Page 1 of Oracle's Reign
One
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His Highness, PrincePeroen Daitano Tjawer, did his best to wait patiently. Tonight, he would meet his future bride. Within a matter of weeks, he would have to choose between the oracles who had come to the city specifically to vie for that position.
Only four women had volunteered to visit Kalitalo and meet him, even with the future title of empress as enticement. Granted, there were probably other women in Pynth willing to marry him, but his bride must be an oracle, and the oracles had hated the imperial family for centuries. With justification, of course.
Hopefully, this meeting outside the palace walls would allow him to get to know them, and they him, without too much pressure. Then again, while he was currently sitting in the back room of a private residence, nothing about this evening felt informal. If it had been, he wouldn’t have to wait, hidden away, until the optimum moment for his appearance. Splatters of paint would cover his clothes, not intricate embroidery.
The doorknob turned. Peroen rose to his feet, but the woman standing in the doorway wasn’t the escort he had expected. He hoped she was one of the oracles, for a single glance at her was enough to make him yearn for a paintbrush, to capture her essence on canvas. It wasn’t her beauty—though she was undeniably beautiful—but an indefinable quality Peroen hadlearned to recognize over the years. Some models, no matter how stunning, no matter the skill of the artist, ended up flat and lifeless when painted. Others brought vibrancy to even the most amateur sketches.
He could see the painting of this woman in his mind already. She’d stand by the window, half in shadow, half bathed in sunlight. Her face would only be visible in profile, her veil obscuring her lips just enough to make the viewer doubt whether what they saw underneath was a smile or a frown. Her eyes, focused on something out of view, would give the entire piece an air of mystery. Peroen wanted to pick up a brush and palette and start painting immediately. He knew, as if he were an oracle himself, that it would be the best painting of his life.
But in the coming weeks, Peroen’s only models would be the oracles. The portrait sessions had been his idea to foster relationships between him and the bridal candidates. A situation where he might actually feel comfortable, unlike tonight’s small gathering or tomorrow’s banquet.
He tried to memorize this woman, in case she wasn’t an oracle. Her eyes were a captivating golden brown above the veil that obscured the rest of her face. At first glance, her hair appeared black, but it was actually the darkest of sable browns. When the light hit it, the rich auburn undertones glinted like stained glass. The thick strands fell in loose waves to the bottom of her shoulder blades.
He longed to move closer to her, to reach out and touch.
The urge took him by surprise. Peroen rarely wanted to get closer to anyone. Even when he was too lost in his art to be shy, he only cared about studying people visually. He longed to recreate textures with strokes of his brush, not feel them himself.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a shallow bow, her voice pulling at Peroen as strongly as everything else about her.
He didn’t have the musical talent for composition, but he wanted to pick up his instruments and find a tune that harmonized with her nearly as much as he wanted to start painting. He was so distracted by thoughts of which instrument would suit her best that he forgot to respond.
Her hand remained on the doorknob, slender fingers pale against the burnished bronze. “I had a question for Pianti, but obviously you’re not her.”
The woman began to back up, and Peroen found his voice just before the door swung closed with her movements. “Then it is I who should be apologizing to you. I am a poor substitute if you are seeking answers.”
She let go of the door, though she didn’t step into the room. Her smile was good-natured under her sheer veil, with none of the practiced charm that he so often saw. “You don’t even know what my question is. Perhaps you are the perfect person to answer it.”
Unlikely. Peroen might be the imperial heir, but he had no power, no influence, and almost no experience at court. If it weren’t for the newly formed democratic Assembly that had wrested a large portion of power from his father in the recent revolution, he wouldn’t even have a say in whom he married.
“Unless you wish to know how best to blend colors to get the exact shade of a hibiscus flower, I feel confident saying I will only disappoint.” Peroen kept his tone teasing, but he couldn’t help but feel the truth of his words. The likelihood she’d feel for him even a tenth of the fascination he felt for her wasn’t even worth considering.
Her smile grew. “You’re an artist? That’s wonderful. I can’t draw at all, and am always amazed when people can turn a few lines into something recognizable.”
Peroen stepped around the teak table and velvet cushions, needing to get closer to this woman who regarded his passion assomething to admire rather than ridicule. He wanted to see the truth in her eyes, didn’t want to miss a single twitch of her lips. “Most people tell me painting is a waste of time.”
“I’d argue that it is more of a waste to ignore talent, but honestly, skill isn’t what matters. So long as you enjoy painting, how can it be a waste? If I actually enjoyed drawing, I wouldn’t let my lack of skill prevent me from finding that joy in life. The world would be a happier place if we all did what we loved.”
“And what do you love?”
Behind the veil, her teeth sank into her lower lip. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
There was pain behind those words, a tacit admission that she had spent her life in pursuits she didn’t love. But there was also determination, a willingness to push forward, that Peroen admired.
“You said you had a question,” he reminded her, unwilling to let the conversation end. “I doubt I can provide the answer you seek, but I’m willing to try.”
It was hard to tell under the veil, but he thought her cheeks flushed. “Oh. Well. I hadn’t decided on the exact question, but since you are an expert on colors, I shall start there. Do you happen to know the prince’s favorite color?”
Before Peroen recovered enough to even attempt to answer, she glanced to the side and let out a squeak that brought to mind a tiny field mouse. “Oh no. I’ve been spotted, and I don’t think I’m supposed to be wandering around.” She granted him one last smile and disappeared, the door snicking closed behind her.
His favorite color?That was the question she had hoped to ask Pianti? She had been right, after all. He did know the answer she sought. And though he wouldn’t put anything beyond Pianti, he rather doubted she knew that information.
In Peroen’s mind, colors were tied to memories and evoked certain moods. He didn’t have a set favorite, his preferenceschanging at any moment. Right at that instant, though, he knew what his answer would have been. Looking into the woman’s golden-brown eyes, only one color would have occurred to him. He wondered how long amber would remain his favorite color.
The door opened once more, and though it still was not Pianti on the threshold, Peroen figured this was the summons he had been expecting. Qilar, Pianti’s husband, raised a brow. He must have seen the woman standing in the doorway before she left.
