Luvenia held her breath as the king entered the room. She dared not look up, waiting instead for him to speak, hoping that his voice would forecast fair weather instead of the stormclouds that so often cast their shadow over his regal countenance.
"Leave us."
His clipped tone caught her off-guard. She raised her head in time to see her maid's skirt flapping as she fled the room—before the door closed, and the king turned to look her full in the face.
"Luvenia."
He spoke her name so flatly, as though it meant nothing at all. It could not have hurt more if he had simply struck her.
"Your Majesty," she breathed, sinking into a deep curtsey.
She waited until he walked past her and seated himself before timidly rising. When he gestured towards another chair, she hurried to it and sat down with more speed than grace.
"You honor me with your presence, sire."
"Enough."
She shrank back into the chair. The king stared at her coldly, appraisingly.
"You favor your mother," he said at length.
Luvenia knew better than to respond. There was a long list of subjects she was not permitted to speak or ask about, and her mother was the first on that list.
"Perhaps it is for the best. Gorogon did seem rather kindly disposed toward the conniving wench."
"Gorogon...?"
The king's face darkened. Luvenia covered her mouth with both hands, too late to stop her voice from escaping.
The silence dragged on for so long that her fluttering heart began to calm itself, right up until the king spoke again and set it racing once more.
"Gorogon has ascended the throne of Middewold. He sent us an envoy to discuss an alliance."
A new ruler pressing for an alliance was a golden opportunity for their kingdom. Luvenia's stomach twisted as she realized the significance of this visit.
She closed her eyes and prayed that she was wrong.
"You will accompany our emissary to Middewold. If Gorogon finds you pleasing, he may take you as his queen." A frigid pause. "He might prefer you as a concubine."
Every sentence hit Luvenia like an arrow. She sat as still as she could, knotting her hands in the fabric of her skirt, ignoring the ache in her chest.
"For your own sake, and for the good of Alatir itself, you must persuade him to make you his lawful wife. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sire."
"I am told that you have remained pure."
Luvenia looked up in astonishment, then turned away, cheeks hot with embarrassment. The king smiled—faintly, but unmistakably smiled.
"Your modesty is quite charming. No doubt Gorogon will be moved by your maidenly blushes."
At a loss for words, she mutely watched him rise and approach her. He looked down at her for a long moment with no expression on his face.
"Do you understand what is required of you, child?"
Luvenia raised her chin just enough to look him in the eye.
"I am yours to command, sire." Despite her best efforts, her voice sounded weak and wavering in her own ears. "I will gladly give my body and soul for the good of Alatir and the glory of your reign."
She flinched as he reached for her.
He cupped her cheek in his broad hand. There was something like tenderness in his eyes as he regarded her.
"You have grown into such a lovely young woman. I know you will not fail me."
Though her heart throbbed and her veins ran cold with fear, Luvenia could not help but lean into his touch. These rare moments of warmth were as precious as glimpses of sunlight to a prisoner in the deepest dungeon.
"Father..."
The king's eyes hardened. He drew back his hand.
"You will leave in three days. Prepare your trousseau."
He turned as if to leave, then paused and spoke without facing her.
"Do not expect to return to Alatir."
Luvenia's throat tightened. She kept silent until the king left her parlor, then took a hard sobbing breath—losing her composure for just a few seconds.
"Your highness!"
Myra, her personal maid, practically flew into the room. Her face was pale under her freckles.
"I'm all right, Myra."
"But they're saying that you're to leave the country!"
Luvenia tried to smile. "That's right. I'm going to be the queen of Middewold." Her hands shook as she offered them to Myra. "Aren't you going to congratulate me?"
Myra's eyes brimmed over. She knelt at Luvenia's feet and clasped her hands with desperate strength.
"My poor princess..."
As the maid cried at a hysterical pitch, Luvenia let her own tears fall in perfect silence. She had learned long ago how to weep without a sound to betray her to the pitiless king.
"At least–" Myra sniffled. Her nose was already red. "At least you'll be safe, your highness."
"What do you mean?"
"They say the king is sending Iron Hans with you."
"Oh, Myra, don't tease me."
Myra stopped crying long enough to look indignant. "I wouldn't dare, mistress!"
"I know. I'm sorry." Luvenia pressed Myra's hands affectionately. "I'm sure that's just idle gossip. My father would never send Iron Hans just to guard me."
The maid set her lips in a disapproving pout. "That's as may be, but I know for a fact that he's been summoned. Surely..."
Luvenia tilted her head noncommittally.
"We'll see. In the meantime, there's a lot of packing to do." She lowered her voice. "Are the cedar chests still where we left them?"
Myra nodded anxiously. "How will we get them out?"
"After supper, round up a few footmen and meet me at Mother's–"
Both the princess and the maid blanched. Luvenia took a trembling breath.
"Meet me at the door. I'll bring the key. We should be able to get them both into my chambers before anyone else notices."
"As you say, your highness."
"For now, I need to make a list of items for my trousseau. Bring me paper and a pen—and some tea, please."
The resilient Myra sprang up and set about her tasks. Luvenia leaned back in her chair and sighed.
"He wouldn't send Iron Hans," she told herself. "Not for me."