The Princess's Servant

8. The Princes

Eight nobles lived within half-a-day's ride of the palace. Six of them were of marrying age, and of these six, four of them were hadn't killed a previous wife. These were the men who stood before the princess.

There was John, a domestic duke who'd come in earnest to seek the princess's hand. He had gleaming armor and a sword at his hip, but Sybil wasn't entirely sure they didn't share a common grandparent, judging by his curling blonde hair and gleaming blue eyes.

There was Edmund, a sea prince, who's vast territories lay to the west. Edmund had been a kind man when last they met, but Sybil was nearly certain this was not the same man. She didn't remember an eyepatch, or a peg leg, or the stench of alcoholism and death. And she was very certain she didn't remember a scraggly peppered beard that suggested an age much older than twenty. "Edmund" took a swig from his glass bottle and winked (blinked?) at her. The princess sighed.

There was Garg, the Kalmer prince. The Kalmer were the people that lived in the Southeastern woods, surviving off the land. They called themselves the Still-Free Folk, but Sybil understood that really meant 'barbarian.' Garg himself was easily twice the size of the first man, and perhaps thrice the size of the second. He wore no clothes save a loincloth, which— Sybil squinted — was the color of her flag. Nay, it was her flag! She had heard a ripping sound from her bedroom window earlier. Had that been...? She shook the thought from her mind and tried to stay focused. She swallowed a nauseous feeling.

The final noble was one that the princess didn't recognize. His attendant had declared him the "last heir to Draconia," and then had run off in a hurry. He was a sickly man, with dark sunken eyes and skin so pale Sybil wondered if she could see through it. The princess couldn't explain why, but she felt there was something magnetic about him. Something that told Sybil that they were one and the same — though he hadn't spoken a word.

With all suitors in place, the princess took a seat on the steps. Marcus went to her side and Holden (who now knew better than to stray more than a few feet from the guard) followed as well. There was but one noble missing now, Sybil thought. The guest of honor.

Footsteps approached the double doors and Sybil eyebrows raised. The doors parted and a familiar face was revealed.

"A word, Sybbie?" Her father called. He crossed the velvet floor, excused himself past the barbarian and led his daughter to the oaken side doors on the cobblestone wall. He parted the doors for her and allowed her and her servants through before shutting them behind her.

He turned to her in the candle-dark hall. "What in the seven hells is going on, Bee? Who are all those people?"

"They're dignitaries," she said, her posture straightening. "Suitors. They're competing for my hand."

"And the Wardian prince— Has he arrived yet?"

"No," the princess said, an edge in her tone. "But he's coming. The man's obsessed with me. I'm sure he'll leap at the chance to prove his worthiness, or whatever. You know how men are."

Holden's face went dull. Something moved in the king's eyes as he held his hands close, almost like he was expecting an attack.

"Yes, well," the king cleared his throat. "Sometimes men like the opposite of a challenge," he said. "Sometimes they like to be handed the thing they want without a fight, and win by showing up. So perhaps it's best you send the children home and pursue the superior candidate first."

Sybil's fingers tucked into fists and her fine lashes lowered across her gleaming eyes. "They're staying," she said. "If Prince Holden wants me so desperately, he can come and get me. I refuse to marry someone who won't so much as put up a fight."

The king's hands unwound and lowered to his side. He drew a breath into his round belly, and let it out from his chest. "Sybbie," he said. "You know I want what's best for you. So believe me when I tell you that the Wardian prince is what's best. He's well above your station. He's wealthy beyond compare. And if those letters are evidence of anything, he already loves you dearly. Please give him a chance, if only for my sake?"

The princess thought for a moment in that dark hall, her head bowed; her hands still balled. "Fine," she said at last.

Her father exhaled a breath and smiled.

"I'll give him a chance— to treat me like a person," she said. "And when he fails miserably, I'll pick any other noble on this entire continent and be better off for it. Now goodbye, father," she said, turning from the man. "I have work to do."

"Sybbie," the king protested with a frown.

"Goodbye!" She waved her hand up and gestured down the hall.

The king hung his head and sauntered off like a beaten dog. The princess, the guard, and the prince watched as the king's wide frame flickered with the candlelight into darkness. The princess twisted her lips and her shoulders slunk as she turned to face the doors.

Her servant faced her. "I thought you were betrothed to the prince," Holden said.

The princess looked at him as though he'd called her a dirty peasant who smelled like dirt. "Why would you think that?" She asked.

Because your mother promised you to me with your father as our witness, Holden thought. But the prince only gave a little shrug and stared back at her with that air of blankness he was beginning to perfect. "It's the word on the street in my empire," he told her.

The princess continued to stare at him but said nothing. She shook her head as she moved her gaze from him to the doors, and she pushed both aside. The guard and Holden trailed behind her. He thought about this strange reply and if there was a chance she knew who he was. If perhaps all of this was some great ruse to convince him not to marry her. It seemed more likely than her having no knowledge of her own betroval. But there were too many random instances, like meeting at the tavern, for that to be the case. A man could dream, he supposed.

When Sybil entered the room, the three non-Draconian suitors seemed eager to get her attention. But as they approached, she held up her hand to them.

"The contest begins now," she said. "And while we wait on our honored guest..." The princess turned to Holden. "You will take his place."

"Me?" He asked. He blinked a few times. "I thought I was to be your whipping boy," he said.

"You'll be both," she returned, her tone falling flat. She nodded to her guard, who moved Holden to the crowd of suitors. His modest clothes stood out among the garments of princes. Except for "Edward's" clothes, of course. Holden thought those looked a little more like what the tavern drunks were wearing than the garments of princes.

"Can't I at least be one or the other?" He asked. "If I am to play your honored guest, can I not at least be treated as such?"

"Marcus," The princess said, and her guard nodded once. She walked up to Holden, shoulders broad and slapped him once across the back. The blow was hard enough to send him to his knees and knock the wind from him. He heaved on the floor.

The princess nodded to the suitors. "Any other questions?" She asked.

The four looked to Holden, and then to her. No one chose to speak.

"Very well," she said. "Now we start."