Loving the Forbidden Prince

Chapter 51 - Meat Market

ETAN

The feast that night was in celebration of Ayleth, her victory—over him—and her suitability for both Queen, and Wife.

Etan's skin crawled.

Despite the fact that he'd dragged his feet all day, wishing to slow the days crawl towards this moment, he arrived as early as he could in good manners. Tonight was little more than a Noble auction for the hand of the Princess, and he would not allow her to be there without someone to watch over her.

Unsurprisingly, when he reached the Banquet hall where only the Royal rulers, their Heirs, and high ranking select nobles had been invited, it was brimming with men, but the ladies were nowhere to be seen.

The Zenithran King and Queen had arranged for the tables in the middle of the Banquet hall to be cleared since there would be fewer attending, and had arranged for music. So, there would be dancing today.

Joy, Etan thought to himself with a sour twist in his stomach. He would get to watch her in the arms of countless men tonight, all vying for her attention. Joy, joy, joy.

But first, they would feast. And as usual, Etan and his parents had been assigned a table at the very back of the hall, despite their high ranks on the Continent.

As he sat, fuming at the table, Borsche juggled in the space next to the table, winking at the few ladies that had arrived, and taking the requests of the men as if he were only the Court Clown he pretended to be.

By entertaining them, Borsche said, they soon forgot he was a person and would gossip in front of him—and keep their eyes off Etan who, he claimed, brooded so fiercely he risked igniting a war if he looked at the wrong person for too long.

Etan had chuckled at that.

Ayleth and her court arrived only twenty minutes late, which impressed even Borsche, though they couldn't comment on it beyond agreeing with Etan's mother that she showed thought for others by arriving early so the meal would be served on time.

"She is very pretty. Tell me again what you thought when she took off that scarf in the Arena, Etan" his mother asked, laughing.

"I thought I was grateful that my mother taught me to appreciate the strength of women," Etan said, smiling at her. "Otherwise, I may have lost all respect for myself."

His father grunted. "While I appreciate the skill she showed, it was hardly a true battle. Put women on the frontlines, then see how much you want to encourage them to fight," he muttered.

Etan sighed. He and his father had argued this many times. While the women Etan had brought into the Cavalry were skilled and strong, it was true they didn't match the men for brute strength. But what his father failed to see was what they added with the lithe grace, and thoughtful approaches.

Not to mention that, when it came to the horses, the women excelled in getting the best from their beastflesh.

But, he kept his mouth shut. This wasn't the time.

His parents sat, watching the people at other tables, occasionally pointing someone out to each other, or his mother commented on some of the fashions.

They all declined the wine when the servants circulated with it. And Borsche kept a close eye on their plates as they ate.

Despite the peace between nations so far, the tensions were rising the longer they were all forced to be in close quarters with these people—half of whom hated them with a seething fury, and the other half that were quietly allied, but reluctant to be seen to be too cozy with the least popular nation in attendance.

Etan ground his teeth. Given the richness of their trade, and the strength of their armies, his parents should spend every meal choosing which of the petitions and visitors to attend, and which to reject.

Instead, they sat at the back of the room, ignored, and were interrupted in their chambers, or in quiet corners of the castle and gardens by people who wanted to work with them, but did not want to be seen to do it.

"I don't know why you put up with this," Etan muttered half an hour later. "Look—Lord Reardon sold you his strongest Andaluvian Stallion last year, now he pretends not to know you!"

"Quiet, son," he father said, then took another bite of the delicious food. "You have to stop thinking that political systems are fair. They never are. Appearances are just as important as the quiet secrets we keep."

His mother reached across and squeezed his hand, a plea on her face for Etan not to launch into this argument again. He nodded, reluctantly and she patted his hand before turning to look to the center of the hall. "They'll be dancing tonight, Etan! Do you have your eye on any of the ladies yet? I heard that her Highness, Princess of Playn, has a love for horses, and apparently, a wicked sense of humor! You might enjoy her?"

"Thank you, Mother," Etan said, ignoring the glance from Borsche. "I'll ask her to dance this evening."

"Oh, she will be pleased. She'd quite tall. She'll enjoy dancing with someone she doesn't tower over."

Etan stifled a frustrated groan and kept eating.

He could see Ayleth, sitting at the top table, speaking with her mother on one side, and her First Lady on the other. She smiled brightly and whenever Etan stared, it was as if she lit the room.

"She's very pretty," his mother said quietly. "But her mother is an Adept. It concerns me for what she may have been groomed by."

Etan swallowed the twist in his stomach. "An Adept—a magic wielder?"

"A sorcerer by another name," his father growled. Etan didn't disagree, but kept his eyes on his mother, who was staring at him curiously.

"I understand that she's desirable, Etan. You've always been drawn to strong women. But please don't make trouble tonight."

"I wouldn't do that," he said, with a wink.

His mother raised an eyebrow and her chin and gave him a look that made him feel like he was twelve again, and she'd discovered him watching the Stallion mate.

"Let the boy enjoy himself," his father said. "It's not as if he'd leap on the Zenithrans, of all people. Let him cause a little trouble if he wants to. They all deserve it."

Etan and Borsche looked at each other, and Etan looked down at his plate.