Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles Book 1) (14 page)

“Miss Jasminda, this way, please,” he said, and led her deeper into the dining room. She followed his straight back, walking carefully in her delicate gold slippers. A four-piece string ensemble sat in the corner playing muted orchestral music. Three enormous U-shaped tables took up the majority of the room, with seating around the sides and a wide space for the servants to come and go in the middle. The end of the center table faced a slightly raised dais on which stood a smaller table. She surmised that must be where the Prince Regent sat. The space was magnificent—more carvings of the Lord and Lady adorned the tops of each window and the ceiling was a grid of carved stone. Around each table sat several dozen people, all watching her. Conversations restarted, but their stares drilled into her as the butler led her to a setting only two metres away from the dais.

She was seated next to a posh woman in an elaborate, feathered hat, her snakelike figure poured into a silken black sheath dress. Directly across from Jasminda, an old man with a hearing cone pressed to one ear and thick spectacles leaned toward the man to his right, complaining loudly of the noise. Each wore a mourning mirror. The most ostentatious display was from an older gentleman farther down the table whose mirror was affixed to his eye patch.

Jasminda fought the urge to squirm as the gazes of so many in the room raked over her, not bothering to hide their inquisitiveness. Her glass was filled by a passing waiter, and she grabbed at it, gulping greedily to soothe the sudden ache in her throat. The hall quieted again, and Jasminda turned to see what had captured everyone’s attention this time.

A hidden door built into the wall behind the dais had opened. A group of guards in the fancy black uniforms emerged, then flanked the door. Chairs groaned across the floor as everyone at the tables stood, almost as one. Jasminda raced to catch up.

The same man who announced her stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Jaqros Edvard Alliaseen, High Commander of the Royal Army, First Duke of Cavill, and Prince Regent of Elsira.”

The servant slid away, and Jasminda’s heart dissolved into a pool of liquid at her feet. Directly in front of her, in full regalia, stood Jack.

She had thought
him beautiful in dirty fatigues and covered in bruises and blood, but in his royal uniform and freshly trimmed hair, he was nothing short of divine. The spark of hope she’d held inside, the one she’d foolishly allowed to grow into a tiny flame, flickered then snuffed itself out completely.

Jack—
Prince
Jack—sat stiffly at the raised table mere steps away from her. His face was a rigid mask. He looked straight ahead, acknowledging no one.

The head butler was speaking again, making announcements about the dinner, the soup, the ingredients, but Jasminda’s attention was wholly focused on the man in front of her.

Gone was the ragged creature she’d discovered on the mountain and thought mad, the bruised and bloodied soldier who had sacrificed himself to try to protect a woman he didn’t know. A woman who could have been his enemy. When did he become this statue sitting before her, neither warrior nor poet, but prince?

The coronation must have happened as soon as he’d arrived in the palace, but even more than the shock at his new position, she couldn’t believe how his whole nature seemed to have transformed. The light in his eyes that had withstood capture, gunshot, and beatings was now dimmed.

The kindly butler approached and cleared his throat politely, placing his hands on her chair. She pulled her attention away from Jack to find that she was the only one still standing. As every eye in the room, except Jack’s, bored into her, she took her seat as gracefully as possible, smoothing her dress and thanking the butler in a trembling voice as he slid in her chair.

Her hands shook. She flattened them on the table, imprinting the grooves of the wood onto her palm. Anger flared hot for a moment, then melted just as suddenly into despair. Neither emotion would help her. She was lost in an unforgiving sea. There was no way to escape the glares from around the room, and the one person who had given her comfort during these past days of upheaval was now a stranger to her.

Tears threatened, and she used every trick she could to hold them back, resorting to digging her nails into the inside of her elbow until she could focus on the external pain a little more than the internal.

The first course began, and chatter resumed around the room. The soup set before her was completely foreign. The stunning silverware of her place setting offered four spoons. Jasminda took a deep breath and clasped her hands together, darting glances around the table. The woman next to her had already chosen a spoon, and Jasminda couldn’t see from her position which one it had been.

She didn’t want to make a misstep. Jack had invited her here, whatever his reasons were, whoever he was now, and she was determined to get through this meal with as much dignity as she could muster. She buried her shock and dismay, replacing it with determination. If she was the only
grol
these snooty city folk ever encountered, she wasn’t going to give them any more fuel for their fire of scorn.

Jack filled her peripheral vision, but she refused to look at him again. He cleared his throat, then did so again a few moments later. A waiter hurried to tend to his water glass, but he brushed the man aside. The third time he cleared his throat she snapped her head toward him, narrowing her eyes and clenching her jaw against the swarm of emotion rising inside her.

He slowly drew his hand down and selected the second spoon from the left, all the time staring down at his bowl. At her place setting, she chose the same spoon. The woman next to her tilted her bowl toward her body, then shoveled the spoon in the opposite direction before bringing it to her mouth.

Jasminda glanced back at Jack as he slowly, slowly ate his soup in the same way. She copied his movements, happy to get something in her stomach. She had slept all day and hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. Dinner went on like this, course after course. She would be presented with some new obstacle—bread, salad, three entrées—and Jack would model the behavior for her.

The Prince Regent—she vowed to stop being so familiar with him, even in her head—did not speak to anyone during dinner, and this appeared to be taken as normal by those present. It made her feel better that she would not have to talk to him. Just hearing his voice would make it that much harder to mend the gaping hole inside her.

Blessedly, after what felt like hours, dinner finally ended. The last dessert dishes were cleared away by the staff, and the various characters at the table patted their bellies obnoxiously. Jasminda had never eaten so much food at one time in her life. Guiltily, she thought of the refugees. What rations had they been provided? Her meal sank like lead in her stomach.

The company rose from the table and, just when she thought there would be a reprieve from the unrelenting pressure of the evening, the butlers ushered everyone into a huge adjoining sitting room. Small groups split off and clustered around settees or card tables, chatting amiably. Jack was nowhere to be seen. Jasminda stood alone next to the massive fireplace, enduring the uncomfortable heat.

Glances sent her way ranged from mere curiosity to outright contempt. Her back remained straight and head high, but inside, she was wilting.

A girl about her age approached the other end of the fireplace, setting a glass on the mantle. She stood for a moment peering at the flames before approaching Jasminda. Slender and beautiful, she wore a peach-and-gold dress that made her skin appear to glow. Amber eyes the color of her hair appraised Jasminda, not unkindly.

“These things are positively awful.”

Jasminda stared at her, unsure of the girl’s intentions.

“I’m Lizvette.” She held out her hands.

“Jasminda,” she responded, placing her palms to Lizvette’s and pressing gently.

“Welcome. I’m told you’re responsible for saving the life of our new prince.” Lizvette’s friendly smile seemed genuine, but Jasminda did not dare attempt a connection to Earthsong to determine her true intentions. She scanned the room to find they had attracted a great deal of attention.

“I did save him once, or perhaps twice. But I cannot take credit for the last time.”

“Our Jack, always getting into trouble.” Lizvette smiled sadly.

“You are . . . friends with the Prince Regent?”

Her smile changed, though Jasminda could not determine precisely what was different about it. It was bleaker, perhaps. “I was betrothed to his brother.”

“May he find serenity in the World After,” Jasminda responded, bowing her head. Lizvette repeated the blessing. Jasminda considered the girl’s dress more closely. What she’d initially thought was shiny gold beading were actually dozens of mirrors embroidered into the material. A conspicuous show of grief that seemed at odds with Lizvette’s unassuming manner.

There were not enough mirrors in the world to adequately represent everything Jasminda mourned. So many lives gone, so many could-have-beens. She’d thought she’d gained something after all of that loss—a chance at a kind of happiness she hadn’t imagined possible. Now that was gone, too.

An exceptionally tall young man stalked toward them, his face contorted in indignation. She could read his intention quite clearly without Earthsong and took a step backward. Lizvette followed Jasminda’s gaze and turned to face him. He took hold of Lizvette’s elbow and leaned down to whisper loudly in her ear.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m greeting our visitor, Zavros. She is the Prince Regent’s guest. Jasminda, this is my cousin—”

“It’s time to go, Lizvette. You’re keeping your father waiting.”

She smiled apologetically at Jasminda. “It was lovely meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon. May She bless your dreams.”

Jasminda repeated the farewell and stood rigidly as Lizvette was towed away to a card table in the back. The blazing fire had grown unbearable, and the perimeter around her was a quarantine zone. What a surprise not to be the belle of the ball. With a final glance about the room, in which she refused to admit she was searching for Jack, she slipped out the door.

Thick silence draped the empty hallway; each direction stretched on identically. She had absolutely no idea how to get back to her rooms. With no orientation or memory of the route she’d taken to get to the dining room, she took a few tentative steps to the left before a voice halted her progress.

“Leaving?”

She turned to find Jack standing behind her, regal and gorgeous. He was so close, but now untouchable. She hardened her features, not looking directly at him, not wanting to give away the storm of emotions fighting for dominance within her. Her fists clenched and opened as her body stiffened with tension. Traitorous tears welled; she blinked them back.

“I’m not sure if I should bow or curtsy or what,” she said, gripping her hands in front of her to stop their movement.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said, voice pitched low. “I wanted to. I should have. It’s inexcusable, I just . . .”

She longed to hear an excuse that would satisfy her and return things to the way they were. No words came. He shook his head and rubbed at his chest, just below his collarbone where his bullet wound had been.

“Jasminda.” He stepped closer, and she took a step back.

“That wound was healed. Does it still bother you?”

He dropped his hand to his side and drew even closer, backing her against the wall. She stared at the carpet, but he tilted her face up with a finger on her chin. Wanting to numb herself to the feeling of his skin on hers, she refused to meet his eyes and focused instead on his chest, covered in rich-looking fabric with brightly colored insignias on his uniform. He released her chin, but she stubbornly continued avoiding his face.

“Jasminda,” he repeated. Her name on his lips was more than she could bear. “If I could change who I am, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You deserved the truth. I owed you that much.”

“You can have no debt to me. I helped a captive soldier, not a prince.” As much as she tried to avoid it, she was drawn to him. Perhaps this was the last time she’d be this close to him. The tears escaped; she could not stop them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I have urgent business in my room that needs attending to. Pleasant evening.”

She slid out of the cage of his body and gave a wobbly curtsy before picking up her beautiful skirt and running. When one hallway ended, she picked another at random. She had no idea where she was going, but she’d rather be lost in the palace for a thousand years than see Prince Jack again.

Blinded by her tears, she finally stopped in a blue hallway full of mirrors. She leaned against a little table but refused to look at her face, ashamed of her reaction to him. He could no longer be Jack. He could no longer be her hope. He could be nothing to her at all.

“
One of the
maids escorted her to her chambers,” Usher said, entering the dimly lit space. Jack paused mid-step from where he’d been pacing the floor of his sitting room, only half listening to the evening news.

“Thank you, Usher. Make sure she has a servant assigned to her at all times so she doesn’t become lost again.”

The old man nodded.

“But don’t let her know that I ordered it. I don’t think she would like that.”

To his credit, Usher didn’t even raise an eyebrow. The valet had been with Jack’s family since before he was born. The old man’s kindly face was a warmer, more familiar sight than his own father’s had been. Jack switched off the radiophonic, silencing the newsreader mid-sentence, then fell into an armchair in front of the fireplace. He could not begrudge Jasminda her anger and pain. It had been inexcusable for him to keep the truth from her.

But each chance he’d had to tell her—that night at the base, or the morning before they’d left for Rosira when he could have found a quiet place to explain—he’d avoided it. Reality was coming faster than he had wanted, and he’d been certain he could outpace it.

But one of the reasons he’d always hated the palace was that his time was not his own here. Even more so now that he was the bloody Prince Regent. His return had been chaotic, with the secret coronation last night and then a flurry of briefings. The bulk of the armed forces had been ordered to the eastern border in preparation for the breach, which could come any day. And a troop buildup such as this required the Council to approve the additional funds, but they had refused to meet until tomorrow.

Aside from the pending disaster with Lagrimar, he’d had calls with the leaders of their allies, Fremia and Yaly, letters to read and sign, introductions to staff and security personnel to make. He’d hardly looked up when he was being called for dinner, and then it was too late.

He’d been a fool, and worse, a cowardly one. His desire to put off any change to the way she saw him had won out over his good sense, and Jasminda had suffered. The weight of the crown threatened to press him down into the earth.

He’d never wanted to be the prince as a child, never envied his brother for being born a decade earlier. He hadn’t even wanted the title he’d been born to, High Commander of the Royal Army, but he’d had little choice and been shipped away at eight years old to begin his training. Eventually, he grew used to military life, but the world of the palace remained as foreign as ever. All the politics and backstabbing, coddling and smiling were just not a part of who he was. He hadn’t wanted to admit to Jasminda what he didn’t like to think of himself: he would now be chained to position and ceremony for the rest of his life.

But her expression as she’d stood in the dining hall, the devastation marring her beautiful face, made him feel like a villain. It gutted him. The guilt and shame weighed more than the crown.

Somehow, he could not keep the women in his life from hating him.

“Has word been sent to my mother?”

“Yes, sir. But it may be some time before she receives the message.”

The last he’d heard, his mother was cloistered in a jungle sanctuary, hours from the nearest Fremian city. “She finally has her wish—her son is the Prince Regent. Too late to do her any good.”