He’d never hurt Saris.
A few servants crossed Wycke’s path in his trek from his room toward the chapel. His guard followed behind, muttering, “Traitor spawn.” Two tittering maids quieted, eyes downcast when Wycke passed. A few turned the other way as though they’d always intended another route.May Saris keep her promise to fill the palace with staff who won’t judge us by our bloodline.
The noise level rose the closer Wycke came to his destination. The scent of cologne drifted down the hallway, an aromatic wraith sent to remind him he’d soon encounter hundreds of people. Most of them with hate in their eyes and a sneer on their lips for an enemy prince.
He stood silently at the back of the crowd behind two richly dressed women, taking in bits of their conversation. The first spat, “What a shame he feels honor-bound to join with that… thatgirl.There are so many better choices for a mate.”
The second woman nodded, threatening to topple her massively piled hair. Wycke really shouldn’t have taken so much pleasure in their horror when they turned to see his face. No words needed. His smile said clearly,“Wait until I tell my sister.”Maybe some courtiers should leave with the soon-to-be ousted servants.
The women’s gasps brought more attention Wycke’s way, prompting the crowd to part and let him pass. Conversations trailed off. He emerged through the wall of overdressed bodies and stopped short.
Curses. His least favorite person. Besides his governess.
While most of the court shunned him, they fawned over his brother—an eligible, unmated king. It made Wycke’s stomach roll. Hard to get used to calling his brother “King Radre” instead of the more colorful names he and Saris privately used.
The insufferable ass carried himself with the arrogance of Wycke’s father, all stubborn pride, and “you are beneath me.” Or so Saris said.
Judging by the silks, satins, and velvets of Radre’s attire, the kingdom of Myrgren hadn’t suffered overly since its overthrow. Wycke’s brother shamed Myrgren, wearing finery more fitting to Dhugach.
King Broen had allowed Saris time to grow up, adjust to her lot in life, and learn her new home’s customs. Get to know him.
That, or the high king hadn’t been too keen on joining young either. Saris even continued her schooling.
Now, High King Broen planned to bond with the daughter of an enemy. Many thought the joining was a grand gesture to solidify the relationship between the high king and a lower court. Myrgren guarded the pass against the northern kingdoms, who’d not been a threat for ages. However, no one told the people of Dhugach the northerners were too busy feeding their people while trying to stay warm to attack anyone else. The locals still cast wary glances at the mountains from time to time.
Of course, ogres, trolls, hellhounds, and other nonhuman tribes made the mountains their home too.
Wycke saw how the young king followed Saris’s every move with his gaze, how he stopped speaking when she entered a room. Not to keep her from overhearing unpleasant business matters but to admire her. How could Saris not see? She might view her joining as a duty, devoid of love. King Broen adored her. Not only thought her beautiful but asked her opinions on matters of state. Let all know she wouldn’t merely be queen in name only. She’d be his co-ruler if she’d take off her blinders to see what stood before her.
Radre saw. Judging by the knowing smirk, he’d take full advantage.
“Brother,” Wycke greeted, giving his head the slightest inclination, the minimal respect allowable without a reprimand. He folded his arms over his stomach, covertly touching his wristband. If Radre knew of his power… No wonder Saris gave Wycke the cuff. No one craved power more than Radre.
Radre glanced around at others watching and returned the greeting, though he didn’t refer to Wycke as “brother.” He never did. Although Radre now wore the title of king, Wycke remembered him heaved over, puking his guts out when Saris slipped a potion into his food for pulling her hair in assembly.
“Wicked,” Radre said, the slightest hint of derision in his tone. “My spies tell me you insist on living down to your nickname.”
“I try.” Wycke managed a grin. While he deserved the nickname, he was only guilty of about half the accusations. “I’m young yet. I’m sure I’ll think of new and better ways to be a nuisance with time.” He sauntered off; duty done. If the rotter needed to know where to sit, let him summon a page.
Wycke had argued for the honor of seeing his sister down the aisle for her joining. Many said he craved the attention. No, he didn’t seek attention, but Saris didn’t want Radre escorting her, king or not. He’d only turn the event into something advantageous to himself.
But Wycke lost the battle, taking his place on the side of the chapel reserved for Saris’s family—alone. Even the family of dwarves seated on the same side avoided him. Fairies flitted past, their giggles reminding him of chirping birds.
Flowers hung from the rafters, intertwined with vines. A fair bit of magic tinged the air, glittering among the ribbons.
Saris’s big day. Most in attendance didn’t care for their king making a bond pledge to a foreigner, though she’d been nothing but kind. To those who deserved kindness. The rest? Not so much.
Several in attendance wore their hair tied back to display pointed ears, a boast of their elven heritage. However, most pureblood elves lost their lives in the war. Or so Wycke had been told. He tried not to gawk. Magical folk didn’t often appear in these parts.
Blue-robed mages stood at the room's rear, austere faces out of place at a happy occasion. They’d probably worn those frowns while using magic to grow the decorations.
While King Broen had lost both his parents, a circumstance he shared with Saris, there was no end to the nobles vying for seats of honor at this event. His side of the chapel filled to bursting, with many standing behind the seating. A few eventually took seats on Saris’s side of the aisle, but far from Wycke. No, mustn’t sully their reputations, even if they stole those places to see and be seen.
Between Broen and Radre, someone should’ve arranged for the chairs to be filled. Where were the ladies Saris brought with her from Myrgren? Wycke had spent the better part of a day helping her create an invite list.
He narrowed his eyes. Had the event planners chosen to show their true feelings by making the new queen appear abandoned? Had they conveniently forgotten or misplaced Saris’s invitations?
Light-colored local stones formed the ancient chapel wing of the palace, instead of marble imported from a neighboring, conquered kingdom used to build the much-newer palace. Wycke didn’t know the names of the deities carved into the stone. The mountain folk prayed to ancestors to meet their needs instead of gods. Though, in times of battle, they hadn’t been too particular.