The Pauper Princess

As we continue down the corridor of people, I sense something unusual. It is subtle, I hardly notice it. But there it is again. Not quite a smile, no, more like a smirk. And not on a noble’s face, but a soldier’s. Something in their looks, it’s not right.

I’m too far behind Mehta. I slowed down when I first saw one of the soldiers smirk at the next one. I try to speed up inconspicuously and make up lost ground. I should be right behind her. Something is going on, and I have no doubt it has something to do with the soldier ten paces ahead of Mehta.

I see Chelan’s hand move to the dagger at his waist. Without another thought, I lunge forward to push Mehta out of his reach. My hand collides with her back, right between her shoulder blades, and she stumbles as a startled cry escapes her lips. I feel myself falling along with her, but a firm arm catches me just under my ribs heaves me backward, knocking the breath out of me as I am pulled onto my feet again.

Panic is sweeping through the crowd; people are pressing closer, attempting to see what is happening. I find myself just as curious as they. A few of the nearby soldiers form a tight barricade, blocking out sight of anyone not within the circle.

Looking down, I see that Mehta is lying on the ground. Mehta is just now sitting up. I try to go to her, but the arm that is still around my stomach tightens, further restricting my breath. I choke at a sudden lump in my throat, but as I tilt my head down, I see that it is from the pressure of a dagger.

Before I fully comprehend my situation, a sudden commotion attracts my attention. A few of the soldiers have drawn their swords, and the dignitaries around us grow silent.

“What is the meaning of this?” Valahn demands. None of the soldier say a word; they simply stare straight ahead, seemingly impervious to his question. I hear another sword drawn and see grips tightening on hilts. One of the men ahead of me abruptly flinches and steps to the right, narrowly avoiding a swift attack. In the space he has created, I see that it is Ekohl who attacked, with Jegan and Valahn standing close behind him.

I know that they can see us now; Mehta sitting on the ground with a sword leaning on her shoulder, me with Chelan’s blade against my throat. I watch the fury cross Ekohl’s face as he charges forward rashly. The two nearest soldiers immediately react and tackle Ekohl. The three hit the ground a few feet from where I stand. A fourth man steps forward and stills Ekohl’s struggling with the tip of a sword pressed to the back of his neck.

“Stand down!” Valahn commands, taking a step forward. His advance is immediately blocked when several soldiers dare to point their weapons at him.

“Forgive me, Valahn,” Chelan says, his breath creeping across my neck. “But it has come to my attention that these Kyshians are not to be trusted.”

“What do you mean?” Valahn inquires.

“That woman,” Chelan declares with disgust, “is not the princess of Kyshia.” Shocked gasps and excited whispers rush through the crowd. I hear Chelan chuckle softly, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“These three thought to trick you into marrying a commoner, all while the true princess stood by.” Chelan tightened his hold on the dagger and pressed it against my neck, drawing blood as it nicks my skin. “They have dishonored the terms of the treaty, a transgression that warrants death,” he said quieter, breathing each word like a curse into my ear.

I see Mehta blanch as the words sink in. The fact that Chelan might mean to do away with us had not occurred to her. Her eyes meet mine; she’s looking to me for guidance, but I have none to offer. I lower my eyes, only to see Ekohl staring up at me. But he, unlike Mehta, does not look defeated. Even greatly outnumbered and subdued, he is determined. His gaze drops, then returns and he winks.

“Chelan, this is madness,” Valahn asserts.

“You have no proof of what you proclaim. And what cause would the Kyshians have for tricking us?” Ekohl looks down again and back up. He stares at me meaningfully, but I can’t understand what he wants.

“I’ve heard them plotting!” Chelan shouts. He clutches my torso, making it hard to breathe again. “Late at night, when everyone else sleeps unaware, they drop their guard.” Once again Ekohl looks down, and this time I drop my gaze with his, careful to avoid moving my head too much to avoid cutting myself on Chelan’s dagger. He nods at my legs.

“I’ve heard them call this woman Siya,” Chelan continues, indicating me with a movement of his dagger. Without thinking, I reach up and clutch his arm, trying to keep that blade from my neck. “When they think no one is looking they drop the act. I’ve seen it and I’ve heard it. What other proof do you need?”

“I’m sure there is some explanation for this,” Valahn suggests. “But how will they explain if you cut their throats?” I think I finally understand; when Ekohl looks back up at me, his eyes pleading, I give him a small nod. I slip off my right shoe and raise my foot to the sheath of the knife on my left calf. I slowly nudge the blade loose, trying to keep my movements silent and unnoticed.

“I care not for their excuses,” Chelan says coldly. The muscles in his arm tense under my fingers. He stretches his arm out, readying himself to plunge the dagger into my neck. Before he can, I let my knife drop to the ground and let myself fall. Chelan, unable to support my unexpected weight, releases his grip. As soon as I am out of the way, Ekohl springs forward, picks up my knife, and springs at Chelan. The man who had been guarding Ekohl looks on in shock as his charge collides into Chelan and wrestles the dagger from his grasp.