Eamon was feeling stifled.
The warm summer air was humid, but no worse than Eamon had felt in the south among the Draecons.
No, it was not the air that was stifling him.
His mother, Lady Anna Tague, clutched her fork. “Eamon, darling, you must attend. It’s unthinkable that you would be in the country and not be present!”
“Oh, yes, Mother, that will certainly make him glad he returned home for a visit,” Eamon’s sister, Orla, said drily. She took a small bite of her drizzled pork flank before dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin.
Eamon’s mouth twitched. At least he hadn’t said it.
Mother gave Orla a scandalized look. “Don’t say such awful things. Eamon wouldn’t have stayed away. He’s deprived me of his presence for years already.”
“And you wrote me claiming you were gravely ill,” Eamon said. “If I’d known it was only a ploy—”
“I was ill!” Mother protested.
“—a ploy to get me to attend this engagement ball, I would have stayed with the Draecons,” Eamon continued, his coiled frustration turning his tone sharper. “We’d just received word of a dragon sighting in western Arn. My brothers needed me for that fight.”
The dining room’s air pulled taut with the silence.
Mother cleared her throat daintily. “You’re here now. You must attend the ball. Princess Cara will want to see you, I’m sure of it.”
Eamon’s throat tightened. The last time he’d seen Cara, her freckled cheeks had been tear-streaked, and she’d sworn she never wanted to see him again.
But Mother didn’t know that.
“Cara—” His voice cracked. Orla looked sideways at him. He cleared his throat. “Cara would never pick me to be her king consort, Mother. She’d only see the gangly mud-covered boy I used to be.”
Furthermore, he didn’t want to be king. His place was among the Draecons, roaming the continent and protecting people from dragons. He hadn’t been born to it, but it’s what he had worked toward for the past nine years. It was the best way he knew to protect people in a truly meaningful way. One more year, and he’d finally be fully initiated—made a full Draecon.
It had to be worth the sacrifices he’d made.
Cara’s soft laugh rang through his mind, mocked his resolution.
Mother reached out and grasped his arm. “Please, Eamon.”
Eamon pushed away his memories. “For you, Mother, I will attend. But bury your hopes now. I will never be king of Makaria.”
* * *
The day of the ball brought a miserable drizzle with it. Eamon couldn’t help but feel the weather was a portent of how the evening would go. He’d managed to avoid his mother all morning, but she’d swept in with a servant in the afternoon to prepare him for the ball. Only after he’d let her select his outfit did he find peace again.
Now he stood before the mirror in his room, adjusting his collar. The door eased open. Kent, Eamon’s brother-in-arms, stepped into the room. His arm was still bandaged from elbow to wrist.
Eamon turned from the mirror. “How was the visit to the healer?”
Kent raised the bandaged arm. “The bone is mended, but she was too exhausted to completely heal the cuts. I guess I’ll get the war scars after all. Still, she was more efficient than the Draeconian healers.”
“Good. Any word from the company?” Eamon asked. He looked back to the mirror and ran a hand through his short auburn hair.
Kent shook his head. “I’ll check again at dusk.”
“I hate being gone so long. What if they need us and can’t send word?”
Kent snorted. “Let’s be honest with ourselves. As skilled as we are, the real Draecons in our company don’t usually need our help.”
Eamon sighed. It was true. They would never truly compare to the Draecons’ superior physical attributes, no matter how they trained—not until undergoing the ritual that would make them Draecons too.
But here he felt useless. And coiled with tension that just grew tighter and tighter the closer the evening came.
“We’re leaving in a few days. We’ll be back with them soon.” Kent clapped a hand on Eamon’s shoulder. “Until then, you get to go dance with beautiful women.”
“I’d rather fight a flight of dragons.”
“I’m sure our illustrious leader would be happy to arrange that.”
Eamon grinned. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
“Just to teach you not to risk fate,” Kent agreed. Then he sobered. “Must you go to this ball?”
“I promised Mother. It’s the least I can do for her before I leave. A parting gift. If she sees me again, I won’t be… what she expects.”
Kent crossed his arms. “But you don’t want to be king. Why give her hope?”
“I’m not. I told her as much already.”
“Then why?” Kent paused. “This is about her, isn’t it?”
Her. Cara. Kent was Eamon’s closest friend. He was the only one from their company Eamon had told of his past with the Makarian crown princess, of the mess he’d made of things when he chose to join the Draecons. And of her parting words to him.
“She doesn’t want to see me,” Eamon hedged.
Kent gave him a knowing look. “But you want to see her.”
Eamon looked at the mirror. He’d changed much in the past nine years. Muscles filled out his frame. Age and resolve lined his face. The small scar that marked his right cheekbone hinted at the trials he’d faced in his new life. It wasn’t the only one, but it was the only one visible.
He looked like a hard man. Would Cara even recognize him?
“One last time. To say a real goodbye.”
Kent grunted. He clapped Eamon’s shoulder again.
“If you hear anything, let me know,” Eamon said. He held up his starstone, the one linked to Kent’s identical blue stone. “I’ll have this in my pocket.”
“Good.” Kent looked him over. “You look good, Eamon. Practically kingly.”
Eamon shot him a look. Kent grinned at him. “See you later.”
Once his friend was gone, Eamon finished his preparations. He allowed himself a bracing breath before he headed down to find his mother and sister waiting in the foyer.
Mother pressed her hands to her heart. “You look so handsome, darling. Cara will be delighted.”
He drew in another deep breath before he could snap something uncivil. “You both look lovely as well. Shall we?”
His mother’s steward opened the front door, and they filed out to their carriage, collecting a fine mist along their cloaks as they did.
The ride to the palace was not quiet, thanks to Mother prattling on. Eamon and Orla shared a few looks and let her talk, but Eamon left Orla with the responsibility of responding when necessary. He silently watched the countryside pass beyond the carriage window.
He couldn’t see the Makarian summer palace from the window, even when he knew they were close, but he recognized the massive crepe myrtles that lined the avenue leading up to the palace. They bloomed in purple, deep pink, and white and filled the air with a faint floral note.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the palace steps. A footman opened the door, and Eamon stepped out first. He put a hand out to help his mother. Orla took the footman’s assistance before resting her hand on Eamon’s other arm.
The rain had stopped, but the hovering clouds made the evening seem later than it was. The palace rose before them, as slim and elegant as a building of stone could look. Light blazed from every window, making the white stone of the palace itself almost seem to glow, and bright music wove its way down to them from inside. Eamon braced himself and started forward.
A servant took their cloaks at the front door, and a herald announced them at the entrance of the ballroom. Eamon took in the dance floor, where, despite the music, no one was dancing, although the crowds were standing around drinking and trading words—secrets and barbs and gossip, no doubt—as was done at these events. To one side, the musicians played. At the far end of the room, the aging king of Makaria sat on his polished silver throne. The queen’s throne beside him stood empty. A pang shot through Eamon. He’d heard that Cara’s mother had passed a few years before. He’d almost forgotten.
Besides the empty throne, the ball was identical to the other balls in his memory. The only thing still missing was Cara. But she wouldn’t be the girl who’d darted among dancers with him before. No, now she’d be one of them, stately and elegant and probably very angry to see him.
This was a mistake. He had no right to be here.
As if sensing his hesitation, Mother’s grip on his arm tightened. “Let’s present ourselves to the king.”
Eamon clamped his mouth shut and began weaving between people toward the throne.
“Do you see Princess Cara anywhere?” Orla asked, glancing around.
“If I were her, I’d be hiding somewhere far away,” Eamon said. Orla bit her lip to suppress a laugh.
Mother shot them both a frown. “Decorum, if you please.”
Orla managed to look contrite. Eamon didn’t bother. Decorum had never been part of his agreement in attending.
Before they reached the king, trumpets blew, and another herald stepped forward at the foot of the dais.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Cara Mairi Greydor!”
The king stood. The crowds bowed and curtsied. Cara stepped through a side door near the throne.
Eamon bowed with everyone else, but he tilted his head so he could still see her. And the sight of her stuttered his heart.
She wasn’t the waifish girl he remembered. The regal blue and silver dress she wore hugged her curves—curves she hadn’t had the last time he’d seen her. Half of her light brown hair was piled on her head in intricate loops studded through with gemstones, the other half left to flow down to her waist in soft waves. A delicate silver tiara crowned her head. The skin around her eyes—hazel eyes, he knew, though he couldn’t see them from here—glittered with some sort of powder that gave her the appearance of one of the elven folk.
She looked every inch the princess she’d always been.
She raised a hand in greeting to the crowd; the acknowledgement allowed them to collectively straighten. Her father stepped up to take her hand.
“Today,” he said, his voice much frailer than Eamon remembered, “Today is the day my sweet daughter will finally choose a husband for herself. As per Makarian tradition, she has spent the past year meeting with the eligible men from our country and beyond, but tonight is when she deigns to share her decision with the rest of us.” His mouth quirked up at this, and a small ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. “So please, my guests: eat, drink, be merry. You will soon have a new prince consort!”
Applause thundered. Eamon clapped along halfheartedly. Mother said something, which he couldn’t hear over the crowd, but his eyes were still glued on Cara. She and her father embraced and shared some quiet words before she turned with a smile toward the people. That smile froze, only half-formed, when she saw Eamon. Her eyes widened.
He knew she couldn’t hear him. They stood too far away. But even so, his mouth instinctively formed the words.
“Hello, Cara.”