The Queen of All that Dies
Page 22
And now I have to see him in less than an hour. King Lazuli’s hosting some bigwig dinner, and we’re the guests of honor. It’ll be the first time I’m in front of the cameras again since I was banned from the peace talks.
I carefully apply the makeup I was packed with. I’ve probably spent more time on this trip poking myself in the eye with the eyeliner pen than I have learning the ins and outs of the king’s proposed peace treaty. And I’ve spent hours poring over that thing.
I turn away from the mirror and glance at the far corner of my room where I shoved the king’s gifts. I don’t want to put the gown or the jewelry on; to me it symbolizes all the broken families and defeated nations he’s claimed.
But so close to when we have to leave, my mind is haunted by the possibility that I could do something for the WUN. Tonight.
I retrieve the king’s gifts from the corner. I give the pale yellow dress a dirty look. Somehow the king managed to spoil my favorite color. I remove the towel wrapped around my torso and pull the gown on.
Once I do, I frown. My entire back is exposed. The rest of the dress falls suggestively over my curves. It fits me perfectly.
I grab the diamond necklace that goes along with the dress, and before I can think too much about it, I clasp it around my neck. It feels like a manacle.
I finish applying makeup and arrange my hair so that it lies in loose curls over my shoulders, and then I leave my room. I look nothing like the elegant women I’ve seen here, with their perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, and for that I’m glad. I can still recognize myself in the mirror.
Outside my room, my father speaks animatedly with one of our guards. Gone is the devastated man who considered defying orders for me.
A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.”
“What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him.
“Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning.
“You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.”
My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”
My father and I follow Marcus to the banquet hall, our guards shadowing our procession. Inside, people haven’t yet sat down to eat. Instead they mill about the room, sipping on champagne and chatting with one another.
The room stirs as we enter. You’d think that the king’s stuck-up friends would get used to the sight of us, but they haven’t. Nor have the camera crews. I notice that most of their lenses zoom in on me. I guess their audiences are more interested in my (lack of) involvement in the peace talks than they are of my father’s or the king’s.
My father leans into me. “You need to interact with these people tonight. Talk, be friendly, and try not to scare anyone too much. I’m leaving you to mingle.”
He must see the fear in my eyes as he pulls away because he pats my shoulder. “Make me proud.”
I give him a look that tells him what I think about that statement. He grins at me and winks before moving away from me to talk with an elderly man—the former prime minister of what used to be England.
My skin prickles; I can sense the king watching me. I turn and lock eyes with him. He swirls the wine in his glass as he assesses me. His eyes meander down my body and back up, and as he does so, an approving smile spreads across his face.
I suppress a shiver at his gaze. I imagine this is how he looks at unconquered territories.
The camera crews crowd me, despite the WUN soldiers standing guard. I keep my expression bland so the world doesn’t see the terror coursing through me. The king has always been my boogeyman, but boogeymen aren’t supposed to be real. They’re the things of nightmares, the things your parents kiss away.
But he’s real. And he wants me. And the entire western hemisphere might benefit if I simply face my fears.
The plan I’ve toyed with for the last several days comes to fruition. I will do this, even if it’s as scary as running headlong into battle.
I roll my neck like I do before I work out and push my shoulders back. I’m going to give the cameramen one hell of a show.
I stride towards the king, who stands on the other side of the room. I let my body sway a little more than usual, just to pull eyes to me.
Up until now, all anyone knows about the king and me are rumors—if that. I’m about to blow those rumors open.
I can hear the uncertain shuffle of my guards keeping formation around me and the eager clamor of camera crews. They’re like carrion circling a wounded creature—they can practically sense a story about to happen.
I’m gathering stares; I can feel the way they crawl along my skin. The king looks amused—no, transfixed—as I make a beeline for him. He too knows something is about to happen.
The crowd parts for me, and the buzzing chatter in the room dies down. I close the remaining distance between the two of us until I’m standing in front of him.
“Miss me?” I ask.
King Lazuli’s face is serious, but his eyes smile. He’s definitely enjoying the show.
“I haven’t missed anything more,” he responds smoothly, like the slick politician he is.
“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Now the room goes quiet.
This, this is a gamble. On the one hand, the king might reject me in front of a crowded room—scratch that, in front of the entire world. That I can handle; I haven’t believed he’s been sincere about his feelings for me since the day we met. And if he does reject me, the WUN will have definitive proof that the king’s just toying with all of us.
On the other hand, if he goes along with this, the world will anticipate favorable negotiations with the WUN—if he’s openly friendly with the emissary’s daughter, he’s surely friendly with the nations she represents. My hope is that it will increase the odds of an advantageous peace treaty for us.
This possibility scares the crap out of me. It means more contact with the king. Intimate contact.
Montes raises his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling like mad. This whole exchange delights him. He takes the final step that removes all the distance between the two of us, and I feel the press of his tux against my chest.
A roguish grin lights up his face. He slides a hand along my jaw and cups the back of my head. My heart speeds up, and I can’t tell whether fear or a thread of desire is responsible for it.
I carefully apply the makeup I was packed with. I’ve probably spent more time on this trip poking myself in the eye with the eyeliner pen than I have learning the ins and outs of the king’s proposed peace treaty. And I’ve spent hours poring over that thing.
I turn away from the mirror and glance at the far corner of my room where I shoved the king’s gifts. I don’t want to put the gown or the jewelry on; to me it symbolizes all the broken families and defeated nations he’s claimed.
But so close to when we have to leave, my mind is haunted by the possibility that I could do something for the WUN. Tonight.
I retrieve the king’s gifts from the corner. I give the pale yellow dress a dirty look. Somehow the king managed to spoil my favorite color. I remove the towel wrapped around my torso and pull the gown on.
Once I do, I frown. My entire back is exposed. The rest of the dress falls suggestively over my curves. It fits me perfectly.
I grab the diamond necklace that goes along with the dress, and before I can think too much about it, I clasp it around my neck. It feels like a manacle.
I finish applying makeup and arrange my hair so that it lies in loose curls over my shoulders, and then I leave my room. I look nothing like the elegant women I’ve seen here, with their perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, and for that I’m glad. I can still recognize myself in the mirror.
Outside my room, my father speaks animatedly with one of our guards. Gone is the devastated man who considered defying orders for me.
A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.”
“What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him.
“Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning.
“You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.”
My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”
My father and I follow Marcus to the banquet hall, our guards shadowing our procession. Inside, people haven’t yet sat down to eat. Instead they mill about the room, sipping on champagne and chatting with one another.
The room stirs as we enter. You’d think that the king’s stuck-up friends would get used to the sight of us, but they haven’t. Nor have the camera crews. I notice that most of their lenses zoom in on me. I guess their audiences are more interested in my (lack of) involvement in the peace talks than they are of my father’s or the king’s.
My father leans into me. “You need to interact with these people tonight. Talk, be friendly, and try not to scare anyone too much. I’m leaving you to mingle.”
He must see the fear in my eyes as he pulls away because he pats my shoulder. “Make me proud.”
I give him a look that tells him what I think about that statement. He grins at me and winks before moving away from me to talk with an elderly man—the former prime minister of what used to be England.
My skin prickles; I can sense the king watching me. I turn and lock eyes with him. He swirls the wine in his glass as he assesses me. His eyes meander down my body and back up, and as he does so, an approving smile spreads across his face.
I suppress a shiver at his gaze. I imagine this is how he looks at unconquered territories.
The camera crews crowd me, despite the WUN soldiers standing guard. I keep my expression bland so the world doesn’t see the terror coursing through me. The king has always been my boogeyman, but boogeymen aren’t supposed to be real. They’re the things of nightmares, the things your parents kiss away.
But he’s real. And he wants me. And the entire western hemisphere might benefit if I simply face my fears.
The plan I’ve toyed with for the last several days comes to fruition. I will do this, even if it’s as scary as running headlong into battle.
I roll my neck like I do before I work out and push my shoulders back. I’m going to give the cameramen one hell of a show.
I stride towards the king, who stands on the other side of the room. I let my body sway a little more than usual, just to pull eyes to me.
Up until now, all anyone knows about the king and me are rumors—if that. I’m about to blow those rumors open.
I can hear the uncertain shuffle of my guards keeping formation around me and the eager clamor of camera crews. They’re like carrion circling a wounded creature—they can practically sense a story about to happen.
I’m gathering stares; I can feel the way they crawl along my skin. The king looks amused—no, transfixed—as I make a beeline for him. He too knows something is about to happen.
The crowd parts for me, and the buzzing chatter in the room dies down. I close the remaining distance between the two of us until I’m standing in front of him.
“Miss me?” I ask.
King Lazuli’s face is serious, but his eyes smile. He’s definitely enjoying the show.
“I haven’t missed anything more,” he responds smoothly, like the slick politician he is.
“Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Now the room goes quiet.
This, this is a gamble. On the one hand, the king might reject me in front of a crowded room—scratch that, in front of the entire world. That I can handle; I haven’t believed he’s been sincere about his feelings for me since the day we met. And if he does reject me, the WUN will have definitive proof that the king’s just toying with all of us.
On the other hand, if he goes along with this, the world will anticipate favorable negotiations with the WUN—if he’s openly friendly with the emissary’s daughter, he’s surely friendly with the nations she represents. My hope is that it will increase the odds of an advantageous peace treaty for us.
This possibility scares the crap out of me. It means more contact with the king. Intimate contact.
Montes raises his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling like mad. This whole exchange delights him. He takes the final step that removes all the distance between the two of us, and I feel the press of his tux against my chest.
A roguish grin lights up his face. He slides a hand along my jaw and cups the back of my head. My heart speeds up, and I can’t tell whether fear or a thread of desire is responsible for it.
