And then there was the Champion who’d tried to escape this afternoon. Dorian shuddered at the thought of what it must have been like to witness it—and at the mess Chaol had to deal with, from the injured soldier to the sponsor who’d lost his Champion to the dead man himself. What had his father been thinking when he decided to host this contest?
Dorian glanced at his mother, seated on a throne beside his own. She certainly didn’t know anything about it, and probably would have been horrified if she knew what kind of criminals were living under her roof. His mother was still beautiful, though her face was a bit wrinkled and cracked with powder, and her auburn hair had a few silver streaks. Today she was swathed in yards of forest-green velvet and floating scarves and shawls of gold, and her crown upheld a sparkling veil that gave Dorian the distinct impression she was wearing a tent upon her head.
Before them, the nobility strutted across the floor of the court, gossiping, scheming, seducing. An orchestra played minuets in a corner, and servants slipped through the gathered nobles in a dance of their own as they refilled and cleared plates and cups and silverware.
Dorian felt like an ornament. Of course, he was wearing an outfit of his mother’s choosing, sent to him this morning: a vest of dark bluish-green velvet, with almost ridiculously billowy white sleeves bursting from the blue-and-white-striped shoulders. The pants, mercifully, were light gray, though his chestnut suede boots looked too new for masculine pride.
“Dorian, my dear. You’re sulking.” He gave Queen Georgina an apologetic grin. “I received a letter from Hollin. He sends his love.”
“Did he say anything of interest?”
“Only that he loathes school and wishes to come home.”
“He says that every letter.”
The Queen of Adarlan sighed. “If your father didn’t prevent me, I’d have him home.”
“He’s better off at school.” When it came to Hollin, the farther away he was, the better.
Georgina surveyed her son. “You were better behaved. You never disobeyed your tutors. Oh, my poor Hollin. When I am dead, you’ll care for him, won’t you?”
“Dead? Mother, you’re only—”
“I know how old I am.” She waved a ring-encrusted hand. “Which is why you must marry. And soon.”
“Marry?” Dorian ground his teeth. “Marry whom?”
“Dorian, you are the Crown Prince. And already nineteen, at that. Do you wish to become king and die without an heir so Hollin can take the throne?” He didn’t answer. “I thought so.” After a moment, she said, “There are plenty of young women who might make a good wife. Though a princess would be preferred.”
“There are no princesses left,” he said a bit sharply.
“Except for the Princess Nehemia.” She laughed and put a hand on his. “Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t force you to marry her. I’m surprised your father allows for her to still bear the title. The impetuous, haughty girl—do you know she refused to wear the dress I sent her?”
“I’m sure the princess has her reasons,” Dorian said warily, disgusted by his mother’s unspoken prejudice. “I’ve only spoken to her once, but she seemed . . . lively.”
“Then perhaps you shall marry her.” His mother laughed again before he could respond.
Dorian smiled weakly. He still couldn’t figure out why his father had granted the King of Eyllwe’s request that his daughter visit their court to become better acquainted with the ways of Adarlan. As far as ambassadors went, Nehemia wasn’t exactly the best choice. Not when he’d heard rumors of her support of the Eyllwe rebels—and her efforts to shut down the labor camp at Calaculla. Dorian couldn’t blame her for that, though, not after he’d seen the horror that was Endovier, and the destruction it had wrought upon Celaena Sardothien’s body. But his father never did anything without a reason—and from the few words he’d exchanged with Nehemia, he couldn’t help but wonder if she had her own motivations in coming here, too.
“It’s a pity that Lady Kaltain has an agreement with Duke Perrington,” his mother went on. “She’s such a beautiful girl—and so polite. Perhaps she has a sister.”
Dorian crossed his arms, swallowing his repulsion. Kaltain stood at the far end of the court, and he was all too aware of her eyes creeping over every inch of him. He shifted in his seat, his tailbone aching from sitting for so long.
“What about Elise?” the queen said, indicating a blond young woman clad in lavender. “She’s very beautiful. And can be quite playful.”
As I’ve already learned.
“Elise bores me,” he said.
“Oh, Dorian.” She put a hand over her heart. “You’re not about to inform me that you wish to marry for love, are you? Love does not guarantee a successful marriage.”
He was bored. Bored of these women, bored of these cavaliers who masqueraded as companions, bored of everything.
He’d hoped his journey to Endovier would quell that boredom, and that he’d be glad to return home, but he found home to be the same. The same ladies still looked at him with pleading eyes, the same serving girls still winked at him, the same councilmen still slipped pieces of potential legislation under his door with hopeful notes. And his father . . . his father would always be preoccupied with conquest—and wouldn’t stop until every continent bore Adarlan’s flag. Even gambling over the so-called Champions had become achingly dull. It was clear Cain and Celaena would ultimately face each other, and until then . . . well, the other Champions weren’t worth his time.
“You’re sulking again. Are you upset over something, my pet? Have you heard from Rosamund? My poor child—how she broke your heart!” The queen shook her head. “Though it was over a year ago . . .” He didn’t reply. He didn’t want to think about Rosamund—or about the boorish husband she’d left him for.