The following is an original work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book/story are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.The following is intended for mature audiences only.
Chapter 8
Sitting at the breakfast table was another one of the mounting new experiences I had endured this morning. At least it wasn’t for lack of amusement.
The day started with Herra all but launching herself across the room before I was able to walk out of my chambers – maskless. Face red as she chastised me for trying to set her swinging from the gallows. Convinced my father wouldn’t hesitate to make an example out of her.
Quickly settling on one from the array I already had. If anything it was to keep Herra’s heart from bursting out from sheer panic.
This morning’s mask was similar to the one from the ceremony. The only modification was the mouth opening. A wide section left opened exposing my mouth and chin. But the deep purple complimented the silver of the day’s gown.
Trying to adjust to the new normal had me fidgeting my facial features underneath the mask. I couldn’t help it. It was involuntary. Even though Khayin’s facial expression might suggest otherwise.
Something I had noticed during the ceremony was how much the mask narrowed my vision. In a large room with very little obstacles, that was fine. Having to practice fine motor skills amongst delicate dining proved challenging. I had already knocked over my juice glass three times. The toast tray, sugar bowl, and creamer hadn’t fair much better.
“You have to learn to leave it, Zahrralia,” my father absently warned as he sat at the head of the table sorting through a stack of correspondence.
Huffing out a curt snort of displeasure, I dropped my hand to my lap.
With a front row seat to my clumsiness, Finneck watched me from across the table. His pale hair, per usual, was tied at the nape of his neck. Dark gray tunic sporting the Eildun crest was secured with his sword strapped at his waist.
The captain’s presence wasn’t always required, or requested, at meals. It seemed the king wanted to get as much time as he could discussing the recent border conflicts.
Though I surmised he and I would differ on how appropriate conflict was. To my understanding, there had been several fairly severe attacks against our people as they tried to cross specific borders. Attacks that lasted a few days and cost more than a few lives.
Since no one actually told me any of this, just information I gathered overhearing conversations I was assumed too indignant to either understand or hear, I could only assume.
“I was glad to see you were able to attend the ceremony,” I threw at Finneck lightly trying to distract my fingers from sneaking under my mask. A slight hint of bitterness lacing my words as my thoughts refused to distract as easily.
“I told you I would be there,” Finneck answered simply.
True, Finneck had always done what he had said he would. But when I hadn’t seen nor heard from him by the time I was receiving my tattoos, I began to worry that this would be the first time he wouldn’t deliver.
It wasn’t until I was brought to the doors of the banquet hall that my anxiety was quelled. There, dressed in his formal uniform, Finneck stood waiting to escort me to the dais, unmasked, for the last time.
“Fair, but you cut it a bit close,” I said unable to keep the lilt from my tone.
Finneck opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Khayin’s snort of disapproval. I was tempted to stick my tongue out at the killjoy but didn’t think it would have the same effect wearing a mask. And the fact I haven’t done that since I was a little girl. Still felt like it would have been appropriate though.
Now that all visiting parties had departed, it seemed it was business as usual.
The mask, the tangible reminder that I was now of age. I assumed I would be included in discussions pertaining to the crown. Beginning at breakfast. A way to ease me into the politics of war. Of course, the common, unspoken code the king and his captain had was still in effect as they had always felt the need to protect or exclude me, respectively.
Ready to broach the subject, narrowing my eyes at Finneck, determined I could force him to look at me. As his light eyes finally made their way to mine over his juice glass, he cleared his throat to get the king’s attention.
Casually looking at his captain, Finneck gestured to me. I may have wanted his attention but my teacup suddenly seemed more interesting than my father’s eyes. To blatantly demand his attention was not something that ever boded well for me. But to make him think that whatever conversation need to happen was his idea, usually meant his demeanor was more laxed. Usually.
Stop, I demanded myself no longer wanting to feel as meek as I had. Knowing this wayward dance needed to come to an end.
Placing his parchment aside, leaning his elbows onto the table, giving me his full attention. “Tell me what is on your mind, Zahrralia.”
The way he said it, his tone, was one I was remarkably familiar with. I may have had his full attention, but the interest was all for show. No matter, I forced it to roll from my thoughts. Certain that what came out of my mouth next would grab the entire room’s attention.
“I think it’s about time to start my training, father.”
“Training? Have you not been tutored for the last fifteen years?
“I’m eighteen. Old enough to sit on your council. Old enough to train with the guard.”
A fine mist of juice sprayed from Finneck’s mouth and across the table. Followed by a coughing fit. First time I was truly grateful for a face covered by a mask.
The king was too busy laughing to notice the juice-soaked table or my heated scowl.
“You are the Crown Princess. Heir to my throne. There is no need for you to be familiar with combat,” the king man-splained.
Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Finneck threw me a warning glare. One I openly ignored.
“It is my right. Don’t you think our people would find comfort knowing their princess is doing all she can to keep them safe?” I argued.
Soberly, he looked at me. Leaning forward. “What kind of message do you think it sends, Zahrralia, to have you train with my guard? I will tell you what message it conveys to my people.” Dropping his hands to the table, interlacing his fingers calmly before continuing. “It tells them that my guard are no longer sufficient protection. That even the princess must learn to protect herself against our enemy. It is out of the question.”
And there was his other most used tone. The one of dismissal and refusal to continue discussion of anything.
