“Oh! Yes. Of course. Forgive me.” Clare scrambled to think. “It’s difficult to say, but, I think it was the culture.” She’d been learning all about Zennor’s rich culture from Ramus and it was the first thing to spring to mind.
Amil smiled. “I trust you’ll find Mortise to your liking, then. We have many traditions and our culture isn’t as divided as Zennor’s.” He took a sip of wine, then asked, “Have you begun preparations?”
Fates, she hated feeling like she was missing half the conversation. “Preparations?”
“For your journey to Mortise.”
“Oh. Yes.” Her cheeks warmed. Serene wouldn’t be flustered. Clare needed to regain control.
The dancing candlelight from the table’s candelabra caught the flash of his teeth as he smiled. “Duvan is beautiful. The palms, the architecture, the beaches . . . You won’t be disappointed, Princess.” His gaze dipped to her lips, pressed against her glass. “Though, as beautiful as Duvan is, it pales beside you.”
Clare set down her wine. Why hadn’t anyone prepared her for Amil’s flirtations? She wasn’t sure how to react, but surely Serene wouldn’t respond—not when she was engaged to marry the Mortisian prince. Clare cleared her throat. “Do you know Desfan well?”
Amil leaned back. “A little. The serjah didn’t spend much time at the palace, until the serjan’s recent illness.”
“Rumors say he’s a pirate.”
Amil chuckled. “If anything, he hunted pirates. He would spend months away at sea.”
“His father never complained about his long absences?”
“No. The serjan didn’t seem to worry about Desfan’s lack of influence in court.”
“But others did?”
He tipped his head in acknowledgement, then lowered his voice. “Between us, I think there are many in court who feel Desfan is not, perhaps, the best choice for regent. Some say he’s not trained enough in politics to lead us until the serjan’s health returns.”
“I suppose these same people think his first mistake was to insist on this betrothal?”
“Only because they have not met you, Princess. You are a gift to Mortise.”
Across the table from them, an empty chair was suddenly filled by Amil’s father. Two Mortisian guards took up positions behind the emissary, their curved swords and shielded expressions sending a tendril of unease down Clare’s spine.
Ser Bahri’s beard was as dark as his son’s, but fuller. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, but that was the only sign of his age. The emissary greeted her curtly and reached for his wine.
Amil sighed beside her. “Please excuse him. He’s quite preoccupied these days.”
“I assumed his duties would relax after the betrothal was decided.”
“There’s still much to coordinate. He writes letters almost constantly. I’ve tried to help, but he insists on doing most of it alone.”
The dinner continued, and though Amil was pleasant and chatted passionately about the wonder of Duvan’s coastal markets, Clare couldn’t shake the nervousness bunching her shoulders. She cast a look around the table and caught the old emissary scowling at her, his gaze sharp. Her scalp prickled, a shiver rippling through her.
Ser Bahri glanced away and the meal continued. Amil talked beside her, silverware clinked against plates and laughter rang out in the room. Ser Bahri never looked at her again, but Clare didn’t relax.
An odd chill remained with her throughout the remainder of dinner, making her all the more eager to retire. When Bennick and Venn finally escorted her to the princess’s suite, she hurried to climb into bed. It had been a tiring day, and stretching out on the soft mattress felt wonderful. She pulled in long and deep breaths and felt her muscles relax.
The lilac scent was strong—the maids must have just freshened the room with new flowers—but Clare was growing used to the sweet fragrance.
She shifted, settling in more deeply as she inhaled. Another scent was mixed with the lilacs, but she couldn’t place it. A yawn cracked her jaw and she rubbed her closed eyes, sleep claiming her quickly.
Her last thought was that the scent was overpowering, making it hard to breathe.
Chapter 16
Bennick
Bennick clacked his wooden mug against Cardon’s, Venn’s, and Gavril’s. Venn hooted when ale sloshed against the scuffed table and then he threw back his drink, gulping it down without pausing for breath.
Cardon shook his head, a grin pulling at his mouth. “It must be the Zennorian in your blood.”
“Are they better drinkers?” Venn asked, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he lowered the empty mug.
Cardon rolled his eyes. “Once again, I know more about your mother’s kingdom than you do.”
Venn blinked. “You want me to ask my mother about her ability to drink?”
Cardon shook his head, keeping his mug firmly on the table. Bennick had never seen Cardon drunk; he shared the occasional drink with them, but he came for the company. Bennick wasn’t one to overindulge either, so he never asked Cardon’s reasons. Perhaps they were similar to his own; losing his ability to think and react quickly wasn’t something he cared to experience. And he feared the drink might loosen his tongue. He trusted the men at this table with his life, but that didn’t mean he wanted them to know every thought in his head. Especially when it came to Clare, who was on his mind almost constantly these days.
She’d done well tonight, posing as Serene at the dinner. Bennick had been close enough to hear most of her conversation with Amil Havim, and though he hadn’t appreciated the Mortisian’s less-than-subtle flirtations, Clare had handled the man excellently. Pride had filled Bennick as he’d watched her adapt yet again to her situation. Whether she was an unassuming kitchen maid diving into danger to save the princess’s life or squaring off against him on the training field, Clare was amazing. He was fascinated by her—something he could admit to himself but didn’t want spoken aloud.
Venn was loud enough for all of them, anyway. He’d tried pulling Gavril into the conversation, but had
