Laurell Hamilton - Never After

“Well?” my father demanded. “Who has passed all my tests and proved himself worthy of my daughter’s hand?”

One of the scholars cleared his throat. He looked to be a hundred and eighty years old, all crepy white skin and wispy white hair. I had to think he had forgotten at least half of the facts he had ever managed to learn. “My liege,” he said. “There is no clear winner. Both men have answered all of our questions correctly.”

There was a slight murmur of approval from the onlookers, a few desultory rounds of applause. My father scowled. “Well, she cannot marry two men,” he said. “Ask another question.”

“We have asked them all,” said the second scholar, whom I belatedly realized was a woman. She was as fragile as a creature made out of dried leaves and corn husks, a notion reinforced by her papery skin and overall brownness of coloring.

My father’s expression became even more thunderous. “Then think up another one!” he shouted.

Norbert pushed himself forward. “You say there are only two suitors left?” he said. “Let them stand before the princess so she can choose which one she will wed.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed. The generally approving reaction of the crowd drowned out Gisele’s gasp of, “No! My liege! You can’t!”

My father was nodding vigorously. “Very well,” he said. “Bring them both to the throne room in half an hour. We will see Olivia engaged before the day is out.”

What do you wear to the announcement of your own betrothal? When you have only thirty minutes to prepare, you don the nicest gown you own that matches the accessories you’re already wearing. My maids stuffed me into a dark yellow dress with lace foaming over the décolletage and quickly brushed and repinned my hair. The topaz necklace and eardrops stayed in place, and soon I was hurrying back down the long hallways to the throne room.

As you’d expect, it was a large domed chamber made gloomier than necessary by imposing carved pillars, lugubrious murals, and a complete lack of windows, so all the lighting had to be supplied by candles and oil lamps. When I arrived, my father and Gisele were already seated on the great carved, painted, and bejew eled chairs that were set up on a low stage in the center of the chamber. About two hundred other people were milling about the room, restless and excited. I wove between them on my way to the dais, then climbed up to take my place in the more delicate chair situated at my father’s right hand.

“Let the contestants be brought forward!” my father commanded.

The crowd parted and the two scholars led Darius and Harwin deep into the room. Darius and I stared at each other, each drinking in details. In this much better lighting, he was much better-looking. His blond curls had been freshly washed and combed; he was wearing a silky blue shirt over black trousers and boots, and he looked young and hopeful and sparkly with possibility. I know men aren’t sparkly , but he was, somehow. He seemed to be on the verge of breaking into laughter or bursting into song or flinging up his hands to call forth rainbows.

I hoped that, this close up, I looked as good to him as he did to me.

Harwin, by contrast, was much the worse for yesterday’s escapades and today’s deep cogitation. The first thing I noticed was that he walked awkwardly, employing a cane and favoring his left foot. I had not seen him fend off the first set of attack dogs yesterday; clearly one of them had chewed on his leg or ankle. As he got closer, I saw that his face was almost haggard, perhaps with pain, perhaps with accumulated weariness. His eyes were fixed on my face, and his expression was dismal.

Only three people in the room knew whom I would choose, and two of them weren’t at all happy about it. I saw Gisele lean forward and bend in my direction, but I would not look at her. I kept my gaze on the approaching men and tried to maintain a serious expression.

Harwin and Darius halted in front of the thrones and executed deep bows. “Well done, both of you!” my father declared. “Each of you has demonstrated his strength, his valor, and his wit—each has proved himself worthy of my daughter. Yet only one of you can marry the princess. Now is the time for her to choose which of you she will call husband.”

My father rose to his feet and gestured for me to follow suit. Gisele and I both stood up. “Introduce yourselves,” my father said grandly and pointed at Harwin. “First you.”

Harwin stepped closer to the stage, his gaze still leveled on me. “I am Sir Harwin Brenley, twenty-eight years old, a man of property and my father’s sole heir. If you choose me as your husband, I will treat you gently, love you fondly, share all my material goods with you, and consider myself a fortunate man.”

A soft sigh ran through the room, produced, no doubt, by the women in attendance. I blinked at Harwin, for that was certainly the most romantic string of sentences I had ever heard him put together. But it was still Harwin staring back up at me, tall, brown, steady, dull. I didn’t know how to answer him, so I merely nodded, thanked him, and turned my attention to Darius.

The magician stepped forward and dropped into a bow so low that his curls brushed the floor. When he straightened, he was holding a bouquet of enormous white blossoms that gave off a rich and heady scent.

“I am Darius Kent, son of a landowner and also my father’s heir. I am possessed of a sunny temperament, a wealth of fantastical stories, and the ability to do small magics. If you marry me, your life will be filled with laughter and decorated with enchantments, and both of those serve to lighten even the dourest days.” He flung the flowers into the air and they were transformed into white butterflies that danced and fluttered around my head before winging their way up into the painted dome. I clapped my hands together like a child, and all the women in the audience cooed and applauded along with me.

My father turned toward me. “Daughter, can you choose between them?”

“Darius,” I said with what might have been unbecoming haste. “The magician. I will marry Darius Kent.”

The reaction from the crowd was so loud that I couldn’t hear what my father or Gisele might have said in response. But Darius flung his head back and laughed, then spread his arms wide in invitation. “Come to me, then!” he called, and I didn’t even hesitate before jumping off the stage into his arms. He caught me deftly and twirled me around until I was as dizzy as one of those butterflies.

“We shall plan the wedding immediately!” My father’s declaration rose above the excited chatter of the crowd. “Everyone shall be invited!”

That caused the noise to intensify even more, but somehow Gisele’s cool voice cut across the clamor. “Not for another month,” my stepmother said. “You promised Olivia her period of betrothal.”

Still in Darius’s arms, my feet ten inches off the ground, my eyes locked on the smiling face of my chosen fiancé, I desperately wished I had not negotiated such a concession from my father. But before I could recant, Norbert’s loud voice came from somewhere among the watchers.

“The lad must take the princess to meet his family,” the old lord said. “It would be unseemly for her to marry him without such an introduction.”

“I shall take you to meet my grandmother,” Darius said. Although everyone in the hall could hear him, he seemed to be speaking only to me. “Will you like that?”

“Indeed, I think I will like anything you have to show me,” I replied breathlessly.

“Excellent,” my father said. “You can leave in the morning.”

I was delighted at the notion of wandering off in Darius’s company, so I was greatly displeased when Gisele’s voice once again made itself heard above the din. “She cannot travel alone through the kingdom with a man she has just met,” the queen said coldly. “The possibilities abound for misfortunes and errors in judgment.”