“Why am I doing this?” Maia muttered with despair, quiet enough for only Richard to hear. He just squeezed her arm and kept leading her forward.
“Chancellor Vorstad,” Richard said with a polite nod once they stood in front of the Hautland delegation.
“Chancellor Syon,” the white-haired man said, his speech heavily accented but properly enunciated. “Your Majesty, let me introduce you to Prince Oderick, heir to the throne of Hautland! He is most gratified to meet you.”
Oderick’s eyes were wild with enthusiasm as he came forward and took her hand and then bowed deeply, bending at the waist. His touch was surprisingly light. She had worried that in his enthusiasm he would crush her hand in his.
“Thank you for coming,” Maia said.
“Your Majesty, it vis my graat priwilege,” Oderick said in a heavily accented tongue that was not as precise as his chancellor’s. He straightened, bowed again, and straightened once more. He offered her his arm and gestured that they should take a walk in the garden, as had been arranged.
Maia sighed and took his arm, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She wished again, hopelessly, that Collier were there to rescue her from this situation.
“I hef attempted, dear lady, to conform my tongue to your langwage,” he said with an attempt at gallantry. “I hef failt miserably. But I am persistent. Qvite persistent. You speak my tongue werry vell.”
“I do not speak your tongue at all,” Maia said. It was necessary for her to end this farce.
He looked at her oddly. “Ah, yes. Vell . . . I have hurt you.”
“You have hurt me?” Maia asked, confused.
“Hurt? Oh, my pardon. Heard. Speaking your langwage . . . I have only started to learn it since ve met. You remember? When we met?”
Maia stopped and put her other hand on his arm. “I do, Prince Oderick. But I must confess something to you. You are mistaken about me.”
He frowned slightly as he met her eyes. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I . . .” he swallowed nervously, “I . . . believe . . . I truly believe you verr a . . . a hetaera. Not so now.” He looked at her seriously, with a look of affection and great earnestness. “Hmmm? You have no kystrel?”
Maia stared at him in surprise. “No,” she answered, feeling strangely guilty and relieved. “I do not have a kystrel. Though I bear the marks of the hetaera, I am not one.” She looked at him pointedly. “This was not the case . . . when we first met.”
“Yah!” he said, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm. He gestured toward a bench in the park, and they sat down next to each other. She was aware of the eyes of all the bystanders watching them. They were not close enough to overhear what was said between her and the prince, but they could witness everything. She was grateful for that.
“So you knew?” Maia asked, looking at him worriedly.
“Yah,” he replied, nodding vigorously. “You said . . . I save you. You said . . . take to Rostick. I did. I knew . . . vhat you verr. But you took me . . .” He clustered his fingers together and then tapped his own chest. “Here. You took my hurt. My heart. So difficult. I will keep trying. When you fell sleeping . . . I saw no kystrel. Medium said . . . help you. Get help. I vent to find Aldermaston of Rostick. You verr gone when ve returned. Rope of sheets . . . hanging from vindow. Ve searched for you. Vanted to help you.” His pronunciation deteriorated as he tried eagerly to get out the long-withheld words.
Maia felt a prick of tenderness in her heart at his story. She had wondered why she had awoken in a locked bedroom rather than a prison cell. She had no memory of that night or of what she had said to Prince Oderick. His face was familiar to her, but it was as if she had seen it only through a sleepy fog.
“Help you,” Prince Oderick continued, taking her hands with his. “The Victus . . . they threaten my people as vell. Cannot fight them . . . alone. They gather ships . . . many ships. An armada to destroy Comoros. They wish to bring the Void.” He shook his head firmly. “Fight them together. You and I.” He began bobbing his head excitedly. “Maston and maston. Queen and prince. You and I!”
He looked at her imploringly, and Maia felt her heart throb with sympathy. She pulled her hands away from his. “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “No, I cannot.”
He stared at her seriously, as if deciphering her words. “Dahomey,” he said. “You love . . . Gideon of Dahomey.” He stifled a chuckle. “Handsome. Proud.” He shook his head with determination. “Not for you. Many vimen. Many, many vimen.”
“Women?” Maia asked.
“Yah. Wimen. Not for you. Not maston. Puny kingdom. Not like Hautland. Ve crush Dahomey like . . . fig. Comoros strong. Hautland strong. Good match.” His attempt to persuade her made his words more choppy and curt. He snapped his fingers a few times. “Dochte Mandar annulled marriage. Not your husband. You are free.”