Tempest fumed as she sat at the table, avoiding her parents’ eyes boring into her, waiting for the telltale snap. No, she would not give them the pleasure. Not today. This was too big a decision to be made so light of. She would not stand for her objections being put down to her usual temper, as they both did with everything else. Somehow, no matter the cruelty they inflicted upon her, it was always she who was made to appear unreasonable. The impudent child, always so dramatic. It was never their fault. Not once was the blame for a single decision laid at their feet. Adults, it seemed, were forever gifted the final say in arguments due only to age. Experience could be called upon as an excuse to vindicate any and all ridiculous and unfair decisions. It was something Tempest could never beat them on, so they used it to have her do as they bid. Swine. They were even more intolerable when they presented a united front. How was she supposed to stand up to the king and queen? Even she, their only surviving child, had a duty to them.
That didn’t make it fair, though. She placed her hands on the table and gripped its edges. It was all she could do not to scream. That or flip the bastard thing and put the two of them on their arses.
‘Eat something, dear,’ her mother said, applying one of her signature diversions intended to placate everybody. It usually worked. But not today. Today they had pushed it too far and Tempest was not in the mood for her mother’s silky-sweet voice used only at times like this. Even its pitch went up a note, as if being patronising wasn’t enough. Tempest’s lip curled as she finally looked up at them both, staring daggers. Would that she could spit venom.
‘Come on,’ her father said. ‘Eat or be done, but don’t sit here ruining our appetites with that sourpuss expression. You’re putting me off my boar.’
His boar. Like the old fool had tracked and killed the thing himself. Tempest had been on a few hunts with her father. Sure, he might have been the one to ultimately cut the thing’s neck with his sword, but it had been her experience that much of the effort expended in bringing down the boar could be attributed to others. Others who would never take credit for it, yet that was how she had seen it. The king usually held back on his mount until such time as the kill was a guarantee, at which point he’d be ushered through to deliver the final blow. Tempest wondered if he was able to ignore the arrows often protruding from the squealing animal as he walked up to it, or whether his ego blinded him to such trivial details. His boar. She sipped at her ale to prevent any words from spilling out without control. Her mouth often seemed to have a mind of its own, and Tempest usually paid for it later. It was a futile task, standing up to parents, but often a necessary one. How else would they learn?
She pushed her plate forwards. ‘I’m done. May I be excused?’
‘Of course,’ her mother said.
‘No,’ the king said.
It was moments like these when Tempest viewed her father not as the man who had once read her bedtime stories or taken her horseback riding. Instead she viewed him as all he was to her now: her king, as he was everyone’s.
‘We will talk until we have reached an agreement,’ he said.
‘You mean you will talk,’ Tempest said, ‘until you have reached a decision and then you will tell me what that is.’
‘Oh, the decision is already made, my girl. You will marry him.’
‘I will not.’
Tempest heard her mother’s rapid breathing in the background, but she did not concern herself with it. She kept her eyes locked with her father’s. Never show weakness. That was what he’d taught her. That’s how predators become prey. She stared him down, daring him to draw out her rage. Her mother’s breathing had now stopped altogether.
The king sat back in his chair and downed his ale. ‘You’re more than old enough. I’ve no use for sourpuss girls who haunt the castle halls at night with their pathetic wailing. You will do as I say.’
‘I will not.’
Her father lowered his cup gently to the table and closed his eyes for a moment. Tempest wished he’d slammed it down, like he so often did. He really must be angry with me. Her muscles tensed as she readied herself for a quick exit. If he got to throwing his hands about, one of his blows might connect. It had been some time since her last hiding and she was in no mood to reacquaint herself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw some of the domestic servants enter and then quickly leave. Tension hung in the air like a morning fog. Tempest could almost reach out and take hold of it.
‘He’s a good match,’ her mother said.
For fuck’s sake, do something other than submit every time. Tempest dismissed her mother’s pointless attempt at peacemaking with a single, venomous look before training her eyes back on her father. He was the predator in her lair, threatening to ruin everything overnight. He was the one trying to send her away. ‘He is Dzurwi,’ she said, not looking at her mother.
‘Consider yourself lucky,’ her father said. ‘Dzurwi are great fighters. Prince Muneso is one of the best. I saw him fight on my last visit to Passo Dzuku. He was the most impressive fighter I saw in the whole of Dzurwo. He’s quite fetching, too, I’ve been told. You should be thanking me for finding you such a good, strong match.’
‘I’m not marrying some lowlander.’
‘You bloody well are. And if you value your life, I wouldn’t repeat that word beyond the safety of these walls.’
Tempest’s whole frame went so rigid it threatened to snap. Half of her wanted to flee to her chambers and cry. The other half wanted to take the knife on her plate and jam it in her father’s rotund belly. Might even get some of that fat out. She took a deep breath, doing everything she could not to explode and give them both the satisfaction of saying she was too immature to make her own decisions.
A cool breeze drifted through the Great Hall. The signature cacophony that usually filled the room was missing as the entire castle staff worked tirelessly behind the scenes in anticipation of Prince Muneso’s arrival and the wedding that had been arranged without her consent. The wedding. What a farce. The draught raised the hairs on Tempest’s neck, stiffening her resolve as she sat opposite her father. ‘You may as well send me to the gallows for all the choice you’re giving me.’
‘It’s not about choice.’
It’s not about choice. Why did he always have to be so absolute, yet so ambiguous? She wondered how he’d ever managed to charm her mother. He always seemed to be so miserable. It wasn’t like he was very fit, either, although Tempest had heard stories of the strong young prince he’d once been. She couldn’t see it, though. The portraits of him that hung about the castle were as realistic a depiction of her father as her bedtime stories could be considered a history of Nyazere. No doubt the portraits were painted in such a way because the artists preferred their heads attached to their necks. A smile crept across her face as she imagined his reaction to a portrait that more accurately reflected his current appearance. Probably wouldn’t fit on the fucking canvas.
‘What’s so funny?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then wipe that good-for-nothing grin off that silly face. I almost prefer the sourpuss.’
‘You can’t make me marry him.’
‘I can and I will. This goes far above your pretty little head and your precious fairy-tale dreams, Tempest.’
‘And if I don’t marry him?’
Her father filled his cup of ale once more, took a long swig, placed it down, and gazed up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he looked her dead in the eye. ‘If you don’t marry him, there’s going to be a war unlike any Nyazere has ever seen. One that you’re not likely to survive.’
