Bloodguard

chapter 13

Maeve

I smooth my skirt and settle back against the cushioned seat of the carriage as it bumps along the rough cobblestones of the bridgeway to the castle.

Neela fussed over my gown for hours before finally deeming me ready. Its heavy layers of white lace are uncomfortable and ill-suited for warm weather. Neela, well, didn’t agree. She insisted the tight cut of the bodice and thick, flowing skirt are appropriate for the Lord Regent’s Summer Ball.

Lantern lights strung from the bridge to the gates hang along the walls in pretty loops of twinkling yellow and amber. When the sun sets, the glow will shine and dance along the stone. My grandmother always loved the way that looked. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the castle decorated this way. I only wish she was here to share it with me.

Lord Caelen, our friend and distinguished colonel, is dressed in his finest military regalia, silver jewelry gleaming against the evergreen and dark blue of Arrow. He sits across the carriage in close conversation with Giselle, her voice light and animated compared to the harsh and steady beat of hooves and the turn of the carriage wheels.

Father sits beside me, the hem of his light-blue robes brushing my skirt.

“You look nervous,” he says, though his attention is outside the window, and I can tell something is weighing on his mind.

I stop fidgeting with my sleeves. “I haven’t made public appearances like this in a long time.”

He nods. “I’d thought giving you time to heal and focus on your grandmother was the right choice, but now I think I failed you.”

“What? Never.”

His light eyes are sad, and his mouth is turned down at the corners when he shifts his attention back to me.

“A ruler is visible. Present , Maeve.” He nods to the window and the view of rows of guards lined up along the gates. “You care for the people of Arrow. But most don’t know it. Not the ones with influence. Aisling and Soro are more familiar to the noble houses and militia.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is. And that’s not counting their influence with the Middling and commonfolk. If you want to do this… If you want to reclaim your throne and become queen, you cannot do it by half measures. You must become the ruler our people need you to be. The ruler you were trained to be.”

I frown. “You’re saying I need to be popular? To wave at onlookers in the arena and pretend that all that’s happening around us is fantastic even as I can see the threats mounting against Arrow every day? You want me to smile as people die for sport?”

My thoughts turn to Leith. His suffering. His pain.

I can’t condone those games. I won’t.

“No,” he says. “I’m only saying that sometimes you must share wine with those you’d prefer swallow glass.” The carriage comes to a stop, and a footman opens the door.

Father exits first, then holds his hand out to me.

“Father, I…”

“We can continue this discussion later, Maeve.”

My stomach sinks. Have I disappointed him?

Though Father doesn’t say it, I feel the burden of freeing Papa—his one true love. If I fail to claim the throne, everyone suffers. I take a deep breath. I won’t fail. I take his hand and exit the carriage.

Giselle casts a look over her shoulder, her honey eyes wary, but like Father, she hides it well. She smiles and allows Caelen to escort her into the main courtyard, her long silver dress fluttering as we head toward where lively music plays and dancing has already begun.

General Tut stands beside Vitor, who waits at the entryway, welcoming guests as they arrive. Keeping tabs, more like. Tut is tall, even for an ogre, his thick head and neck straining against the cut of his military robes. His puffs of red hair are too unruly to braid in the characteristic style that Vitor and Soro and even Caelen favor. What strands he has are shorn down to expose the shaved sides above his crooked ears.

As we approach them, I realize I have been made to feel like a guest in what is my home, my kingdom.

“Maeve! So lovely that you could attend this year.” Vitor takes my hands and kisses them.

I choke on unexpected bitterness. I want to say something witty or cutting to defend my former absences, but instead, I smile.

“Thank you,” I say, shoulders square and back straight like my grandmother taught me.

I start to move beyond the procession but then think better of it and step back and stand beside Vitor.

He beams like I’ve handed him the sun.

I’d like to think it’s because he’s proud that I’m embracing my role as the future queen, but in reality, it’s likely because this serves him, too. My presence validates his position of power. And Vitor has settled very comfortably into the role of Lord Regent of Arrow.

“Jakeb,” Vitor says to my father. And though it lacks enthusiasm or warmth, it is respectful enough. Father nods to him, then bows to me before joining the other guests. The gesture is pointed and petty, and I have to suppress a smile knowing how much Father must have enjoyed doing it.

About an hour into handshakes, introductions, and niceties, I’m beginning to regret my decision to take my rightful place in the receiving line. It would have been so much easier to join Father and Giselle in the courtyard, but easy isn’t my role tonight. There’s also a very annoying itch on the side of my left breast thanks to my tight, uncomfortable gown, and it’s taking everything in me not to abandon decorum and reach in there to scratch it. Instead, I politely smile and nod at the noble in front of me while my grandmother’s words play in my head. “A queen does not give in to fear, anger, or discomfort before her subjects. She overcomes and endures. As will the kingdom.”

Caelen and Giselle are dancing, at Caelen’s insistence, I’m sure. The lively tune is one that comes from his nearby birthplace of Tunder. Other guests linger near the buffet tables, where platters of food are laid out by the castle staff.

I notice that Aisling and Soro move from one group of nobles to another. Aisling makes small talk, her smile big and bright. She’s quick to touch a shoulder or take a hand. She leans in close, her expressions almost exaggerated as she engages each guest with rapt attention. Really, she could teach a class on charm. Not that I’ve ever been on the receiving end of it.

Though well trained for courtly duties, my natural talents are biting my tongue, lest I cut out theirs, and herbology—traits not normally associated with ruling a kingdom. Grandmother, though—she wasn’t above tongue slicing. Just not in public.

Apparently, that’s one of the few things I’ve inherited.

At last, the line of arriving guests ends with a familiar face.

“Lord Kaysoon!” I smile genuinely for the first time in a while when the delegate from Libur approaches. I lift my hands, thumbs pressed together and fingers extended like wings in what is the welcome gesture of his land.

“Princess Maeve, a pleasure as always.” He returns the gesture. The stout dwarf looks even more pleased to see Vitor. “I was hoping to catch you.” He hesitates only an instant before launching into his petition. “Lord Regent, I’m sure you’re aware of the droughts in our realm.”

Straight to the point. I smile, ever appreciating the practicality and candor of Liburi culture.

Vitor inclines his head to his general. “Tut has kept me apprised of the situation.”

We monitor all of the realms.

Kaysoon nods. “We’ve lost almost half of our annual grain harvest.”

“That’s a staggering amount,” I whisper.

General Tut nods. “It matches the projections I shared in last week’s meeting, Lord Vitor.” He bows his head in a show of respect. “Things were different in the times of the great phoenix.”

“May she grace our skies again,” Kaysoon proclaims. Both men then make that hand gesture, which is meant to emulate a bird taking flight.

“Hmm,” Vitor mumbles. The people of Libur worship the phoenix. But my uncle…he is not an elf prone to conjecture.

Vitor would never deign to worship anything.

“Can Arrow help us?” Kaysoon asks. His dark eyes flit briefly to me and then back to the regent.

“We have stockpiles of rice and legumes that can help offset this loss,” Vitor says.

“Your donations will make the difference between a lean year and one in which our people go hungry.”

“It’s our pleasure,” I say, then stop talking when Vitor grabs my hand abruptly.

“But many realms are affected by the drought,” Vitor continues. “I can’t say you are the first to ask for aid. We’ve already received many offers tonight to purchase these supplies from our stockpiles.”

My eyes widen as I stare at Vitor. If such conversations occurred, they haven’t happened in front of me.

“How much on the barrel?” Kaysoon asks.

Vitor is quiet for a moment as he appears to deliberate. “Twenty coin for the rice, fifteen for the beans.”

I bite my tongue. We regularly trade with Libur for a fraction as much. There must be a great number of kingdoms suffering for prices to have climbed so dramatically.

“Is it a deal?” Vitor asks. “As supplies dwindle, there’s no saying how costs might continue to rise.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kaysoon agrees quickly, but the set of his jaw says it’s begrudging.

“For three months,” Vitor clarifies. “We must be able to reevaluate as conditions change.”

Kaysoon pauses a beat before he nods.

“Now that that bit of business is out of the way,” Vitor says, “I insist that you join me in the royal box for the arena games tomorrow.”

Kaysoon tugs his auburn-and-gray beard. “I accept your very generous offer, Lord Regent.”

“Splendid.”

General Tut gestures toward the tables set at the far end of the room. “Come, Lord Kaysoon. The chef has prepared goat coas-coas.”

“My favorite!”

“I know.” The ogren general smiles genuinely as he moves off with his countryman.

“Couldn’t you have offered him better terms?” I whisper to Vitor when we are alone.

Vitor looks genuinely confused, then speaks slowly as if I might have trouble following. “The only terms that matter are the terms for Arrow. Our country’s strength and prosperity. Our finances and caches. Our military.”

His tone and expression lead me to believe he considers me naive, lacking the acumen to rule. He’s wrong. I’m neither of those things, but my seclusion has left me ignorant. Clearly, I need to know more about what’s happening in Arrow and the kingdoms beyond.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that we could’ve helped our neighbor through this difficult time with greater ease.

“You’re right, of course,” I say quickly, noticing interested eyes on us. “I was thinking of leveraging goodwill instead of focusing on our coffers.”

“You weren’t born in the time of the Great Wars, Maeve. Goodwill falls away faster than you can blink when people have nothing to eat.”

When I glance at him, all condescension is gone, and my caring uncle stares back. “You and Grandmother have overcome such difficulties,” I say. “Your sacrifices have brought Arrow wealth and peace.”

“Indeed.” He scans the glittering party. “There is no realm more respected, no culture that has thrived more successfully.”

And yet the kingdoms around us starve and send their warriors to die in our arena. I can’t help wondering again how badly other realms must be suffering for our stores of grain to already be competitively bid on. I make a mental note to ask to sit in on the next cabinet briefing.

An ogren server offers us wine from a carafe. With grace that would make my grandmother proud, I take a leaf from Aisling’s book and raise a goblet to Vitor. “To Arrow.”

He clinks his chalice to mine and drinks deeply.

“You will attend the games tomorrow, Maeve?” It’s phrased as a question, but I know he isn’t really asking.

“Of course.” I sip my wine carefully to buy myself a moment’s reprieve. Then I set my goblet down on a stone pedestal behind me, lest I spill cherry wine on this gown.

“Soro has something spectacular planned,” Vitor says proudly. “These delegates will return home with tales of our engineering and ingenuity!”

Lovely. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.

Soro takes perverse pleasure in the games. In crafting feats that push these gladiators to the brink and keep attendance high.

I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about tomorrow or the fight ahead of Leith. I need him to win, to become a Bloodguard, but I don’t wish anyone the torment of those games.

“What does he have planned?” I lean in conspiratorially, like Vitor might tell me the secret. Leith needs every advantage he can earn, and I vowed to help him win.

Vitor drinks more. “It’s a surprise. One I think even you will find impressive.”

Doubtful. Highly. People die in that arena.

I try venturing a few guesses, rattling off names of all manner of beasts, but Vitor only laughs. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

All right, if he won’t confide in me, maybe I can get him to move away from fatalities within the games. “Uncle, I know the arena generates revenue and creates jobs, fosters solidarity, bringing together the community—”

“Is there a question in there?” he asks bemusedly.

I take a deep breath. I’m not good at ass-kissing, let alone being sly.

“Well, yes. I do have a question. Given all the benefits, why do we—a realm at the pinnacle of culture and civility—promote such…brutality?”

“Ah, but that’s the point, my child. Look around you,” Vitor says, indicating the many delegates and foreign dignitaries. “We have alliances, peace treaties. Strong relationships with the realms surrounding us and beyond. We have wealth—more so than any other sovereign nation. They fight amongst themselves.” He scoffs as if our neighbors and allies are fools. “Let them. We remain neutral. We remain at peace. Why do you think that is, Maeve? What do you think keeps these warring realms from claiming what we have?”

“Well, you said it yourself. We have alliances—”

“Bah.” He laughs dismissively. “Our brutality, as you put it… that is what keeps potential enemies at bay.” Vitor accepts another goblet of wine from a passing servant and gestures with it toward his son. “Even Soro has purpose, Maeve.”

To be evil? Infuriating? Elitist?

I straighten as I realize what he means. “You want them to fear us,” I say slowly.

“Of course. They must fear us. Just as they must need us.”

Hence the loans and the donations, the stockpiles that we trade as needed. The gambling, which isn’t contingent on harvest or commerce, only desperation, ensures a continuous stream of revenue regardless of the season.

These machinations do not sit well with me, but I’m not so naive to deny their effectiveness. And I’m certainly not dumb enough to argue—at least not yet. “Wouldn’t the gladiators be of more use at the frontline of our armies?”

He nods. “Undoubtedly. But the arena serves its purpose. It feeds our greatest weapon.”

“And what is that?” I ask cautiously.

His eyes gleam with malice as he takes another sip of wine. “Our nation’s soul.”