Third Daughter (The Dharian Affairs, Book One) Read Online Free PDF Page B

never been offered.
    She pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the Queen’s Grand Chamber. It was empty, vacant now that tea had finished. At the far end, the Queen stood with Janak, consulting in hushed tones. It irked Aniri more than normal, that her mother had such a close confidence with the raksaka who guarded Aniri. As if Janak were some kind of paternal force, a military substitute for the father her mother had abandoned. Meanwhile, she put Aniri through tests of worthiness as a daughter of Dharia.
    It irritated her, like a loose hairpin scratching.
    Aniri took her time crossing the long room, no longer hurrying. Before she left Seledri, she had washed every trace of tears from her face. She didn’t want her mother to think she had been crying over this decision she had set before her.
    “Aniri,” the Queen said as she approached. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t want to keep the young prince waiting any longer. He’s already had a long journey from the north.”
    “I’m at your service, your majesty.” The bitterness in her voice was unavoidable, but she stood as tall as her heavily embroidered dress, weighted with the obligations of royalty, would allow.
    Her mother frowned, seemed tempted to say something, but held it back. Janak wore his usual impassive look—apparently his smiles were reserved for mocking her in private. The Queen nodded to Janak, and he motioned to a doorman at the anteroom where the Queen usually prepared for tea. The doorman disappeared, ostensibly in search of the prince. That her mother would allow the barbarian to use her private chambers disturbed Aniri.
    “Have you already given him visiting privileges?” Aniri asked in a low voice.
    “I’m simply treating him with the respect due a sovereign of a potential ally.”
    “In your personal antechambers?” Aniri asked. “Are you certain the artwork is secure?”
    “Aniri.” Her mother’s voice had gone cold, but Aniri already knew she had stepped over the limit of her mother’s tolerance. “I expect you to—” She stopped when the door swung open, and the prince strode in. He was young, just as her mother had taken pains to note, as if that somehow would make a difference.
    He crossed the floor with long purposeful strides. His finely tailored jacket and pants were current with the latest fashion befitting a nobleman in Dharian court: high-collared, deep navy silk, trimmed with twisted gold embroidery and reaching to his knees. Only he seemed awkward in the jacket, as if the silk chafed across his back. Or perhaps Aniri imagined his discomfort, the barbarian tales draped on him like an invisible cloak that he labored under. Then again, maybe he was trying to conceal a club.
    She steeled herself against the urge to smile at his expense.
    When the prince stepped from the shadowed back of the room and took in Aniri’s face, he frowned and seemed momentarily disappointed in her. It stuck her as incredibly irritating. What did this barbarian have to be disappointed about? The question nearly leaped from her lips, but then the look was gone. Perhaps she had imagined it. In any event, he was now the picture of courtly dispassion, staring at her with strangely pale amber eyes. Did all that time in the harsh northern sun bleach the color from barbarian eyes?
    The prince stopped at a respectable distance, in accordance with the most formal traditions. Only then did Aniri notice his servant, a massive man, stepping clear of the shadows. Janak, still in his royal uniform from his duties at tea, subtly angled his body between the prince’s giant guard and the Queen.
    The prince’s servant merely stood taller and announced, “Prince Malik, of the Jungali Coalition of Provinces.”
    The prince pressed his hands together, held before his face in a position of high respect, then solemnly tipped his head forward to the Queen. “I bow to the great land of Dharia.” Aniri hadn’t heard the traditional greeting in a long time. She