Being King Arthur's daughter is not as good as it sounds.
Sixteen-year-old Melora has struggled to find her place ever since her brother was trampled to death in a hunting accident. Her father raised her to be a warrior, but Melora isn't allowed to...
Orlando remained frozen in thought, wondering how he'd somehow affronted the mage.
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Melora retreated to her mending, not emerging until supper. At the table, the Prince of Thessaly watched Melora with an intensity that made her flush. She could hardly concentrate, and when Mador was seated beside her offering courtesy after courtesy, she lost her appetite entirely.
Rude, she thought, meeting Orlando's bold gaze. She was further perturbed when he grinned, instead of dropping his eyes like a polite man should. Anger diffused her shame and Melora turned to Mador, attempting to look intent on what he was saying.
"The tourney ," he proclaimed, "should be fine, the weather looks likely. A bit cold for my taste, but it will spur us to greater exertions, fighting to be warm!"
"Naturally," murmured Melora, restraining her impulse to wince at his volume.
"And you, my lady," Sir Mador's voice softened, "will you favor one of these with your colors?" He frowned. "Mayhap is too bold a question, but I ..."
Melora forced a smile. "'Tis not too bold, good sir. I will probably favor one of my cousins, as I usually do." Melora had never given her colors another, lest the gossip turn to her.
"Ah," Mador's brown eyes flickered with disappointment, but he shrugged, "You are fond of them, 'tis well known."
Melora sighed. It was going to be a long night.
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Orlando left the hall early and was relieved to find his room empty. By the time he was ready for bed, Horace delivered his armor and freshly sharpened sword.
"That should be all, Highness," Horace stacked the armor beside Orlando's mattress.
Orlando squinted at the scroll he was studying. "Do we have any apples left?"
Horace made a face. "After all of that rich food?"
"I wasn't hungry." Orlando pondered the shaky script that trailed across the parchment like cracks in glass. Whoever copied this should be exiled.
Horace rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Aren't you always starving?"
"I wasn't hungry," repeated the prince. "I am now."
