The Shadow Princess (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 6)

The hall doors open with a loud groan, and our heads turn to see Kieran striding down the aisle. As he trots up the dais, Laina asks, “You have news from the other royals?”

He nods and stands at the end of the table beside Bastien’s chair. “All family representatives will arrive tomorrow to discuss plans.”

“Anyone balk?” I ask. I want to see how loyal these people are.

“Baynor Sorin,” Kieran replies with a smirk. “He reiterated his hesitancy in leaving his people and demanded that you should go see him.”

“And what did you say to that?” I ask curiously.

“I told the prince he was either with us or against us, but if he was against us, we’d withdraw our supportive troops. He changed his tune, and he’ll be here on the morrow as well.”

“Well done,” I commend, standing from my chair. “I’ll meet with the royals and then after, I’m leaving for the Rosethorn Valley.”

The Conclave members stand, a sign of respect and acknowledgment that I’m done with this meeting.

I glance at Bastien. “I’m going to see Archer.”

I don’t wait around for him to nod his agreement. He said I’m not to leave his sight, which is fine, but I’ll do what I want.

And right now, I want to visit my cousin.

Bastien marches at my side out of the hall, and after we exit, he stops me with a hand on my arm. “Do not tell Archer your plans to see Hephastus or about the royals coming.”

I pull my arm away, glaring. “Of course I wouldn’t tell him.”

He’s my cousin and I love and care for him but matters of strategy stay within the Conclave and my top-tier advisors. I trust my cousin with my life, but it doesn’t mean he can’t be compromised.

Bastien nods curtly and then sweeps his hand for me to precede him. He follows close behind, followed by the contingent of twenty soldiers who will be my shadows while here in Clairmont.

CHAPTER 19

Thalia

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter with annoyance as I smooth my skirt.

“It’s expected,” Bastien says, his voice carrying through to the bedroom as he waits for me in the living area.

It seems that with all the royals coming to visit, wherein I will ask them to pledge immediate military support, it’s not acceptable for me to wear jeans or even one of the casual dresses I’ve purchased since returning.

Rather, I am expected to dress formally, and that means a gown in the Vyronasian style. One was delivered yesterday afternoon, along with a note from Laina Mercea requesting I wear it and with apologies that there were no royal jewels to accompany. I rolled my eyes at that because I’m sure absolutely no one traveling from the royal houses will expect jewels or even a formal gown.

Still, I will wear the damn dress because it was requested of me. There is something to be said for looking the part of not only heir to the Kestevayne throne but of the one who will lead the attack against Ferelith. They want me to look like the true adult I’ve become in the past seven years, and this dress leaves no doubt I’m a woman.

A full-length cream sheath of a material akin to silk, the gown gathers at the waist and drops to the floor in soft, fluid folds. Wide and plunging deeply, the neckline ends at the center of my chest, exposing the soft inner curves of my breasts. The skirt has a long slit straight up the front to mid-thigh, which exposes my legs as I walk or even upon a ruffle of a breeze. I used a healing potion to erase the discoloration from Snyder’s bruising, and thankfully, it also erased most of the soreness.

I was given a pair of crystal-studded heels to wear, and I feel like I’m going to topple over at any moment. Seven years of cowboy boots and tennis shoes have weakened my abilities to be comfortable in formal wear.

I step out of the bedroom and take in Bastien, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. He’s dressed in battle gear rather than formal military attire. He’s done so to make a point to everyone.

This is not about ceremony, but war.

Bastien’s battle gear consists of black pants made of a stiff, denim-like material. Over that, leather guards are strapped to the thighs, knees, and shins. His top is a simple black tunic tucked into his pants, but with crisscrossing leather straps in the front that hold a metal breastplate to his sternum. The shirt is sleeveless, a nod to the warm weather, but his upper and lower arms bear metal plates to shield from sword blows. Steel-reinforced black leather boots make him battle ready and imposing as hell, given his brawn and height.

“Looks like you’re ready for a fight,” I muse with an approving smile.