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Farren Aeducan’s skull itched beneath the heavy, ornate braids. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck. She swore her blighted smile had been in place so long, her cheeks hurt with the strain.
Behind her chair, Gorim shifted wearily from foot to foot. He had to be as bored of this endless ceremony as she was, but at least she got to sit for the ordeal. Her poor second had been behind her chair, in full plate armor, for hours.
Weddings.
Why did they last so long? She couldn’t imagine the bride and groom, in place of honor, truly wanted this lavish display. In fact, they both looked as bored as she felt during the great speeches praising their houses.
It had to be close to being over judging by the general drunkenness of the party. If they didn’t pack it in soon, the marriage would have to go unconsummated by necessity.
Like they’d heard the dark turn of her thoughts, the groom’s father stood and raised his ale. “One last round as we send the bride off to prepare to bear sons for my SON!”
“TO SONS!” the crowd cheered in response.
Ren didn’t roll her eyes, but it was close. Behind her, Gorim scoffed.
But it was the call for every woman to stand, including Ren. As she shoved her chair back, Papa looked up with beaming pride. On his other side, Trian glared mournfully into the crowd while Bhelen chatted amicably to the man beside him.
Papa lifted his hand and Ren took it with a deep, perfect curtsy that only made the vein in Trian’s temple throb.
“Do pass on our wishes to the bride and her mother, Ren.” Papa said.
“Of course I will,” she widened her eyes innocently, swooping to press a kiss on his cool, wrinkled cheek. “You three don’t have too much fun without me. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Her father’s eyes sparkled with warmth when he patted her cheek, eyes flicking over her shoulder to Gorim. The wordless command passed between them and Ren almost giggled.
Like Gorim needed reminding his job was to keep her out of trouble. He was the one reminding her of that fact twice a week. At least.
She straightened and spun on her heel while Gorim bowed to the King and her brothers. Within moments he was trailing two steps behind her, leaning in and growling in her ear. “Please tell me we can go back to the palace.”
She didn’t look over her shoulder, but she did smirk. “Wait for me in the entranceway.”
Gorim peeled away and Ren took quick, decisive action. She elbowed a matriarch out of the way to loop her elbow through the arm of the poor, dull creature in the center of the crowd. The girl looked to her side, looked away, then did a quick double take to find the Princess herself on her arm.
“Aren’t you darling?” Ren cooed, eyeing the garish gems that barely sparkled on the girl. “Are you nervous?”
“I- uh. A little, ma’am.”
Ren simply cozied up further to the girl, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s all very easy you know. He’s gotta do most of the work, really.”
“Work, ma’am?” the poor girl asked quietly.
And Ren shouldn’t lean in even further and whisper against the delicate shell of the girl’s ear, but she couldn’t help herself. Nor could she help enjoying the delicious little shudder that went through the bride when Ren’s breath blew hot against her skin.
Gorim was right. She was a menace.
“Well, is it really a job when everyone’s having a good time?” Ren questioned.
The girl swallowed hard. “It’s my duty ma’am. To Orzammar.”
Ren knew a lot about duty to Orzammar. It was enough to nearly make her roll her eyes to the elaborately carved ceiling as they ducked out of the mansion’s great hall to the roar of cheers. An elaborate guilt staircase led to the next level, carved with the stern faces of this house’s glorious ancestors staring disapprovingly.
The crowd of women surged up the staircase like a herd of nugs. The clacking of heels and bubbling conversation echoed off the stone walls lit with the bright, warm glow of the lava flows.
“You’ll do fabulous,” Ren claimed brightly. “You’ll bring honor to your house and Orzammar.”
The relief on the girl’s face almost made her heart ache. Ren allowed her to slip free, lifting a hand to her ear, miming distress. “Oh! I’ve lost an earring.”
One of the old matrons almost stopped as the crowd surged on, even though Ren saw her eyes flick greedily after the crowd. “Do you need help my lady?”
“Oh go on!” Ren commanded cheerfully. “I’ll find it in a moment.”
She’d never seen a pudgy, middle-aged, noble caste woman move faster in her life. Ren was left, in one dizzying moment, completely alone on the staircase watching silk and velvet vanish around the next landing.
The sound of their giggling and cackling, the roar of the men’s cheers, all seemed very far away.
Then, from below, a slow, sarcastic clap.
“You are, as always, a master of slipping away from your duties,” Gorim commented dryly. Ren dropped her eyes to the plush carpet beneath her feet and grinned, snapping her own gown out of the way while she turned on her heel.
She allowed her hand to glide across the stone bannister while she descended, smirking at her amused second waiting by the door. “I’ve done my duty to Orzammar, Gorim. Trust me, she’ll remember I was at her side the rest of her life.”
Gorim’s lips twisted wryly. “Of that, I have no doubt, Princess. Now, may we go?”
He lifted his hand to take hers, on instinct, as she descended the final steps. She took it without thought, tucking herself into his elbow and batting her eyes up at him. “Yes, we may go. But let’s sneak into the palace through the kitchens, hmm? Let Papa think I spent far more time with those cackling deepstalkers.”
“Of course, my lady,” Gorim sighed. “Sneaking you home is standard practice.”
She barely made it into the palace before she ripped off the pinching heeled shoes. Gorim watched, smirking, while she trailed through the servant’s halls in her bare feet and fine silk.
“Think you can make it to your chambers without incident?” Gorim asked, opening one of the unobtrusive doors into the royal wing. “I need to swing by the armory and pick up the new grip for your blade before tomorrow.”
“I’ll even pour you an ale when I get there, Gorim,” she responded affectionately, patting his cheek. “As compensation for the absolutely horrid evening we just endured.”
In private, away from prying eyes, Gorim’s studied formality fell. It was replaced with a sunny grin. “Next time we’ll see if we can’t arrange some bloodshed to spice the whole ordeal up.”
“I can always count on you,” she winked in his direction and Gorim laughed, shaking his head. He ushered her through the door before shutting it firmly, but she still heard his chuckles echoing as he vanished back through the hallways.
Ren hummed softly under her breath as she swayed down the long corridor under the disapproving glares of her own ancestors, trapped forever in stone above her. She could almost hear them muttering about Ren’s own astonishing lack of dedication to her duty, to Orzammar and her clan, caste, and family.
She wondered if they could hear her mocking laugh ringing in her head.
The door across the hall from her quarters was open just a sliver, revealing flickering firelight on the marble. Ren paused, thoughtful. Who was in Bhelen’s rooms?
She knew the answer, but she’d never been good at resisting her curiosity.
Ren shifted course easily, shoving the door with her hip and bustling into Bhelen’s elegant sitting room as if she owned it. The redhead on the chaise whipped her head up immediately, brand stark on her pale cheek.
Ren flicked her eyes over the curvy little form of Bhelen’s new pet, tipping her head to the side. The girl was wearing silk, a gift from her brother no doubt, that clung to every glorious inch of her and revealed nothing at the same time it revealed everything.
Want pulsed, dark and intense, in Ren’s stomach. She kept her voice light regardless, far too casual. “You poor thing. Bhelen left you here all night by yourself?”
The shock of her sudden appearance finally wore off and Rica surged up, scrambling to stand. “My lady-”
“Oh don’t bother,” Ren waved her attempts to get up away, circling the chaise to drop beside her, tucked close enough to those tempting thighs to touch them. “I’m tired of bowing. Tell me you’ve at least kept yourself more entertained than I’ve been.”
Rica didn’t quite relax, but then again she never quite seemed to. There was something about her, something much different than every Brand Trian snuck into his chambers. Those poor, ignorant creatures barely seemed to notice anything but the food in front of them.
On the other hand, Ren suspected Rica noticed everything. But Bhelen had always loved cleverness more than a pretty face. It was just luck that in this little noble hunter, he’d found both.
Rica’s small fingers tightened on the book in her lap. It was an encyclopedia, of all things, painstakingly illustrated by the Shaperate. “My lord told me I was welcome to anything I wished to explore.”
“And you picked the ninth edition of ‘A Study of Herbs and Minerals’?” Ren asked. “By the stone, doesn’t Bhelen have any dirty books in here?”
Sometimes, Ren could kick herself. She didn’t realize the sheer stupidity of her statement until Rica’s tiny fist moved to cover one of the pretty pictures. Guilt thudded hollowly in her stomach and Ren almost dropped her careful mask.
Rica, of course, didn’t. “I didn’t find any, but maybe I didn’t look hard enough.”
And even if she had, they may not have been illustrated. Without the pictures, would she know what she was holding?
“Well, reading about herbs is all well and good. Although Bhelen may be nervous to see you so interested in deathroot.”
“I recognized it from my brother’s… work,” Rica declared.
Ren knew it well too, but only because it would be absolutely irresponsible not to train a Princess to recognize such a common poison.
“And how is your work coming along?” Ren prodded. “Bhelen seems pleased, at any rate.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather talk of your work,” Rica demured, leaning forward too eagerly. “I would love to hear about the ceremony. I can hardly imagine how fine it is.”
Ren knew she was being played because the fawning attention felt far too familiar, and you couldn’t ever outdo a fellow player, but she’d let Rica have it. If only because the wicked light in those emerald eyes let Ren know that Rica was well aware whom she was playing with.
Which was the only reason Ren leaned back, draping herself over Rica’s legs far too intimately, plopping her pointed chin in her hand while they laid on the chaise. “You know how it is. Far too much tradition, not enough fun.”
“And Bhelen is on his way back?” Rica asked softly.
Ren’s grin took on a predatory edge. She didn’t miss the sharpening hunger in Rica’s gaze. “Oh he’ll be ages yet, darling. Orzammar’s traditions decree at least a half dozen more toasts to the poor groom.”
Ren punctuated her sentence with one finger tracing the soft, silk-covered curve of Rica’s hip. She leaned in, smiling. “But I’m here, Rica.”
“We shouldn’t,” Rica murmured, but she didn’t pull away. In fact, her red hair was brushing Ren’s face. She could smell the sweet scent of something floral and rare, another gift from Bhelen, wafting from her skin.
When Ren’s finger’s found Rica’s cheek, warm and rosy beneath the harsh brand, Rica leaned into the touch. Ren’s breath caught in her throat when those green eyes dropped to her lips, watching them part.
“You’re right,” Ren agreed, closing the distance until she was whispering the words almost against those coral lips. “We shouldn’t.”
It was Rica who surged forward, slanting her mouth over Ren’s. Triumph lasted only a second, the thrill of snagging another conquest vanishing in the sheer, sweet bliss of Rica’s soft lips opening for her. She tasted of spices and honey, warm and sultry and intoxicating.
Small fingers dug into the heavy braids, pulling her closer with wanton greed, and Ren moaned softly into the warmth of her passion. She didn’t miss the equally victorious smirk twisting Rica’s lips beneath hers.
Ren’s palms twisted in the paper thin silk, inching it up Rica’s lush hips, thoughtless of anything but touching the soft, warm skin beneath.
Except, of course, she barely started before a harsh, disjointed cough rang out too loudly in the room. A rather familiar and annoying cough.
Rica pulled away, startled, fear flashing in those eyes. Ren pressed a finger to her lips quickly, shaking her head minutely, not even bothering to look over her shoulder before she spoke. “Gorim, that was quick.”
Gorim, for his part, sounded as exasperated as she was breathless. “Could say the same thing about you, Princess.”
Rica melted back into the chaise in palpable relief and Ren winked at her, continuing to speak to her second. “Decisive action, Gorim. That’s what I’m about.”
“Strange how that decisive action never involves going to your own chambers,” Gorim sighed. “Come on, Ren. Let’s not do this tonight.”
Ren rolled her eyes, but Gorim was right. Tonight wasn’t the night, not when Bhelen could come sauntering in at any moment. She pulled away from Rica’s tempting form, feeling strangely bereft. “You’ve heard my nanny, darling.”
“Have a lovely night, my lady,” Rica’s mask was back, impenetrable, and a part of Ren hated it.
Someday. Soon.
She removed herself from the chaise with all her remaining dignity, scowling at Gorim in the doorway. He met her ire levelly, leaving her little choice but to push past him and cross the hall to her rooms, throwing the door open and stalking through her own opulent chambers until she staggered into her bedroom. She tossed her shoes to the ground with a flash of temper and sagged into the dressing room table.
Gorim shut the door behind her. She heard him plod steadily towards her bedchamber. By the time he appeared, she’d swallowed her anger and frustration behind her pleasant smile. One she pinned him with in the mirror.
“You know this habit of seducing your brothers’ pet noble hunters is going to cause problems. Eventually.”
She fluttered her lashes, reaching up to start unpinning all her blighted braids. “Gorim, love, it’s tradition.”
Gorim simply sighed and scratched at his beard. “It’s one I could do without, Ren.”
One of many, honestly. Ren tangled her fingers in her braids and yanked them free with far too much violence.
Orzammar and all it’s blighted traditions could burn, and sometimes she barely thought she’d cry a tear.