A Crimson Frost Read Online Free Page B

loathing of propriety—at the necessity of having to offer insincere compliments. King Dacian held no respect for Rudolph, King of Alvar. Yet propriety demanded civility in such circumstance.
    “Thank you, Dacian,” King Rudolph said, smiling with unwarranted pride.
    “Anais,” King Dacian said as Anais turned to take her leave, “pray…would you allow Monet to accompany you to the ceremony platform?”
    Monet tried not to smile—tried not to feel triumphant as the pink plainly drained from Anais’s pretty face.
    “Monet, your majesty?” Anais asked.
    “Yes,” King Dacian answered. “She has granted favour in this tournament and is a novice to the Ceremony of Colors. I would be indebted if you were to escort her down.”
    “Of-of course, your majesty,” Anais said—nearly growled—her eyes narrowing with indignation.
    “Monet,” King Dacian said, gesturing she should follow Anais. Monet smiled when her father offered a nod of understanding.
    “Yes, Father,” she said, rising.
    “Come along, Monet,” Anais said—any remnant of a smile fading from her beautiful face.
    
    Four and ten young ladies of royal or noble birth stood shoulder to shoulder on the platform erected for the Ceremony of Colors. Monet held her posture straight—though she considered lifting her skirts and running. All eyes would be upon her when Sir Broderick approached to receive her favour; all eyes in the stands would fall to her. She loathed the thought—abhorred the attention often heaped on her as Karvana’s princess.
    She ventured a glance at Anais. Head held high, smile soft and laced with vanity, Anais of Alvar shone conceit—delight in knowing all eyes would fall to her. Auburn-haired and green-eyed, Anais of Alvar was nearly as opposing in appearance to Monet of Karvana as she was in nature.
    “You have granted favour, Monet?” Portia asked from her place next to Monet on the stage. Portia’s golden hair and blue eyes seemed to imprison the sunlight and sky—hold them captive to radiate her lovely countenance.
    “I have,” Monet said. She could not help but smile, delighted with what she knew the reaction among the other royals and nobles would be when she presented her scarlet favour to the Crimson Knight: astonishment—astonishment and envy!
    “But you never grant favour!” Lenore exclaimed in a whisper. Lenore’s brown eyes were bright with excitement as well, her acorn hair hanging long down her back, nearly to her ankles.
    “This day I do,” Monet said.
    “To whom?” Lenore asked.
    “To the champion of King Ivan’s tournament, perhaps,” Monet answered.
    Portia and Lenore smiled, pleased with Monet’s courageous answer. Anais, however, did not smile—did not look to Monet, nor to any other lady present.
    “King Ivan’s herald approaches,” Portia whispered as a man robed in King Ivan’s signature blue and yellow stepped to the front of the platform. “He will herald each knight to come forth and claim our favours.”
    The crowd in the stands fell silent as King Ivan’s herald raised one hand.
    “My kings and queens…my lords and ladies…King Ivan of Avaron welcomes you to his tournament of knights!” the herald announced.
    Applause and cheering were allowed for a moment, and then King Ivan’s herald raised a hand once more, restoring silence.
    “You are well aware of the great event that is one of King Ivan’s tournaments,” the herald began. “Feasting, music, and dance at sunset…brave men in battle at day!” More cheering—a raised herald’s hand. “And what manner of unusual prizes has King Ivan collected for his tournament champions? Gold!” Cheering. “Jeweled swords and daggers!” Cheering. “Further, to the tournament champion goes the greatest of all prizes! Not only will he who is named tournament champion choose and name the tournament’s Queen of Love and Beauty—”
    Monet ventured a glance to Anais when she heard Alvar’s princess lightly laugh—a laugh