by Ronie Kendig
Duamauri trotted to her dais.
As his large hound approached, sniffing loudly, the princess went white. “I’ve never seen one so . . . so close.”
“He is the male of the pair—and quite obstinate.”
Without warning, Duamauri leapt up onto the pelts and curled up at—on—the princess’s feet.
She pulled in a gasp.
“Tsst,” Aselan gave the down signal to the icehound using his teeth.
Duamauri’s ears swiveled and he turned bored, white eyes to him. Ignored the command. Stunned, Aselan flicked his finger, pointing the hound to his side. With a disgruntled groan, Duamauri lumbered off the dais. He shook his spine as if shaking off the insult of being told to get down.
The princess laughed. “I daresay he’s annoyed.”
“He is not the only one. I beg yer mercy. He’s not normally so rude.” He should leave. Talk with Byrin and Teelh about sending Haegan away. Sending them both away. “If ye’ll excuse me—”
“Aselan.”
He stilled.
“Might I ask . . .”
“Of course, Princess.”
Expectant eyes came to his. “What of my brother?”
9
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
“It has been six days. Surely ye do not still deign to tell me nothing is wrong.” Thiel crossed her arms as she stared down her brother, who sat at a knobby wood table in the kitchens.
Tili tossed down his fork. “Blazes, girl! Can ye not let one wink pass without yer lovesick fretting?”
Thiel popped him on the back of the head.
Her brother came up like a geyser, caught her hand, and twisted her around.
She ducked beneath his arm and counter-twisted.
Tili flipped her grip. Pinned her against the wall.
She growled her defeat.
He grinned, stepped back, and wiped the corner of his mouth where a bit of gravy from the roast streaked his almost clean-shaven jaw.
“Something is wrong,” she insisted.
“And with the blizzard, we can do naught.” He returned to the bench at the table and lifted his spoon. “Perhaps ye should go back to stitching.”
“I’ll stitch yer eyes shut in yer sleep!”
He snorted. “Please—do me the favor. Atelaria is coming.”
“Ye jest!”
“Nay, though I wish I were. Father said they are coming down from the Violet Sea for the wedding.”
Atelaria was her age and had beauty in spades. The last time they visited, Father nearly skewered Tili for not taking an interest in his cousin.
“They say she has the beauty of Abiassa,” Thiel taunted.
“Ye be touched in the head. To take as my bride one who is of family blood ’tis foul and . . .”
“Proper? Expected?”
His lip curled as he stared over his roast. “Boring.”
“Be not worried, brother. She has no interest in ye, besides. Last she was here—”
“Mind yerself.” He stabbed his spoon at her then scooped some meat into his mouth and chewed. “She goes after one of my men, I’ll string her up meself.”
“Jealous?”
With a cough, he thumped his chest. “Jealousy has naught to do with it. My concern is with Poired turning that blood-gaze northward. We need all the men we have and more.” He shook his head, black curls swaying. “I will not have the Nivari distracted by wiles.” But then he grinned. “But ’twill be good to have her here.”
Thiel frowned. “What, a change of heart?”
“Nay, means ye’ll be out of me hair in the training yard.”
This time, Thiel pushed his head into his food and took off running. His roar caught up with her as she skidded around the first corner. She grabbed the wall and propelled herself down the hall. Breathless and lighthearted, she slowed to a trot. It was good to be home again. It was good to be—
Feet pounded behind her.
Tili bore down on her. “Ye thin-blood lover!”
She launched forward, but then stopped short as she saw two men enter a room behind their father. Tili plowed into her but caught her shoulders, seeing the same thing.
“Who are they?” she breathed.
“Elders,” Tili muttered, his voice low. “Stay here.”
Stay? What was she, a dog? She grabbed his arm. “I’m just as much the king’s heir—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “And ye’ve been gone the last few years. Things have changed.”
“What things?”
“Not yer mouth, that much is sure.”
She smacked him. “Who are they?”
“Inele Larrow and Faus Sharton.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her behind him. “Ambassadors to the Nine.”
“Haegan!”
“No,” Tili muttered. “They wouldn’t care about him. This . . . this is worse.”
“How? Why would ye say that? What do ye mean worse? How do ye even know?”
Tili jerked around. “Quiet,” he hissed. “Whatever has brought them here in this storm . . .” He shook his head. “Wait here, Thiel.”
“I—”
“Wait,” he said, his voice a growl. He turned and strode to their father’s receiving room.
Hands fisted, lips taut, Thiel sneaked along the thick rug that lined the marble hall. She slipped around the gilded table with flowers, brought in from the greenhouses. Tiptoeing beneath the massive oil painting of her grandfather, whose stern gaze had always given her chills, she ignored the reprimand he seemed to be giving. If her father caught her, he’d become Grandpapa reborn.
Voices rattled against the wood. Tili had left the door open. Whether baiting her or affording her a means to listen, she wasn’t sure. He still owed her for the face full of roast.
Words rose and fell. Not necessarily an argument, but not far from it either. She leaned out, peering through the slit. Her brother stood tall, handsome beside their father. The two made an imposing presence. Tili’s expression went severe, and he exchanged a glance with Father.
“My little spy,” came a soft voice.
Thiel gave a start and turned. “M—”
Her mother’s finger to her lips silenced her. She gave a nod and peered in through the same crack Thiel had used.
“Ye are sure?” her father demanded.
“There is no doubt,” one of the ambassadors said, his voice grave. “I heard the report firsthand from a dying Jujak. While defending his queen and children, Zireli was brutally murdered by Poired. The Celahars are lost.”
10
Iteveria
“You look ridiculous.”
“As much as you, dear brother.”
Trale Kath stretched his neck, hating the way the stiff collar poked into the soft skin under his chin, and at the same time noting that he could make good use of the stiffness in a strike. “At least I’m not wearing ribbons and have half my flesh on display.”
A blade pressed to his throat in a flash. “Distracted you, didn’t it?”
“Murder me and the Infantessa will be sadly put out,” he said, bending over the rail as she pinned him.
Astadia grunted and swung around, the fabric of her skirts billowing like the waves crashing against the cliff some fifty feet below. Mist spray carried on a warm breeze. Glittery goli birds, wings tucked against their long bodies, dived down and vanished beneath the foamy wake of the sea. A small inlet cradled the deep blue waters, with jagged rocks stretching up the northern lip of the tear-shaped bay.
“He promised us we’d be free.”
The warm balustrade was made of white marble, gold streaking through it with random elegance and glinting beneath the sun in a display unlike anything Trale had encountered before. Pressing his palm against it, he peered at the waters, where the tide drifted away from the rocky cliff and sailed out to sea. It’d journey long until it traced the coastline of the Yaopthui and slid into the Catatori Ocean and freedom.
Astadia whipped around to him, her russet hair rippling i
n loose waves as she moved. “We did things—things I never would’ve done. To be free.”
Unlike his sister, whose desperation for freedom sometimes blinded her, Trale had never once believed Poired’s promise of liberation. What Trale saw behind those sick, empty eyes was more of what existed around the mouth of Sirdar—pain. Death. He had never been good enough, no matter how hard he’d tried. Protecting Astadia had been his attempt at atonement. A foolish hope, he guessed. It is good to serve the Infantessa this way. Maybe he could redeem himself after all.
“How can you not be angry?” She flung out her arms and motioned to the sea, then to the cliffs and trees.
“What good will that do?” Trale muttered.
“Every good! Rail against his brutality with me. Tell me it’s wrong—that we should be free.” Her face glowed bright with intensity but also the defeat that consumed their lives. His sister was beautiful and deadly. Trained by his own hand and skills. Borne of necessity. For survival. “I can’t do this anymore, Trale.” Her words were but wisps in the salty mist that curled loose strands of hair around her face. She sagged against the balustrade. “It eats at me.”
Trale touched her shoulder. “Courage, Astadia. Look around you—we stand on the balcony of the Infantessa herself!” It is an honor to be here.
“I care not one whit about a spoiled girl’s pretty view.”
“As you should not.” The stiff voice came sharp and firm from behind them.
Astadia glanced over Trale’s shoulder, blue-green eyes widening and her golden skin whiter than the surrounding rock. Trale slid his eyes shut, cursing himself for not guiding her to a calmer state before she did exactly what she’d done. She knew better than to give over to idle talk where walls had ears.
“Bow,” Trale hissed as he pivoted, stealing a fleeting glance at the Infantessa as he went to a knee. “Your Highness.”
“Your Highness,” the deep voice boomed across the receiving hall. “At your request, the Kaths, Astadia and Trale, present themselves to you.”
Silence gaped, the hard floor digging into Trale’s knees. A crick in his back needled him. No doubt the Infantessa sought to ensure they both felt the full awkwardness of Astadia’s sharp words.
“Rise, heirs of Kath.”
Trale nearly laughed as he pushed to his feet. Heirs of Kath? Who was Kath? They’d both been dumped in a tavern named Kath on the night of a quickly quelled uprising against Sirdar.
In keeping with Iteverian customs, Trale kept his gaze down. He had no doubt of the pain her guards would inflict across his shoulders and back should he dare look. But in that stolen glimpse, he’d seen her. She could not be any older than they—a mere twenty cycles—yet she ruled a vast kingdom.
Her pale blue gown dusted the gleaming marble floor and matched the color of the clear sky beyond the balcony. A white scarf of sorts wreathed her head and neck, pleating down into the bodice of her gown. Atop a stiff headdress of gold brocade, the shape of a crescent moon was rimmed in gold cord and accented with pearls. Pale blue sheer material ran the length of both arms, held in place by a ring on the middle finger of each hand.
“Ask them: Sirdar’s right hand sent you, did he not?” she said, her words meant for her steward, the question for Trale and Astadia.
Irritation skimmed through Trale as he waited for the steward to repeat the words, for only then could he respond. And not to the Infantessa. But to the steward. “Infantessa Shavaussia wills that you answer: Sirdar’s right hand sent you to me, did he not?”
“Please tell the Infantessa that Sirdar’s right hand did summon us to Iteveria.” Blazes, he hated formality!
“Ask them, Roberts, if they know to what end they are in my presence.”
“The Infantessa would have you respond: Do you know to what end you are in her presence?”
“We have—” Trale bit down. Swallowed. “Please tell the Infantessa we are here to do as she commands.” Surely the Infantessa did not think they would name openly that they were being sent to kill someone. A person unnamed. Who must remain so until the Infantessa spoke it.
Trale curled his hand into a fist, hearing the slightest of huffs from Astadia. His patience had been long and honed compared to her short-fused temper. She had little tolerance for useless things and people.
Whispers skated back and forth.
Trale dared his gaze to the edge of her blue gown. The skirts adjusted slightly, indicating she might not be looking at them, but at her steward.
His gaze skimmed up a little more to the bodice richly adorned with pearls, tiny crystals, and more gold threads. The white fabric around her neck maintained her modesty. Her chin—a golden brown, rounded slightly with youthfulness. Womanhood had not yet fully claimed her. She was well-formed, her bodice proved that, but the maturity of age had not refined her facial features. Yet . . . maturity beyond her years rimmed her brown eyes. Depths of knowledge, grief unimaginable—so much dwelt in those orbs that reminded him of the forest of Ankdoar. Yes, her eyes—
Eyes?
Trale blinked at his stupidity. At the same instant, a blow to the back of his knees sent him to the marble floor.
Astadia cried out.
Fingers against the cold stone and gaze rightly corrected, he braced himself. Anticipated his sister’s move. Caught her wrist before she could fly into action. “No,” he said, a grimace tightening his words and grip. He peered up at her with sidelong glance. “No. My fault.” The backs of his legs ached. So did his pride.
“Gaze upon the Infantessa again and you will feel more than the sentry’s staff against your legs,” Steward Roberts said as his booted feet slid into Trale’s visual range. “Are we understood?”
“Painfully.” Trale divided his thoughts between self-annoyance and this whole façade. But it drove home how the Infantessa had gained her reputation as a coldhearted ruler. One who demanded obeisance and fealty. Total subjugation or death.
Trale had seen plenty of death. Had delivered death. He did not want to become it.
Or perhaps he already had.
11
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
Awareness plucked Haegan from a fitful sleep. He stared down the length of his legs and shifted them. Still able to move. His gaze hit the heavy door. Still a prisoner.
He felt her before he saw her and jerked upright.
The servant girl stood at the table again, this time working over a small tray. She lifted a piece of cake and smiled at him. “I have a treat for ye.” Her hair was woven into a braid unlike any he’d seen before. Complicated. Yet . . . delicate. Thick. Wrapped around her shoulder, it hung to her waist. She wasn’t particularly beautiful—not like Thiel—but neither was she ugly. Kindness. Was that what compelled him to silence this time?
She came, extended the slice of cake toward his mouth.
Awkwardly, Haegan started to reach for it, only to remember his hands were bandaged.
She lifted her eyebrows. “Now ye see why I assist.” With care, she tucked the piece between his lips. “Sometimes, having help is exactly what we need, even though our pride insists we do it on our own.”
Haegan chewed slowly, surprised at its sweetness. But there was another flavor to it. A sweetness that wasn’t . . . sweet. That made no sense.
She brushed her hands together as she returned to the tray.
He swallowed. “Who are you?”
“I thought it obvious.” She held out her hands. “I’m a servant.”
“No, your name. What is your name?” He hadn’t really wanted her name, but she’d made him feel foolish, and he sought to deflect that feeling.
She tilted her head. “Ye may call me Aaesh.” Now she came with a tin cup.
“I can do that on my own.”
“Yes,” she said, her brows lightly knotted, “but must ye?”
“I beg your mercy.”
At this she smiled. “Very well.” But she still held the cup for him.
Haegan gave up and took a sw
ig, then swallowed. “You said I can call you Aaesh, so is it not your real name?”
“Not the whole of it.”
“What is?”
“Aaeshwaeith Adoaniel’afirema.”
Haegan stared, not remotely willing to attempt repeating that. “You’re not from Legier.”
“It is where I am.” Her earthy gaze never wavered. “And ye are not from Legier, Haegan of Seultrie.”
Something whispered through the room. A breeze. No—not a breeze. Something strange. Tickling his ears and the back of his throat. His hands—they felt weird. “No. No, I’m not. Thought the locked door might give that away.”
“Are ye so easily restrained?”
Haegan blinked. Who was this child that she spoke like an adult? And so boldly? “You must know how to undo the locks, so you could free me.”
“And what would that teach ye?”
“That you’re kind.”
“And that ye’re weak.”
Pride dented, Haegan drew up. “Did you not just say that sometimes having help is exactly what we need?”
“There is wisdom in discerning those times.”
“Now I’m a fool? What do you know of me? Do they not teach manners where you come from?”
She smirked. “Manners, yes. And courage as well as loyalty. And not to ask others to do what ye must do for yerself.” Her words were unusually accurate, piercing the soft spot of the last week.
“What have they told you? I suppose they say I’m a coward.”
“Nay, Haegan, those are yer own words.”
His chest burned. His hands. “Do you not have friends you want to play with?” Anything to get her out of here. Out of his head.
“I have six friends, and they are always ready when I am.” She smiled. “But I am looking for a new friend.”
Haegan snorted. “Sorry. I would not waste your time.”
“Why would it be a waste of my time?”
Worrying a loose thread of the bandage, Haegan fell silent. Coward. She’d nailed him on that one. Seultrie was without a king. Her people . . . lost. The Nine floundering.
They needed a king.
“And here ye lie,” Aaesh said softly, pulling his gaze to hers. “Sometimes, our most likely ally is the unlikely ally.”
