Davinya had to help the still-struggling Filliya into her dress. It was a low-cut green dress that showed more of her breasts than either of them was comfortable with. Of course, Alfyn had chosen it. This was a suitor’s ball, after all, and he wanted his sister to look her best.

  Davinya suspected the filthy little king had chosen it so he could leer at her. It was disgusting, but some small prices had to be paid to ensure her sister’s safety. She would be gone soon, far out of his reach. Then Davinya could proceed with the next part of her plan: convincing Alfyn he was still in control while, in reality, just doing her bidding.

  “I don’t want to get married!” Filliya said. “I don’t even want to be a princess anymore—”

  Davinya squeezed the bodice tighter than she needed to. Filliya’s protests were cut off with a grunt.

  “Look around you, you stupid little girl,” Davinya said. “Father is dead. Wolfryn is dead. Ulfnar is missing and we can only assume he is also dead. Less than a month ago, you were knocking on death’s door yourself. Who do you think is responsible for that? Marriage is the only way to get you safely out of the palace.”

  “I don’t understand why I can’t just go with Yowen.” Filliya’s eyes filled with tears at the mention of her lost older brother. They had been close, and she’d had a lot of trouble coping with the idea that Ulfnar might be dead.

  “Aeolwyn is our brother’s number one enemy. Do you think you’d be any safer with him than you would here? Besides, he’s up and vanished too, now that Alfyn has taken Fort Camulan back from him. Now no more complaining. It’s time to go out and meet your suitors.”

  Filliya moaned and grunted but did as she was bid. Davinya was able to lace up the bodice and tie it off. Filliya wasn’t a little girl anymore. She had grown into a young woman whose beauty and relationship to the Camulani throne would make any suitor happy.

  They both left her room, and made their way to the Little Ballroom, which, while not as big as the ballroom they used for the King’s Ball, was as extravagant as any room in the house. Gilded statues lined the walls, with elaborate carvings and tapestries between them. The floor was well polished wood and left open to allow dancing. Sometimes, their father would host small state dinners here when there weren’t too many guests. Others were done in the massive main ballroom.

  Lord Smyton had the servants bring three very comfortable chairs which were set up on an elevated platform in the back where the musicians usually played. Alfyn was seated in the center chair speaking quietly with Count Braxus, Jor Wiret, and a very dark man dressed entirely in red. He wore a red fur-lined cloak, a red doublet embroidered with gold, red stockings, and a red codpiece. It wasn’t as large as the one Alfyn was wearing, but it still wasn’t appropriate considering the situation.

  That was Viscount Siryn, the Tambrynese son of Earl Ygronne. While he was a promising suitor that Alfyn favored, his nation wasn’t far enough away from Teorton for Davinya’s comfort. She favored Prince Rottrem of Fortru, who, unlike Lord Siryn, was dressed plainly in an unembroidered, but well-cut coat of yellow, and plain brown pants. The only ornamentation he had was the extravagantly jeweled sword at his hip.

  Beside him was Countess Braxus, who seemed overly interested in his conversation. Davinya had bristled when Alfyn invited the count and countess, but the king insisted on it. They were still desperately looking for a suitor for their daughter Tyrina, and he thought she would be a nice consolation prize for one of the losing suitors.

  She was sure that it would come with an extremely large donation to the Royal Treasury from both sides if a match was made. Never mind what Tyrina wanted. That little girl was even younger than Filliya, and her parents were already shopping for a husband for her.

  Lord Smyton greeted them at the door. He bowed in front of them, giving Filliya a quick wink. Then he led them into the room, before banging his large stick on the ground twice to get everyone’s attention.

  “The Princesses Davinya and Filliya!” he announced.

  All the conversation ceased and everyone in the room turned and faced the two of them. Davinya could feel Filliya’s arms shaking. Davinya grabbed her sister’s arm and gently pulled her into the room.

  “Just keep your eyes on Alfyn,” she whispered as they slowly walked.

  There were two other suitors here somewhere, but she couldn’t pick them out among the members of the retinues and servants. The Fennish Baron Twifden was supposed to be here, as well as Harald, the son of the Jarl of Tyrholm Isle. Lord Smyton was sure to announce them as they were brought up to meet Filliya and Alfyn.

  “May I present Siryn, the Viscount Ygronne,” Lord Smyton said when they reached the chairs. The black man smiled graciously and held up both hands, showing the palms and the backs, before bowing. He then took Filliya’s hand and brought it gently to his lips.

  “It is my great honor to meet you, Your Highness,” he said.

  Davinya suddenly found herself taken with this man. He was charming, and strikingly good-looking. He had a strong, chiseled jaw, and short, tightly curled hair. If he wasn’t suitable for Filliya, perhaps she could take him to her bed—not that Alfyn would allow such a thing.

  Filliya curtseyed slightly. Not too much, as she was still a princess and he a viscount. Even after he inherited his father’s rank of baron, she would still technically outrank him. Not that that would matter much in Tambryne, where technically she would outrank Archduke Rovaielle.

  He turned his smile to Davinya, and she felt herself swoon. “You as well, Your Highness,” he said.

  She resisted the urge to leap into his arms right then and there and forced herself to smile back and give him a tight nod. My, but he is beautiful. She shook the thoughts out of her head, and took a seat to the right of Alfyn, while Filliya took the one to his left.

  Once they were comfortably seated, a dirty, lecherous old man came up and bowed. He was balding, overweight, and had a prominent wart on his forehead. He seemed unable to close his mouth, and a slight ring of spittle surrounded his lips. He glared entirely too long at hers and Filliya’s breasts.

  “May I present The Baron Twifden of Fennland,” Smyton said.

  This was the Baron? No wonder Davinya didn’t recognize him. She didn’t expect a disgusting old grandfather to be one of the suitors. How had Alfyn not known? He was a totally inappropriate match for their sister.

  She watched as Filliya tried to shrink away from him. He reached out to take her sister’s hand, but she put them under her lap and sat on them instead. Davinya didn’t blame her. She wouldn’t have wanted to let him touch her either.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness,” he said. His voice was thin and raspy, and he had to take extra breaths between every word.

  “Baron, what could you offer the princess that would make us believe you’re an appropriate match for her?” Davinya asked. “Surely not children.”

  He chuckled, spraying his lip spittle all over Filliya’s face. She recoiled in horror. Unwilling to free her arms, she tried to wipe the spit from her face by rubbing her nose on her dress, which had the effect of exposing more of her decolletage than was appropriate.

  “You’d be surprised at my virility, Your Highness,” he said as he leered down Filliya’s dress. “And without heirs, producing one will be the first thing on my mind.”

  The thought of him trying to impregnate her sister made her ill. She felt bile rising in her throat that she fought down. As much as she would revel in vomiting all over this disgusting pervert of a man, she suspected Alfyn didn’t share her sentiments.

  “The Baron is quite wealthy,” the king said. “He has a large number of men-at-arms that he’d be willing to lend us and has no love for King Drahius.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “He’s revolting,” Filliya said.

  “I think he’s charming,” Alfyn replied.

  Prince Rottrem pushed the elder Baron aside, blocking the lecher’s view of her sister’s assets with his body. He was tall and thin, and looked to be about Aeolwyn’s age. He stood before her, resting on a back leg, and gave her a lopsided grin. It would have been cute, except that he was quite ugly. His nose was bent at an odd angle, as though it hadn’t been properly reset after a tavern brawl, and with one lazy eye, she wasn’t sure exactly where he was looking.

  “Greetings, Your Highness,” he said in a silky-smooth voice, not unlike their brother Ulfnar. “I hope that lecherous old man didn’t turn your stomach too much.”

  “Prince Rottrem of Fortru,” Smyton said, his tone thick with annoyance.

  Filliya giggled and offered him her hand. He took it coolly and pressed it to his lips. “I am ever at your service, Your Highness.”

  The way her eyes lit up at such an ugly young man fascinated Davinya, but she could understand. His charming, cocksure mannerisms were reminiscent of their brother Ulfnar, who was the only family member who really ‘got’ Filliya. He was her only real friend and protector. After he’d left, she’d sunk into a deep depression, until Alfyn started poisoning her, that was.

  Rottrem turned to the king. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace,” he said. He bowed, giving Alfyn the same lopsided grin he had given Filliya. “And you, Princess Davinya. My father is certain that this match would be but a first step towards an alliance between our two kingdoms.”

  Alfyn lit up at the mention of an alliance. Being that Fotru was the kingdom just to the north of the elves of Wickshire, having an ally on their other border would be extremely valuable. That in and of itself would be much more useful to Alfyn and anything the other suitors could provide.

  “I look forward to discussing it at length, Prince Rottrem,” Alfyn said.

  Despite his ugliness, he was Davinya’s favorite. He was the furthest away from Teorton, he provided the best benefit for Alfyn, and he was of a rank with Filliya. As a princess, she outranked every one of the other suitors.

  “As do I,” Rottrem said before turning to Filliya. “Until next time, Princess.” He bowed and gave her a quick wink.

  “Meet me on the veranda later?” She said suddenly.

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” He turned and faded back into the crowd of courtesans, only to be replaced by one of the Nordenlanders. He was a stocky fellow with long hair and a long beard. He was dressed in rough-hewn leather and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a few days.

  “May I present Harald, son of Jarl Uffa of Tyrholm Isle,” Lord Smyton said quickly, before the sloppily dressed man could present himself to Filliya.

  “Hullo,” the man said gruffly, not bothering to bow, take her hand, or use her appropriate title.

  “And what can you provide for us?” Filliya said, frowning. She, like Davinya, was not impressed with this man’s rudeness. While Nordenland was the kingdom furthest away from Camulan, and therefore the safest, not much was known about them or their culture. With the Stormdren Mountains providing a menacing barrier between their kingdom and the rest of Laryndor, trade was almost nonexistent.

  “Hardship and cold, mostly,” he said. “Tyrholm Isle is not a place for the weak. But you won’t have to dress up and pretend you like these fools.” He gestured to the rest of the courtesans and servants.

  “Thank you, Harald,” Alfyn said. “We will keep you under consideration.”

  “Hrmph.” Harald turned and walked away, swiping the drink straight from Baron Twifden’s hand and swallowing it in one gulp, before handing it back to the old man. Shocked, the baron took it before he even realized what had happened.

  “Are there any others?” Filliya asked.

  “No,” Davinya said.

  “Good. I’ve met them all. Can I go now?” She started to get up from her chair. This much interaction was more than her poor sister had had since recovering from her illness. Davinya didn’t blame her for wanting to leave.

  “No,” Alfyn said. “Meeting them was only the first step. Now you must mingle.”

  Davinya sighed. It was going to be a difficult night for her sister.

  ***

  King Drahius was in a good mood. He had made a deal with the elves for mutual aid that was written to benefit him more than the elves, and soon the Camulani army that had invaded his territory would be destroyed. He eagerly awaited word from General Fliree that he was victorious.

  Some had said that hosting a celebratory joust was premature, but with the weather already turning cold, he didn’t want to wait. No one would come to a joust held in the middle of winter, no matter how much the king ordered it.

  So, he hosted it early before the ground was frozen and it was too cold to even go outside.

  Though it was cold, the pavilion he was in was warmed by a large brazier in the center. They made sure to not put it too close to him—he didn’t want to be too hot. Just enough to be able to enjoy the battle.

  Today was the competition of the swords. In this category, swordsmen from all over the nation had come to test their mettle against the best swordsmen Fennland had to offer. It could be rough and bloody—and deadly at times—but the rewards for the victor were great. This year’s prize was a sword and shield crafted by the best smiths in Fenn Castle. It was an expensive reward, but Drahius felt such a prize was worth the price.

  The field was becoming a muddy, bloody mess. It was a large rectangular area marked off by wooden barricades on all sides. The last surviving combatants were bashing it out for the king’s reward. The favorite was Sir Yoham of Shatham, one of the most celebrated knights of Fennland. The other was his son, Fillem.

  Though Sir Yoham was the favorite, Drahius had already put a wager on his son.

  Yoham was an absolute beast. Both in size and skill. What he lacked in finesse he made up for in raw power. He’d reached the final bout just by bashing all the other competitors into submission. While Fillem was large and muscular, Yoham made him look like a scullion maid.

  But he was quicker on his feet than the older knight. When Yoham’s huge sword tried to come crashing down on Fillem’s head, he’d just duck, scurry out of the way, and swat the other knight on his rear as he went.

  This only served to enrage Yoham, something Fillem delighted in. His son was already scoring many more hits against his opponent than Yoham was scoring, much to the chagrin of the spectators who had bet that he would beat the king’s son.

  Not that Yoham would be holding back. This was an honest competition, and Fillem knew the risks. Drahius had already issued a proclamation that no one was to take it easy on his son. If he discovered that Yoham had been going light on him, that would be a quick death for the rugged old warrior.

  “Your son is excellent, Your Grace,” Traxxus the elf said next to him. Since the signing of the treaty, the ambassador and he had become close allies. Drahius was considering adding him to his council as a way to maintain contact and have quick access to his elvish allies.

  He realized, of course, that Traxxus had undoubtedly been ordered to get closer to the king and pass on whatever information he could to his superiors. That was one reason he was hesitant to actually make him a council member. He wasn’t sure how much he could trust the elves.

  A hard sword blow crashed onto Fillem’s shield, sending his son flying to the dirt. His boy shook off a blow that would have killed other men and quickly rolled to his feet before Yoham could strike again.

  His son dodged another blow and snuck a strong blow around his opponent’s shield, battering him hard across the chest. The knight’s armor protected him from the slash, but he still stumbled back. Fillem pressed his advantage and thrust the pommel of his sword up and right into Yoham’s exposed chin.

  The helmet he wore was unprotected that low and the contact sent the knight to the earth. He rolled away from a third slash by Fillem before getting to his feet, albeit less gracefully than his son had done.

  Sir Yoham charged again, swinging his sword with all his might at Fillem’s head. The younger prince ducked under the blow and brought his sword up to make contact in the softer area of the arm between the knight’s vambrace and rerebrace. The chainmail worn in the gap protected Yoham’s elbow from being cut through, but it didn’t stop the bones from breaking with a sickening crunch.

  Yoham cried out, stumbled, and fell, shield, sword, and helmet going flying as he reached out and cradled his broken sword hand. Fillem stepped forward, pointing his sword at the man’s throat.

  “I yield, good knight,” Yoham said through gritted teeth.

  The assembled crowd roared their approval, King Drahius included. By winning this battle, his son had earned great respect and valor. By defeating the best knight in the realm, he had proved himself to be Fennland’s greatest knight.

  Both knights bowed before the king as a servant handed Drahius the prized sword and shield.

  “A mighty battle fought by the two best swordsmen in the kingdom!” he said.

  Just then Lord Avaris came scurrying into the pavilion. The servant tried to wave him off, but Avaris shoved him away, nearly sending the poor servant into the flaming brazier.

  “Your Grace!” he cried. “News from the battlefield at Velaney!”

  Drahius smiled. “What great timing, Lord Avaris,” he said loud enough for the assemblage to hear. “News of Camulan’s defeat just as I am about to present the victor his prize.”

  “Your Grace,” Avaris said in a softer tone. He went to one knee and bowed his head. “General Fliree’s army has been beaten, and the Camulani army still marches on the castle.”

  Drahius threw the sword and shield down. They struck the barrier and tumbled, each landing at the foot of the two knights. “What?”

  “The reports say that it was the Boy General. He crushed Fliree’s army and sent them running in all directions.”

  This was a disaster. The Fields of Velaney were less than a week’s march from the capital. They had no time to wait. If Prince Aeolwyn sent his men in a hurry, he could sneak men in to open the gates, eliminating the need for a siege.

  “Bar the gates immediately,” Drahius said. “Call up the fyrd. Retrieve General Fisborne from the dungeons and send him to gather as many of the scattered soldiers as possible. Find Fliree at all costs.” He turned to Traxxus. “It appears we are in need of your aid sooner than either of us believed.”

  “So it seems,” Traxxus replied. “I will send word immediately.”

  He turned to the two knights before him. “I am afraid your celebration will be cut short. Send word to all the assembled knights to be inside the castle walls by dark. Bring your best arms and armor. A battle is on the horizon, and we need to be ready.”

  How could a boy have so handily defeated one of his best generals? It was impossible. It had to be their new secret magical weapon. That was the only explanation. His only hope now was that they had enough food stores to last them through the siege and winter.