“May I kiss my bride?” he whispers, the beginnings of a smile on his face.
“Didn’t we already do that?”
He angles his head back, getting a better look at me. “I thought I was good at it? And now you tell me you’re finished already?”
I make a noise of impatience, almost a laugh. To punish me, he lingers, moving slowly, driving me mad—and doing it completely on purpose.
Finally, I yank him toward me. “Conrad.”
Our lips meet again, this time softer. The final seal to our vows, the promise we skipped at the ceremony.
The kiss grows, becomes more. After several moments, I stop him, gently pushing him away. “I hate to say this, but enough for now. It’s not wise to linger when you’re covered in blood, and we’re sitting, unprotected, in a troll-infested forest.” I point to the dead monster lying far too close for comfort. “And let’s not forget there’s one of the beasts, just feet away, drawing ravens.”
True to my word, the raven above caws and flaps his wings. Soon, his companions will arrive, and I certainly don’t want to be here for that.
“Still one of those difficult girls,” Conrad teases, his words spoken against my neck. I shiver and reluctantly pull from him, yanking him to his feet as I rise.
He scowls at his ripped, stained clothing and brushes himself off—as if that will help. Then he yanks his blade from the troll’s back, wipes it on the beast’s hairy body, and shoves it into its sheath. “Now then. All we have to do is find our horses.”
Chapter 31
Mother first goes pale when she sees Eva and me stroll into Castle Tillendall. Then red. And then, when she processes the fact that I’m with the Duchess of Ivalta, her features smooth, and she returns to her usual shade of warm ivory.
“Rumpelstiltskin,” she says, sitting back on her throne. The gilded chair is separate from Bertrand and Callista’s, but still a place of honor. “Where have you been?”
“Near death,” I say, glancing around, wondering if things have changed in the last few months, unsurprised to find they haven’t.
“And Your Grace,” Mother says, turning to Eva. “I see you have returned as well. It’s interesting that you might walk through the doors at the exact same moment as my son.”
Instead of answering, Eva merely gives my mother a sweeping curtsy.
“I’m going to accompany the duchess to Ivalta,” I say before my mother can ask any more questions. “I wanted to let you know before we departed.”
She watches us, her eyes shrewd. “Is that so?”
I nod.
A slow smile builds on her face. “Very well. You may also take our good news with you.”
“Good news?”
“Callista is with child.” Mother practically bursts with pleasure. Apparently being a grandmother agrees with her. “The magic has confirmed it’s a girl. You may tell them the betrothal is secure.”
I glance at Eva, wondering how she will take the news that her young nephew already has a bride-to-be. But she seems nothing more than pleased—likely because there will no longer be a need to shove the two of us together.
“I will bring the news, Mother, and with great joy.”
And with that, I bid my mother goodbye.
“Are you truly pleased?” Eva asks me, her face curious as we step into the sunshine, off to collect two of Tillendall’s finest horses for our journey.
“I am.” I turn to her. “And you?”
Her eyes flutter forward, and her lips curve just slightly. “Yes, of course. I, for one, am glad I’ll have the chance to choose whom I love without being forced by a royal hand.”
Her fingers brush mine; my fingers brush hers. Finally, our palms meet for several long seconds before we pull apart and step into the stable.
Part III
The Promise
Chapter 32
I stay in the mountain kingdom of Ivalta, enjoying Eva’s friendship. Spring passes, and summer comes in all its warm, blue-skied glory. Autumn then arrives—that season that brings bitter memories—and finally winter. It’s as the snow falls on the mountainside, blanketing evergreens that are just a touch different from ours—fatter, shorter, blue instead of dusky green—that I receive the news that my new niece, Bertrand and Callista’s greatest joy, has died.
I bow my head over steepled fingers as the messenger delivers the news, my entire being aching for the loss of this small one I never got the chance to meet.
“Your Highness,” the man says, lowering his voice, speaking with urgency. “There is more.”
With a weary heart, I look up, crossing my arms on the desk in front of me, silently giving him permission to continue.
“Your mother and our fair queen are beside themselves—”
“Callista’s grief must be great.”
“They believe the princess was assassinated.”
I jerk my head toward him. “By whom?”
The fair-haired elf glances left and then right, assuring himself we are alone. “Ivalta.”
“Why?”
But I know why, at least I know my mother well enough to follow her line of reasoning. Ivalta’s king was livid when the duchess vanished those months she tended me and blamed Tillendall for her disappearance. Harsh words were spoken, words that put our alliance on tenuous ground.
Once here, I learned that Mother, in a fit of worried ire, proclaimed she was glad the treaty hadn’t come to pass, that she would rather die than see our kingdoms united.
And then Callista discovered she was carrying the baby girl she’d so longed for, and the words were glossed over.
“Your mother says Ivalta has secretly harbored ill will since the quarrel and no longer wished for the union. She claims that they knew if they killed the princess, there would be no alliance,” the man nearly whispers.
I shake my head. “I don’t believe that.”
“Neither do most—the poor child was sickly at birth,” the messenger says, cringing at the words that could get him tossed in our dungeon. “But the queen and your mother are ill with grief. They want someone to blame. If it were up to them, they would be readying for war.”
“It’s insanity.” I rub my temples, wishing for the first time I were back in Tillendall to talk sense into my headstrong mother. “And the council? What have they to say?”
The man’s eyes flicker with something I don’t particularly care for. Pity, perhaps. “They have a solution.”
Guarding myself, sitting straighter, I look him in the eye. “Tell me.”
“I’ll come with you,” Eva says, stroking my horse’s neck. Since she’s returned to her home, she’s worn elven garments. Today, her long gown glistens like rubies, catching the winter light.
Castle Ivalta is high in a mountain valley, surrounded—protected—by steep cliffs that arch in, hugging the village. Snow clings to the tops of the peaks, but magic protects the valley. It’s cold, certainly, but the grass remains green around the castle, and a few hardy purple flowers insist on blooming in cracks in the gray, gargantuan rock walls.
I think of the long, cold ride in front of me. I’ve had scouts in Tillendall and Morgenbruch since we left. After Eva departed, the trolls began to move out, appearing less often, until finally by the end of last summer, they disappeared altogether. We haven’t seen any sign of Marcus here either, and I’ve been to the nearby human village plenty of times, listening for news.
It seems he’s moved on, given Eva up.
And even if he hasn’t, his trolls are hibernating like bears this time of year.
“If you would like, you may accompany me,” I tell her, glad for the company. Besides, it wouldn’t be bad to have an Ivaltian ambassador. To say her brother was upset by my family’s unjust accusation would be an understatement.
Nerves are too raw, and have been too long, for this sort of tension. That’s why our council has come up with their solution—a solution that revolves around a promise the desperate queen of Morgenbruch made ov
er a year ago in a tower filled with straw. And that’s why I’m going back now, in the dead of winter.
They called me because I’m the one who extracted the promise; I am its keeper, and it is my duty to see it fulfilled. But I’m only going so I may speak reason to Mother and offer Callista my most sincere condolences. I will not, under any circumstances, steal Greta’s newborn daughter from her arms.
You see, that’s the solution: a princess for a princess. Only three weeks after Callista gave birth to her baby girl, Greta and Conrad welcomed their own princess into the world. And now the council wants her. They plan to bring the baby, human as she might be, into our world, give her to Bertrand and Callista to raise as our own princess and then marry her off to Eva’s young nephew when the girl reaches twenty years of age.
At first, I was confident King Gedlin would refuse. A human girl for his first-born son? The future ruler of his kingdom? Absolutely not.
But, still eager to unite with Tillendall, to have access to the richness of our resources without resorting to battle, he agreed.
Let the elven kingdoms fight; let them tear themselves apart. I don’t care.
I won’t rip Greta’s heart from her chest like that, not when the two of us are finally healing.
I glance up at Eva, who lingers next to me, staying silent—letting me mull my thoughts over. We are friends now, true friends. I need her, just as she needs me.
In the last year, we’ve banded together, filled each other’s empty hearts, offering quiet, amicable companionship.
And sometime, just before the snow began, things changed. My stomach warms when I see the lovely duchess now. There is nothing I want more than to be closer to her. I touch her constantly, finding reasons to brush her arm or hand.
She doesn’t know how I feel; I haven’t told her.
Sometimes, when she looks at me a certain way, I wonder if she shares my affection. But she stays silent on the matter.
“I would like to come with you,” Eva says. “If you want me.”
She waits, her eyes on mine, so cool a blue—but never cold.
“I do.”
We linger here, side by side for several long moments. I fixate on a wisp of hair that’s fallen from her braid. I want to brush it back, glide my fingertips along her alabaster skin.
I manage to refrain.
“I’ll prepare to leave,” Eva says, finally pulling away.
I watch her go, her ruby dress sparkling like a jewel. Where there was once guilt gnawing in my chest, there is only affection.
Pain healed.
Forgiven and accepted.
My feelings for Eva don’t belittle the true ones I had for Greta—they don’t nullify them or make them trite.
It’s different now, yes. But I loved the girl I met every day by the creek. I still do.
And I will gladly die before I destroy her heart again.
Chapter 33
“I’m sorry this displeases you,” says the blond-haired council member before me, “but you have no say in the matter.”
I stand tall, staring down at the five men in front of me. One is my brother, our king. The broken expression on his face, his slumped shoulders, and the clothes that look as though he’s worn them for days say he doesn’t want this any more than I do.
He wants his daughter back. The tiny infant he and Callista loved and held for a short time before death snatched her away.
What a tragic thing—to wait all those long, heartbreaking years, and then this.
Life is unfair. Life is cruel.
How don’t they see that it’s wrong to inflict the same pain on another? Babies aren’t political pawns to move around on a whim.
“I swear to you”—I lean forward, setting my hands on the table—“I give you my solemn vow, I will not take that child away from her mother.”
“You will,” the man says simply, any faux remorse falling from his features. “You are bound by the magic. You have no choice.”
He then slams the book shut, hiding away Greta’s name and her promise-tie to me. And that’s when I feel it, the pull, the tug, the pain that is the magic yanking me toward my purpose.
“If you’re strong, you might fight it a week,” the man continues, pretending I haven’t fallen to my knees, gripping my head. “But soon it will take over, and you’ll be helpless to stop it.”
Three days.
That’s how long I’ve fought the magic. It pulls me, like a magnet, toward my purpose, whispers in my ear, promising release if I just succumb to its dark call.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Eva says, kneeling in front of me.
I sit in a chair in our once-sanctuary—the place where she healed my spine and began to mend my heart. My head’s in my hands, and my shoulders are bent. My spine, not as strong as it used to be, protests the position.
“The fresh air will do you good,” she promises. “It will distract you.”
I shake my head.
Persistent, she shifts until her face is right before mine. “I will help you resist. I swear.”
Finally, I meet her eyes. “Do you think I’m a fool? Do you hate me for sabotaging the peace?”
She pulls my hands from my head and clasps them between her own, resting them in my lap. “I think you are noble—a chivalrous protector of the weak and helpless. What they’re asking of you is wrong. You’re a hero, not a villain.”
I close my eyes and let her words soothe my soul. Knowing Eva’s with me, on my side of the battlefield—two lone figures against hundreds…it helps.
Part of me knows enduring this pain is foolish. Even if I somehow resist, they’ll send someone else. And someone after that.
They’ll keep pursuing, hunting that tiny baby, until they have her in their clutches.
“Come on.” Eva tugs me up, refusing to take no for an answer. “It will do you good.”
I let her drag me from the chair—I’d let her do just about anything. If only I could tell her how I feel. Maybe taking her in my arms would ease the maddening ache.
Eva keeps her hand in mine, something I fixate on. Think of that, think of Eva, think of the soft snow under our boots and the way the duchess’s raven hair contrasts with the overcast sky.
Pine. Ice. Cold. Numb.
Anything except the promise.
If I were sane, I would take note of the sound of hoofbeats in the snow. If I weren’t in torment, I would have realized that something is amiss, that the hair on the back of my neck stands on end and goosebumps line my arms.
But by the time I notice the figure on horseback, it’s too late. For he is here, and Eva is stone.
She stares at the man, her face whiter than the landscape, her mouth open as though she doesn’t know if she’s going to gasp or scream.
For a moment, I think she’s going to run, but she doesn’t move.
“Marcus,” she finally whispers.
He’s striking, I suppose—for a human. He’s tall, with sharp features that are as cruel as they are handsomely crafted. His hair is as black as Eva’s, and his eyes are green.
Even though he forgoes the customary robe for a cloak, it’s clear he’s a sorcerer. He wears their mark—a thin, black, scrolling tattoo that begins at the far edge of his right eye, near his hairline, and ends at his jaw. It proclaims his status to all who pass him, demanding respect. It’s also a warning.
“Hello, Evie,” Marcus says, using her human name. His gray appaloosa fidgets under the saddle and stamps the ground, eager to be on his way.
I still my magic for the time being. The two connecting—sorcerer and elf—can be volatile.
“I tracked you to this place last year,” he says, frowning at the copse of trees. “And now you’ve returned. Elven magic, I assume? Some kind of safe house?”
Eva doesn’t answer. She stares at him, fear in her eyes.
She says he didn’t strike her, but now I’m not sure she was being truthful. Even the thought of the sorcerer hurting her makes me hot with
anger. For the moment, I am able to ignore the tug of the promise and focus on the man in front of us.
“What do you want?” I demand, shifting closer to Eva. “State your business and then leave.”
The sorcerer chuckles. “You know what I want.” He jerks his chin toward the duchess. “I want her.”
He’s obsessed, sick over it. I can see it in his eyes. It’s not love he feels but infatuation.
“And we’ve played a fun game of it, haven’t we, Evie? But now I’ve found you, and the game is over.” He holds out his hand, silently demanding she come to him.
As if waking up, Eva shakes her head. “No.”
The word is quiet, but it rings through the forest.
Marcus cocks his head to the side as though he didn’t hear her right. “I’m sorry?”
“I won’t go with you, Marcus.” Her voice grows stronger. “We’re done, finished.”
Slowly, he straightens. His eyes flash, but he smiles. “I know your true name.” It’s a reminder—not a revelation.
I whip my head toward the girl at my side. “You gave him your name?”
Foolish, trusting woman. What was she thinking?
Eva turns her wide eyes on me, helpless.
No wonder she fears him; no wonder she’s trembling now. She’s given him the power to end her with no more than a single word.
“Go with him,” I say, needing her to listen. I can save her—I will save her—but there’s nothing I can do if she’s dead.
All he must do is utter her name, and she’s gone.
Forever.
“No,” she murmurs, her eyes pleading with me to save her. But what can I do at this very moment when he is armed with a sword that’s sharper and truer than any in existence?
“I’ll come for you,” I say low, a promise.
“There you go, darling,” Marcus says, laughing. “Another game, another hunt. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you, my pet? Come on now.”
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