Rowan stepped down from her carriage and into the light of the king’s courtyard, still silently cursing her sudden but inevitable betrothal.
“Ah Rowan!” a hearty voice boomed. A tall Glaevor man with a bushy auburn beard stood before her, arms spread wide in apparent welcome. “We were beginning to think you would never arrive!”
“Who gives me the pleasure?” Rowan said, trying to keep the grimace from her grin. The sun was blinding after her long ride in the dark.
“Ah, of course, of course!” the man said, sweeping his arm forward into a bow. “I am Phillip, king of Glaevor and lord of this estate. Welcome to my castle—and do make yourself at home. You must be tired after such a long journey!”
Rowan nodded, and she was just opening her mouth to inquire about her new quarters when the king started speaking again.
“And you must meet my wife!” he said, laying a hand on the shoulder of the woman standing beside him. “This is Ishta!”
Ishta looked up at her and smiled. “It is good to have you, little one. I hope you will become friends with the other young people here.”
Rowan blinked. She had heard that the king had an Elkarin wife. But it was still strange to see her here, dressed like a queen, speaking to a nobleman’s daughter without permission.
“And this is Ptolemy, though we call him Plat,” the king continued, clasping a young man firmly by the shoulder. “Speaking of other young people, he’s about your age. And he’s the son of my dear friend. I’m sure the two of you will get along!”
Rowan swallowed. This was him, the one she was supposed to marry. She had been hoping that he would be shorter.
Plat nodded, his orange curls bouncing with the motion. “I’m pleased to meet you, Rowan. Would you like help carrying your things inside?”
It was an objectively stupid thing to say. There were plenty of servants around.
“Oh, forgive me!” The king said, hurrying over to her carriage and throwing open the doors. “A fine lady like you must have no small amount of luggage—boys! Come here and I’ll hand it to you.”
Plat bowed to Rowan and walked over to assist, but when he got to the carriage he stopped and looked around. “Where’s Sander?”
A boy stepped out from behind the queen. His shoulders were hunched, his arms were crossed, and his dark hair fell down flat into his face. Rowan wondered for a moment if he was allergic to sunlight. She couldn’t see an inch of his skin—the collar of his long cloak was turned up, and he was wearing silk gloves for some reason.
“Ah, how could I forget?” the king boomed, throwing out an arm to gesture at the boy. “This is my son Aleksander, prince and heir of Glaevor!”
The prince lifted one hand in a limp wave. Then he dragged his feet over to the carriage.
Something touched her arm, and Rowan startled. It was the queen, Ishta.
“You must forgive us,” she said, clasping Rowan’s hands in her own. “I know such enthusiasm must be painful when you are so exhausted. Come—I will take you to your room.”
“Think fast!” the king shouted.
Rowan turned just inside to see the king throwing one of her bags at his son. Before the boy could fumble it, Plat reached out and caught it deftly. While the king’s back was still turned, he quickly handed the parcel to the prince.
Then the prince lifted his chin, just long enough to flash Plat a quick smile. "Th—thanks."
Rowan stopped breathing. She'd seen the eyes hiding behind his thick bangs, the one part of the body that could catch light in a dark room. But more than that, she knew his voice. It was Thunderblade's.
“Sander, have your mother tell you where to take that,” the king continued, as if the pillars of the universe had not just been turned on end.