Myra woke Luvenia in the soft blue light before sunrise on the third day.
"It's time, mistress." Her eyes were red and her lips trembled, but she spoke with a bright tone as if nothing were wrong. "His majesty is waiting."
Luvenia thought she must still be sleep-addled. "His majesty...?"
"And the envoys." Myra was already towing her out of bed. "I've laid everything out, so just keep still and let me polish you up."
She let Myra "polish her up"—which meant binding her with a boneless corset, strapping her into a plain dove-gray traveling dress, buttoning her into sturdy boots, tying up her dark hair in a tight coif, and covering her face with pale powder.
"One more thing..."
Myra skillfully slipped Luvenia's tiara on so her pinned hair held it tight across her brow.
"There! Fit for a queen."
Luvenia raised herself up to get a better look at herself in the mirror. She tried to picture herself as a queen, tall and proud beside her future husband.
It was useless. She had never met Gorogon and could not conjure an image of his face. All that looked back at her was the reflection of a frightened princess on the verge of tears.
She turned to see Myra crying again. Without thinking, she took the maid in her arms and squeezed her affectionately.
"I wish I could go with you," sobbed Myra. "Thinking of you out there among strangers..."
"There, there. I'll be all right." Luvenia would have kissed Myra's cheek, but she worried that the mark of her lip rouge would cause Myra nothing but grief. "And I'll send for you as soon as I can. You can be my father's wedding gift to me."
Myra choked out a tiny laugh. She twisted gently out of Luvenia's embrace and scurried over to seize a neatly-wrapped parcel that had been hidden behind a potted plant.
"I put together some necessities, mistress. These should tide you over til you reach Middewold."
"It's only a day's journey."
"Just in case!" insisted Myra, pressing the parcel into her hands. "You never know what might happen on the road."
Luvenia tried and failed to swallow the lump in her throat.
"Thank you, Myra. Thank you for everything."
"It's been an honor to serve you, your highness."
***
She walked with measured steps to the forecourt. A princess, no matter how late she is, does not run.
There were two carriages waiting: one emblazoned with the gilded green of Middewold, the other bearing the somber black and silver of Alatir.
There were also two envoys waiting, similarly bedecked in the livery of their respective kingdoms. They both made obeisance as she approached, the emissary from Middewold bowing deeply from the waist while the representative of Alatir merely inclined his head.
"Princess Luvenia Charisse Eddine of Alatir."
Her shoulders tensed as her father's voice rang out across the forecourt. He was in his ceremonial regalia, bearing a weighty silver scepter that took two hands for even its rightful owner to raise.
"Your gracious majesty." She curtsied down to the ground. "I await your word, sire."
"Rise, my daughter."
Her body felt strangely light. Never before had he acknowledged their relation in public. She didn't know how to feel about his doing so at the moment of their parting.
"You carry with you the pride and glory of our kingdom. When you stand before the king of Middewold, he will see in you all of Alatir."
Luvenia straightened her spine and pressed her shoulders back. She hoped she looked as perfect as she needed to be.
"As a sign of amity between our kingdoms, Lord Phaon shall accompany the honored ambassador from Middewold."
Lord Phaon bowed so deeply that he nearly toppled. The emissary of Middewold did the same, but much more gracefully, then bowed again towards the princess. Luvenia favored him with a shallow curtsey in return, heartened by his show of respect for her. Maybe, she dared to dream, Middewold would be a little friendlier than Alatir.
"The princess shall make the journey in the royal carriage, under the steadfast protection of my most loyal servant."
Luvenia briefly forgot how to breathe. Even the envoys looked mildly uncomfortable.
"Come forth, Iron Hans."
The figure that stepped out from behind the carriage was swathed in a dark cloak—not quite pure black, but close to it, the color of wrought iron. The hood cast the wearer's face in deep shadow.
"You are charged with the protection of Alatir's one and only princess. Pledge your strength to her care, and do not leave her side until she is safe within the palace of Middewold."
Iron Hans moved in silence until he stood within arm's length of the king. He seemed to look the king in the eye. Eddard stared back, unmoved, unmoving.
Just when Luvenia thought she could stand no more of the tension, Iron Hans dropped to one knee before the king and pressed a gloved hand to his heart.
"So shall it be." Eddard turned his soulless gaze towards Luvenia, who just managed to stand her ground. "Princess of Alatir, do not stray from my servant's protection. Your safety is paramount."
"I will do as you have commanded me, sire."
The king said something to Iron Hans too quietly for Luvenia to hear. The cloaked figure rose and stood at attention. Eddard held out the scepter, using both hands to keep it steady; Iron Hans took it in just one hand, grasping it delicately and with no obvious effort. Luvenia's eyes widened.
Her father approached her with a purposeful stride. She held herself perfectly still, trembling with dread and hope.
He rested his hands on her shoulders.
"Make me proud, Luvenia."
When she raised her face to his, he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, just below the tiara. His lips were cold as death; her skin burned at his touch.
He stepped back. There was no trace of warmth to be found in his face.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye," she echoed, like the hollow thing she was.
She watched numbly as he reclaimed his scepter and disappeared into the palace.
The emissaries bumped into each other as they both tried to enter the carriage at once.
Luvenia wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to check that the luggage strapped to the back of the royal carriage included the two cedar chests painstakingly smuggled out of the locked suite that had once been her mother's.
Instead, she did nothing.
She felt a touch at her elbow and nearly screamed.
It was Iron Hans. He had already withdrawn his hand and merely stood beside her, tall and dark and silent as a gravestone.
Luvenia had no idea what to say.
He gestured towards the carriage. She nodded and followed him to it.
His gloved fingers, long and thick as they were, moved daintily on the door handle. She leaned on his arm as she stepped up and settled on the cushioned seat.
Perfectly matched to the exterior, the carriage's upholstery was sable black, its fixtures gleaming silver. Luvenia already missed the soft pastels of her chambers, the welcoming blues and pinks and yellows that had surrounded her for seventeen years.
Iron Hans came in and sat across from her, his dark cloak almost bright against the pitch-black cushions. He did not remove his hood. He did not speak.
"I'm ready," she said, lying boldly.
He made a gesture she did not understand. At her look of confusion, he repeated it until she recognized the motion and its intent.
She sat up, reached for the ceiling, and rapped her knuckles on it twice.
The coachman shouted to the horses and cracked his whip. The carriage lurched forward.
Luvenia started nearly out of her seat, and found a pair of strong hands ready to break her fall.
"Thank you," she said, very quietly, as she settled back against the cushions. Iron Hans' hood dipped slightly forward.
This was going to be a very long ride.