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Her mother had been concerned that King Burns wouldn’t send a portrait. From anyone else it would be an insult. But the Kingdom of Tambala was known for their…unique habits. Powerful enough to get away with them, too. The only thing Lindsay remembers about her betrothed are his eyes. Green like the grass around his keep. Like sea-glass. Like Lady’s-Mantle. Everything else, she thinks, is stories. Stories from her mother, who met King Burns on her wedding day, and from her Father, who sees the King semi-regularly at summits and meetings of all sorts and met her fiancé years ago, when he witnessed Tambala’s portion of their marriage pact.
Lindsay listens. Like a dutiful bride, she listens, and she learns, and she keeps what she’s taught about Prince Free close to her heart. That is about where the similarity between her and any sort of dutiful bride ends.
Meg is embroidering when Lindsay marches back into her quarters. That is about where the similarity between her and any sort of normal handmaiden ends. She looks up as Lindsay pushes the door shut behind her, and smiles. Lindsay will never, can never admit it, but she feels some of the tension in her shoulders leave just at the sight of Meg welcoming her home. Some.
“Prince Free is coming for a visit.” Lindsay reaches for the band laid on top of her armoire and pulls her hair up. Without a mirror, a few strands immediately float back down to her face.
Meg pushes away her work and stands, reaching to redo the topknot with a carefully blank expression.
“He might be coming for all sorts of reasons, you don’t know.”
As Meg finishes, Lindsay turns, letting her hands rest naturally on the curve of the blue-haired girl’s hips. She can feel the edge of Meg’s sheathed dagger with her left hand, hidden in the folds of her companion’s skirt.
“But we do, though.”
“We’ll deal with it.” Meg draws Lindsay close and repeats herself, even more emphatic. “We’ll deal with it.”
When they kiss, the softness feels forced.
The road between Gavin’s home kingdom and his fiancées castle is relatively well-protected. Safe enough that King Burns, as a show of trust, had sent only a few soldiers with his heir.
They weren’t stupid, though. The guards that had been sent were being trailed by another group disguised as traveling merchants. They would turn back once they reached the capital city of Kupeza. The Prince himself had dressed in casual travelling cotton and trailed behind his personal guard, who shone in velvet and leather. His gold coronet was tucked in a saddlebag under a mass of letters while Michael’s curls contrasted brightly against a circlet of hammered steel. It could be mistaken for platinum at any sort of distance.
Gavin nudged his mare, quickly catching up with Michael’s charger.
“How much farther, d’you think?”
“Two hours ride. We’ll switch back right over the next ridge.”
Even with his answer, Gavin doesn’t drop back. They ride in silence for a minute, the prince chewing at his lip before he hazards his next words.
“Won’t change anything though, boi. ‘S just another political visit.”
Michael finally turns to face him, face cold.
(It doesn’t reach his eyes. It rarely ever does, with Gavin.)
“Your Highness, that isn’t something you should be talking about right now.” The idiot is clear, if unsaid, and it doesn’t go unheard. It only knocks Gavin back for a few moments as he glances at the listening ears around them, but it’s enough for Michael to steel his resolve. Eventually the prince tires of needling his guard’s unresponsive back and retreats back to the center of the party.
The sound of trumpets covers the familiar clip of Gavin’s mare’s steps. The prince dismounts—managing not to trip over his gangly limbs for once in his fucking life—and proceeds to bow before King Ramsey. For a moment, the King is sober. Stoic as he speaks the traditional words of hospitality, of safety. Then he grins, wide, and draws Gavin into a warrior’s embrace.
Despite their warm welcome, Michael doesn’t relax. He watches Gavin approach the foreign princess, bow deeply and bring her hand to his lips. Unsurprisingly, Gavin ignores protocol and whispers something as he rises. The guard feels his upper lip curl.
(Even he couldn’t say if it was for Gavin’s stupidity or the way the princess’ lips part in a surprised smile.)
He searches for something else to focus on as he pushes down the surge of anger. His eyes land on a pretty blue-haired girl in the princess’ retinue. She looks—upset? Disappointed? Resigned, Michael decides, which makes no fucking sense. Visits like these—especially betrothal visits—are full of feasts, new trade goods. The opportunity to meet a rich husband or wife. Seeing anyone upset at these is weird. Bored, sure, but hurt?
She finally notices Michael staring and raises an eyebrow at him. Michael manages to bow his head slightly. Subtly enough not to distract from the boring-ass speeches, at least. When he raises his eyes again, they meet hers. The shiver that goes through him is a surprise.
In the center of the courtyard, Prince and Princess move to stand side by side. The moment feels like a dream to both of them, even after so many years of expectation. Their smiles, though, are unexpectedly, confusingly real.