Chapter 1 of 1·6 min read·One day, from morning fittings to evening preparations
A Sword at the Door
The dressmaker had pinned my sleeve to my skin when Lord Merrow announced that I would be leaving for the border castle.
“Not that way,” I said, holding still while the woman eased a needle free. “You have caught me.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Highness.” The dressmaker’s hands trembled. Lord Merrow continued as if neither of us had spoken.
“Her Highness will travel with a reduced household. The Aurelion party has asked that the meeting remain discreet. The king agrees that a show of force would be unhelpful.”
I watched my reflection in the tall mirror. A pale satin bodice, a half-finished wedding sleeve, three attendants, one diplomat, and a princess who had apparently become a matter of scheduling. The wedding was a month away. Every day, someone found a new way to measure me for it.
“Asked whom?” I said.
Lord Merrow’s gaze moved from my reflection to the dressmaker. “The Aurelion delegation.”
“Then I suggest you tell them I am not a parcel to be delivered discreetly.”
The dressmaker lowered her eyes. Lord Merrow gave me the patient look he used when he wished to remind me that I was young without saying so aloud.
“The border castle is neutral ground. The king believes your presence will reassure Prince Cedric and his advisers.”
“My presence, or the sight of me arriving in bridal silk?”
He did not answer. The silence was a kind of answer, though not one I cared for.
My father had sent for me before breakfast. Since then, I had been fitted for a wedding dress, briefed on three versions of the peace negotiations, and informed that the border castle’s east wing was being prepared for me. No one had yet told me what I was expected to say when I got there. They had discussed my arrival, my dress, and the political impression I would make. The words “I want” had not once appeared in the conversation.
I turned from the mirror. “What is the purpose of my visit?”
“To continue the negotiations.”
“Which point?”
Lord Merrow straightened the papers in his hand. “The details of the alliance.”
“That is not a point. It is a landscape.”
A knock sounded at the door. The captain of the guard entered, followed by a man in a dark travel coat. He wore no polished insignia. His sword was plain, his boots worn, and his face composed in the way of someone who had learned that an expression could be mistaken for a promise.
Next
At dawn, Elara and Rowan will take the exposed road to the border castle, where she can read the incomplete treaty and discover what its omissions are hiding.
“Your Highness,” the captain said. “This is Rowan Ashford. He has been assigned to your escort.”
I knew the name. Everyone at court knew it, though they disagreed about what it meant. The king’s finest knight, once. An exile, now. A man who had refused an order and lost his title for it. The details changed depending on who was telling the story, which usually meant the truth was inconvenient to somebody.
Rowan bowed. It was correct, brief, and not particularly warm.
Lord Merrow looked him over. “You may leave your sword with the guard. Her Highness is among friends.”
Rowan glanced at the captain, then at the doorway behind him. “No.”
The word landed cleanly. Lord Merrow’s eyebrows rose.
“You have been ordered to protect the princess,” he said. “You will not do so by alarming the household.”
“I was ordered to escort her to the border castle.” Rowan’s voice was low and plain. “A sword is part of that.”
“We are in the palace.”
“And the road begins outside it.”
The captain shifted his weight. I could see the argument forming in his mouth: rank, protocol, the king’s authority. Rowan stood without any sign that he would make the argument easier for him.
My father’s voice came from the open door behind the captain. “Let him keep it.”
The king entered with no announcement. Lord Merrow bowed. I did not, because my hands were still caught in the half-finished dress and because my father had never asked me to pretend I was surprised by him.
He looked at Rowan. “You understand the assignment?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You will take the safest route and obey my daughter’s instructions where possible.”
Rowan paused. It was small, but I saw it. “I’ll keep her safe.”
“That was not my question.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
The air in the room tightened. My father’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes had gone sharper. “You refuse to promise obedience?”
“I won’t promise what I can’t keep.”
Lord Merrow exhaled through his nose, scandalized on behalf of the entire palace. I felt a sudden, unwelcome flicker of interest. It was not trust. I had learned to distrust a person who seemed too pleased with his own defiance. But Rowan had declined the easiest answer in a room full of people paid to make easy answers sound wise.
My father turned to me. “You’ll leave at first light. The road is poor, and you’ll need to be at the castle before the Aurelion party arrives.”
“Then I want the treaty papers.”
“They will be sent ahead.”
“I want to read them on the journey.”
Lord Merrow cut in. “Your Highness, the drafts are sensitive.”
“So is the marriage.” I kept my voice measured. “If I am to reassure Prince Cedric, I would prefer to know what I am reassuring him about.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. My father’s gaze held mine. I knew the look: he was weighing the cost of giving me what I asked against the cost of refusing me where others could see.
“Give her the current draft,” he said at last. “Not the sealed correspondence.”
“Thank you.”
It was not victory. It was a page of paper, and even that came with a locked door attached. Still, it was a page I could read.
The dressmaker freed the remaining pins. I stepped out of the gown and into my ordinary clothes while the attendants hurried to gather the satin from the floor. I could feel Rowan’s attention without looking at him. He seemed to be assessing exits, windows, the distance between me and the people who made decisions in my name.
“Will we travel in the royal carriage?” I asked.
“No,” Rowan said.
Lord Merrow frowned. “The princess will travel in the carriage. There are proper arrangements—”
“The east road has washed out,” Rowan said. “The carriage will have to take the lower pass. It adds half a day and leaves her behind a slow team where the road narrows.”
“The lower pass is safe.”
“It’s exposed.”
“You have not seen the route.”
“I rode it last week.”
That silenced Lord Merrow more effectively than another appeal to rank would have. I looked at Rowan. “What do you recommend?”
“Horse. Two guards. One pack mule. We leave before the road fills.”
“I can ride.”
His eyes met mine. “How well?”
“Well enough to be uncomfortable.”
“That’s not the same as well.”
“No. But it is better than being carried where I cannot see the road.”
A line appeared between his brows. I had expected him to argue. Instead, he said, “Bring a coat that can take rain.”
It was practical advice, offered without apology. I found it more irritating than a lecture would have been.
“You might try asking before issuing instructions.”
“You might try listening before the rain starts.”
My father’s mouth moved as if he might smile, then didn’t. “You’ll have the papers by supper. Rowan, report to the stables. You’ll choose the horses.”
Rowan bowed. He did not look pleased to have won anything. Perhaps he did not consider it winning.
After he left, I went to the window. From there I could see the palace stable yard, the servants crossing between buildings, and the carriage waiting beneath its carved crest. A perfect symbol of a perfect arrival. I had seen that kind of symbol do a great deal of work while leaving the person inside it with very little to say.
The dressmaker returned with a cloak. I took it from her and folded it over my arm.
“Have my riding boots brought up,” I said. “And a satchel for the papers.”
Lord Merrow began to object, then glanced at my father. The king had already turned toward the door.
“Your Highness,” he said, pausing. “This journey is important.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”
I looked at the wedding sleeve on the floor, the needle still caught in its hem. “I’m trying to find out what it needs to be.”
He left without answering.
That evening, the treaty draft arrived with the pages numbered out of order. The missing sheets were not mentioned. I laid the papers in my satchel beside a small dictionary of the old court language, then checked the straps twice. At dawn, I would ride out with an exiled knight who would not give his sword to the palace and would not promise to obey me.
For the first time all day, the uncertainty felt like mine.