‘She’s not the most subtle person … Something’s wrong.’
Henri sighed. ‘She’s upset about Addi. We all are.’
‘Addi was weak, Henri. She wasn’t meant to be a Valian.’
Henri frowned. ‘Does that mean she was meant to die, though?’
Athene met her gaze. ‘Yes.’ She said it with such certainty, such conviction, that Henri herself nearly agreed.
‘Athene …’
‘You need to accept what it means to be a Valian,’ Athene said. ‘The sooner you do that, the sooner you will find your place here.’
‘I know my place,’ Henri snapped. ‘It’s by Sahara’s side.’
But over the next five days, Henri barely saw her sister. The heir had made herself scarce with everyone, it seemed.
It wasn’t until the Valians moored at Felder’s Bay that Henri saw Sahara’s carving on the rail.
OREMERE.
Henri had never heard the word before. What did it mean?
She would ask Sahara later. If there was one thing she knew about herself and her sister, it was that they didn’t keep secrets from one another.
Back atop the Valian canopies, Henri was glad for the summer wind that kissed her face and toyed with her braid. Even all these months after her return from Havennesse, she still shuddered at the memory of the bone-snapping cold. She thanked the gods she was back home. Here amidst the living bridges, her ancestors’ magic hummed around her, ancient enchantments rustling in the leaves and dancing in the warm breeze.
She sighed, remembering why she was up here. ‘Sahara?’ she called. ‘Sahara, where are you?’
Unlike Henri and the rest of the kindred, the Valian heir had a tendency to lose herself among the treetops – when she risked climbing that high, that was. Sahara had a loathsome fear of heights, an affliction that should have been trained out of her by now, but had gone largely undetected by their mentors. Henri shook her head at the thought.
‘Sahara!’ she called again, turning onto a new bridge. Frankly, half the time she didn’t think Sahara wanted to be found, much to Henri’s frustration. She was meant to be her twin’s right-hand woman, her constant guard and companion. Sahara didn’t exactly make it easy for her. The heir of Valia was a difficult —
‘What do you want?’ Sahara’s sharp voice interrupted Henri’s thoughts.
Henri turned. ‘I —’
But her words caught in her throat as she clapped eyes on her sister.
‘What have you done?’ she breathed.
Sahara’s waist-length side braid was gone.
Her midnight hair now swung loose at her jaw. She folded her arms over her chest, staring back at Henri, her mirror eyes inviting a challenge.
‘Sahara … how could you?’ Henri managed.
‘With a pair of scissors and help from a groundling.’
‘Allehra’s going to —’ Henri stopped. ‘A groundling? Tell me you didn’t go out to the Sticks?’
‘So what if I did? I’m the heir of this place, so you all keep reminding me. Surely I can go where I please. And do what I want with my own hair.’
Henri didn’t know what to say. Her sister had been different, lately: darker, angrier. Athene had put it down to mood swings and the impending pressure of ruling Valia, but Henri wasn’t convinced. She had a feeling – or, more accurately, her magic had a feeling; she could sense that something about Sahara’s energy had changed since they’d returned from Havennesse.
A lump was suddenly caught in her throat. ‘Sahara,’ she pleaded. ‘Let’s switch. Just until your hair grows back. We can’t have the kindred see you punished. Let me —’
Sahara was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘You would truly do that for me, wouldn’t you?’
Henri frowned. ‘I’d do anything for you.’
Something akin to sadness filled Sahara’s eyes. ‘Yes, I’m starting to realise that.’
Later that evening, Henri sparred with Athene. Sweat glistened on both their brows as they parried and feinted their way around the treetop circuit.
‘Should you really be doing this?’ Henri asked for the millionth time, keeping her blows light.
‘Stop asking me that. I’m just as capable —’
‘It’s not about your capability. It’s about your child.’
The word still felt foreign to Henri; wrong, somehow. Athene was too young to be pregnant. She was a Valian in her prime – a member of the heir’s elite kindred …
‘I know,’ Athene murmured, lowering her practice sword.
Henri huffed a sigh. ‘You said you’d tell Allehra when we were back. We’re back now.’
‘I will, alright?’
‘Well, you won’t have to if you wait much longer.’ Henri looked pointedly at her friend’s stomach. She was just beginning to show, and Henri had noticed her hand often rested there protectively. That tic would only increase as the child grew inside her.
‘Come on,’ Athene said. ‘We’ll be late for supper.’
The dining area of the keep was bustling by the time they arrived. Several fires roared, game roasting atop the flames, while Valian wine flowed generously from great barrels. Their group was in the usual spot: in the far corner, by the largest Valian oak tree. Sahara, Petra, Marvel and Tilly sat at a round table, laughing loudly.
After loading their plates with roast boar and root vegetables, Henri and Athene slid into the spare seats beside their kindred.
‘What’s all this about, then?’ Henri asked, biting into a piece of well-seasoned pumpkin.
Tilly snorted and wiped the tears streaming from her eyes. ‘Petra quite —’
Petra elbowed her, hard. ‘Shut it.’
But it was no use. The group burst into another fit of hysterics.
‘Petra fancies Jarel,’ Marvel managed between hiccups.
‘Jarel?’ Athene frowned. ‘Princess Eydis’ younger brother?’
‘The very one,’ Tilly crowed, her eyes bright with mischief.
Petra flushed profusely. ‘What’s wrong with liking a crown prince of one of the realm’s most powerful continents?’ she snapped defensively.
‘Well … nothing …’ Henri found herself grinning. ‘He’s quite pretty, isn’t he?’
Her comment earned her a glowering glare from Petra and another bout of knee-slapping laughter from the others.
All except Sahara.
The smile faded from Henri’s lips as she studied her sister across the table. Her expression was faraway, and Henri suddenly knew exactly what she was thinking. Shame rushed through her.
Of course. They were making light of a time that had been the scene of monumental loss for the Valian people. Addi had died, along with another young Valian from Allehra’s unit. The image of Addi’s blue lips and frozen hair was etched into Henri’s memory – as was the look on Addi’s mother’s face when Henri had returned her daughter’s ring to her with no body to burn. Sahara, even as heir, had been voiceless against the Valian Way.
Guilt seized Henri’s gut. She should have had more respect for their fallen comrades.
The others had noticed the change in their moods and lowered their voices to soft chatter, glancing at the twins, concern knitted into their furrowed brows.
Beside Henri, Athene scrutinised Sahara’s freshly chopped locks.
‘What does our queen think of your new look?’ she asked, her words icy.
Henri started, unable to believe Athene’s nerve. It was one thing for the heir’s twin to question her choices, but Athene …
Sahara raised her brows and took a deliberately long drink from her goblet. ‘What does she think of yours?’ she said, with a pointed glance at the hand resting across Athene’s stomach.
The chatter around them died.
Blood pounded between Henri’s ears. How did Sahara know? Henri hadn’t told a soul, and now —
Suddenly, she realised it wasn’t just their table that had quietened. It was the whole keep.
For Allehra, Matriarch and Queen of Valia, had entered, dressed in spotless leathers, two of her elites by her sides.
Her eyes sought her daughters, finding them sat where they always were. Her gaze lingered briefly on Sahara’s cropped hair, but her expression gave nothing away as she approached. The rest of the keep resumed their meals, albeit a little more quietly.
Athene shifted in her seat and, with another look of distaste at Sahara, said, ‘Let’s see what she thinks of us, then.’
Henri panicked. No – Athene couldn’t tell Allehra like this, not in front of everyone – what was she thinking?
Allehra reached their table.
‘Athene,’ Henri pleaded. ‘Don’t —’
‘Don’t what?’
Allehra’s voice was smooth and her gaze was cool as she surveyed Athene batting away Henri’s hand. She stood between Marvel and Petra, resting her palms on their table.
Athene sat up straight and met Allehra’s look. ‘Henri’s asking me not to tell you that I’m pregnant, Your Majesty.’
Henri saw Tilly’s jaw drop, and Marvel and Petra exchange glances of disbelief.
‘All I meant,’ Henri blurted, ‘was not to tell you like this, Matriarch.’
Allehra’s gaze hadn’t left Athene’s face. ‘You wish to keep the child?’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘You have considered all your options?’
‘I have.’
Allehra let the words settle over their group and across the rest of the keep. At the sound of their queen’s slightly projected voice, all the kindred in the dining area had stopped to listen.
Henri recognised her mother’s actions for what they were: not a form of reprimand, but a lesson, to all kindred, that there were, in fact, options. At least here in Valia.
‘If you are sure …’
Athene nodded. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Then Valia will welcome another warrior into its fold soon enough,’ Allehra said. ‘Be sure to see Maman, the groundling healer. She will monitor your health and adjust your training regime.’
‘Thank you, Majesty.’
Allehra merely bowed her head once, and with a final glance at Sahara, left their table to rejoin her elites.
Henri, along with the rest of her friends, let out a breath of relief. Then she rounded on Athene.
‘What in the name of all the gods —’
‘You’re pregnant?’ Tilly blurted.
‘How? When?’ Marvel added.
But as the shock rippled across their table, Athene was grinning. She turned to Henri. ‘Told you it’d be fine,’ she said, resting her hand confidently on the small bump at her stomach.
Henri glanced towards Sahara, wondering what she was making of all of this, and how in the realm she’d known in the first place.
But her sister was gone.
A Commander’s Place
In the deep woodlands by the Swinton family estate, the sharp sound of shortswords clashing echoed through the trees. Even in the shade, Swinton was sweating as he defended against Fiore’s oncoming attack. His boots scraped across the damp earth, but he held his ground. They sparred Battalonian-style: a closer form of combat with precise jabs and tight spins.
Fi grinned. ‘You’re getting good, old friend.’
In the little downtime the commander and captain had, Fi had been teaching Swinton a range of Battalonian swordplay techniques. These manoeuvres weren’t part of the Ellestian guards’ training – they were frowned upon, in fact – but Swinton was committed to being the best warrior he could be. And that meant mastering a range of combat styles.
‘Not as good as you,’ Swinton huffed, noting that his friend wasn’t out of breath or perspiring in the slightest.
‘Well, nobody’s that good.’ Fi delivered a strong strike that knocked Swinton’s sword to the ground.
Swinton laughed. ‘You’re probably right. At least, no one in Ellest.’
‘We Battalonians are used to these duels with the desert heat blazing down on us … It makes fighting in the cooler climates much easier. You know this.’
Swinton felt fatigued just thinking of the fire continent. ‘I hope to never return to that godsforsaken home of yours,’ he said.
‘Hmm … You can hope as much as you like, Dimi. But we don’t always get what we want, eh?’ Fi uncorked a flask and passed it to him.
Swinton took a grateful gulp of water. ‘I’ll be hoping all the same. Shall we go again?’
‘If you think you can handle it …’ Fi teased, nodding to Swinton’s sword lying discarded in the dirt.
But as Swinton leaned down to retrieve it, they heard footsteps. One of his father’s servants, James, appeared at the edge of the clearing.
‘Commander Swinton, Captain Murphadias …’
‘What is it?’ Swinton asked, sheathing his sword with a sigh. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day. If it were up to him, he and Fi would spar all afternoon until he could best his friend.
‘Your father requires your assistance. The delivery of the Willowdale thoroughbreds has arrived —’
Swinton was already moving.
King Arden was travelling abroad and had taken his best horsemen with him, which meant Swinton, Fi and Sir Caleb had added duties, like overseeing the board and final training of His Majesty’s horses before their transfer to the royal stables. Swinton had suggested the additional work himself, with the hopes of seeing a particular golden-haired woman from the revered East Farmlands stables.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about Eliza Carlington since their last encounter. He’d written numerous letters, but all had seemed inadequate and remained unsent. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, only that he wanted to talk with her, wanted to listen to what she had to say.
‘Is the Willowdale stable master in attendance?’ Swinton asked James.
‘Yes, Commander,’ the servant said.
‘Anyone else join him, old friend?’ Fi asked, with a sly smile in Swinton’s direction. Though the Battalonian had been distracted of late, Swinton’s ‘pining’, as Fi called it, hadn’t gone unnoticed. He’d found one of Swinton’s half-written letters in his chambers a number of weeks ago and had been relentless ever since.
The teasing no longer bothered Swinton, though. He had a good feeling about the future. Upon his return from Willowdale, the king had called a meeting with him … There is a matter I wish to discuss with you. Knighthood. An impending knighthood. There was just one task Swinton would have to complete when King Arden was back from his travels. He couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
‘— young stable hand,’ James was saying. ‘And his daughter. She has a natural gift with horses, I’m told.’
‘Eliza’s here?’ Swinton heard himself say.
Fi’s sideway glance was one of sheer glee. He elbowed Swinton in the ribs. ‘We’d best not keep them waiting, eh?’
A thrill went through Swinton as they headed to the gates. He was going to see Eliza …
They spotted Emmett Carlington first. The man brought up the front of the company, riding atop a speckle-backed gelding, his sandy hair tied back in a messy knot. He greeted them with a smile and dismounted with ease, then shook their hands.
‘Commander, Captain.’
‘Mister Carlington,’ Swinton said. ‘I trust your journey wasn’t too arduous?’
‘Not at all, Commander. And please, call me Emmett.’
Swinton gave a stiff nod, wondering if the man would be so casual if he knew Swinton’s intentions regarding his daughter. ‘Very well, Emmett.’
‘In that case,’ Fi said, ‘call us Dimitri and Fiore —’
But Swinton had stopped paying attention, for just past the stable hand, in the middle of the thoroughbreds, was Eliza, bringing up the rear. Wearing well-worn riding pants and a dirt-smudged shirt, she sat astride her mare, Silver.
Fi nudged him. ‘Go, brother,’ he murmured. ‘She came here for you, no?’ The Battalonian mounted one of the sa
ddleless thoroughbreds and urged the steed beside Emmett’s gelding. ‘This way to the stables and paddocks, Emmett.’
Swinton dropped back. Approaching Eliza, he smiled at her and Silver. ‘So, she had her colt? Xander, was it?’
‘Morning, Commander.’ Eliza’s eyes were bright. ‘She did indeed. Xander is already flitting about the corrals back home. He’s strong.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
She dipped her head. ‘These are stunning grounds you have here,’ she said, eyeing the acres of verdant paddocks, the nearby woodlands and the grand manor looming beyond.
‘Thank you,’ he said, not quite knowing what to do now he’d reached her.
Fortunately, Eliza gracefully dismounted and led them on, following Fi and Emmett. ‘How are you?’ she asked as they walked.
The question momentarily stumped Swinton. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Fi had asked him that and truly wanted an answer.
‘Well enough,’ he told her. ‘Glad for your company.’
Her smile floored him. ‘You shall have it a little longer, then.’
He found himself beaming back. ‘How long are you here?’
‘We stay tonight and ride for Willowdale tomorrow at first light. Your father offered us rooms in the southern wing of the estate.’
Swinton swallowed. The servants’ wing. ‘I see.’
All too soon, they reached the stables, where Fi and Emmett were waiting. Between Fi, the Carlingtons and their stable hand, they managed to house the thoroughbreds quickly and efficiently in the nearby paddocks. Swinton had always liked being around horses, but seeing Eliza working was a completely different matter. She seemed in tune with their body language, their fears and hesitations. She could calm one with a feather-light touch and a soothing whisper.
‘She has a gift,’ Emmett said, following his gaze.
Flushing, Swinton cleared his throat. ‘She’s very talented, yes.’
‘Better than any of the lads I’ve got working for me, that’s for sure. Truth be told, Commander ... I’d love for her to take over the stables when it’s time, but it’s unheard of in these parts. A woman as a stable master.’
‘In these parts, maybe,’ Fi interjected. ‘In Battalon, women take many a role like it.’
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