by K. M. Shea
Puzzled, Briar shook her head and made a beeline for the forest, picking her way down a small animal trail that served as a shortcut to her home.
She was so intent on reaching the cottage before the goats completely destroyed her herb garden—it would mean no herbal teas or seasonings for their food until the plants recovered—that she almost missed the low-pitched growls.
Briar froze, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. Through the underbrush she could see a dark, hulking shape. It was similar to a canine the way a dragon is similar to a lizard. Its eyes glowed red in the shadows of the forest, and its fur was dark and bristly. It was a hellhound.
Sir Roberto had a stuffed hellhound in the den of his manor. Briar always thought it looked like something from a nightmare, but compared to the live one that sniffed the ground, Sir Roberto’s looked like a toy.
She covered her mouth to keep from screaming. Her heart raced, and she stayed motionless as she searched for possible escape routes.
She couldn’t outrun it, but she might be able to climb a tree before it could grab her.
It raised its head and sniffed the air. A growl leaked from its throat, and red foam flecked its muzzle. When it shifted its head and looked directly at her, Briar bolted.
She threw herself at the nearest tree—a smaller, younger one than she would have liked. It was straight up and down, possessing no lower branches for her to grab. She wrapped her hands around the trunk, leaned back, and with her skirts to cover her legs, grabbed the tree with her knees and shimmied straight up. The bark pricked the calluses on her hands and scratched the inside of her arm, but she’d barely cleared the hellhound when it lunged for her.
It tore a chuck out of her dress and grazed her calf with its teeth, prompting Briar to climb faster. Her forearms burned from the exertion, and the throbbing of her heart almost covered the hellhound’s snarls. It jumped for her several times, but she was far out of its reach now.
Intent on holding her position instead of climbing higher, Briar leaned into the tree and wrapped her arms around it. Once secure, she peered down at the hellhound.
It circled the tree, then reared up on its hind legs and planted its front paws on the trunk, snapping at her.
“Isaia!” Briar screamed. She hoped and prayed she wasn’t too far away for him to hear.
The hellhound howled, an eerie noise that rattled Briar’s bones and echoed oddly in the forest. It dropped back down to all fours and rammed the tree, jostling it.
Briar’s grip slipped, and she skidded for one heart-stopping moment. “Isaia!”
Panic made her limbs feel like leaden weights as she doggedly climbed higher. She considered reaching for the knife hooked on her belt, but the hellhound threw itself at the tree again, and Briar almost toppled backwards.
She clenched her teeth and clung to the trunk, shivering when she could swear she felt the hound’s hot breath on her legs. The hound threw itself at the tree three more times, rattling her each time. Finally, the slickness of her sweaty palms proved to be her undoing. She slipped and fell, knocking the air out of her lungs when she landed back first.
She couldn’t find the air to scream as the hellhound lunged for her—teeth bared. At the last moment it veered, barely avoiding a whistling dagger.
Clumsy with relief, Briar rolled away.
The hellhound snarled and jumped for her again, but Isaia, riding his blood-thirsty mare, skidded into the clearing and smashed into the hound.
He jumped from his horse, who attacked the hellhound with shod hooves. He stood between Briar and the hellhound, wielding his two-handed sword. Briar climbed another tree—this one old and thick with sturdy branches she could perch on—though she dearly wanted to stay on the ground. I can’t help Isaia. I would only distract him.
She clung to her new perch, resting her forehead against the trunk as she trembled.
Isaia’s horse moved clear of the hellhound—sporting a small scratch on its neck. Isaia darted in, swinging his sword with agile, efficient movements that gave the hound no space for an attack.
The hellhound and country knight stepped around each other. The creature leaped for his right arm, but Isaia swung his sword, slicing the creature across the chest.
The hellhound yelped and darted backwards when Isaia’s mare bolted for it again. It darted away, disappearing into the underbrush—though it left a blood trail.
Isaia ran to catch up with his mare who had started to charge after the hellhound, and hauled her backwards. “No, Valor”—he leaped into the saddle—“not now.”
Still clinging to her tree, Briar peered down at them. “She’s hurt.”
The blood that dripped from the cut on Valor’s neck was stark against her gray-and-white dappled fur.
Isaia glanced at his mare. “It’s a scratch—I’ll clean it out when we get back to Sir Roberto’s.” He swiveled Valor so they were positioned under Briar’s tree. “Climb on.”
“Shouldn’t you follow the hellhound and kill it? It might hurt somebody.”
“Your safety is of first importance,” Isaia said.
Though she didn’t relish the idea of being left alone in the woods after running into a hellhound, Briar scooted closer to the tree trunk. “I can stay here. I’ll be safe up in a tree this old and big.”
Deep in the forest, another hellhound howled. Isaia had to fight to keep Valor from rearing. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said grimly. He raised his eyes to Briar’s face. “Climb down. I’ll return with Sir Roberto.”
Briar picked her way down the tree, landing behind Isaia with a thump. “Sorry, Valor.” She patted the horse, who pinned its ears and snarled in the direction the hellhound had disappeared.
Briar looped her arms around Isaia’s torso, resting her head against his back. Her arms ached, but she held on as Valor picked her way through the forest. Within minutes they were at Nonna’s cottage.
Isaia slipped off the horse first. He reached up and snagged Briar, helping her slide down.
She fully expected her legs to give out when she touched the ground, but she remained standing, out of shock, when Isaia embraced her.
His grip on her was strong but gentle, and his scent—clean leather and hay—wafted over her in the close quarters. She took comfort in the familiar smell, finally able to stop shivering, and almost closed her eyes.
But Isaia changed his grip to her shoulders and thrust her away.
The embrace had been quick and fleeting, but it was the first time Briar could recall Isaia hugging her. Normally, she would have sung with joy at the unexpected event, but Isaia’s expression was pained. His eyebrows were drawn together and his green eyes, now stormy, were slightly narrowed.
Briar struggled to smile for him. “I’m fine, Isaia. Thank you for coming for me.”
Isaia opened and closed his mouth several times, then slowly shook his head. The grip he had on her shoulders tightened fractionally.
She shoved aside the selfish desire to revel in his obvious concern. I need to make him feel better, or he’s going to carry this as a personal failing. “I am quite worried about the hellhound, though,” she said. “Do you think Franco could defend himself against it? If he can’t, I will have to wish my Easy-and-Carefree-Life farewell!”
It was a comment calculated to calm him—for the hellhound had slunk off in the opposite direction from Franco. It worked. The tight line of Isaia’s shoulders relaxed, and he let her go, though the glimmer in his eyes said he knew exactly what she was doing.
Briar smiled winningly.
Isaia sighed. “If you’re concerned about him, you must be fine. I’ll summon Firra and Donaigh. We’ll get in touch with Sir Roberto and comb the woods after we establish a guard here.”
Briar squinted at the yard, eyeing her plump chickens uneasily. “If you’re that worried, I should bring in all the animals.”
Isaia shook his head. “Go inside.”
“Certainly, after I bring in the chickens.”
“You’ll be out here setting off the fireworks Firra stores here to use as a signal, yes? I’ll be perfectly safe,” Briar said.
Isaia raised his eyebrows, but they were interrupted by Nonna throwing open the door. “What happened to you, Briar Rose? You look like you’ve been dragged through the underbrush!”
Briar, hoping to ease the old woman into the upsetting news, laughed sheepishly and ran a hand through her hair. “Sorry, Nonna. I was strolling along and got into a bit of an adventure.”
“Hellhound,” Isaia said.
Nonna turned milk white. She clamped a hand to her heart. “I’ll get Firra’s fireworks.” She disappeared back inside.
Briar elbowed Isaia’s side. “Did you have to be so blunt?”
“This is not a laughing matter, Briar. You could have been killed.”
She sighed. “Yes,” she finally admitted, though it made her shudder with fear. She reached out and clasped his hand between hers. “Thank you for coming for me.”
Isaia squeezed her hand once, then pulled away from her touch. “I will always be here to guard you.”
Briar’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. Though he sounded encouraging, she knew he meant it from a point of honor and friendship. When she was fourteen and quite new in her affection for him, she had embarrassingly thrown herself at him and had been kindly—but thoroughly—rebuffed. Isaia hadn’t changed his mind since then. He was too much of a country knight to hide his true affections. (Briar dreaded the day she would witness him entirely devoting himself—because Isaia was nothing if not devoted—to whatever lucky lady he loved.)
Her heart still smarted from the pain he had obliviously wrought, but Briar pushed past it to keep the humor running. “Though I appreciate your loyalty, I’m afraid it will harm me. I might have a harder time negotiating an Easy-and-Carefree-Life if my future husband knows you’re part of the deal. You are making my prospects uncertain!”
“I’m not sure how I can sleep,” Isaia said, cracking a rare joke.
Briar opened her mouth to protest, but Nonna barreled out, clutching a parcel wrapped in cloth.
“Get inside, Briar.” Nonna’s hands trembled as she passed the parcel to Isaia.
Briar tucked her chin, but, seeing Isaia’s eyebrows rise again, gave in. “Yes, Nonna.” She retreated indoors, closing the cottage door behind her. Once safely shielded, she sighed and twitched her shoulders, trying to shake off the remaining bits of fear from the hellhound, and the hurt from Isaia.
She then turned her attention to indoor chores, intending to continue on with her tasks.
Isaia hunkered down so he leaned over Valor’s neck. The mare snorted and shook her head, catching on to his anger and alarm.
Briar—no, that was too familiar—Princess Rosalinda could have died today. The hellhound could have snatched her up like a wolf stealing a lamb, and Sole would have collapsed.
Isaia knew he likely would have collapsed as well—though not because of the loss of the princess so much as the loss of Briar.
Though he had trained relentlessly as a child and had spent almost every summer learning to act as Princess Rosalinda’s secret guard before he became a Magic Knight of Sole, somehow—between Briar’s wholehearted laughter and her brilliant purple eyes—he had forsaken the first rule the knights had drilled into him: Stay detached.
He wanted to snort. They had set him up for failure. Trying to stay detached from Briar was like attempting to keep the sun from rising.
Isaia scanned the dark forest, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. They hadn’t found the hellhound yet—or its master—but they had to. If word got out about who Briar really was…
He ruthlessly cut off the thought and whistled—signaling his area was cleared. He nudged Valor to the next section, almost running down Donaigh. (Firra had remained behind at the cottage. Last Isaia saw her, Briar was taking her to task for scorching the lawn when she raised a wall of fire to safeguard the place.)
“Nothing?” Donaigh asked.
Isaia shook his head.
Donaigh scratched his chin and peered into another part of the woods. “Sir Roberto followed the trail the hellhound left. He said it stopped at a river. Conveniently intelligent, no?” He took off his straw hat and scratched the top of his head. “We’ll have to tell her, you know. Her security has been breached; it will be safer for her at Ciane. King Giuseppe will want her back now.” He sighed. “Just a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday, too. We were so close!”
Isaia sat up straighter in his saddle. “Were we?”
Donaigh glanced up at him. “You think Carabosso and his ilk were waiting for her to get older?”
Isaia shrugged. “The continent is in a bit of an upheaval.”
“A bit is saying it nicely.” Donaigh straightened the brim of his hat, then slapped it back on his head. “I’ll report to the Veneno Conclave…and to Lady Enchantress Angelique.”
“Lord Enchanter Evariste?” Isaia asked. Though the Veneno Conclave had generously assigned Donaigh and Firra to Briar, if the Lord Enchanter was around, Isaia would rest easier.
Donaigh shook his head. “No word. He’s still missing—poor Lady Angelique.”
Isaia grunted and turned Valor in a tight circle. He wanted to run something through with his sword. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Powerful magic users weren’t supposed to be attacked and disappear without a trace; princesses weren’t supposed to hide from everyone—even themselves; and knights—Magic Knights or not—weren’t supposed to fall in love with their future monarchs.
He shut his eyes, trying to silence the memory of the brief embrace he’d shared with Briar. That blissful moment had revealed his deep weakness. The lightheaded relief he had felt over knowing she was safe made him give into the intoxicating pull he felt for her. It was a beautiful moment, and it was his failing.
I shouldn’t have touched her.
A whistle pierced the air, and Isaia snapped his eyes open. “They found it.”
“Might you—” Donaigh started.
Isaia barely noticed his words as he spurred Valor. She threw herself into a canter that he quickly pulled back into a fast trot as he directed her in the direction of the whistle. He unsheathed his sword at the snarls of a hellhound.
Grimly, he raised his sword as he and Valor descended upon the creature.
For Briar, and for everything she’s about to lose in order to gain a country.
Chapter 3
Princess Rosalinda
“Nonna, I’m back. Guess what? I found some raspberries and—oh, good afternoon, Sir Roberto.” Briar put her half-filled basket down and glanced uneasily around the cottage. Nonna and Sir Roberto were seated at the table. Firra, Donaigh, Isaia, and several knights Briar recognized as Sir Roberto’s friends were pressed to the back of the room, but everyone was arranged so they faced the door. It was as if they had been waiting for her, or something equally absurd.
She peered into her basket. Had she picked enough raspberries for everyone? “Good afternoon…” Her greeting trailed off when she noticed the tear streaks on her foster mother’s face. “Nonna, what’s wrong?” Her heart started pounding. Was it Mouse, Flea, or Fly? Had a hellhound gotten their livestock?
Nonna’s face crumpled, and she cried into her hands. Briar moved to comfort her, but Sir Roberto, a simultaneously pained and pleasant smile on his ruddy face, spoke. “Briar, there is something you should know.”
Briar turned back towards the door, a frown puckering her face. She could have sworn she heard horses. “Oh?” she asked. She shook herself from her distraction and turned back to her friends and family.
Sir Roberto unfolded his wiry form from Nonna’s tiny kitchen chair. “You are the cursed princess, Princess Rosalinda Talia d’Avalas.”
Briar retrieved a wooden bowl for the berries. “I regret to tell you this, Sir Roberto, but your joke is a rather poor one.”
“It i
s no jest, Your Highness. You are the hidden princess.” Sir Roberto kneeled, and bowed so deeply the top of his head faced her.
The inside of the cottage tilted alarmingly, and Briar dropped the bowl. She was the princess? The one cursed to fall in a deep sleep by her eighteenth birthday? Briar turned her eyes to Firra, Donaigh, and Isaia, seeking reassurance.
They, too, were bowing to her.
The room seemed unbearably stuffy, and Briar found it hard to breathe. She staggered towards the door, her ears ringing. “If you’ll excuse me one moment.” She shut the door on their protests.
They were lying—they had to be. This was all payback for prattling on about her desire for an Easy-and-Carefree-Life. “I’m not Princess Rosalinda. I can’t be,” she whispered.
To be the princess was the worst sort of sentence Briar could imagine. To be confined to a castle—to rule and carry the weight of a country on her shoulders? All of her freedom, gone. And there was a distinct possibility that she might be killed if the whispered rumors were even half true—the evil magic user who had cursed Princess Rosalinda was searching for her.
A velvet muzzle bumped Briar’s shoulder. It was Valor. The sharp-tempered mare chewed on the neckline of Briar’s dress.
“Briar.” Isaia pushed his horse away and hunkered down slightly so he could look at her eye-to-eye.
“Is it true?” she asked.
Isaia hesitated, then nodded.
She raised her hands to cover her trembling lips. Things she had taken for granted suddenly seemed to make sense. Sir Roberto had invited Briar to join Isaia’s studies not because he wanted to get more use out of the tutor, but because Briar needed the lessons. Firra and Donaigh’s frequent trips weren’t because the Conclave was particularly concerned about Sole, but because they were checking on her. Fearing the answer, Briar asked, “Are you really just my friend, Isaia?”
“I will always be your friend,” Isaia said. Her heart calmed for a moment, until she saw the hesitation in his gaze. “But I am also a Magic Knight of Sole.”
