The troubadours sang that the Blood Throne belonged to the first King of Ammar, blessed by God with marriage to one of His angels. All the Kings of Ammar sat in the high-backed wooden thing, carved all over with the swirling Sun and long, flowing letters in Ammarish script. Beatrice thought it looked uncomfortable.
When they entered, the men of the court stood to either side of the rug, erect and attentive, their feet shifting with slight squeaks on the parquet floor as they turned to face the newcomers. Beatrice glanced upward and to the sides as far as she could beneath the netting of her veil, dismayed when she noted the lack of a gallery anywhere for the ladies of court.
In Beatrice’s home, Duchess Sofia had her own chair on the dais beside Cesar’s ducal throne. Ladies of the household were permitted to watch proceedings from behind a painted screen. As far as Beatrice could see with her limited field of vision, she was the only woman in Ammar’s throne room that day.
Riccardo presented Beatrice for the King’s inspection. Beatrice went to kneel, pulsing her arms once to flutter out her veil and skirts as she went to her knees. At the last moment, she stumbled a bit, and a hard corner of her starched collar poked her in the eye.
“Fuck,” she said in the smallest whisper before she could stop herself, blinking back tears.
The King of Ammar stirred. He was tall and thin, unbowed even after nearly fifty years on the throne. They called him the Lightning King, but Beatrice knew from reading her marriage contract that his given name was Anathas.
King Anathas started his reign with two wars and a rebellion, one on top of the other. He once famously rode the length of his kingdom in only four days to liberate a town held hostage on the North Mountain, surprising the mages with how quickly his force swarmed up from the valley to drive them out.
Some of that furious speed still clung to the Lightning King’s bones. Beatrice could almost hear it crackle as the King stood and came down from his throne to circle her. Beatrice cringed, certain that the King heard her horrific lapse in etiquette. She didn’t dare look up, even if she had been able to open both eyes.
So much for the veil protecting me from the male gaze, she thought.
After a moment, the King of Ammar spoke. His voice sounded shrill and demanding: “Is this the fat one? I thought Cesar picked the fat one. I didn’t pay fifty thousand sovereigns for a womb tied to a stick.”
The fat one?! White hot anger shot through Beatrice. She barely heard Riccardo’s reply over the roaring in her ears.
“Sire, my sister, Lady Beatrice, is the eldest of my father’s daughters,” Riccardo said. “Your pardon—the word we use to describe it would be ‘greatest.’ Perhaps this is a mistranslation? Apart from her position as eldest, Your Majesty, Beatrice is a worthy consort for your blessed son, the prince of Ammar. She is possessed of a pretty face and of prettier faith.”
He cannot even see my face properly, Beatrice raged to herself.
The Duke’s daughter kept her peace with an iron will. This was what her family wanted—marriage into Ammar and a steady stream of silver to fortify the Duke’s precarious nobility. Beatrice would be the most gracious, charming, gentle, and courteous wife any prince could want.
She held herself perfectly still on her knees with her head down while her brother haggled with the King of Ammar over the dowry, clarifying that “the lady’s weight in silver” was not a literal term of the marriage contract.
IN THE END, BEATRICE supposed that she made a good impression. King Anathas had said that they could stay with one of his esteemed vassals, Gruffydd, in the capital rather than camping outside the city.
The finest houses in Ammar formed a ring around the palace, each with its own open yard for growing fruit trees, kitchen herbs, and wild grasses. Beatrice and Riccardo were given one of Lord Gruffydd’s homes—a stately timber-and-stone mansion with lined flower beds in the yard. With six bedrooms and three pocket doors on the top floor, the house stood large enough to accommodate their small household of twenty attendants.
At least one door in each house led to servants' chambers, interconnected staircases and hallways that allowed maids and valets to reach the other areas of the house without being seen by the lords and ladies. Children, widows, and unmarried women were housed on the top floor in a hive of rooms separated by thick, sliding wooden panels that were built into pockets of the walls.
The lowest floor of each house folded around a great hall for dancing and feasts, with four doors arrayed around it like the sunbeams of the Ammarish flag. As the only unmarried woman in the retinue, Beatrice claimed the top floor all to herself, dividing it up into a room for sleeping, a room for reading, and one for practicing dancing.
Once unpacked, Beatrice tossed aside the two-pound veil and found a green silk jacket with white gloves more fitting to her taste in fashion to pull over her dress. She pinned back her tight, silky curls from her face and went down to dinner.
“You charmed them,” Riccardo said when she came down to the main hall looking more like herself. “When you knelt, you made your bedsheet flutter. How did you do that? Did you make yourself fart the whole time?”
“I don’t think the ladies here are allowed to fart, Dick. They fear God too much,” Beatrice said. She allowed the wife of the cook to pull out her chair at the table. “I cannot wait until I meet the Queen! Then I’ll know where I can go to have a more comfortable veil made. Something with pockets.”
“I don’t think the women here wear pockets,” Riccardo said. “They own no property; everything is carried by their men.”
“You sound almost as if you like the idea,” Beatrice accused, stabbing her meat with a fork.
Her brother smiled and said nothing. If Riccardo was jealous of Beatrice landing a prince for a husband, the future Duke of Sanchia didn’t show it. Like her, he put the family first, whatever his personal feelings.
For now, that meant staying by her side until the wedding. He would help her to adjust to life in her new country. And carry her purse for her when they went to see the great market of Mahaut and to visit the other lords living around the palace.
In the first week, they met all the greater lords—Eyiffoen, Mayelor, Teqwyn, Kenon, and Tommasi. Riccardo sat and smoked cigars with them while Beatrice practiced the latest dancing steps with their wives and daughters. This was one realm where Beatrice had no trouble acclimating to Ammarish culture. Their dances were known the world over for their beauty and rigor—crafted over centuries as a means for resisting the enchantments of mages. Even the most stately ceremonial dances were full of sweeps, kicks, and leaps that relied entirely on balance and stability. They made the veils flutter and sweep in colorful arcs.
In her second week, she attended her first real Ammarish ball at the house of Lord Eyiffoen. His great hall shone with hanging oil lamps, and musicians sat in the center of the room playing lively music. Around them, men and women alternated in a reel that brought them in close to one another and then back again without ever touching.
Beatrice felt she made a fine showing when she danced, though there were still some improvements to be made. She hadn’t yet perfected a hairstyle to wear beneath her veil to catch her sweat before it could sting her eyes. Beatrice also struggled with the fabric getting pinched between her bracelets. Still, she felt she had acquitted herself well and thought that the King would be pleased.