing motion.

  “Shh, you’ll give me away.” In absolute disregard for the colorful silk finery the rest of the nobility wore, her first cousin was in his usual long black duster—he claimed it counted as ballroom finery because black was always in fashion—a plain white shirt without a cravat, and a sword strapped to his hip in a utilitarian leather sheath that looked like it had already been to war and back. Twice.

  “Are you hiding?”

  “I was avoiding Nalani.” He craned his neck to look past Charis and groaned. “Not that it did me any good, because here she comes.”

  Charis laughed. “Afraid of your twin?”

  “This is your fault. You summoned her just by being near me.”

  “There you are!” Nalani Farragin said brightly as she came up to Charis and slipped an arm through the crook of her elbow. Her black hair was twisted into a chignon adorned with festive green ribbons that matched her dress, and sea emeralds glittered in her ears. Candlelight gleamed in her narrow dark eyes and shone against her high cheekbones. Both she and Holland looked so much like their father, whose grandparents were originally from the kingdom of Solvang, that their mother, Queen Letha’s half sister, often said if she hadn’t given birth to them herself, she might wonder if the twins were truly hers.

  “What a night. I’ve had to fend off pompous old Lord Comferoy’s advances at least three times, I was unsuccessful at getting stingy Lady Shawling to donate to my idea for a refugee rehabilitation center, and don’t even get me started on the pain of listening to sweet Lady Delaire try to flirt with my brother.” She paused long enough to give Charis a look from head to toe. “Love the dress, but seers preserve us, what have you done to your hair?”

  Charis patted the jewel-flecked tower atop her head. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It looks like you shoved a beehive in there and spackled it in place with— Is that Holland hiding behind the curtain?” Nalani’s tone sharpened.

  Holland sighed.

  “What are you doing over here?” Nalani twitched the curtain aside to reveal her twin.

  “I don’t want to dance.” Holland sounded grumpy, but then he usually did.

  “And why should you?” Charis grinned as Nalani shot her cousin a look that clearly begged the princess not to encourage him. The knot of tension around her chest eased for the first time since she’d entered the ballroom. She took another sip of plumberry cocktail and wisely stayed out of the ensuing fray.

  “Because it’s a ball and therefore requires dancing. Plus, I really need Delaire’s support for my plan to unionize the docks. She has good relationships with all kinds of rich merchants who might be made to see the value in it.” Nalani elbowed her brother. “You know Mama told you to be polite tonight.”

  His brows rose. “I was polite.”

  “You shook Delaire’s hand off your arm and snapped at her.”

  “Only because she wouldn’t accept my first three refusals.” He met Nalani’s eyes and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Which were polite. Excruciatingly so.”

  Charis laughed. “I shudder to think of your version of excruciatingly polite.”

  Holland sniffed. “I simply told her the truth. I have no interest in parading around in front of everyone, no interest in touching someone I don’t care for, and certainly no interest in the invitation to brunch that her mother would surely send my way after she saw us dancing.”

  Nalani’s expression could have shattered glass. “Holland Farragin, please tell me you didn’t actually say all that to Delaire.”

  “Of course I did. It was the truth.”

  Nalani sighed and turned to Charis. “He’s a lost cause, and he’s lucky we love him. Now, did I see you dancing with Lord Pellinsworth?” Her voice lowered. “I’ve heard a rumor he’s been saying some very nasty things about the royal family’s loyalty to the occupied lands in the north. Step carefully there.”

  “I’m always careful,” Charis said, but she replayed her conversation with Lord Pellinsworth all the same. The obligatory observation that it was unseasonably warm for early autumn. A comment about the delicacies available on the refreshments table. And a subtle dig for information about whether the queen would be open to negotiating a cease-fire if it meant annexing enough of north Calera to keep King Alaric of Montevallo happy. It was no more than anyone else in the antiwar faction had tried, and Charis had deftly turned his inquiry aside and steered their conversation toward safer topics.

  A bell rang from the orchestra pit—the signal that intermission would soon be over. Charis rolled her shoulders to remove some of the tension and massaged her aching cheeks. Just one more hour, and she could gracefully exit the ball and return to her chambers to make notes on the conversations she’d had tonight. So far, she hadn’t found any obvious solutions for peace with Montevallo—at least, not for a peace that didn’t involve sacrificing the Calerans who had already been enslaved by the invading army—but if she saw everything on paper, she might find something she’d missed. At the very least, she might find an inroad to shoring up support for the royal family so the queen could face enemies outside the kingdom without worrying about those coming at her from within.

  “Your Highness!” A quiet voice filled with warmth spoke just behind the princess.

  Charis turned to find Lady Channing, one of the members of the royal council and the closest thing Queen Letha had to a friend, standing there. Eyes twinkling, Lady Channing smiled and curtsied.

  “I’d heard you were back from your trip to the middle kingdoms, but I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Charis returned the lady’s smile easily. “The journey can be very tiring.”

  Lady Channing sighed. “Are you trying to call me old?”

  “Never.”

  “Come now, Your Highness. You aren’t a liar.” Lady Channing’s smile widened.

  Charis laughed. “You’re only a few years older than Mother. If I called you old, I’d have to say the same about her, and I think we both know how well that would go.”

  “Quite.” Lady Channing’s graying brown hair was pulled into its usual no-nonsense updo, and she wore a simple silk gown in dusky blue.

  “I trust your trip to Thallis, Verace, and Rullenvor was productive?” Charis asked as, from the corner of her eye, she caught a middle-aged man anxiously hovering as though trying to find an opening to ask her for the next dance.

  Couldn’t he let her finish intermission before swooping in? She hadn’t even visited the ladies’ parlor yet to have Milla reapply fragrance and check that her towering updo was still firmly intact. With that thought in mind, Charis began moving toward the southeast exit, gesturing for Lady Channing to walk with her.

  “The trip was productive enough.” Lady Channing moved closer and lowered her voice. “I will continue my relationship with those kingdoms through their ambassadors in the hope that we may rely on them as we seek to end this war. Things look favorable toward that end.”

  Charis’s guards kept pace with her from the sidelines as she neared the exit. “I look forward to hearing the details of your journey. I’m sure
Mother already has a meeting with you on her calendar.”

  “Tomorrow, Your Highness.” Lady Channing stepped back as a pair of footmen opened the door to allow Charis into the corridor that held the ladies’ parlor.

  Behind them, the bell to signal the end of intermission sounded. Charis was going to be late for the third hour, but as Mother was still in the parlor herself, she could hardly fault her daughter for wanting a two-minute reprieve from the crowds.

  A frisson of unease spread through Charis.

  It wasn’t like Mother to spend so long in the ladies’ parlor or miss the start of the ball’s final hour. Had she eaten something that disagreed with her? If she was indisposed, Charis would have to abandon any hope of even a brief reprieve. One of them should be on the dais overseeing the festivities and making sure the guests of honor were impressed with Calera and her ruling family.

  Strange that Mother hadn’t sent a messenger to let Charis know what was going on.

  “Until tomorrow,” Charis said to Lady Channing.

  Reuben and Elsbet, hands on their swords, flanked her as she left the ballroom and hurried toward the open door halfway down the corridor. She was nearly to the threshold when a scream tore through the air.

  It was coming from the ladies’ parlor.

  Three

  CHARIS FROZE, A millisecond of hesitation as the scream echoed into the corridor. And then she lunged for the doorway.

  Reuben got there first. Thrusting his short, wiry body in front of her, he barked, “Secure the princess!”

  Elsbet wrapped a strong hand over Charis’s upper arm and pulled her firmly away from the door as Reuben rushed into the room, sword out.

  “Let go of me!” Charis tried to jerk her arm free, but Elsbet kept her grip.

  Who had screamed? And where was Mother?

  An instant later, Milla rushed into the corridor, her hands covered in blood. Three more maids followed on her heels, their eyes wild.

  “Mother!” Charis strained against Elsbet’s hold, expecting at any moment to hear the queen’s cold, imperious voice spitting orders and organizing the chaos into something manageable before the guests in the ballroom took notice.

  “Your Highness, I’m sorry!” Milla’s voice shook as she pressed against the wall to let another maid rush past. Charis yanked against Elsbet’s grip.

  “I have to keep you secure, Your Highness.” Elsbet’s tone was calm, though she watched the princess warily. “Reuben’s orders.”

  “Reuben isn’t your princess. I am. You answer only to me.” Charis softened her voice, though it took effort. Elsbet was simply doing her job. “Unhand me so I can assess the situation and help the queen manage it.”

  Milla made a noise like a wounded puppy, and Charis stepped toward her. Elsbet released her but stayed by her side.

  “Are you injured?”

  Milla shook her head, sending fresh tears down her cheeks. A crash and a shout echoed from the parlor. Without wasting another second, Charis crossed the threshold.

  Cushions littered the floor. Chunks of broken glass from a smashed bottle of embyrvale perfume glittered among a spill of finely ground rice powder. A wave of sweet floral fragrance mixed with something sharply metallic filled the air.

  Reuben stood in the far corner beside an open window, his sword buried in the chest of a man dressed in the finery of a ball guest. Beside them, stretched out on the rug, lay the queen, her hands pressed to her abdomen. Blood poured from her stomach, a dark stain spreading across the dusky purple of her dress.

  “Mother!” Charis ran, skidding through the powder and perfume, and threw herself down beside the queen.

  “She’s alive.” Reuben grunted as he yanked his sword free. The man collapsed against the wall and slid down, his eyes glassy.

  For an instant, Charis waited, expecting Mother to do what she always did: take charge. Think three moves ahead, already anticipating what might happen so that the solution was well in hand before it was needed.

  But Mother lay, ashen and shaking, her breath coming in hard pants, her eyes glazed in pain. Charis would be the one taking charge. Grabbing a nearby cushion, she pressed it gently against Mother’s stomach to stanch the bleeding. Then she swallowed hard against the fear that clogged her throat and forced herself to think.

  “He’s Montevallian.” Reuben gestured at the dead man’s throat, where a silver emblem gleamed against a leather cord. “Wearing one of their marriage tokens. Must have a family back home.”

  “Yet he came all this way to kill mine.” Her stomach pitched, and she snapped, “Send Elsbet to check on Father. Now.”

  As Reuben called the order, Charis met Mother’s eyes and found a glimmer of awareness behind the pain.

  “The ambassadors . . . ,” the queen whispered.

  “I have it handled.” Turning to Reuben, she spoke in the kind of crisp, emotionless voice that would make Mother proud. “Leave the body. Send a maid for Dr. Baust. Instruct the footmen at the ballroom entrance not to allow any guests into this corridor. And whatever you do, make sure every single maid who was in this room stays quiet about what just happened. We cannot risk the ambassadors knowing the queen is vulnerable.”

  They couldn’t risk their own nobility knowing it either. Not when half of them seemed to be circling the throne like a pack of starving wolves.

  “I want four of Mother’s personal guards brought here to watch over her while Baust treats her wound. Send your most trusted to search every inch of this palace. If there’s another Montevallian spy in our midst, I want them caught.”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone and unprotected,” Reuben said, his dark eyes challenging her to argue.

  “Then use one of the footmen to get you the help you need. And send Milla back in here.”

  As Reuben hurried to obey her orders from the doorway where he could keep an eye on her the entire time, Milla crept back into the room and knelt beside Charis.

  “I’m sorry.” The handmaiden’s voice caught on a tiny sob.

  “How did this happen?”

  Milla leaned forward and pressed her hands against the cushion, taking over the duty of treating the queen without Charis having to ask.

  “That man—” Milla jerked her chin toward the dead Montevallian. “He was in the closet. The queen came in and was finishing up with her maid when the closet door opened, and he rushed out with a knife.” A tremor shook her body. “He stabbed the queen so fast, we didn’t realize what had happened until she went down. Then he ran for the open window, but maids and tables of toiletries were in the way, so it was a mess. I tried to stop the bleeding, Your Highness, I tried, but—”

  “Hush now, Milla,” Charis said gently. “You did nothing wrong. I’m grateful you tried to help. There’s Baust.”

  Charis rose and stepped back as the palace physician hurried in. He was a short, round man with a face as smooth as a sea-worn pebble and tawny skin. Several maids accompanied him, each carrying linens or bags of medical supplies.

  “I leave the queen in your capable hands,” Charis said, meeting Mother’s eyes once more and satisfying herself that, though the queen looked shaky and weak, she was still alert. King Alaric of Montevallo should know it would take more than a single knife to bring down the indomitable Queen Letha Willowthorn.

  Milla walked with her into the corridor, and Charis said quietly, “Wash the blood from your hands and the tears from your face, and then visit the kitchens once more and order a drink sent to my chambers. Be sure to mention that the queen has become ill from eating something that disagreed with her.”

  Rumors spread through the palace staff and to the servants of other noble houses with remarkable speed. Hopefully this one would be no different.

  Satisfied that she’d managed the crisis as well as she could, she checked herself for blood in the mirror mounted above the room’s fireplace. There. A trio of droplets beneath her blue eyes, like crimson freckles. And another fleck on the white hollow of her throa
t. She dabbed at them with a clean cloth and then, once she was sure she’d removed every trace, returned to the ball, Reuben at her side. A few well-placed comments to the always-indiscreet Lady Vera Shawling was all it took to have half the ballroom buzzing with the news that the queen had taken ill. Suspicious glances were thrown at the sumptuous buffet table. Charis sent a silent apology to the head cook, smiled graciously at Ambassador Shyrn, and accepted another dance.

  As the final dance was drawing to a close, Charis whirled away from the firm grasp of Ferris Everly, her fourth cousin and the boy many in the antiwar faction were hoping would one day be her husband. Charis would rather swim naked in the freezing waters of the Draiel Sea than spend the rest of her life with Ferris, but she could hardly risk offending the son of a council member when unrest among the nobility was on the rise.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me tonight, Charis.” He tugged her hand, and she spun back toward him, stopping just shy of his chest.

  “Hmm, let’s see.” She kept time to the music, her aching feet protesting every step. “I gave you my opening dance, I talked with you for at least two minutes during the first intermission, and here you are at my last dance. If you ask me, I may have erred on the side of giving you too much, Ferris.”

  “People ought to see us spending more time together, Charis.” He sounded like he was chiding a schoolgirl. Her chin lifted.

  “And why is that?” Her tone was sugared ice, and he blinked, his blue eyes narrowing as he met her gaze.

  “Because Father has excellent relationships with many in the antiwar faction and has assured them we are close to the Willowthorns and can help bring their grievances to the throne.” He bent forward, dipping her toward the floor as other couples whirled past, feet tapping out a rhythm to the lively tune spilling out of the orchestra pit.

  “They can bring their own grievances to the throne,” Charis said, her jaw setting as his gaze dropped from her face to linger on her bodice.

  “But can they be sure that the queen will listen?” He lifted her slowly, his eyes once more finding hers. “Besides, you and I are an obvious match. We should be working together. I saw you talking to Lord Pellinsworth earlier. What did he say?”