To Trav, who has always believed in the beauty of my dreams
In loving memory of Josh Lloyd — gone from sight,
but never from our hearts
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
BEFORE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
before
THE CRACKLE AND hiss of the flames devouring our house couldn’t block out the screaming and wailing of those who were still alive. My friends, the children, and babies. Orphans. Most of the men were dead. For how few of us there were, scattered around what used to be our village, the noise was almost deafening. I stood in the damp mud in front of our home, pressing my hands to my ears, trying to shut out the sounds. My jaw was clenched, but I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up and slipping down my cheeks.
“Alexa, hurry!” Marcel grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away. But I yanked out of his grip.
“I can’t leave them,” I said, still staring at what remained of my mother and father. I did not look at my brother. Nor at the flames engulfing our home. Nor at the backs of the retreating enemy. Not even at the king’s army, which had become visible on the horizon. It had materialized too late from the depths of the jungle that wrapped around our village, finally scaring off the Blevonese soldiers, but not before their sorcerer had done this.
“Alexa.” Marcel’s voice was more urgent as he reached up and turned my face to his, forcing my eyes away from the two bodies. But I couldn’t see him, not really. The image of my parents lying broken, charred on the ground in front of us, was burned onto my retinas. Onto my memory. The sorcerer had been no match for Papa’s fighting skills — but no one was a match for the unholy fire the sorcerer had used against him and Mama.
I shuddered as I remembered the feel of magic in the air when the sorcerer killed them both, a stream of fire bursting from his hands.
The smell of burned flesh and the sight of them lying there were too much. I dropped to my knees and vomited into the thick undergrowth that never stopped trying to reclaim the ground we’d built our home on.
Papa made us promise to hide when we saw the soldiers from Blevon heading for our village. But then he and Mama were slain — and I had done nothing to stop it.
“The army’s coming, Alexa. We have to do it now.” Marcel knelt down and held my hair back for me as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, my stomach still heaving. “If they see me cutting your hair, they’ll take you … they’ll force you into the breeding house.”
I looked up at him, fear hitting me square in the chest. His hazel eyes, mirror images of my own, were bleak.
I glanced toward the winding trail that led to the jungle, which would take us to Tubatse, to King Hector’s palace. And his breeding house. The army was getting closer. Too close.
“Maybe if I show them how well I fight, they’ll let me join the army instead?” The panic in my voice was matched by the desperate pounding of my heart.
Marcel shook his head. The wind turned, and the smoke blew into our faces for a moment, burning my nose and obscuring Marcel from view. His hand tightened around my hair, which he still held back from my face.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it. Hurry,” I added, spitting into the dirt one last time, trying to get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth. My knees were still weak when I stood up. Marcel grabbed the shears he’d managed to save before the fire grew too large, and moved to stand behind me.
When the blades bit through my hair and the first long, dark strands landed on the ground at my feet, I had to choke back a sob. It was stupid and vain, but my hair was the one feature that had truly been mine. Looking so similar to my twin brother had been fun as a child, but as we grew older, it became irritating. My jaw was too square, I was too tall, I hadn’t even managed to grow breasts yet. Other than my hair, I could have passed for a boy.
But now the very traits that I’d always been frustrated with would hopefully save me.
When the last lock of hair fell, my head felt lighter, colder, naked. I reached up with trembling fingers, but couldn’t make myself touch it.
“How do I look?” My voice wobbled, but I refused to let myself cry again. The army would be here any minute.
“Like me,” Marcel said.
Together, we hurried to pick up all the hair and threw it into the flames that were consuming what was left of our cottage. The long strands, years’ worth of growth, curled up and burned away in moments. Gone. Like my parents. Like my home. All taken, burned, hewn down, and turned to ash.
now
MARCEL LUNGED AT me, his movement lightning fast. But my block was even faster. Our practice swords collided, sending a jolt up my arm. We’d been sparring for quite a while, but neither of us was ready to back down. I jabbed at him again, but missed a beat when I noticed Prince Damian standing behind the other members of his guard, outside the practice ring, watching us. Marcel took full advantage of my momentary distraction and landed a blow on my shoulder. I grunted, aggravated with myself, but quickly recovered, spinning away from him and Prince Damian’s unwavering gaze. The gloating expression on Marcel’s face wasn’t going to last long. I twisted around in the opposite direction and before he could parry my blow, I hit him in the rib cage.
A killing strike.
Marcel threw his weapon on the dirt, rubbing his ribs with a grimace. My wooden sword would probably give him a bruise, despite the padding we both wore.
“I never should have taught you to hit me,” Marcel grumbled as most of our audience whooped and hollered from outside the practice ring.
“I’d hit you again, except I know you aren’t serious.” I bent down and picked up his sword, daring a peek to see if the prince was still there. He’d come to watch me spar before, but he always seemed to slip away just as I finished a match. Not this time. He still stood there, the sunlight bright on his dark hair. I could have sworn there was admiration on his face — admiration and something else I couldn’t name — but when I blinked, it was gone, replaced by his usual sardonic expression.
Prince Damian clapped slowly twice, making a couple of the guards in front of him jump. They spun around quickly, and upon seeing the prince, they immediately straightened to stand at attention.
“An impressive display, Alex, but next time, keep your guard up at all times. It never pays to get distracted,” Prince Damian observed. I had to clench my jaw to keep from blushing at the condescension in his voice. Part of me longed to challenge him, to tell him to take a turn and see how long he lasted. Instead, I stiffly tipped my head to him. He
looked at me for a moment longer, his gaze inscrutable, and then turned on his heel and strode away.
I stood in the ring, clutching both my and Marcel’s swords, my heart pounding with anger.
“Give that to me.” Marcel swiped his sword back with a furtive glance at the other members of the prince’s personal guard. But they were all still watching the prince, their backs to us. “I don’t need you to carry my sword for me.”
I blinked as he stormed away. I knew he wasn’t really mad. Death was once nothing more than a game to us, back at home, when we were children and we practiced for hours every day with sticks instead of swords. Back when I was still Alexa, instead of Alex, Marcel’s twin brother and member of Prince Damian’s personal guard. He used to get so mad at me for beating him, he wouldn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.
Before our parents were killed and death suddenly became so very, very real.
Marcel didn’t get angry when I beat him anymore.
“Nice job, Alex. Don’t listen to the prince. We all know he couldn’t use a sword if his life depended on it.” Rylan nodded at me with an approving smile when I walked over to him and the other men who’d been watching.
I laughed, modulating my tone to keep the sound of my amusement low and as unfeminine as possible. I’d been doing it for so long, I didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Trying to sound like a boy was natural to me now. “When have I ever cared what the prince thinks? The day I start taking advice about fighting from him will be the day Marcel can finally beat me.”
Rylan laughed. “True. I think Marcel’s going to be feeling that hit for a few days.”
“Well,” I replied, “it’s always good to give him a reminder of why I’m going to beat him out for the captainship someday.” I chucked my sword through the air and Asher grabbed it at the last second, just before it hit him in the chest. He and Deron were up next in the practice ring.
“Which won’t be anytime soon,” Deron, the current captain, said as he passed by us.
I watched Asher enter the ring as I peeled off my padding. The oppressive heat held the promise of a storm, a damp weight to the air, as if the very earth were sweating almost as profusely as I was. My shirt stuck to my body, but luckily the leather vest hid the binding I’d wrapped around my breasts earlier that morning. I glanced up at the cloudless blue sky, stretching across the palace and the jungle that surrounded us, and wondered how long it would take before the humidity worked itself up into a mass of dark, threatening thunderheads.
“Come on, Captain, let’s do this,” Asher called from within the ring. The sun made his red hair practically glow — or possibly, it was the reflection off his skin. I’d never seen someone so white before in my life until I’d met him. Most of the people of Antion had at least a hint of olive or darker tones to their skin, to varying degrees. But Asher was originally from Dansii, the nation north of us, where almost everyone’s skin was that white — or so he’d said. But King Hector was also from Dansii, and though he was pale, he wasn’t that white.
In comparison, Deron’s dark skin seemed to absorb the light. I’d known Deron for so long now, he didn’t frighten me anymore, but I still shivered as he lifted his sword and walked into the arena to face Asher, who was ten years younger than him and at least fifty pounds lighter. Deron was the biggest man in the guard, and at thirty-six, also the oldest. But that wasn’t why he was captain — no one had ever beaten him in a challenge. Well, no one except me.
But when I fought him to earn my position on the guard a year ago, I was too new and too young to be made captain, so it didn’t matter.
Marcel came back with two tall cups, one in each hand.
“Water?” I asked, eagerly reaching out.
“Yep,” he said, but he pulled back, keeping the cups out of my reach. Then he lifted one of them to his mouth and drank deeply.
“Are you planning on sharing that, or am I supposed to apologize for beating you first?”
“Nope. No apology necessary. I fully intend to give you what you deserve.”
Before I had a chance to react, Marcel tossed the entire contents of the second cup into my face, drenching me. At first, I was too shocked to do anything except stare at him. Then I burst out laughing. The cool water actually felt good as it ran down my nose and chin, dripped off my short hair onto my shirt.
“Well, that’s one way to admit you’re a sore loser.” I ran a hand through my wet hair, shaking the excess water off.
“You two never stop, do you?” Rylan shook his head, a wry grin revealing his straight, white teeth. His skin was the color of cream with a hint of melted chocolate stirred in.
“I need to go check on things inside the palace,” I said, forcing myself to look away from Rylan’s warm brown eyes. I had no business noticing his smile or his teeth or what shade of chocolate his skin and irises resembled. “Try not to lose any more sparring matches.” I pointed at Marcel. “I don’t think too many would-be assassins are deterred by cups of water in the face.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcel saluted me with the empty cup.
With a sigh and a suppressed smile, I turned away from my brother and strode across the courtyard, purposely making my stride as long as possible.
THE DINING ROOM was lit by hundreds of candles. The scent of hot wax and too much perfume made my head hurt. I stood at attention a discreet distance from where Prince Damian sat, eating his dinner with his customary bored expression. The women on both sides of him vied for his attention, one more blatantly than the other, bending too close to the table, pushing her very visible breasts even higher out of her dress. But the prince only raised one dark eyebrow and lifted a spoonful of chilled pear soup to his mouth.
I wanted to tell the women to quit bothering. Prince Damian never took anyone to his rooms, and as one of his personal guards, I was certain he never visited anyone else’s, either. I believed it was because engaging in that activity would require too much effort — and if there was one thing the prince excelled at, it was laziness.
I looked away from the long table filled with lavishly dressed men and women, and scanned the room. Marcel stood a few feet away from me on Prince Damian’s other side. Across the room, Rylan and his brother, Jude, stood near the door.
As the next course was brought out, the conversation turned, as it nearly always did, to the war. After a few minutes of discussion, Prince Damian sighed.
“Must we always converse about this dreary topic?” He lifted his wineglass to his lips. King Hector had wine and champagne shipped in from Dansii, but only the royal family and their most esteemed guests were allowed to drink it on a regular basis. The rest of the dinner party had goblets full of native juices from Antion — mango and papaya.
“But surely you don’t find it dreary, Your Highness?” A young woman I hadn’t noticed before tonight asked, her expression one of surprise. “This war comes at a steep cost, of course. But I would think that you of all people would be thrilled at the recent success the army has had in stopping those Blevonese sorcerers.”
Oh, here we go, I groaned internally.
“I should?” the prince asked, his voice deceptively inviting. “Why do you suppose that would excite me, in particular?”
The young woman — who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, most likely newly presented at court — leaned forward eagerly, exhilarated to have garnered the prince’s notice.
“Well, because of what happened to the queen. I’m sure you’re just as eager to avenge her murder as the king is. Aren’t you?”
The entire room seemed to freeze, silence descending swiftly as the prince pinned her with his gaze. I couldn’t see his eyes from my vantage point, but I knew Prince Damian well. I could easily imagine the icy glare he’d turned on her, his shockingly blue eyes cold. The girl’s color drained slightly, to be quickly replaced by a flush creeping up her neck.
“I find that this … meal … has become unappetizing,” Prince Damian finally said,
rising from his chair. Everyone else rushed to stand as well. “Please, remain and enjoy the food. Celebrate the army’s victories with as much exuberance as possible.” The girl stared down at her plate in humiliation, her former excitement completely gone. She looked like she was about to vomit the food she’d been eating all over the table.
“Guards.” Prince Damian flicked a wrist, signaling us. We fell into line, Rylan and Jude in front of the prince, Marcel and myself in the rear, as he exited the room. Once the dining table and the awkward conversation were far behind us, Prince Damian stopped. “Alex,” he said, turning to face me.
“Yes, Your Highness?” I stood at attention.
“I haven’t received word of this supposed victory.” He glared at me like it was my fault. “I do not like to be ill informed at my own dinner parties. You will find Nolen at once and tell him that I require news of the war efforts brought to me personally from now on.”
From behind me, Marcel said, “My lord, Nolen has taken the evening off to visit his sister in Tubatse.”
Prince Damian looked past me to my brother. “Ah yes.” He pressed his lips together in irritation. “Then go find Iker instead. Give him the same message. He’s probably better informed than Nolen anyway.”
I nodded. Iker — the king’s most trusted advisor — probably did know more than Nolen, Prince Damian’s “handler,” as we dubbed him. But I hated dealing with Iker and wished Nolen hadn’t picked tonight of all nights to be gone. “Would you like me or Marcel to go, my lord?”
Defy Page 1
