His penchant for heartbreak would be worrisome if he didn’t fall in love with a different woman every other week.
Love—truelove—doesn’t just last a week.
It lasts forever.
Beyond forever.
I bury the thought in the darkness where I keep such things, lest I end up next to Rhainn on the sofa.
Kyffin returns his sword to its scabbard, the blade reaching to the top of his high black boots. “Women are vile. I shall never fall in love with one.”
“You say that now, but you’ll change your tune,” Rhainn says with another sigh.
“I say that forever,” Kyff insists. “They don’t even know how to fight properly.”
I collect a serviette from beside the tray of leftover tomato and cucumber sandwiches to clean my sticky fingers. “That isn’t entirely true. In Stratiss, they train the women in their army the same as their men. They even have female generals.” That’s what Aeron said in his letters back when he used to write.
He and I were meant to refuse our arranged marriages side by side. Instead, my brother accepted his bride without so much as a word of defiance. A year later, the memory of his betrayal still leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.
Kyffin fiddles with the hilt of his sword, his chin-length black hair slipping from behind his pointed ear. “Female generals? Surely that cannot be true. They’re not strong enough.”
“Some would argue that females are stronger than males,” Rhainn counters, draping his arm over the back of the sofa.
Kyff glowers at him. “Are not.”
“Are too,” Rhainn shoots back. He may be twenty-four, but sometimes, he acts younger than Kyff. “Have you seen the size of a Scathian baby? And women have to push them out of their?—”
I ball up the jam-covered serviette, launching it at Rhainn. His indignant yelp echoes off the marble walls. “That is enough.” Poor Kyff only just learned he’s going to grow hair on his bollocks. He needs time to process that before we shower him with the ins and outs of reproducing. “Anyone can be strong just as anyone can be weak.” Before I can explain further, Boris stomps in.
Incredibly stompy, our king. Gives me an awful headache in the mornings.
Boris looks past us, his gaze falling to the stain on the carpet no bigger than my thumb. “Who got jam on my rug?”
Rhainn points at Kyff.
Kyff scrubs his palms down his leather breeches, his cheeks turning pink. “We were playing a game, you see, and?—”
I raise my hand. “It was me.” If I can save Kyff from our brother’s wrath, then I’ll consider this a good day. “Who knew my veins were filled with strawberry jam?”
With asnapof the king’s fingers, one of the maids lining the wall springs into action like a statue come to life. Her white skirts flutter as she twists toward one of the many warded doors leading to the bowels of the castle. A moment later, she returns with a rag and a bucket.
I push to my feet, motioning for the rag. “I made the mess. I will clean it up.”
The maid hesitates.
Boris growls, and I decide against pushing the issue. No sense letting an innocent person get into trouble for listening to me over the king.
“I shall be more careful the next time I get stabbed,” I whisper to her.
The mask she wears muffles her giggle. The pleasant sound makes me wonder what she looks like. The color of her hair, hidden beneath her white hood. Does she have a nice smile? What color are her eyes?
“It is almost dinnertime,” Boris announces, clasping his hands behind his back the way our father used to. Boris may look like our previous king, but the only other thing the two of them have in common is their infernal notion that a Vale prince should sit on every throne in the realm.
“I expect all of you dressed and on time,” he goes on, directing the warning at me.
Rhainn rolls off the sofa, grabbing Kyffin’s elbow. “We will be ready momentarily, my king.” He tows the youngest prince out the door.
I return to my room as well, but instead of hurrying, I take my time changing out of the soiled jerkin. When my fingers graze the top button on my stained shirt, I think about swapping it for a clean one, I really do.