Third Daughter (The Dharian Affairs, Book One) Read Free Page A

fetched her mother, Aniri could think of no better place to collect her thoughts than the Queen’s office.
    This was where mementos of her father were sequestered away.
    Her mother’s carved desk dominated the small room, in between the adjacent bedroom door and a gilded bookcase along the opposite wall. Aniri drifted toward the shelving. Paintings of her father sat between the treasures he brought back from his travels. She picked up a rough seashell that glinted green and purple secrets in its coiled form. It was from the isles off the west coast of Dharia and still smelled of the ocean.
Listen closely, Aniri, and you’ll hear Devruna’s promise of calm seas for your travels.
She had believed her father, with the wide-eyed innocence only a child can, and heard the goddess’s words in the shell’s soft noise.
    Now, the only words she heard were his, but they eased the tightness in her chest anyway. She put the shell back in its place by a tiny statue of Devruna riding a tentacled sea creature. Next was a nubbled glass vase, heavy with sand as black as midnight, yet it sparkled in the flickering gaslamp light. The sand was from Chira, where volcanic mountains spilled ink-like lava and created shores of glittering blackness—a strangely devilish idea that entranced Aniri.
    Her father would have taken her to all these places had he lived.
    Her fingers trailed across the smooth shelf to an ink sketch of him reclined under a tree. He was probably no older than Devesh when the drawing was made. His face was serious as he scribbled something with an ornate feather quill. Aniri recognized it as a gift from her mother: she said he blew like a feather wherever the wind took him. His travels kept him away for weeks at a time, but he always lavished tales and treasures on his three little girls when he returned. Aniri burned with envy when her sisters were old enough to take those trips with him. She was robbed of her turn by the murderers who stole her father’s life in a countryside Samirian inn.
    The Queen had moved on quickly after his death. The abundance of courtesans in her court seemed to satisfy whatever needs she had for male companionship. Aniri tried not to think of it because whenever she did, she had a difficult time keeping her tongue. At least her mother hadn’t chosen another man to be king, one who might try to play father to her as well.
    If Aniri had been Queen, she would have scoured Samir until she found and hung the common thieves who killed her king. Her mother never summoned a single guard. She never went to Samir to claim the body, just let them send him back in a casket. Aniri was only ten at the time, but her memory of the bells tolling her father’s death was as clear as the winter sky that day.
    The carved wooden door to her mother’s bedroom swung open, and the Queen strode out, looking as polished as she would for tea. Her black hair was pinned into cascading curls, and a delicate gold hairpiece draped a single ruby on her forehead. Her deep purple dress was very Samirian in fashion with its gold-stitched corset and starched silk skirt, but the Queen’s strict dress code required everyone at court to make some concession to traditional fashion, and she made no exception for herself. Her nod to the elaborate draped dresses of the past was a regal sweep of embroidered gold fabric over one arm. It floated in a pool that traveled behind her and somehow made her more imposing. Aniri was certain she did it on purpose, simply because everything her mother did was deliberate and well thought out.
    And her people loved her for it.
    The Queen stopped in front of her, coolly taking in her black silk pajamas pricked by the forest along with her scuffed and dirty silk slippers. Good thing she hadn’t worn the climbing shoes; they would only have earned her more scorn in her mother’s eyes. Years of discipline prevented her from smiling with that thought.
    “Aniri, dear.” The Queen’s voice was