SERVANT TO A KING : CHAPTER ONE

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   "YOUR FATHER PLANS TO OFFER your hand in marriage."

   Isabel held still, disbelieving her maid's words. "Abish, are you certain?"

   "I am certain."

   Both girls ran to a chest to pull out one of Isabel's most elaborate robes—a soft, green silk tunic. Isabel quickly undressed, and Abish yanked the tunic over Isabel's head. Abish pushed Isabel into a seated position and began to pull at her hair, styling it into a series of elaborate braids and loops tied off with matching green strips of leather.

   "Who?" Isabel finally asked.

   "They didn't say."

   Isabel tried not to wince when Abish pulled her hair even tighter. A thought occurred to her, one almost too frightening to say aloud. But Isabel had to know if her father had gone back on his promise to her, had to know if a horrific fate awaited her. "Is it Mahlon?" she asked in a whisper.

   That made Abish stop. Abish's fingers tightened around the shell comb. She looked at Isabel's reflection in the pyrite mirror. "Let us hope not."

   Isabel tried to ask her maid more questions about the situation, but Abish didn't seem to know much. She said she had been at her chores when the king's chief servant had started yelling orders for a feast to be prepared. The servant had then commanded Abish to make haste in preparing her mistress, as Isabel would be given in marriage that night.

   Something seemed to be worrying Abish, which made Isabel even more anxious. The maid had been with Isabel since they were both young girls, and Isabel considered Abish to be her closest friend. Her only friend.

   This could be the last time she would ever see Abish. Isabel would be married to someone at her father's feast and possibly taken to some distant kingdom, never to see her family again.

   Not that they would miss her.

   Isabel realized the seriousness of her situation when Abish pulled out Isabel's wedding box, the one holding the jewelry her mother had bequeathed Isabel. Isabel had opened the wooden box so many times, playing with the pieces inside as she imagined the sort of husband she would have, what her wedding ceremony would be like. Now that day of reckoning had come so unexpectedly, and she had not even been given the courtesy of being told whom she would marry. Isabel tried not to cry as Abish handed her several heavy spondylus shell necklaces to wear. Isabel's hands shook so badly that Abish took the necklaces and put them on Isabel, fastening them into place. Designed to counterbalance the weight of the necklaces, several long strands of beads hung down Isabel's back. The maid then put bracelets almost all the way up Isabel's arms. A pair of her mother's jade earrings was the final touch.

   Abish urged her to hurry. Isabel looked at her own forlorn expression in her mirror. Someone's wife. She would lose herself that night. She would become someone's wife, someone's possession, and everything familiar and comfortable in her life would end.

   But Isabel lifted her head. She was a princess, the eldest daughter of King Lamoni. She would not shame their family by acting like a coward. She knew what was expected of her, and she would behave as she had been trained.

   She kept her hands clasped in front of her as she walked slowly through quiet hallways and empty courtyards toward her father's throne room. Burning incense and smoke combined with the smell of some of her father's precious turkeys being roasted. The scent surprised Isabel. The guest had to be very important to warrant the sacrifice of some of these birds.

   Not Mahlon, she thought with each step. Anyone but Mahlon.

   As she approached the doorway, Isabel heard the booming bass of the drums and knew the dancing had started. She watched the women of the court spinning and swaying in unison until a servant came and covered Isabel's head with a measure of cloth.

   "I will discover what I can about him," Abish said to Isabel. Isabel felt her maidservant moving away.

   Isabel concentrated on regulating her breathing. She had to calm down. This was what she had been born to do. She had a responsibility to appear in control of herself. Someone took Isabel by her hand and led her into the throne room. She could feel the banging of the drums in her quickened heartbeat. All around her she heard the sound of leather scraping against stone and jingling bells as the dancers twisted and turned. They moved aside to let Isabel pass as she was led to her future husband.

   Feeling a slight squeeze on her hand, Isabel understood that she was to stop. She knelt down and tried to rein in her overactive imagination. She reminded herself that her curiosity would be satisfied in a few seconds.

   The music suddenly ceased, and everyone around Isabel went silent. From somewhere off to her right, she heard her father speaking.

   "Here is my daughter. I would that you take her to wife."

   With that, Isabel pulled off her veil, her gaze pointed down toward the floor. She slowly looked up the steps of the dais to where a man sat on thick cushions.

   Isabel gasped.

   The man in front of her was not a distant relative or any Lamanite king friendly to her family.

   The man in front of her was an enemy.

   A Nephite.

   He was dressed strangely and had no adornments of any kind. He wore his brown hair short, with no feathers or leather straps. Isabel immediately noticed his unusual eyes. She had never seen such a color—a cross between gray and blue, like the sky on a stormy day. He had the audacity to smile at her, as if amused by her studying him. Isabel looked away, embarrassed at her loss of decorum.

   Was this how little her family cared for her? Had she so little value that they would give her to a Nephite? Isabel closed her eyes against the hot, stinging tears.

   She would retain control. She would not dishonor herself or her family in front of this Nephite. She forced herself to meet his gaze. He still smiled at her. Isabel didn't know whether to feel irritation or outright anger at his impudence.The man stood, still looking down at Isabel.

   Then he did something completely outrageous.

   He winked at her.

   Isabel couldn't help herself. She put her hand over her mouth in shock at his behavior. She looked about her. No one else seemed to have noticed his impertinence.

   "You have already been incredibly generous to me, King Lamoni," the man said with a slight, strange accent. His voice was deep and tinged with what sounded like laughter. Isabel shook her head. She was going through some sort of nightmare, barely holding on to her façade of calm, and this Nephite found it . . . entertaining?

   "And as much as I appreciate your offer, I must respectfully decline."

   Decline? Isabel knew what the word meant, but it suddenly felt like a foreign term. Decline? He was declining to marry her? How could that be? Isabel squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was a princess. She was above him in class and lineage, and he was declining to marry her? How dare he!

   "Instead, I will be your servant."

   Utter, total humiliation. This Nephite had just announced to the entire court that he would rather be her father's servant than marry her. With a hot, furious rush, her blood snapped and sizzled inside her. Isabel had never felt such anger before.

   She heard the outraged whispers of the crowd gathered all around her. Surely her father would not let this go unpunished. Surely this man would be stretched over an altar and his still-beating heart removed before the sun had risen.

   But King Lamoni didn't look angry over the offense. He didn't even look surprised. He was smiling.

   "Then you shall be my servant, and I welcome you to my household." King Lamoni indicated that the music should start again. The drums and flutes immediately began in response to the king's silent command.

   Isabel still knelt on the floor, too stunned to move. She needed to get up, to get out of this room. But humiliation overwhelmed her. She had been publicly rejected by a Nephite who had chosen a life of servitude over her. Isabel directed her gaze downward, too shamed to witness the pitying expressions she knew the others wore.

   A pair of sandaled feet appeared at the corner of her vision. Isabel looked up to see the Nephite standing directly in front of her. He still wore that infuriating smile. He held out his hand to her as if to help her up.

   Isabel would have died rather than take any assistance from this man. She hoped he could see the hatred in her eyes. She loathed him for what he had just subjected her to. She leaned away from him.

   She had only a moment to note the confusion on the Nephite's face before Abish ran up to them. Abish looked as angry as Isabel felt. The maidservant placed herself between the Nephite and Isabel and helped Isabel to stand.

   Wrapping her arm around Isabel's shoulders, Abish led her from the throne room, past the mocking glances and teasing words.

   Some part of Isabel reminded her to feel happy. She had escaped marriage. She could go on with her life as she wished.

   But the mortifying disgrace crowded out the relief of her escape. All of this reminded her how quickly marriage could come and how little control she would have over it.

   Or perhaps she didn't have to worry. What worthy man would want to marry her now that a Nephite had passed on marrying her?

   Isabel wondered how much time she had until this piece of gossip passed through every palace under her grandfather's control.

   She realized that Abish was speaking to her and focused on the maidservant's words, hoping they would distract her from her own painful realizations.

   "His name is Ammon. He and his companion were found at the borders. They were bound and brought before your father. Your father asked him if he wanted to dwell in Ishmael. Ammon said that he wanted to live here for a time, possibly the rest of his life. This pleased your father, and Ammon was released. He offered you as a wife then and there, but Ammon told him that he desired to serve your father instead. Tonight they formally cemented their pledges."

   Isabel hadn't thought it possible for her suffering to increase, but it had. Her father knew that this Ammon would say no to marrying her, and he still had forced her go through such an indignity. Had no one thought to inform her beforehand? Isabel realized again how little she mattered to her family. Regardless of how she felt, though, why had he turned down marriage?

   "Did it not occur to anyone that the Nephite might be a spy?"

   "It occurred to everyone," Abish said. "But I think that his saying he would stay here until death was his way of announcing his desire to become one of us. I think that made your father feel more at ease. For some reason the king seems to believe this man."

   How could anyone be so naive? Isabel felt shocked. It was obvious to her that this Ammon meant to spy on them. How could anyone trust someone who was a descendant of liars and thieves?

   "There's more," Abish said.

   More? Isabel didn't know if she could take any more.

   "Ammon claims to be the son of King Mosiah in Zarahemla."

   "King Mosiah?" Isabel repeated. "Ammon is a prince?" King Mosiah was ruler over all the Nephites. Isabel's grandfather held more land and cities than any other Lamanite king that she knew of, but even he didn't have the same power that King Mosiah did. "It has to be a lie. My father believed him?"

   They had finally reached Isabel's bedroom. Abish directed Isabel to a cushion so that she could undo her friend's hair.

   "The Nephite brought official documents and books that proved his claim."

   This information mollified Isabel slightly. Wasn't it better to be rejected by a powerful prince than a commoner? At least her total degradation now had a royal factor that might offset some of the gossip.

   Or that might make things worse. Abish ripped a ribbon out of Isabel's hair, but she barely felt the pain.

   Was there a way to rectify this situation? Could she somehow deflect the shame? Isabel couldn't think of a solution; her thoughts were racing too quickly for her to keep up.

   One of her mother's necklaces fell into her lap. Isabel picked it up and squeezed it tightly, leaving the imprints of the shells in her hand. Perhaps she couldn't take away her own embarrassment, but she could certainly inflict it in return.

   "I'm going to repay that Nephite for what he has done to me." She thought for a while, then laid out a simple plan that would give her some immediate vengeance that night.

   Abish nodded. "I will speak to Samuel. This slight against you will not go unpunished."

* * *

   "I seem to distinctly recall your father telling you to take advantage of an opportunity like this," Jeremias said as he and Ammon walked away from the throne room. Ammon had been marveling over the sheer size of the palace complex when Jeremias had spoken. The basic design was similar to his father's: multiple plazas and courtyards of varying sizes surrounded by rooms that opened into the courtyard, then long galleries and hallways lined with columns connecting the open spaces. It had the strange effect of feeling familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time.

   But Ammon stopped his contemplation to look at his traveling companion, fellow missionary, and cousin. He smiled at Jeremias's steadfastness and loyalty to Ammon's father. The same loyalty extended to him. Even when Ammon had made wrong choices in his life, Jeremias had been constant in his friendship. He had insisted on accompanying Ammon to the land of Ishmael, and despite Ammon telling him repeatedly that he could leave, Jeremias had stayed.

   "Opportunity?" Ammon echoed. He knew precisely what Jeremias meant, but he didn't want to discuss it. The night felt full of possibilities, and Ammon was excited to begin this chapter of his life. He didn't want to spend his time discussing what he could have done.

   He should have known better.

   "Yes, opportunity. Your father specifically instructed you and your brothers to make an alliance through marriage if an offer was made. Now, I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that such an offer has just been extended."

   Ammon sighed. "My father isn't here. He doesn't understand the nuances of this situation. " He walked over to a stone bench in the courtyard they had wandered into and sat. Jeremias stayed where he was.

   "Consider what King Lamoni was trying to do," Ammon continued. "If I had married his daughter, I would have been under his control. A pawn to do his bidding." Ammon stretched his hands up and rested them on his head. He leaned against the smooth limestone wall behind him and went on. "Besides, no one would have taken anything I said seriously. I would have been married to the king's daughter. People would have listened to me out of politeness and then ignored everything I tried to teach them. And that's if the king had even allowed me to preach the gospel."

   Jeremias nodded and moved to sit down next to Ammon on the bench. "It sounds as if you've given this a great deal of thought."

   Ammon nodded. "I have. The king would have wanted me to denounce my people and my faith in order to join his family. I couldn't do that."

   "But you were tempted to accept."

   "What?" Ammon said in an incredulous voice. He turned to look at Jeremias. "What makes you say that?"

   Jeremias gave Ammon a knowing look. "I saw you tonight when the princess unveiled herself. I've only seen that expression on your face once before."

   Ammon began to protest but quickly closed his mouth. His face darkened slightly for a moment, but then he smiled. "Then it is better for me that I didn't accept. I can't go down that path again."

   A silence filled with understanding and remembrance passed between the two men. Ammon deliberately refocused his thoughts elsewhere, unwilling to dwell on his past mistakes. He closed his eyes. He had come to the land of the Lamanites to concentrate on his future, and on the future of his Lamanite brethren.

   Becoming a servant in the king's household was only the first step. Ammon realized it was not a choice that others might have made, but he knew it had been the right one. Where someone else might see defeat, Ammon saw only great possibilities.

   His close friend Alma the Younger had sent Ammon letters regarding his missionary work. He had mentioned repeatedly how willing those poor as to the things of the world were to listen to the gospel message. Alma had had little success with the wealthy.

   Ammon had not forgotten Alma's experiences and imagined that his own mission lay not with the king, his family, and courtiers, but with the servants and slaves within the palace. He'd put himself into the best of both worlds—he had the protection of King Lamoni but had unfettered access to the poorest members of the household.

   He did not expect that he would meet with immediate success, however. The process would be a slow one. Ammon envisioned it like a mountain spring that started off as a trickle; he would convince one or two individuals of the truth, and then the word would spread and widen to a river that broadened and grew until it emptied into the ocean. He could hardly wait to start.

   "Your expression was not the only one I noticed," Jeremias said. "I don't think anyone told the princess how this evening would end."

   That made Ammon open his eyes. "I noticed that too. She seemed . . ." Anger was too tame an emotion to describe the fire he had seen in Princess Isabel's eyes. She had clearly wanted to eviscerate him. "A bit upset," he finished.

   His cousin quirked an eyebrow at him. "Upset? That's something of an understatement. I half expected her to try and sacrifice you herself."

   While Ammon might normally have laughed at Jeremias's quip, he found himself unable to do so. Before her anger, he had seen real pain on the princess's face. He could not make light of her feelings or her suffering.

   "I don't think the king told her about the ceremony being a formality," Ammon said.

   Jeremias crossed his arms. "That seems cruel."

   "I should apologize to her. First thing tomorrow, that's what I'll do."

   "I don't know if an apology's necessary. She ought to be thanking the heavens that she managed to escape being married to you." Jeremias laughed.

   Ammon nudged his cousin, but it was enough to almost knock Jeremias off the bench. Jeremias's laughter ceased when a tall Lamanite approached them. He looked at Ammon and Jeremias with barely disguised contempt. "My name is Samuel. You are to follow me to your quarters."

   "Thank you, Samuel," Ammon said as he and Jeremias stood. The servant did not acknowledge Ammon's thanks, and Ammon tried not to sigh. If he had unintentionally hurt or embarrassed the princess, he realized that there would be many here who would not forgive him for it. Including the princess.

   The night air felt extremely cold against Ammon's bare arms. The men here wore cloaks, and Ammon wished he had one. In Zarahemla the air was warm and humid. Here it was cool, refreshing, and clear. No wonder his ancestors had kept trying to return to these lands.

   "Do you see the guards trailing us?" Jeremias asked in a low whisper. Ammon had noticed them as soon as Samuel had walked into the courtyard. They were trying to hide in the shadows but were doing a poor job of it.

   "I saw them. It's to be expected. I think the king is worried about what I'm going to do."

   "Truth be told, I'm a little worried myself," Jeremias responded.

   "Don't worry," Ammon said with a grin. "I won't do anything Aaron wouldn't do."

   "That worries me even more."

   The last syllable Jeremias uttered faded off as they reached a hut that looked as if someone had taken a large stick to it. Ammon took in the disarray of the walls, the roof that threatened to cave in at any moment, the bedding which had been torn and strewn all over the ground, and the distinct odor of manure.

   "The chief servant demands that all of the king's servants keep clean and orderly living quarters," Samuel informed them, not looking either man in the eye. "He conducts inspections each morning at sunrise."

   The Lamanite servant departed, but their guards stayed behind.

   "That smell! Is that . . ." Jeremias asked in a horrified voice, unable to finish.

   Ammon finally let out a great roar of laughter, unable to contain his mirth. "Do you think this was the princess's idea?" he asked when he could breathe again. It reminded him of something he and his twin brother, Aaron, might have done when they were younger. He didn't see a reason to be upset. Nothing of value had been ruined, because Ammon kept his copy of the scriptures with him. She was certainly inventive. He had to give her that.

   "What are you doing?" Jeremias asked when Ammon walked away from the hut they were to share.

   Ammon's eyes danced as he looked back as his cousin. "I have a plan of my own."