Prologue
“CALL a saint from another world.”
Everyone froze at the king’s short command.
Next to Fiona Everett, the pontiff’s vein throbbed restlessly at his temple, but, of course, the king never noticed. On the slim chance he had noticed, he probably wouldn’t have exercised any consideration anyway.
“My liege…are you asking us to perform a summoning?”
Everyone knew well what the monarch had said. The pontiff only asked him deliberately out of a sincere and desperate wish that they’d all misheard his order. Or perhaps it was the man’s roundabout way of saying, “Surely you can’t be serious?” to pressure His Majesty to change his mind. Unfortunately for him, this was the king they were talking about. Though he wasn’t a bad man, he was in the prime of his life, prone to daydreaming. So, the likelihood of the king intuiting the pontiff’s intention was nil.
“I am. Apparently, our neighbor, Slava, summoned a Saint of Abundance. Once the black-haired girl appeared, the country’s crop yields skyrocketed. I realize our country failed when it tried to summon a Saint of Sea Bounty ten years ago, but this time, for sure, I am confident we’ll succeed!”
The prime minister nodded vigorously in response to the king’s ringing declaration and raised his fist. “A superb idea, Your Majesty! Our country will flourish even more once the saint is summoned!”
“Oh, good grief,” Fiona couldn’t help uttering, barely above a whisper, at the irresponsible way the prime minister fanned the flames of their king’s delusion. Only the pontiff heard her. When he nudged her in warning with his elbow, she hurriedly straightened her spine and shut her mouth.
In this gathering of the king, his prime minister, and the pontiff—the nation’s leaders—Fiona had no say since she was merely the pontiff’s aide. She stared beseechingly up at her superior, silently telling him he was their sole ray of hope in this madness. He already seemed half resigned to the inevitable but nevertheless gave her a subtle nod of acknowledgment.
“Begging your pardon, Father, but I don’t think that’s necessary. Our country is wealthy enough as it is.”
The voice that interrupted the king and his chancellor’s excited conversation was beautiful, and its owner even more so. When Linus Gene tilted his head thoughtfully, his silver hair rippled and gleamed with the movement. With his handsome, pleasingly symmetrical features, the crown prince’s beauty was peerless among men and women. His words stopped even the king in his tracks.
“But, Linus, you know a saint’s power means bountiful harvests and bountiful catches. The idea has a certain je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?” the king asked his son.
“I’m not sure I agree with running a nation on ‘je ne sais quoi,’ sire,” Linus replied.
“Any nation who loses theirs will fall. Mark my words.”
As the king and his son argued in circles over the philosophical concept, all Fiona could do was silently support the latter with her gaze. If she possessed the right to speak here, she would have tried to convince the king that “money is more important than je ne sais quoi.” In any case, she needed Linus to do his best and persuade the king to retract his silly plan to summon a saint. Naturally, the pontiff also opposed the king’s course of action, and with Linus, the crown prince, on their side, calmer heads should prevail.
However, much to her dismay, Fiona found her prediction upended in a most unexpected manner. As the king listened to Linus’ forceful appeal, he saw the pontiff nodding in agreement, which made the monarch’s cheeks puff in indignation. Yes, you read that correctly, reader. His. Cheeks. Puffed. In. Indignation.
Regardless of how attractive he was, few people would find their hearts going aflutter at the sight of a man in his prime pouting so. Far from it, his behavior was an omen. Before the pontiff even had a chance to stage a strategic temporary retreat, the king shook his head vehemently and shouted.
“At any rate, my mind’s made up! You will summon a saint!”
Everyone besides the prime minister exhaled defeatedly. A powerful, mature man prone to flights of fancy was only a nuisance. Fiona’s head started aching, thinking of what would come next, prompting her to massage her temples gently.