by Jamie Foley
So what if she’d rather marry Lysander than Heron? It was like having to choose between soggy bread or molded bread.
Lysander was disconnected from reality if he thought she could break a signed marriage alliance contract with no repercussions just because she felt like it. But then again, he’d grown up a spoiled prince, so he was probably used to getting whatever he wanted just by asking.
Brooke nearly walked face-first into Heron as he stepped out from behind a tree.
He didn’t look at her—he was glaring at something behind her. “What were you doing out alone in the woods with him?”
She gaped up at Heron as her heart kicked like a trapped rabbit. “I was just practicing with my spear. I haven’t been able to in weeks.”
Heron sidestepped around her and marched toward Lysander.
“Aish, don’t assume!” Brooke said as she followed Heron, but he ignored her.
Lysander didn’t move as Heron moved in close. “I know you can’t hear me, you point-eared disgrace,” Heron growled, “so I’m going to have to make this clear enough for you to understand.” His words grew slow and emphatic. “Stay away from my fiancée.”
Lysander looked down on him with cool nonchalance. “How embarrassing to feel threatened by a point-eared disgrace.”
Heron’s nostrils flared, and Brooke thrust the butt of her spear between them. “Stop.”
“It’s dishonorable and inappropriate for you two to be alone out here, and you know it.” Heron turned his fiery gaze on Brooke. “I’m beginning to think you’re untrustworthy, Chieftess.”
“I was only here to protect her as a bodyguard,” Lysander said. “You’re welcome.”
Heron twitched. “He’s a guard?”
It took all of Brooke’s composure not to react. She’d never asked Lysander to be a bodyguard, had she? No. That might be the height of foolishness. Although he had saved her life.
“I asked him to help Dimbae just for this trip. Since we need to keep the headcount low, I left my other azure mask in Jadenvive to make room for you and your guard,” she lied. Well, it was only a half-lie. Anything to prevent these two from fighting and further soiling relations between the tribes.
Heron snorted and backed away from Lysander, then stomped toward the camp.
Brooke released a silent breath. She avoided Lysander’s gaze as she chased after Heron.
“I command you to stay away from him,” Heron said.
“You’re not my husband yet,” Brooke said, “and I won’t take kindly to unnecessary demands even when you are. I am not one of your servants.”
Heron clenched his fists. “Where I come from, a man leads and his wife follows.”
“Where I come from, a man leads with integrity and strength and love, and his wife follows out of respect and honor.”
Heron stayed quiet for a long moment, and Brooke wished she could see his expression as she walked behind. The muscles of his shoulders seemed tense beneath his tattoos.
“I want all of those things for us—it is not my desire for you to obey me out of fear or demands. I recognize that you are a stalwart woman and a leader.” He gave her a sidelong look and smiled. “I look forward to taming you.”
Brooke admired Sorrel as the gryphon pranced along the road, leading the group with Lysander bare-back as if he weighed nothing. Her golden feathers and white fur reminded Brooke of the great eagles she’d seen as a little girl on a diplomatic mission to Valinor with her father.
Sorrel was as happy as a puppy. Brooke wondered what it must feel like to be so carefree. The beast probably didn’t even worry about its next meal, whereas Brooke had temporarily escaped the pressures of leadership only to have two unworthy princes barking at each other over her.
She tugged the reins to the side, and her xavi trotted closer to Nariellyn’s. Hey, she called through thought-speak to evade eavesdroppers.
Nariellyn glanced at her with a bored look. My butt is so sore. I hate you.
Brooke barely contained a laugh. You must not have ridden in a while.
Nariellyn faced forward and jutted her bottom lip out. And I’m hungry.
By the skies, you’re a child. Brooke fished into her pack and withdrew a honey drop. Here.
Nariellyn enlivened as she snatched the candy and popped it in her mouth. Maybe you’re not so bad after all.
Brooke rolled her eyes. I have an aether question for you.
Nari grew an impish smile, displaying sharp white teeth. I offer consulting at five honey drops per question.
Brooke glanced over her shoulder to see Dimbae, Soaring Heron, and his guard trailing behind. Did Master ever teach you how to sever an aether bond?
Nariellyn’s brows knit together as she studied Brooke. You know I just kid around—
I don’t want to cut our bond, goober. She looked away and sat up straighter as she bounced in the saddle. Just wondering if such a thing is possible.
Nariellyn glanced from her to Lysander and back again. You should be asking how to sever a marriage alliance agreement.
Brooke pursed her lips. Obviously that’s not possible unless I want to damage relations with Darkwood when we need them the most.
Cool, so just sell out the rest of your life for more troops. Nariellyn held out a hand expectantly. Idiot.
You think I’m happy about this? Brooke handed over a second honey drop. I don’t have the luxury of marrying for love like you do—I’ve known that since I was five. So if it keeps everyone alive, yeah, I’ll make that trade.
So you love him? Nariellyn waggled her eyebrows. I knew you’d grow a heart eventually.
Brooke strengthened her mental shields before Lysander could sense her irritation or Nariellyn could sense too much. Obviously not. Do you know how to sever an aether bond or not?
He’s like ten times hotter than Heron. Like an elemental in human form, but better!
You would marry a frog if you thought it were attractive enough.
I mean, sure, if it also had a dragon’s stash of rupero and a really nice house. Nari grinned and held her hand out again.
Brooke ignored it. Answer my question.
Nariellyn shrugged. You think I can sever an aether bond if even time can’t? There’s probably a way out there to do it, but I’ve never heard of it. She wiggled her fingers.
Brooke bit the inside of her lip and absentmindedly handed over another candy as their mounts plodded along beside each other. She’d hoped that her confusion about Lysander—and whatever that irritating mass of feelings was—originated from that old bond. If she couldn’t get rid of it, was she bound to feel . . . something for another man even after she was wed to Heron?
At least she could put distance between herself and Lysander after this monarchy drama was dealt with. He’d probably live in the palace of Quin’Zamar once his brother took the throne, and she’d be able to forget him over time.
Right?
For some reason, she wasn’t confident. Emotions in general were foreign to her. They showed up every once in a while like a burglar and held her heart ransom. A ransom she never knew how to pay.
Seriously though, I think you’ll be miserable with Heron. Nariellyn’s thought-voice had lost its glimmer. He strikes me as a really rotten person. If you find any way out, you should take it.
Brooke gathered herself and set her jaw. They’re both rotten.
Lysander was rotten. Heron is presently rotten. There’s a big difference.
Brooke watched Nariellyn from the corner of her eye. Wouldn’t it be better to choose someone not rotten if I had the choice? Like my second fiancé?
Everyone is rotten. It’s just a matter of how much decay you can smell on them. Nariellyn leaned forward into the feathered crown of her xavi. You can probably sense a lot more about Lysander than I can because of that bond. But you must trust him to some degree to ask him to come along.
Brooke closed her eyes and released a deep breath. Look, I know you’re right, but I don’t have the pl
easure of choice. If only the timing . . .
Nariellyn gave her a loaded look with a mischievous smile. I was right about more than one thing, yeah?
Brooke narrowed her eyes at her. It doesn’t matter. She flicked another honey drop for her friend to catch.
She yanked the reins sideways, urging her reptilian mount to the side of the road. “Hold!” she called aloud.
Lysander glanced back, then patted Sorrel’s neck and murmured soft noises to her. The gryphon swung around and trotted toward Brooke as the rest of the group gathered around.
“We should be nearing the border,” Brooke said, glancing up and down the road. “I’d rather not deal with the guards on either side of the bridge, so let’s cross the river. Downstream, in case the current steals something.”
Sorrel stretched her wingspan wide with a yawn as Lysander nodded. The group followed Brooke as she veered from the road and forged a path through the trees.
Judging by the sound of rapids, the river wasn’t far. Brooke dismounted as she approached the bank and gazed over the glistening water.
She couldn’t see the bridge, so it couldn’t see them. Perfect.
A sudden gust of wind flurried her braids as Sorrel took flight and landed on the opposite side of the river. She stared as Lysander sat up straight on his gryphon’s elegant back and patted her feathered mane.
I know what I want for the next Festival of the Gifted King, Brooke thought. Gryphons were native to Valinor, but maybe she could pull some strings.
Brooke sighed and trudged down an embankment, slickened from recent rain. Her xavi snorted but followed as she tugged on the reins. She uttered soothing noises as she climbed back into the saddle and urged it into the waters. The beast splashed forward on two thick legs, then sank into a slither, waving its fan of tail feathers back and forth through the deep current.
One by one the mounts made it to the other side, and just like that, they’d crossed into the Emberhawk Sovereignty.
“Not another step!”
Brooke cringed and slowly turned toward the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It came from the direction of the bridge.
Two men clad in gold and ruby regalia bore the symbol of the monarchy: a phoenix with outstretched wings. Emberhawk royal guards. They approached slowly with bows drawn and aimed.
“You’re under arrest,” one of them called. “Put your hands above your heads.”
“Sheath your weapons,” Lysander said as he rounded Sorrel between the Emberhawk and Brooke’s entourage. “Don’t you recognize me?”
The guards’ eyes went wide and their bows lowered. “Prince Lysander!” They each took a knee and bowed their heads. “Why didn’t you approach at the border crossing, sir?”
Brooke gripped her reins so tight that her palms hurt. She translated through thought-speak for Lysander, since he probably couldn’t read their lips with their faces downturned.
Lysander gestured to the group behind him, his travel cloak billowing with the movement. “I’ve brought new slaves. The Katrosi would not have allowed me passage, as slavery is illegal in their land.”
Brooke followed the guard’s gaze over each one of them and landed on Soaring Heron, who looked like anything but a slave with his proud countenance and disgusted expression.
What was the chance of them recognizing Heron? Or their chance of recognizing her?
She cursed herself for not having her hood up. Lifting it now would raise suspicion.
“Ah.” The guards returned to their feet. “Welcome home, Your Majesty. Shall we send word to the queen that you’ve returned?”
“Please,” Lysander said. He squinted through the forest as if searching for something. “How secure is the road to Quin’Zamar? I’ve heard rumors of bandits.”
“Allow me to send for an escort for you, sir.”
“Very well.” Lysander’s voice sounded different somehow. Detached, perhaps . . . like it’d sounded when Brooke had first seen him in prison. He dismounted and stretched.
Brooke’s stomach knotted. What was he doing?
The guards bowed and turned to march back in the direction of the bridge.
She didn’t hear Lysander’s movements as he reached into his belt with one hand and drew a dagger with the other. His footsteps were silent as he rushed the guards. Shot one with a blowgun and stabbed the other in the back.
Sound returned as the men crumpled to the ground.
A strangled gasp clawed from Brooke’s throat. He’d moved faster than she could react. Horrifyingly fast.
“Why did you do that?” she cried, jumping from her xavi’s saddle. She rushed to the fallen men to determine if they were dead, then wished she hadn’t.
“They would have told Illiana about us,” Lysander said as he pulled a dart from one guard’s neck.
Brooke looked away from the Emberhawks’ frozen agonized expressions before she lost her breakfast. “Couldn’t you have told them not to? They were submissive to you!”
“I couldn’t have trusted their word. And it would have raised suspicion.” Lysander uncorked his waterskin and poured the clear liquid over his bloodied blade. “Not worth the risk.”
Brooke balked at his nonchalance. “They were your people!”
Lysander wasn’t watching her lips. “Hmm?”
Brooke gritted her teeth and sent him a thought: They were your people!
“They were Illiana’s, and Zamara’s before that.”
They were Emberhawk—your own blood!
“The weight of a human life is always the same regardless.”
She stormed up to Lysander and planted herself in front of him, glaring up into his maroon gaze. This is my mission. She sent her aether with enough force to stagger any mind.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re in my land now. Risking the lives of my brother. My sister. My father’s throne. I won’t take any chances.”
Brooke balled her hands into fists. You will not kill anyone else without my permission. Understand?
“Everybody dies, Chieftess. It’s just a matter of when.” Lysander’s eyes sparked with a fire that reminded her of Ryon, but darker. Colder. “I’ll do whatever I deem necessary to keep you safe.”
His thought-voice brushed against her shields, amateurish and weak, yet strong in tone. I’m one of your guards now, remember?
“Well that was fun,” Soaring Heron said as his xavi strode by. He looked down his nose at the bodies. “But if you ever refer to me as a slave again, your death won’t be as swift.”
Lysander appeared to ignore Heron, whether or not he could read his lips.
Brooke tried to swallow her bundle of frustration to no avail. Pride throbbed like a bruise in her chest. It’s true that we’re in Emberhawk territory now. But we’re working together on this, right?
He studied her for a long moment as he wiped a cloth over his dagger. “Right.”
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Please respect me in this, and I will try to respect you as well.
Lysander’s gaze deepened. Softened. Saddened. “As you say.” He sheathed his blade and mounted Sorrel, who chirped happily.
Brooke tasted something foul. She’d forgotten his true nature.
He was a killer.
Kira tipped the wooden bowl in her hand and watched water swirl around its edge. Access to clean water would quickly become a problem.
She glanced up at the cavern wall illuminated by flickering torchlight. Water trickled from ferns that clung to the rock, either sliding down the slick, rippling stone or bowing lacy fronds with each drip.
The amount that flowed in wasn’t enough to create much of a current for the underground pool below, which was outlined with soft moss. Not nearly enough water to provide for the needs of the dozens of people who huddled in the large but crowded cave behind her.
Kira stacked the three bowls and moved to where Tekkyn attempted to cook without fire—smoke would have caused an even greater problem without ventilation. Instead, a teenage Phoeran eleme
ntalist kept the dented pot warm enough to simmer Tekkyn’s culinary creation.
“You’re getting compliments,” Kira said as she held out the first bowl.
“That’s a shock.” Tekkyn poured steaming stew into the bowl with a silver ladle that didn’t match the rest of his hodgepodge cooking equipment. “Whoever heard of chili without beef or pork?” he muttered.
“It’s so good, Mister Chocolate!” The slate-haired orphan named Mayla beamed a smile from across the empty space.
Kira shushed her with a finger to her lips as she grinned. “People are trying to sleep,” she whispered.
Mayla puckered her lips and mouthed, “Oops!” before returning to a game of rock organizing played by the younger kids.
Tekkyn sighed as he handed Kira the bowl. “Guess life ain’t much different for them, at least.”
Kira nodded as she watched the older children giggle and snicker softly amongst themselves as they searched for tiny aquatic salamanders in the pool. She wondered if Gwyneth had told them what had transpired above. That the city they knew was gone. Stolen by a greedy empire that had no claim to it.
How many people had been killed? Or were the Malaano wanting to keep the citizens alive? Perhaps to enslave them, or to take the product of their labor, or to subjugate them with high taxes?
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then regretted it. The smells of terrified, trapped people weren’t pleasant.
Creator protect him, she prayed.
If Ryon didn’t return soon to lead another group to escape through the root-tunnels’ exit in the forest far from here, she didn’t know what they’d do. The twisting series of caves were a labyrinth that would spell death for anyone who didn’t know the way. Only an experienced scout with a dagger-sharp memory had a chance of navigating it without getting hopelessly lost in the black depths.
Ryon was the only candidate for the job. But with Brooke gone and no vice, he was third in line to rule the Katrosi tribe. Interim chief. At the worst possible time.
People had already begun asking Ryon questions that made his eyes as wide as eggs, so he would disappear—literally—and return with information the masks could use to outsmart, avoid, and resist the oppressors.
