The Fairest (Sample)
Chapter 15: Number Two

GRISONCE ARLON

Gris expected the girl’s response to be as such. But deep down, he knew she was the chosen Fairest. He observed her reactions and noticed moments where she seemed doubtful, shocked, or reminisced on something he wished she’d disclose. Everything he suspected over the last two years aligned perfectly. Despite it all, he felt sick disclosing such information to her, as if it was the wrong thing to do. He shook his head to rid the doubt and began to undress.

Rasheem closed the entries of the curtain, and Gris grabbed a black pair of breeches from his messy bed.

“You wore that yesterday.”

“Rasheem, I don’t think anyone w-will notice.”

The Master of the House snatched the breeches from his hands and went over to the wardrobe. He opened the doors and revealed an outfit that was already prepared. Gris frowned. Rasheem gave him a pair of breeches dipped in deep royal blue. Once he slid into them, Rasheem helped him into a white button-down shirt with gold designs falling from the shoulders to the end hem.

“You are reckless,” Rasheem said. Gris scoffed and rolled his eyes as he buttoned his shirt. “Bringing that thief into your chambers. Bad move, especially if Eron replaces out what you’ve done.”

“If he does, what m-more can he do to me w-which has not already been done?”

“Not exactly what he’d do to you,” Rasheem stated, “but what he’d do to the girl.”

Gris sighed and snatched the deep blue and gold vest from Rasheem’s hand. He hated wearing vests and fancy clothing. It made him feel silly, especially when most of the people within the palace saw him as a royal joke close to destruction.

“They can condemn you, of course,” Rasheem noted.

Gris shook his head. “My father wouldn’t allow it,” he muttered, and a tremble of doubt shook through him.

“Best not taunt the bird or else it’ll turn and attack one day.”

“You sound ridiculous,” Gris said.

He approached the wall mirror to freshen up his appearance. He brushed his hair back in a slick motion, patted his bare cheeks until some color flushed in, then squirted on his favorite warm spiced vanilla cologne. He turned to face Rasheem, who grabbed his vest to button it up. Gris groaned with annoyance as the servant took it upon himself to tuck in his shirt and tidy parts of his outfit.

“Rasheem, must you do that?” he groused, as if the purple-eyed beauty was watching.

“You may not care, Your Highness, but I want you to be presentable. You are the heir to the throne, whether you wish to ponder it or not. I will not have you attend such a royal event looking like a mad historian.”

Gris thought about the way Lady Mageia had called him names. It surprised him how much it hurt his feelings. For most of his lifetime, he’d endured hundreds of name callings, which he easily dismissed and internalized as fuel to get through another day. But hearing how she thought of him made him question his own sanity and how he perceived himself.

He remembered Rasheem’s constant suggestions on replaceing a wife or inquiring about social gatherings to mingle with women. Lady Mageia was the first woman he’d encountered within the Royal Grounds that actually piqued his interest.

“Grisonce,” Rasheem snapped.

“What?” he scowled, suddenly feeling highly exposed.

Rasheem held up a pendant with an emerald stone dangling from a gold chain. “I said, I want to give you a gift,” he boasted.

“Where’d you get such a jewel?” Gris asked. He took it to observe its smooth surface closer. Black specks had been mixed into the emerald stone in an elaborate design.

“I’ve had it for a long time now, and I wanted to give it away to someone special.”

Gris smiled warmly. “Thank you, Rasheem.”

“I want you to wear it to the luncheon,” he said, and Gris let him clasp it around his neck.

Rasheem grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to face the mirror again. They both stared at his appearance. Gris grimaced, but not at the gift. No matter how much he tried to look royal, he would always see his flaw, despite it being something not seen, but heard.

“I don’t want to go.”

“See this as a chance of redemption.”

“I need no r-redemption if this is how the gods created me.”

“Well, keep that in mind and face your family with true integrity.”

Gris sharply inhaled and exhaled, but it did not settle the uneasiness in his gut. “Thank you, Rasheem.”

His closest friend in the world gave a proud smile, as if he was sending a son off to greatness. He wiped his vest and pants of wrinkles or perhaps dust again—he didn’t know—but he felt grateful for the man’s care and for his help. When Rasheem was finished, he stood to his full height and, at some point, snatched up a pair of shiny black dress shoes.

“No, you found them,” Gris moaned, hoping to wear his comfortable boots.

“I did,” Limp grinned. “Put them on and get moving.” To Gris’ dismay, he obeyed. “Remember to take deep breaths before you speak. Pronounce every word, keep your back straight, chin high with confidence, and whatever you do, do not bring up the thief.”

“I promised her I would speak to my father about her sentence. Hopefully, I can convince him to hand Eron’s assignment to me.”

“No, Gris!” Rasheem shouted, and he clamped his lips closed, but not for long. “Do not bring her up, or you will be dismissed or worse.” He shook his head with a tremble. “Oh Rasaal, bless this boy to leave with his head still intact.”

“I’ll be fine, Rasheem, thank you. I’ve got to go or I will be late.”

Gris swooshed the curtain back and yelped. Mageia, her striking eyes, and her unquestionable beauty sent waves of embarrassment through his body.

She was eavesdropping. Good gods, he thought, feeling color flush into his cheeks on its own this time.

“Sorry,” she muttered, biting her bottom lip.

“Um, it’s okay,” he said as he avoided eye contact.

“Are you really going to speak to the king for me?”

He tugged on the vest, which felt like it was smothering him, and smiled. “Yes. I will do as I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said. A hint of sorrow and worry crossed her eyes, making him want to hug her and assure her that everything would be okay.

“Please, my lady, return upstairs or replace somewhere to relax. Think about what I’ve told you until Dargany returns. Everyone thinks y-you are in Gideon’s q-quarters. Hopefully, he has not returned yet from his trip into Hiilaan. If you’re g-gone by the time I return, I hope you wouldn’t mind if I summon you again.”

“You are mad,” she said, voice mixing with a hint of hope, amusement, and doubt.

“That’s what I said,” he heard Rasheem utter as he approached the stairs leading to the back door.

The prince gave a slight chuckle. “Best not give Rasheem a heart attack while I’m gone.”

And with that said, he slipped out and went on his way.

Gris scratched at his neck, irritated by the shirt collar, as he arrived at the palace’s South Wing. The band playing a soothing song echoed from the doors at the end of the corridor. His mind and body wanted to turn and run away, but his feet continued moving until he entered one of the entrances into the dining hall.

Designed in deep shining colors of purple, silver, white, and gold, the dining hall was a remarkable sight. The room was half the size of the throne room, with a long wooden table at its center prepared for a meal. The glass windows about the room allowed the sun to shimmer off the marble floor and the crystals hanging from the three chandeliers.

Gris took a deep breath and entered.

Instantly, the chatter quieted as eyes flashed in his direction. The chatter resurfaced as Fair nobles murmured and chuckled amongst themselves, amazed to see the disowned prince had crawled out of his den.

The hairs along his neck stood by the sudden flush of attention.

Run, his terrified conscious screamed.

No. If you run, you will show them weakness, said his reasoning conscious.

He planted his feet to the floor and gestured to one of his floor slaves holding a tray of wine. Like the others dressed in their finest serving outfit, Orlan approached.

“Your Highness,” he whispered with a smile fit for a witty thief. “Care for a drink?”

“Please, Orlan,” he said, mouth drying from his nerves. He took a glass of wine. “I feel ridiculous.”

“You look handsome. Don’t let these people,” he scoffed with a crooked smile, “intimidate you.”

He nodded and took a sip, hoping it would settle the nerves. He caught eyes with a few of his floor servants, who nodded their silent support for his uncomfortable situation. Unlike most of the slaves working on the palace estate, these slaves possessed either unseen defects or couldn’t pay their debts, which allowed them the privilege of being floor servants for events such as this one. And as required upon their purchase, every slave bore the Crescent Mark to distinguish them and also further humiliate them.

Some of the guests openly snickered or scrutinized them in their faces.

“I will be fine,” he replied, annoyance flaring.

“Yes, you will. You have our full support,” he murmured. Gris knew that the last job Orlan wanted was to be a floor servant, but his name was picked from the basket. The 30-something-year-old man, marked for his crime as a con artist, strolled away, leaving him alone yet again.

I can do this. You can do this, Grisonce. No matter how much everyone dislikes you, remember you are still a Royal.

He caught eyes with Commander Eron, dressed in his finest political attire, standing with one of the judges of the Court. Instead of cutting the contact, he gave a decent nod, to which the Commander responded with a scowling roll of his crimson eyes. Gris frowned as he remembered growing up with the Fiisen. Eron was such a pestering bully who didn’t mind burning him from time to time. Always boasting about the attention he got from the king and his officials and how all the girls threw themselves at him.

But Gris always reminded him. If it weren’t for your sooth, you’d be an ordinary citizen and mean nothing to the Crown.

Gris gulped down the rest of his wine and scanned the hall. Where was the rest of his dysfunctional family? He did not receive any information that they wanted him to enter with them into the dining hall, which was standard tradition. He mentally shrugged it away, not feeding the aggravation igniting in his chest.

A horn was sounded at the entrance by one of the royal soldiers. Indeed, as he expected, his family appeared from around the corner.

“All hail, His Majesty King Dimitri Arlon, Her Majesty Queen Saia Arlon, and Her Highness Princess Relana Arlon,” the announcer shouted.

And His Highness Prince Grisonce Arlon, you know, the prince who has a right to the throne if father dies? Gris announced in his head, shifting awkwardly from some eyes glancing his way.

Everyone bowed or curtsied, which Gris found no reason to do. This forced his father to look at him, and the smile on his face demised a pinch. Blinking away the guilt Gris hoped he felt, his father led his beautiful wife and stepdaughter to the opposite end of the table.

“Everyone may take their seats for the meal,” the announcer declared.

This was done in a fairly decent order, as if they all knew the location of their seats. However, Gris walked straight to the empty chair on his father’s right and gasped, seeing the tag read “Prince Gideon”. He frowned, noticing that his seat was the next chair, beside Lord Hercones Baashkon, the kingdom’s High Priest, who seemed amused by the arrangement.

“Good day, Your Highness,” the 70-year-old elder whispered.

“Good day, Anointed One,” Gris greeted and forced a decent nod.

He slid into the chair, feeling the back of his neck clench with a sudden flush of emotions. He couldn’t push himself to look at his father.

How dare he push me to the number two seat? How dare he when he knows Gideon was not attending the luncheon?

“Thank you, Fair people, for joining us for this Annual Royal Luncheon,” the king said, still on his feet, his bearish voice bouncing along the walls. “As the hours climb closer to midnight’s holy sacrifice, let us take every opportunity we can muster to seek the Diviine Six to bless us with the spirit of peace and empowerment. Remember, they are watching us and judging us accordingly. So, behave yourselves until then. I’m speaking to you, Lord Hercones,” he teased, giving the High Priest a silly glare that brought chuckles.

“We thank them for this meal we are so privileged to enjoy. Let us all dine, shall we?”

Everyone chuckled in agreement as the floor servants exited the adjoined kitchen with the first part of their meal. A vegetable broth soup mixed with thick blocks of chicken, requested by the king himself. Deep down, he hoped things were going okay in the kitchens as well as the rest of the palace, but his mind stayed stuck on the seating arrangement.

Why did he summon me to attend if he was going to embarrass me?

He tried to keep his back straight like Rasheem instructed, despite the temptation just to stand and leave. He glanced up at Commander Eron, standing out like a black wolf amongst the white, sitting across the table to his stepsister’s left. His red eyes burned into his soul as Princess Relana blabbered his ear off.

“Shame Gideon couldn’t join us,” Queen Saia said, glancing at Gris with discontent.

“Hmm, he had another engagement,” King Dimitri muttered.

“His business with the royal blacksmith could’ve been rescheduled,” she complained. “I always love seeing my son sitting across from me at these luncheons.”

Gris knew that her words were meant to taunt him. He ignored her and forced himself to pick up the spoon and stir the soup. A fruity wine that tickled his nose had been poured for him, but he couldn’t convince his hand to reach for it. He felt like a hollow stone, dressed up in fine clothing, only to be ridiculed by those who thought themselves Fair.

No one would be Fair if it was decided by him. If he were a god, he wouldn’t allow people to be so cruel to one another.

Gris’ hand trembled as he brought the spoon to his lips to pretend to enjoy the food. But the deliciously rich soup was bland to his taste buds and hardened his chest as it went down his esophagus.

He dared a glance at his father, who hadn’t looked up from his meal since it came. He looked terrifyingly handsome with the gold jeweled crown on his head and the fancy robe that did not hide the bulging shoulder muscles of a man who enjoyed fitness. Just one look at him, and Gris could see himself. Long, shiny black curls, sharp chin, and thick eyebrows. Only his black eyes and full beard set them apart.

Those black eyes wavered up to meet his, and the men shot their gazes to their bowls of soup. He knew this could be the only opportunity before the ceremony where he’d have his father’s ear. The man had to have some compassion stashed away in his darkening heart to allow him to work with the Purple Thief waiting in his chambers. The only problem, how should he bring up the subject without everyone bashing and embarrassing him?

Gris felt the need to vomit and almost did when everyone’s chatter rose high. The announcing horn echoed about the dining hall, sending chills up his spine. That horn only meant one thing.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes wide in pure horror. Standing in the nearest entrance was his stepbrother, dressed in his finest travel attire.