It is not the first time I’ve been seated on my father’s throne. Twice the size of his office chair and large enough for two to be seated comfortably, it can be blinding when the sunlight glints off its gold plating just so.
I know well the feeling of the carved suns in each of the armrests. I’m accustomed to the sound of jingling from the massive gold and amber chandelier situated just above, designed to reflect the sunlight from many windows down onto the one seated on the throne.
What is not normal, and is making me so incredibly nervous, is the fact that there is about to be a long line of lovely young maids coming to greet me and ask for my grace.
Heinrich stands in the doorway of a side corridor, trying to give me encouraging gestures. I would be much more encouraged with him by my side. However, law prohibits him from entering the throne room while either the Holy Emperor or the Sacred Prince are seated. Somehow, it would be a taint, merely because he was born out of wedlock. As though he could help that.
One more thing to change when I am Emperor. If that is even something I am allowed to change. I have heard the faintest murmurs from my father of rules even the Emperor cannot alter, especially those directed at protecting our purity and holiness, and thus the purity and holiness of the Empire.
It would help to have Uriel by my side at least, even though I’m sure he’ll have a few asides about needing to correct my posture and remember the importance of raising my right hand in greeting rather than the left.
However, he has other responsibilities besides being my tutor, so I must make do with the two lines of guards standing on the opposing walls. A long red carpet rolls out between them, creating a path for the young noblewomen to tread upon over the polished tiles, when the herald opens the doors.
No one stands with me on my side of the wall, though, because we must always create the image that I am set apart from the common folk, and even nobility. Gerrard the Guard stands closest to me but is still a good decent stroll away. His clean-shaven face shows none of the nervousness I feel.
“Are you ready, my prince?” calls Harold, or Harold the Herald, as he is named in my head. His voice is an echo by the time it reaches me across this chamber.
My hand drops from where I had been unconsciously fiddling with the sun-crested golden Heritage Medallion that represents my right to sit on this throne more than my crown, which is an emerald-studded diadem today.
I am most definitely not ready, but that doesn’t seem like a very princely thing to say. “I’m ready.”
Oh, no, was that a lie? That isn’t something Sacred Princes do. I think I’m going to pass out . . .
Why is it so hard for me to find air under this veil even after all these years of wearing it? I feel like I can barely breathe.
Harold signals two servants to swing open the double-doors and goes to greet the first girl standing in line. I can barely make her out from this distance, but I think she must be pretty. Heinrich would be the better judge of such things, though.
The girl leans toward Harold and then he turns with his heralding trumpet out. “Lady Valda of Schwerin.”
With that announcement, the girl strides forward, a swagger in her hips. The closer she comes, the more obvious it becomes that she is a woman rather than a girl.
Long raven hair is partially plaited around her head, but a handful of strands have been allowed to flow freely, falling over her shoulders and halfway down her legs.
The gown she wears is pure white, as is standard practice for a noblewoman coming for her invitation to her court to represent her purity. However, purity is not the first thing I think concerning the tightness of her bodice and the slimness of her skirt that does not flare out from her legs like the gowns that are in style.
I tear my gaze back up to her face, which is almost as pale as her gown. Eyes as black as her hair shine out of it, and her pert lips, red as blood, twist into a sly smile.
Resisting the urge to glance toward Heinrich for support, or mayhap signal Gerrard to get me out of here, I rise from my throne once Lady Valda reaches the bottom of three steps that lead up to the platform the throne is situated atop.
“Lady Valda,” I greet, and mentally congratulate myself for my voice not breaking.
“My prince,” she murmurs, dropping into a low curtsy with calculated grace.
“I welcome you into court,” I add, thanking the Heavens that Uriel drilled me to memorization the ceremonial words, so they come to me now when my mind has long since failed. “May your beauty shine upon us like the midday sun.”
“As you wish, my prince.” Lady Valda drops into another curtsy before turning and swaggering away.
I sit back on my throne a little more forcefully than I meant. Thank the Emperor-God for this veil after all, keeping whatever wayward expressions may flash across my face.
Harold does not seem to realize how unprepared I am for the next damsel, because he already has another maiden whispering in his ear. A redhead this time.
He turns toward me. “Lady Meredith of Hoff.”
There is less swagger in Lady Meredith’s steps than there was in Lady Valda’s. But there remains a certain feminine swish of her flowing white skirts, nonetheless.
Lady Meredith’s red hair is completely pulled away from her face, as is considered befitting and demure for a young lady. Her green eyes are bright and eager, and a smattering of freckles across her nose gives a certain charm. The smile on her lips she appears to be fighting adds to that.
Finally, she reaches the bottom step, and I rise again as she drops into a perfect curtsy. “My prince.”
She starts suddenly, her green gaze darting up toward me, as if measuring if she was supposed to speak first or I.
“Lady Meredith,” I say, covering over any hint of a blunder. “I welcome you to court. May your beauty shine upon us like the midday sun.”
“Thank you, my prince.” Meredith rises and no longer seems capable of keeping the full force of her smile from escaping.
Even though she can’t see it, I smile back.
Then Meredith turns and practically skips back out of the hall.
Despite the heaviness of my ceremonial veil, I raise my gaze to see the next noblewoman in the line. This one is a brunette, and something seems different about her in a way I cannot quite place from this distance.
“Lady Elspeth of Roden,” Harold announces.
The woman glides forward. Her steps are neither sauntering nor swirling, but carry a determined grace, as though a great monsoon could blow through and she would keep her place from sheer stubbornness.
As she approaches, she appears taller than the other noblewomen, and her figure is more winsome. Though her white gown is like Lady Meredith’s, I imagine if she wore the same dress as Lady Valda, she would still be completely modest.
Her brown hair is perfectly plaited around her head, and there is something about the way it circles her head that seems like she’s hiding something. The tips of her ears?
Is she a kinfolk? That would explain the height. While he-elves are much shorter than male mortals, she-elves tower over mortal women, and some reach the height of men. Thankfully, though, Lady Elspeth looks like she is still shorter than I, at least from this distance.
My gaze drops to her eyes, a stormy blue that strikes me to the core. As though the lightning flashing in the storm of her soul has leaped across our joined gaze to slice through my very heart.
I jolt and then freeze, unable to even sit back down on my throne as my mind registers what just happened.
Heavens help me.
Lady Elspeth— my Blood-Bounded?— reaches the base of my platform, we stare at each other in silence for what seems like hours.
Then she dropped into a regal curtsy before me, not taking her gaze away from mine.
I’m supposed to speak. To say something. What is my speech?
Lady Elspeth takes her beautiful eyes away from me, and glances everywhere but at me as she slowly rises.
I’m hurting her, humiliating her, but why can’t I remember my speech?!
I continue to scour my mind, trying to ignore the sight of tears beginning to sparkle in her eyes. She seems determined not to let a teardrop fall, though, and raises her gaze toward the brightness, as if asking the sun to dry her out.
Her eyes widen.
Then, suddenly, Lady Elspeth is launching herself at me. My hands wrap around her slender form, but the force of her movement still sends me flying off the pedestal. My back and head hit the ground, and I slide across the polished floor, the breath knocked out of me by the bruising force and Elspeth’s frail but still existent weight on top of me. I feel rather like the pain from the impact to my head has knocked my spirit out of my body.
Speechless for more than her beauty, I stare at Lady Elspeth.
Then a terrible tearing sound reaches my ears.
My leggings. I’ve torn my leggings with the impact. What good is a veiled face if my braies are on display?
Then I see it, like the sun itself is setting before me. Or more crashing. The golden chandelier dives onto the pedestal where I’d just been standing. Amber stones go flying, one scraping across my sleeve with the sharpness of a blade gone awry during a practice match.
The throne does not budge under the weight of the chandelier, but my flesh would have.
Chaos descends as guards hurry toward us, but I barely see them as I glance between the chandelier and the elf noblewoman on top of me, craning her head to look back.
My attention shifts to her completely, though, as I realize how much we are touching. Her chest rests on mine, and our legs are a tangle, with my hands clasped around her waist to keep her sealed to me.
I never want to let go.
Despite myself, I grin. This is Lady Elspeth of Roden, my Blood-Bound. And she is beautiful and brave.
Lady Elspeth turns back to me, her lips, very close to mine, slightly parted. Her eyes, suddenly a shade lighter, are wide.
Just like that, breath returns to returns to me, and my tongue is loosened. “You have rendered a great ser—”
Lady Elspeth blinks, and then stares at me coolly. “So, are you going to welcome me to court already?”