“Sending Vivenna is a poor plan, but it’s our only plan,” Yarda said. “With more time, I know I can bring the Tedradel to our cause—they’ve hated Hallandren since the Manywar. And perhaps I can find a way to rile Vahr’s broken rebel faction in Hallandren itself. At the very least, we can build, gather supplies, live another year.” Yarda turned to him. “If we don’t send the Hallandren their princess, the war will be seen as our fault. Who will support us? They will demand to know why we refused to follow the treaty our own king wrote!”
“And if we do send them Vivenna, it will introduce the royal blood into their monarchy, and that will have an even more legitimate claim on the highlands!”
“Perhaps,” Yarda said. “But if we both know they’re going to attack anyway, then what do we care about their claim? At least this way, perhaps they will wait until an heir is born before the assault comes.”
More time. The general always asked for more time. But what about when that time came at the cost of Dedelin’s own child?
Yarda wouldn’t hesitate to send one soldier to die if it would mean time enough to get the rest of his troops into better position to attack, Dedelin thought. We are Idris. How can I ask anything less of my daughter than I’d demand of one of my troops?
It was just that thinking of Vivenna in the God King’s arms, being forced to bear that creature’s child . . . it nearly made his hair bleach with concern. That child would become a stillborn monster who would become the next Returned god of the Hallandren.
There is another way, a part of his mind whispered. You don’t have to send Vivenna. . . .
A knock came at his door. Both he and Yarda turned, and Dedelin called for the visitor to enter. He should have been able to guess whom it would be.
Vivenna stood in a quiet grey dress, looking so young to him still. Yet she was the perfect image of an Idris woman—hair kept in a modest knot, no makeup to draw attention to the face. She was not timid or soft, like some noblewomen from the northern kingdoms. She was just composed. Composed, simple, hard, and capable. Idrian.
“You have been in here for several hours, Father,” Vivenna said, bowing her head respectfully to Yarda. “The servants speak of a colorful envelope carried by the general when he entered. I believe I know what it contained.”
Dedelin met her eyes, then waved for her to seat herself. She softly closed the door, then took one of the wooden chairs from the side of the room. Yarda remained standing, after the masculine fashion. Vivenna eyed the letter sitting on the desk. She was calm, her hair controlled and kept a respectful black. She was twice as devout as Dedelin, and—unlike her youngest sister—she never drew attention to herself with fits of emotion.
“I assume that I should prepare myself for departure, then,” Vivenna said, hands in her lap.
Dedelin opened his mouth, but could find no objection. He glanced at Yarda, who just shook his head, resigned.
“I have prepared my entire life for this, Father,” Vivenna said. “I am ready. Siri, however, will not take this well. She left on a ride an hour ago. I should depart the city before she gets back. That will avoid any potential scene she might make.”
“Too late,” Yarda said, grimacing and nodding toward the window. Just outside, people scattered in the courtyard as a figure galloped through the gates. She wore a deep brown cloak that bordered on being too colorful, and—of course—she had her hair down.
The hair was yellow.
Dedelin felt his rage and frustration growing. Only Siri could make him lose control, and—as if in ironic counterpoint to the source of his anger—he felt his hair change. To those watching, a few locks of hair on his head would have bled from black to red. It was the identifying mark of the royal family, who had fled to the Idris highlands at the climax of the Manywar. Others could hide their emotions. The royals, however, manifested what they felt in the very hair on their heads.
Vivenna watched him, pristine as always, and her poise gave him strength as he forced his hair to turn black again. It took more willpower than any common man could understand to control the treasonous Royal Locks. Dedelin wasn’t sure how Vivenna managed it so well.
Poor girl never even had a childhood, he thought. From birth, Vivenna’s life had been pointed toward this single event. His firstborn child, the girl who had always seemed like a part of himself. The girl who had always made him proud; the woman who had already earned the love and respect of her people. In his mind’s eye he saw the queen she could become, stronger even than he. Someone who could guide them through the dark days ahead.
But only if she survived that long.
“I will prepare myself for the trip,” Vivenna said, rising.
“No,” Dedelin said.
Yarda and Vivenna both turned.
“Father,” Vivenna said. “If we break this treaty, it will mean war. I am prepared to sacrifice for our people. You taught me that.”
“You will not go,” Dedelin said firmly, turning back toward the window. Outside, Siri was laughing with one of the stablemen. Dedelin could hear her outburst even from a distance; her hair had turned a flame-colored red.
Lord God of Colors, forgive me, he thought. What a terrible choice for a father to make. The treaty is specific: I must send the Hallandren my daughter when Vivenna reaches her twenty-second birthday. But it doesn’t actually say which daughter I am required to send.
If he didn’t send Hallandren one of his daughters, they would attack immediately. If he sent the wrong one, they might be angered, but he knew they wouldn’t attack. They would wait until they had an heir. That would gain Idris at least nine months.
And . . . he thought, If they were to try to use Vivenna against me, I know that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from giving in. It was shameful to admit that fact, but in the end, it was what made the decision for him.
Dedelin turned back toward the room. “Vivenna, you will not go to wed the tyrant god of our enemies. I’m sending Siri in your place.”