Layle

At least the sun is shining. This trip could be a whole lot worse if it were raining or snowing right now. But the present weather doesn’t do much to lift my spirits.

I’m still on my way to the Isolated Court. I still have to find a husband. And I’m still not happy about any of it.

The carriage wheels crunch over the gravel, sending small pebbles shooting out to the sides. How long have I been in this stupid thing, anyway?

It feels like forever, but when I angle my head against the window and look up at the sun situated almost directly above us, I realize it’s only been about four hours into the trip. Another hour to go.

I sigh and lightly bang my head against the window. Most carriages just have blankets to keep the occupants warm and safe from the elements. Since this belongs to King Agis, it’s the height of traveling extravagance, but that’s still not saying much.

For all of its luxuries, it’s not very comfortable. Father always wants to have the best, but he doesn’t take into account how uncomfortable gold benches would be. I frown as I wiggle my butt, trying to find a better way to sit.

I’d like to be able to stick my head out and feel the breeze on my face. But no such luck. I’m trapped in the rocking monstrosity until we reach court.

My emerald green gown has a lot of layers about which normally I would complain, but right now they help to provide a cushion between my cheeks and the bench.

Silk pillows line both benches on either side of the carriage, but then, they are so slippery they’re good for nothing but show.

The inside of the carriage is sea green, a couple shades darker than my dress. The color actually goes rather nicely with the gold interior, but it’s hard to garner aesthetic appreciation for the contraption that’s hauling me away to my future husband.

Or my ruin, should I fail to make a match.

The carriage hits a large pothole and bounces so hard my head nearly smacks against the roof before my tailbone slams against the hard surface of the gold bench.

“Watch it,” I grumble to the driver who probably can’t hear me over the ruckus of the carriage.

Perhaps my temper is a bit short—it’s not the driver’s fault if the road is lumpy, but I believe I can be afforded a touch of goodwill when I’ve got such a terribly weighty decision on my hands. Whoever I choose as my husband will one day be king, and, if something happens to me, then my people will be left with my choice.

I have to do whatever it takes to protect my throne. . . my lineage. And that’s what makes this Season so much different than the other six.

Before, I went just to appease Father, but now there’s so much riding on my success. A frown pulls across my features, and I blow a wayward strand of silver hair out of my eyes.

Who will want me? By now, everyone knows of me and my unseemly ways. Men want a wife a lot more biddable than me. They don’t like my war-like personality.

My best hope is that they recognize the political boon that comes with marrying a princess, and put aside my lack of social grace.

A shadow falls over the carriage, drawing my attention to the window. I stiffen as we enter the Blue Fur Forest, its tall, aegean needled trees blocking the sunlight and casting me almost in dark.

A knot forms in my belly, and my heart ticks up a beat. This part of the drive always makes me nervous. This is a notorious area for bandits to attack wary travelers and steal from them. . . or worse.

While searching the dark forest with my eyes, I reach down and pull a dagger out from under my skirts where it, and several more, are carefully hidden in handmade sheaths made especially for dresses.

Women may not be encouraged to take up combat, but fortunately for me, courtly intrigue makes it common—nay, necessary—for a lady to have some means of protecting herself. A dagger is not a sword, but I make due with what’s allowed to me.

The hilt is carved out of dragon bone and fits my small hand perfectly. The steel is strong and curved slightly at the tip.

The warmth of the hilt feels comforting in my palm as I watch the sea of blue fur trees pass by. The air is thick, or maybe it’s just me, sitting on the edge of the gold bench, anxious as we exit the forest, and the Isolated Court begins to come into view.

That doesn’t make me relax completely though, because now I’m that much closer to my inevitable fate. In fact, we are close enough now that I reach into my satin purse and pull out my gloves.

It wouldn’t do to show up to court without gloves that perfectly match my dress. For this, my first day arrival, I choose to wear a pair of silky gold gloves the same color as the golden vines stitched along the bodice.

The carriage takes a hard right, flinging me to the opposite side on the slippery bench. I reach out just in time to brace my hand against the side of the wall, which prevents me from slamming into it.

“Gods’ thorns,” I mutter as I right myself.

No matter how many times I come this way, I always seem to forget about the sharp turn. Once we’ve rounded the bend, though, I can see the Isolated Court.

It’s kind of hard to miss, it’s so huge. It’s the size of a city, but no one lives there full time. This enormous place was designed purely for the nobility to meet up for important gatherings—Season being the most important for ensuring the continuations of noble lines. Staff are brought in to run the shops and services when court is in Season.

While the Isolated Court isn’t exactly on a mountain, it is up higher than most of the other buildings. There’s a short brick border wall that surrounds the entire hill with huge wooden double doors engraved with gold.

As we rattle across the long bridge that leads to the court, I stare down at the green-blue water beneath me. Too small to be a river but too big to be a stream, the water is clean and clear. Three boats glide across its surface, the men in them fishing or just relaxing.

It’s not unusual for the waterway to have so many boats they can hardly navigate around each other. Everyone, it seems, wants to get a good look at the Season’s newest hopefuls.

Guards in their bright livery in shades of green and gold stand at the gate’s entrance. We don’t have to stop and announce ourselves since Father’s bold crest on the doors tells them exactly who is in this carriage.

The doors open, and we drive through. Once inside the gate, it’s a whole new scene. Men and women seem to be everywhere, strolling through the massive gardens that line the driveway, sitting on marble benches strategically placed on the grounds, or in the courtyard where other carriages are lined up.

One of the servants rushes to my carriage with a stepping block. He opens my door, practically before we’ve come to a complete stop, and puts the block down. His white glove-covered hand reaches inside, and, after a brief hesitation, I put my hand in his and let him help me down.

I don’t have much time to appreciate the outer court as I’m rushed inside, through another pair of ridiculously tall doors. The sea of bodies, of women dressed in various bright-colored dresses, is almost overwhelming, but I paste a smile on my face and survey the guests.

Now, which poor soul will become my puppet king? My eyes narrow slightly, like a large cat sizing up its prey. My gaze scans the huge room, then stops on one familiar figure. With an inward groan, I force myself to keep a bright smile, even though my cheeks are beginning to ache with the unfamiliar task.

Tiernan Northguard. I would recognize that black hair and ice blue eyes anywhere. He’s also taller than most of the other men and carries his muscular frame with the dignity of a true soldier. He’s good looking, but there’s more to a man than how he looks.

Tiernan is a celebrated war hero, but he’s also arrogant. And Father’s enemy. Well, at least his dad is. Tiernan hasn’t done anything to truly make him my enemy yet, but who’s to say that we won’t fall into the pattern of our houses despising each other as we work closely together, as our family line has done for generations past.

There’s nothing more that I want to do but approach him with sharp words and to see how he reacts this time, but as Tiernan walks toward me, I hear Father’s voice telling me to avoid him at all costs.

He makes his way through the throng of people, and they part easily for him. Women eat him up with their eyes as he passes while men try to capture his attention.

We met during our shared first Season—the newly adult heirs to our houses. In an unprecedented move I still don’t quite understand, he’d proposed to me.

With my father’s warnings about the Northgard line fresh in my mind, and my faith in my father’s judgment yet unshaken, I’d turned Tiernan away without much thought.

Since then, he’s become something of a rival, the both of us more concerned with pestering the other than we are with finding a match.

“Layle,” he says, bending over my hand.

“Tiernan.” My forced smile is so bright he takes a step back, his dark eyebrows disappearing beneath a heavy swath of dark hair.

Just as quickly, those brows draw down in suspicion. He looks at me for a minute, then asks, his voice accusatory, “What exactly are you trying to do?”