The Truthspoken Heir, page 18
Dressa found the door to Lesander’s suite, paused to consider a servant’s knock, and tapped two soft, brisk taps.
The door opened on a young person in green and gold High House Javieri livery, who eyed her suspiciously.
Dressa held up the stack of linens she carried. “I have these for the prince’s rooms, along with new toiletries. And table linens.” Best to cover all corners of the suite. “May I come in?”
“The cleaners don’t come until four,” the young person said. But then shrugged and opened the door. “We are almost out of towels. Just don’t disturb the prince. She’s in the study.”
“Absolutely.” Dressa hefted her bag and strode inside. She looked around at the suite—more like apartment in its own right—that rivalled her own in the residence wing. Yeah, Rhys was absolutely not helping themself if their own suite had been this luxurious.
Through a sitting room with the curtains pulled back and afternoon sunlight streaming in, through a dining area that could host a small formal party, through a pantry and night kitchen—she’d taken note of the closed doors along the way, any of which could have been the study. The Javieri servant had gone back to whatever they had been doing before, and she couldn’t ask them, anyway. As a servant here, she should already know, even if it was one of her first days.
She deposited some of the linens—tablecloths she’d stolen from her own pantry closet—on a pantry shelf here. She tried to think how best to approach Lesander if she wasn’t supposed to disturb the prince. She turned, and—
Lesander was there, and close.
Dressa inhaled sharply, biting down hard on any other sounds of surprise. She stared up at Lesander, who was almost a head taller than she was now, and Lesander stared back down, a frown creasing between her brows.
Her perfume was the same as the night before, juniper on an ocean breeze. Adeius, Dressa could get lost in that scent. She was tempted to steal a shirt, a pillowcase, something, just to take that scent back with her.
Recognition flashed in Lesander’s sharp blue eyes, and her lips, a calmer shade of red than the night before, pursed.
“In my study, please,” she said, and spun, leading the way.
Dressa passed the young Javieri servant on the way, who stared back with trepidation. And what did that mean? Did Lesander have a temper? If so, that would be good to know now.
“I brought towels for the bathroom,” Dressa said, holding up the bag. It wouldn’t be safe to talk in Lesander’s study. It wasn’t truly safe in the bathroom, either—microphones from other rooms could pick up sound, enhance and filter it. But the bathroom was safe enough for them to have a quick conversation, at least, and for her to convince Lesander to go somewhere more secure.
But Lesander said, “My study.” She didn’t turn, and waited for Dressa to enter before she shut and locked the door.
She held up a hand, went to the desk, and pulled out a portable scrambler, a chunky gray box with an inordinate number of toggles and controls. And that was not a cheap piece of tech if Lesander knew it would thwart the palace’s very aggressive surveillance systems.
Would Dressa gamble her future on that tech defeating her father’s surveillance? Her father absolutely could not know what they talked about here.
Lesander turned the scrambler on, and the air grew tense with the static of signal cancellations.
Then she crossed her arms, staring blandly at Dressa from where she stood behind the desk. “You’re supposed to be sick, not traipsing about the palace like a servant.”
When Dressa didn’t answer, Lesander sighed. “This box is military grade of the highest caliber. Flag war room grade. I didn’t come unprepared. There’s nothing the Seritarchus put in this room that will get out through this, or be able to make a recording. You have my word on that.”
“Okay,” Dressa said. There was every sign Lesander wasn’t going to budge, so she would have to give that small bit of ground and trust. She also had to walk the finest line between asserting her own authority and asking for Lesander’s help. Trust worked both ways.
“Okay,” she said again. She kept her posture relaxed, but not open. Held some of her Truthspoken presence in her stance and voice, but not an overbearing amount. “I’m not Arianna.”
Lesander tilted her head. The sun from the window painted a bright triangle across the pale skin of her neck. Wisps of red hair curling around her ears.
“No,” Lesander said slowly. “You’re not. But you also are, aren’t you? So, give over. Are you her bloodservant? Are you Ondressarie? Adeius help me, please don’t say you’re the Seritarchus.”
“Oh, hell no.” Dressa grimaced, banishing the thought with a wave. “No, I’m Dressa. I’m currently the only Truthspoken heir on this planet. I am, now and from now on, the Truthspoken Heir, confirmed by the Truthspeaker, but that’s not been made public yet. I trust you will not do so.”
Lesander stiffened. “What happened to Arianna?”
“She’s alive.”
Lesander narrowed her eyes. “Did you hurt her, then, so you could take her place?”
Dressa narrowed her eyes, too. “I wouldn’t do that to my sister.” What the hell did Lesander think of her?
Lesander stared, and she stared back.
Had she thought this would be easy, that she’d throw herself at Lesander and proclaim herself to be the Heir, and much more willing to marry her than Arianna, and they’d just fall in love or something? Adeius, she’d watched too many vids.
She was botching this. She was good with simple things, like working a crowd. She didn’t know how to navigate things like this, where emotions were high, and the stakes were dire. And her heart, as she watched the sun play on Lesander’s gleaming hair, was doing weird things in her chest.
Lesander tilted her head. “My family’s not happy that we don’t yet have a formal engagement. They want those mining rights to Madad System the Seritarchus promised.”
Dressa’s mouth drew tight. That broke the spell. Bought for fucking mining rights. And Lesander? Sold for fucking mining rights?
And was Lesander even concerned for Ari’s wellbeing?
But then she saw Lesander was watching her just as avidly as she was watching Lesander, watching her body language, every twitch of her face. Ah, that had been a test to gauge her own sincerity.
Ceorre had been right, and her own observations had been right. Lesander absolutely had evaku.
“May I sit?” Dressa asked.
“It’s your palace.”
“Not yet,” Dressa said quietly, and sat very deliberately on a low teal couch.
32
A PROPOSAL
Truthspoken are betrothed—they never propose.
ARIANNA RHIALDEN, MELESORIE X IN THE CHANGE DIALOGUES
Lesander dragged a chair over from the desk to sit across from Dressa.
“I tried to see Arianna this morning, but I don’t think my message was delivered. The guards outside the residence said she was recovering and not receiving visitors. Is she really not on the planet?”
“No.” Dressa would have to choose her next words carefully, and she might as well start getting used to that. She’d be doing much, much more of that in the days to come.
But Lesander needed to know what was going on. She was absolutely not going to marry the prince without knowing Lesander had made her own informed decision. She wasn’t her father. And she didn’t care how much her father would berate her for this later.
Mostly didn’t care.
“The curse was more substantial than we’ve led the public to believe,” she said.
Lesander huffed softly. “It wasn’t a curse, and it wasn’t just Green Magics. I was there, Dressa—I caught her. Adeius, I saw you claw the face off that magicker. And I saw you stay glued to her side earlier when you both came down the stairs, and before you handed her off to me. She was already not well then.” Lesander regarded her. “Am I that repulsive to her that she’d go through all of this not to marry me?”
“It’s not that,” Dressa said sharply.
She bit her lip and sighed, rubbing her hands together slowly, one of her own gestures, not Arianna’s. “Listen. Do not, absolutely do not, breathe a word of this to anyone—not your family, not the servants, not anyone at court. No one. I’m not going to make that a command, but—”
“Yes. Agreed.”
Dressa searched Lesander’s face and body language for sincerity. She found it, but she also didn’t know Lesander well enough to know how deeply her own evaku went.
“Good,” she said, sealing that agreement. “Arianna has the Bruising Sleep. My father sent her away for treatment. It will be weeks or months before she’s well enough to return, and we don’t know if she’ll be well enough to fully resume her place as the Heir.”
Lesander sat back in her borrowed desk chair, rocking it slightly. “The Bruising Sleep? Is it contagious?”
“I was touching her, too,” Dressa snapped. “And no, it’s not. It’s contagious somehow, or else it wouldn’t be a problem, but I know it doesn’t spread through touch or fluids. So you’re safe.”
Lesander spread her hands. “Of course I want to know if I’m safe. Forgive me. Go on.”
Dressa squeezed her hands together. “My father ordered me to be Arianna for the time that Ari is gone. That order still stands.”
“So I’m supposed to get engaged to you, as Arianna, and then, what, when the real Arianna comes back, she’ll just take over?”
Dressa didn’t like her acerbic tone. “You’re not in this for a love match.”
She bit back on more. No, this wasn’t an ideal situation, but why did Lesander have to be so confrontational? Notions of her crush, painfully hot though Lesander was, were ebbing out through her rising hackles.
“And listen—will you just listen? I’m not doing what my father ordered me to do. I have the backing of the Truthspeaker. I’m going to stay Arianna just long enough to abdicate as Arianna. Which is a formality, and a public show—I am already confirmed as the Heir by the Truthspeaker and witnessed by another speaker. And then, as Dressa, I will publicly assume my role as the Heir.”
Lesander stilled the rocking chair. Her voice was softer, huskier. Her eyes intent on Dressa, something turbulent and unreadable lurking within them. “You’re going against the Seritarchus.”
Dressa swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I am. I—the Truthspeaker and I agreed it was not in the best interest of the kingdom for me to follow my father’s orders in this. Ari might not come back in good timing or good health. And I’m—I’ve never been good at long-term immersion. I’ve been struggling in the short-term, to be honest. I know you don’t have siblings, else—”
“But if I did, I’m sure I wouldn’t want to have to live their lives at the expense of my own.” Lesander studied her, playing with a loose end of her hair. Dressa watched her wind the strand around her finger, slowly.
“So,” Dressa said, trying to regain the upper hand, “so, I’m here because I, as the Heir, would like to sign this engagement contract with you, and I would like to marry shortly, legally. I want to be absolutely sure my father will not have a chance to gainsay what I’ve decided to do. The public part can come later. The private marriage is to assure your family that I’m serious about this alliance. Very serious. The terms of the contract will not change—you’re still marrying the Heir. You’re still gaining whatever was promised.”
“And you’re gaining a shield against your father,” Lesander said. Though she didn’t sound particularly upset by the idea. She knew politics as well as Dressa, being the heir to a high house princedom. “I’m assuming I can’t contact my family to consult with them about this.”
“No, any communication like that would get back to my father. And we have to move quickly, if you’re willing. My father will catch on that there’s something amiss soon.”
Lesander nodded. Turned to look out the window, as if gauging the mood of the palace from the sunlight. “Well, you at least seem to want to marry me. Or aren’t as against the match as Arianna. I’m not happy about the turbulence. But that seems unavoidable.” She shrugged, but Dressa marked the tension in the gesture. “My family won’t be happy I didn’t consult them. But they also won’t be able to drag out the process with concessions over you not being the Heir originally promised.”
“Right,” Dressa said. “My father will kick up a fuss in private, but he won’t do anything to destabilize the kingdom in public. And again, I already have the support of the Truthspeaker. If you are willing, we’ll go to the Adeium now, and she’ll marry us.”
Lesander kneaded her hands together, her knuckles quietly cracking. Her lips were too pale around the edges.
“I wish I could give you more time to think it over,” Dressa said, feeling the awkwardness of the moment. She swallowed on a suddenly dry throat. This wasn’t how she’d ever thought she’d propose to her future wife.
“You’re hardly giving me a choice. Marry you, or go back to my family in shame for failing to marry Arianna Rhialden.”
“But you have a choice,” Dressa said. “And if you don’t want to go back to your family, I’ll set you up as best I can in court.”
“So then I’d live my life as the prince who spurned the Truthspoken’s hand?” Lesander’s smile held bitter irony. “I don’t think so. I don’t know you, Ondressarie. But then, I hardly know Arianna beyond one night where she was trying her hardest not to fall over. And I knew what I was getting into, marrying into the Rhialden Truthspoken. I knew my life would be complicated. I still judge it worth the cost, for my family and for the kingdom.”
So she hadn’t just been sold into this by her family. That was encouraging. And she knew what this alliance meant to the Rhialdens as well. She knew her family was angling toward the rulership and that this marriage would, at least in part, hold that in check for now.
If she knew all that, then she’d be aware of politics in the palace and willing to play them. She was absolutely playing them now, Dressa realized. Every single movement a calculation, just like her own right now.
Adeius, could Dressa possibly hope to gain a partner in all of this mess and not just a wife? Lesander was meant to be a match for Arianna. She’d known her father wouldn’t choose someone who would drag Arianna down, but challenge her. Ari met social challenges with the same stubborn doggedness she gave to everything in her way.
Dressa might have to strain to keep up.
“You’ll be my consort,” she said slowly, “as Truthspoken Heir, and eventually, when I become the ruler.”
Those words, spoken out loud, sent a chill down Dressa’s spine. Yes, she’d talked about this with the Truthspeaker. But it felt more real spoken to Lesander. Who would, in fact, soon be her wife.
Adeius, her wife.
“And truly, Lesander, I would choose you on my own. If you’re willing.” Her voice cracked, and that was not something she’d meant to happen.
Lesander stopped breathing for the space of several heartbeats. Her cheeks reddened with a flush, and she didn’t look away.
“I’m not likely to get a better offer than that,” she said quietly. “All right. There is not much more to think about, is there?”
Dressa rose. “There will be fallout with my father. I’ll protect you as best I can, and we have the support of the Truthspeaker.” She paused. “I certainly won’t require anything more than an official marriage, but . . . if there does grow to be more, I’d welcome it. Or at least, the chance. If you want.”
Lesander stood, too, turning as she nudged the chair back toward the desk. “We’ll see.”
Dressa’s heart fell, even though she knew this was hardly a good situation, and hardly romantic. Lesander truly didn’t have a good choice here—even as beautiful as she was, and as powerful as her family was, her family would have little chance of making another good alliance if she backed out of a Truthspoken marriage.
But Lesander glanced back through red lashes, the smallest smile tugging at her lips.
Oh, shit. That sent a thrill running through Dressa’s core, and she couldn’t afford that right now. Not when, Adeius, she was still Arianna.
She smoothed her hair back under her knit cap. She was a servant here. She’d walk with Lesander to the Adeium as a servant, leading the prince through the palace.
Lesander paused in her placement of the chair and watched her, gaze sharp and avid.
“I’m a servant until we reach the Adeium,” Dressa said. “Until we reach Ceorre’s office. You have guards?”
“Of course.”
Dressa nodded. “All right, let’s go then.”
33
HOLDING HANDS
This contract you have signed is in effect and binding.
FROM THE BOOK OF CEREMONIES, THE LEGAL CEREMONIAL MANUAL OF THE ADEIUM
Somewhere in the last hour, Ceorre had reprinted the engagement contract with the necessary changes to the named parties. She had it ready in a neat stack on her desk when Dressa and Lesander arrived in her office.
The signing was over quickly, officiated and sealed by the Truthspeaker and witnessed again by Speaker Ien. Speaker Ien would be in the history books, whether they liked it or not.
Then, the wedding.
They held hands because the ceremony required it. They looked into each other’s eyes, because they both knew they had seconds to understand more, to try to grasp so much they didn’t know before they were bound for life.
Lesander’s hands, despite her outward calm, were clammy. Dressa was smoothing away her own cold sweat by pulsing a light healing trance.
It had occurred to her, halfway through the Truthspeaker reading from the Book of Ceremonies and Speaker Ien waiting like a nervous statue by the door, that yes, Lesander would be permanently attached to her life from now on, and no, beyond the crush, she knew little about Lesander beyond the broadest strokes. She knew Lesander had evaku, had an eye for politics, and would have been a match for Arianna. That she knew.
