THE FACELESS MAGE

LEGENDS OF ABREIA - BOOK 1

KENLEY DAVIDSON

PAGE NINE PRESS

Copyright © 2020 Kenley Davidson

All rights reserved.

Published by: Page Nine Press

Edited by: Theresa Emms

Cover Design by: MoorBooks Design

This is an original work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the creative imagination of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, institutions, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner without the written consent of the author, excepting short quotations used for the purposes of review or commentary about the work.

http://KenleyDavidson.com

For Theresa.

Consider this my solemn promise that someday, there will be a map.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Thank You

Books by Kenley Davidson

About the Author

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

He awakened into darkness. Crushing and total.

The last thing he remembered was running through the snow. Panting with exhaustion. Fleeing from… something, with blood running down his arm.

He lifted one hand to check for the wound and found his fingers stiff, difficult to move. No, not stiff—encased in a rigid glove. A gauntlet.

He never wore gauntlets.

That same hand fell to his chest and encountered more armor. A breastplate. Heavy and uncomfortable.

Sitting up, he felt the weight of it pull on his shoulders, and felt the press of something even against his…

Face. Slowly, he raised both hands to his jaw, somehow feeling no pain from that recently suffered wound. No pull of stitches. Had he dreamed the chase? Dreamed the rivulets of blood down his arm?

But he forgot the question of blood when his gauntleted hands touched his face and found only hard, smooth metal—a mask. Stretching from his forehead down to his neck, where it met a gorget.

Panic swelled. He tore at the edges of the plate covering his face, but it didn’t move. The gauntlets, the chest piece—they would not come off.

He tried to surge to his feet and was met by a command in a firm but unfamiliar voice.

“Sit.”

He sat. Without thought or question.

But why? He wanted to stand. Wanted to tear off the unfamiliar cage of this armor and discover what had happened since that memory of blood and snow.

So he tried again to stand and received another command.

“Lie down.”

He obeyed.

The next command echoed not through the air but through the burgeoning confusion inside his head.

Stand and open your eyes.

And he did. How had he not realized that his eyes were still closed?

The light rushed in, dim and flickering, visible only through narrow slits in the mask that seemed bound to his face. He stood in a round room without windows. There were three tables against the wall, their surfaces fully covered with glassware, papers, books, and other tools of magic.

Yes, magic. It, too, flickered dimly all around him. Not the cool, soothing flow of life, but a harsh and grating symphony against his nerves.

Don’t move.

And then, he simply couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Even to blink.

“It appears to be working,” said a new voice—young, male, and weary. It also sounded more than a little angry. “Only I suggest you not give blanket orders like, ‘Don’t move,’ or you might find that he stops breathing and all your efforts will be wasted. Now, I did what you asked, and you have what you want, so go away and leave me alone.”

You may move, but stand still. The order released him to blink. To breathe.

“Where am I?” he burst out. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”

At least, that’s what he tried to say, but his tongue was frozen. His throat clenched, but no sounds emerged.

“I will not leave yet.” The first voice again. It was also male, but older. “You must ensure that my control is absolute.”

“Or what?” the second voice asked contemptuously.“What can you threaten me with that you haven’t already?” He sounded as if he were little more than a sulky young boy.

“The truth,” the older voice replied coldly. “I can always ensure that everyone knows the truth.”

“And who suffers more from that? Me? Or you?”

The words paused.

Then the first voice spoke again, his tone soft and menacing. “Perhaps you may think the consequences worthwhile, but will she? If you defy me, I will be forced to explain exactly who bears the blame for her suffering.”

Bitter laughter. “Yes, let us speak of blame. Let us hear how you plan to lay this abomination at my door.”

“How many times must I repeat myself? You know why this is necessary!”

“I know you’re obsessed.”

“Do as I command, or you will both suffer the consequences,” the older voice snarled. “Remember that her life and future is in your hands.”

He tried to turn. Tried to see who spoke. Tried to cry out.

He could not.

He could only wait for orders.

Could only follow his captor as they left the mysterious underground room and emerged into the light of a day without end.

That day and the next and the next. He could only wait, while horror and hatred gathered within him.

Wait, while his hands and his gifts were turned to the service of another. Wait, while life became an endless moment of threats and terror and blood, only some of it his own.

Wait, not for hope, but for vengeance.

In the end, that was the only thing left to him. His life, his breath, his reason for being. He would wait, and he would have his revenge.

Everyone made mistakes eventually.

CHAPTER 1

“I  won’t do it.”

Leisa sank every bit of her considerable stubbornness into that refusal, but it made no difference.

The king didn’t even turn from the window, only shrugged beneath the concealing folds of his shabby, ill-fitting robe. “You will.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed, but it was the first time their argument had carried quite so much weight. At the conviction in his voice, Leisa’s grip on the dagger at her waist grew tighter, and the leather-bound hilt grew slick with sweat beneath her palm. Normally, she found the presence of her favorite weapon reassuring, but a dagger was useless in a battle like this one.

King Soren of Farhall had saved her life, so she couldn’t exactly stab him for making an absurd request. She just had to make him see that this was the worst idea he’d ever had.

“Your Majesty, you know I’m committed to protecting Her Highness, but what you’re asking isn’t a job for a bodyguard.”

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, so she rolled her eyes. As respectfully as possible.

“Yes, I know your daughter well, but I wasn’t born to this life. You need one of her ladies. Someone who understands politics and diplomacy. That person? It’s not me.”

The king turned away from the window to face her fully. “And yet, none of them can do what you can do.”

Leisa winced, both inside and out. By unspoken agreement, they never, ever mentioned her magic, even though it was probably the real reason she’d come to live in the palace in the first place.

No one knew where she was from. She had only vague memories of arriving in Farhall with her parents when she was about five. Not old enough to remember their journey, but old enough to recall the feelings of grief and terror and isolation when her parents disappeared one night, leaving her cold and alone with only a dagger for protection. More than old enough for the wound of their loss to become a scar—from eighteen years of wondering whether they’d left on purpose. Whether they’d chosen to abandon their daughter with strangers rather than raise her themselves.

Leisa was far from the only orphan in the capital city of Arandar, but in her case, King Soren had made the inexplicable decision to take her in. She’d grown up in the well-worn stone halls of the royal palace, as comfortable in the throne room as she was in the stables.

The weight of that debt lay heavy on her shoulders, but she wasn’t about to let the king cash it in for this. Yes, her magic was unusual, but hardly powerful or awe-inspiring, and magic alone wouldn’t be enough for what he wanted.

“Perhaps the princess’s ladies don’t have the same talents,” Leisa admitted, “but looks aren’t going to be enough. Besides, no one in Garimore has ever seen Princess Evaraine’s face. If you were to choose someone similar, who would know?”

“No.” Soren’s tone was heavy. Final. “It has to be you. This is too important.”

“And if I’m found out?” Desperation drove her forward a step as she pleaded with him to listen. “I’ve never used my magic that way before, and this isn’t just a game. You know what they do to people like me in Garimore.”

The king’s jaw hardened, and there was no trace of the smile that usually greeted her complete disregard for formality. “Those are unsubstantiated rumors. And you know what will happen to Farhall if we cannot secure this alliance.”

Leisa did know. All too well. Their resources here in the farthest human-ruled corner of Abreia were long-since depleted. They were too small, too surrounded by potential enemies. The tiniest of the five kingdoms that still existed outside Imperial rule, Farhall’s borders were being pressed on several sides, and had been crossed by hostile forces many times in the past months. From the mountains, they’d heard reports of dragon incursions, homes and woodlands burned to the ground, a horror unheard of in over three hundred years. And even the powerful, secretive night elves had begun to raid the forests to the east, seeming to believe that the king of Farhall no longer had the ability to stop them.

They were right.

Farhall had only one thing to trade for its own security—a princess of marriageable age, who was her father’s sole heir.

Conveniently, the wealthiest of the neighboring kingdoms had a younger son, who was apparently pleased to be used by his parents to establish an alliance with a much smaller, much poorer kingdom than his own.

And if Leisa could find anyone willing to buy that much hog swill, she would be making a living as a wealthy merchant instead of a bodyguard.

But none of this meant that she was going to nod meekly and give in. Unlike many in her position, she’d never dreamed of sacrificing herself for king or kingdom, and especially not for something as silly as a wedding. If she was going to die for Farhall, she would prefer it to be for something a bit more heroic. And for a cause that wasn’t doomed long before her involvement was in question.

“The marriage contract reeks, and you know it,” she said finally, choosing to approach the issue from another angle. “King Melger seems too eager, considering what little Garimore will be gaining.”

Leisa was forced to backtrack when she realized how that sounded. “I meant that we bring little to the alliance in terms of material benefits, not that Princess Evaraine is of little value.”

She wouldn’t have said that they were friends—the princess was too reserved for that—but she liked her, and thought the princess liked her in return. They’d shared many an eye roll during long evenings at court, and Leisa had trusted Evaraine with the secret of her magic. Though the princess was frequently ill and prone to long silences, she compensated for her frail constitution with wry intelligence, and—though few were in a position to realize it—a great deal of courage.

“Which is why it must be you.” Soren’s grave expression did not change. “My daughter’s value to me is beyond price, and I must know whether I can trust Garimore with her life. I am aware that King Melger personally shuns magic, but whether mages are truly being persecuted has been, up until now, a matter of conjecture. I must know whether Garimore will uphold their end of this bargain, terrible though it is. If I can purchase safety for my people without sacrificing my child’s happiness, it will be worth it.”

“Then send a politician,” Leisa snapped, growing exasperated in the midst of her fear. It was all very well for him to claim conjecture, but it wasn’t his life on the line if he were wrong. “If this is so important, you need someone with experience in negotiating and backstabbing. I’m a glorified food-taster with a sword, not a courtier or a spy.”

“But you know my daughter,” Soren replied, not giving an inch. “And you care what becomes of her. You are resourceful. Stubborn. Resilient. Everything needed to survive Garimore and learn what I wish to know.”

“Hah.” Crossing her arms to still her trembling hands, Leisa walked up to stand beside him and gaze out the same window. “I’m a smart-mouthed troublemaker who hates being bullied. Those aren’t the same thing.”

“And I trust you,” Soren said, and that was when she knew she’d lost.

“You’ve been saving that one, haven’t you?” she accused bitterly. “You knew I would have to say yes after that.”

Leisa looked up at the wily, weary old man she’d thought of as a father since she was five, and wondered whether she’d merely been fooling herself into believing that he cared for her. “You know perfectly well that I don’t have a diplomatic bone in my body,” she reminded him. “I’m a terrible dancer, and I can’t curtsy to save my life. They’re going to find out we’re deceiving them, and when they do…”

“On the surface, this is no more than a social visit,” he said impatiently, “so diplomacy should not be required. And as for the rest, no one questions a princess. If they do, her Highness’s indispositions are well-known. It will be simple enough to sit by and permit weakness to excuse you from anything you feel ill-prepared to attempt.”

“But you’re going to make me prepare anyway.” She shook her head and tried to swallow misgivings that couldn’t help her now. “You’re going to make me do this, even though it’s hopeless.”

“We have three weeks before you depart.”

“Three weeks isn’t enough to learn how to hold my forks, let alone learn how to curtsy.”

But for once, King Soren didn’t respond to her unfortunate attempt at humor with a smile, nor did his eyes twinkle at her as they usually did. Instead, his face grew bleaker than ever as his hands worried at the belt of his robe.

“Neither of us have a choice, Leisa.” He looked down at her, his gaze turned remote and almost cold. “And while I have always treated you as more than simply one of my subjects, I will also use you if I must. Sacrifice you in a moment if it means my kingdom—and my daughter—will be safe.”

A chill gripped her, and she swallowed as his meaning both confirmed her fears and stabbed at the heart of all her hopes.

He was not a father figure now. Not the unexpectedly kind man who had given her a home when her parents disappeared and left her desperate and alone.

He was the King of Farhall. And she was simply another tool for him to use.

So she stiffened, took three steps back, and bowed, her back straight and the feeling that he’d buried a blade between her shoulders carefully disguised beneath a mask of icy neutrality.

“As Your Majesty commands,” she said, and remained bent, awaiting her orders.

“Report to Her Highness’s suite in one hour. Training will begin immediately, and fittings have been scheduled.”

“Those won’t be necessary,” Leisa said, her words clipped and cool, before adding a belated, “Your Majesty.”

“Nevertheless.”

She fell silent once again, still staring stubbornly at the floor. He’d taught her to feel at ease with him, and now he was going to use her. Let him feel the guilt of that, if he could.

“This,” King Soren said finally, a world of pain in his voice. “This is why it must be you.”

She had no answer for that.

“You may go,” he whispered, and Leisa fled before he could read the pain of his betrayal in her tears.

She’d been right, of course. Three weeks was not enough. Not enough to fully resign herself to her fate, let alone accustom herself to living in another woman’s skin. But those three weeks passed like a spring wind, and before she knew it, she was on her unwilling way to Garimore.

A prisoner to her debts and her king’s desperation.

It was worse than iron shackles.

Yes, of course she cared for Princess Everaine, and served as her bodyguard without resentment. But this?

This was different. It took everything Leisa trusted about herself—all of her hard-earned skills—and smothered them behind a facade she was ill-suited to maintain. After all, she had never once envied the princess—not her privilege, or her wealth, or her influence. Leisa enjoyed her anonymity, and the simplicity of her lifestyle.

But there was no escaping her duty, especially once they slammed the coach door shut behind her and the caravan bearing her to her doom rattled off down the road to Garimore.

It was a long journey, which gave her plenty of time to prepare herself for what she might find at the end of it. Or, more accurately, to completely terrify herself wondering about the truth of all the rumors she’d heard of Garimore’s king.

He was said to be harsh, unyielding, and unforgiving. A stern, uncompromising sovereign who dedicated his life to amassing wealth and power, and had no love at all for mages. So why would he seek this marriage for his son? Princess Evaraine was not known to be a mage, but Farhall was a land of both mystery and magic. What could he possibly want with it?

Where Garimore was a broad, fertile kingdom of rich soil and lush pastures, obvious in both her beauties and her charms, Farhall was a land of secrets. She was filled with towering cliffs and shadowed canyons, with rocky spires and hidden waterfalls, icy winters and sharp pine-scented air. A small kingdom, but if you paid attention, Farhall concealed tantalizing secrets around every corner. There were days when the wind carried voices no one could understand, and places where ancient trees stood twilight sentinel over deep woods that humans still hesitated to enter.

In Farhall, magic was all too real, all too palpable—in every breath, every shaft of sunlight, every gurgle of its ice-cold streams.

Perhaps that’s why mages seemed to gather there and linger. Or perhaps they came and stayed because Farhall was the only one of the Five Thrones to welcome them with open arms. Oh, mages existed in every one of the Five, but often led self-contained, solitary lives. They helped their neighbors as they could, but typically in secret, and rarely practiced their magic openly.

Whatever the case, Farhall was everything Garimore’s king claimed to despise, so it was vital that Leisa discover what he hoped to gain from an alliance.

She strongly doubted the answer had anything to do with Princess Evaraine herself. The princess was sweet, shy, pale, and uninteresting if you didn’t know her well, and the sons of King Melger were nothing if not sought after. They could have commanded a marital alliance from any other kingdom in Abreia, but so far as anyone knew, they’d approached Farhall first.

And now, Leisa was the one stuck figuring out why, though she was no closer to an answer by the end of her journey than she had been at the beginning.

It was two weeks to Garimore by carriage, and by the time their party approached the royal city of Hanselm, she was well past weary and bored, more than ready to reach their destination and get the worst over with. Though she was no longer certain that anything in Garimore could possibly be worse than being stuck in a coach for weeks with three people who obviously didn’t like her very much.

Princess Evaraine’s ladies were beautiful, graceful, perfectly dressed, and perfectly behaved, unlike Leisa. And while she would have expected them to shun a bodyguard—who favored trousers and boots, spent most of her time in the kitchens and barracks, and preferred street dances to waltzing—she hadn’t realized until she wore Evaraine’s face that they held their princess in little higher esteem.

Not that they would ever display such a lack of respect openly. In fact, Leisa discovered that they rarely showed any emotion at all. At no point in the journey did they express an opinion to her about anything, only exchanged glances and whispered confidences that conveyed little except their discomfort with the woman they believed her to be.

So as the royal cavalcade rolled past the gates of Hanselm and into the city proper, Leisa couldn’t help feeling a bit of relief as she glanced around the coach. No doubt, the other ladies would be equally glad to reach their destination, if only to rid themselves of her company for an hour or two. Not that she would ever know. As in all other things, the ladies remained serene, their facades never wavering. From the rocky, terrifying tracks through the highlands to the smooth, flat roads through Garimoran orchards, they’d been too well-bred—or perhaps too well-trained—to display either discomfort or dismay.

Much like the honor guard that followed them through the streets. The princess’s entourage was the size of a small farming town, but none of them had so much as rolled their eyes, let alone complained of the conditions.

Which, as Princess Evaraine had explained, was part of the royal expectations.

A princess is never unhappy. Never uncomfortable. She never displays anger, nor allows anyone to see her fear. She must remain serene. Gracious. Patient. Unflappable. Commanding when necessary, but never flippant.

Obviously, Leisa’s companions knew more about being royal than she did. Which was hardly a surprise—they’d been born to this life she was only pretending to live. When expected to speak or act, she was guessing more than half the time, or, at best, trying desperately to remember some hint from amongst all the facts that had been shoved at her in the weeks between her assignment and departure.

A duke is your equal, but a Margrave is not. A duke’s wife must be addressed as Lady. So too a Countess. No one may be seated until the king sits, and no one eats until the king eats. When the king is finished, so is everyone else, and one curtsies when the king leaves the room.

There are forty-seven different curtsies, twelve that are appropriate for a king, and only one correct curtsy for any specific situation.

Leisa was never going to remember it all. No matter what King Soren believed, it wasn’t enough to have the right face. Not enough to wear another woman’s jewels and possess enough gowns for every day of the year. She had to inhabit this role completely if she were to convince everyone that she believed in her own right to be here. Put on the unconscious self-possession of royalty.

That alone would have been a challenge, but she also had to remain enough herself to be the person King Soren needed. The one he was relying on to determine whether Garimore considered Farhall to be a worthy ally, or whether they would look down on their smaller, more vulnerable neighbor with a greedy smile. Leisa alone would bear the burden of discovering whether Prince Vaniell of Garimore was a monster or a man, a suitable match for Princess Evaraine of Farhall.

Prince Vaniell is generally considered quite handsome and likes clothes, music, and parties. He is said to possess a talent for dispensing barbed witticisms, and doesn’t seem to care for reading. I prefer books and solitude and hate being stared at by strangers. We will probably find very little to talk about, but very little talk will be needed in order to establish an alliance.

It was fortunate that Prince Vaniell had never met his betrothed. He would know only what he’d been told, just as she did. And Leisa prayed they’d told her enough. Not that she had any particular desire to know more about his deep and abiding love for embroidered frock coats. The man sounded like a buffoon, but all that could be forgiven as long as he turned out to be decent enough to treat the princess with even minimal civility. On such firm foundations rested the stability and security of the monarchy, gods help them all.

She hadn’t known quite what to expect from their arrival, so Leisa wasn’t particularly upset by the fact that her passage through the streets of the royal city seemed to go unnoticed. There were no parades, no display of horse and infantry, no ceremonial armor, or cheering crowds throwing handfuls of flower petals in their path. Instead, they were surrounded by the usual noise and bustle of commerce, their little procession drawing no more than a few curious stares. Those stares matched Leisa’s own as she peered through the curtained windows of the carriage to get her first glimpses of the city that might soon be Princess Evaraine’s home.

Hanselm appeared clean and prosperous, a sprawling blanket of golden stone draped over the nearly-flat landscape of central Garimore. Few buildings stretched beyond a single story—perhaps because Garimore had no lack of room for expansion—but the majority were gracefully designed, with numerous windows and arched doorways. Most were also surrounded by life—trees, flowers, and what appeared to be useless plots of grass flourished even in the midst of the city. Fountains seemed to spring up on every corner, while regularly spaced brass lanterns decorated the margins of the road.

While the lack of greeting or noticeable attention didn’t bother her in the slightest, it did seem to bother the princess’s ladies, and Leisa observed them nudging and muttering to one another over the perceived snub. Not that any of them chose to share their thoughts with her, so she had to settle for what she was able to overhear, which was a lot. She’d always had excellent hearing.

Most of their asides, however, consisted of a sort of condescending pity for the princess’s situation, so she stopped listening again. Did poor Evaraine have to hear this sort of thing every day? Why did she even have companions if all they did was mutter about her behind her back?

A princess is kind to everyone but never familiar, even with her personal servants. She must remain distant, aloof, untouchable. A princess only dances with those who are her social equals, and does not acknowledge those beneath her. Above all, she must never display her feelings in public.

As Leisa recalled Evaraine’s words, she did her best to smother the mess that was her feelings and managed to check the impulse to clutch at her skirts. In truth, she was more than a little disgusted with herself. She was a bodyguard, for Abreia’s sake, and had spent the last fifteen years learning to protect the princess. She could handle weapons, knew how to spot danger, could scale walls, and break into locked rooms. She was hardly helpless. But wearing another woman’s clothes made her feel helpless, and the sensation of being locked in the carriage chafed against her normally flippant, unruffled personality.

So she distracted herself by imagining stripping off her dress, her gloves, and her ridiculous shoes and running off down the road in her underthings, shouting “Death to the oppressors!”

Then she imagined all of the princess’s ladies doing the same and had to stop before she accidentally burst out laughing. That would end this charade before it had even truly begun, and she was determined to remain undetected at least until after the first banquet. There was no point to any of her efforts if she never got an opportunity to display her now nearly inexhaustible knowledge of royal dining etiquette.

The far left fork is for greens, center for grains. Right for game. Right spoon for soup, left for puddings and sauces. Water only until the meat course. Wine must be tasted, bread must be torn. I hate chocolate. I have always hated it. Only bland foods before noon, and fish makes me horribly ill.

There was no spoon designated for catapulting food across the table, much to Leisa’s dismay, though the soup spoon had given the most satisfaction in surreptitious tests. Somehow she doubted Prince Vaniell would appreciate learning the results of her experiments, any more than she had appreciated learning that Princess Everaine didn’t like chocolate. That part had been almost as bad as finding out about her vastly expanded wardrobe.

Wool for winter. Silk for evenings. Muslin for mornings. Black for parties. Green for visits. Blue for receptions. Gray for traveling. Lace for daytime. Embroidery for night. Purple for me. White for His Highness, Prince Vaniell. And red. Red for King Melger. Red for Garimore.

Red was also for how Leisa felt whenever she thought about King Soren. About Farhall. About what would happen if her deception were to be discovered. About what she was going to do to someone if she couldn’t get out of this corset sometime in the next few seconds.

It was like wearing a cage made of someone else’s bones, or being caught in a net of daggers that drove themselves deeper between her ribs with every bump of the carriage. Why did anyone submit to such torture?

In the midst of her continued exploration of the injustices committed against her, the carriage came to a rather abrupt halt. Which meant…

Leisa leaned forward, intending to peek out, but the scandalized looks from her ladies halted her hand. Princesses did not display curiosity. They waited. And waited. Until someone else decided the outcome of their lives for them.

Until someone else betrothed them to a man like Prince Vaniell.

Princess Evaraine was lucky, in some respects—her father at least cared enough to endanger the life of another in his quest to determine whether his daughter’s potential consort was a decent person. Even if the one he endangered had once imagined that same father cared for her as something more than a useful tool…

The thought stabbed at Leisa’s heart until she forcefully discarded it as useless. Dangerous, even—it distracted her from the moment and made her long for the return of something she’d probably never had in the first place.

The carriage door opened. Outside, she caught a glimpse of steps lined with soldiers in perfect uniforms. Behind them loomed the imposing bulk of the Garimoran Royal Palace, a gloriously sprawling edifice of golden stone that towered over its surroundings and required a veritable army of servants to maintain its pristine glow of wealth and opulence.

Leisa’s home for the next few weeks. Or perhaps more accurately, Princess Evaraine’s prison. Her duty. Eventually even her tomb. It was too early to tell.

But for now, Leisa firmed her spine and stomped ruthlessly on her fears. There was no more room for bitterness or regret. There was only survival and success. She would do as King Soren required, and when she returned to Farhall, her debt to him would be paid.

And then? Well, there were always her own dreams to consider. If she chose, she could leave the palace behind and make a new life somewhere, free of duty or expectation. Free of everything, except those gnawing questions of why her parents had disappeared, and whether they had ever intended to come back. Would it even be possible to discover where they had gone, or whether she still had any other family somewhere?

The dagger they left behind was her only link to them, and she treasured it almost as much as she feared it. What if she used it to track them down and discovered that her suspicions were correct—that they’d abandoned her on purpose? What if she hadn’t imagined their horror at her magic? What if looking for her family only revealed how alone she truly was?

For the past eighteen years, Leisa had buried those questions by pretending she’d found a true home and a true family. And she’d believed King Soren thought of her the same way, but he’d proven her hopes to be mere fabrications. So what did she have to lose?

She would do this thing. She would do it, and she would survive, and then, when her debts were paid, she would walk away without a backward glance. In the end, alone was better than finding out everything she believed in was a lie.

But she would accomplish her task first, because Evaraine didn’t deserve to be used any more than Leisa did. The princess was more than just a tool to be traded for her kingdom’s security. She deserved to at least be respected and valued, so perhaps Leisa’s last act as her bodyguard could be to ensure that she would be well cared for in the future.

So when a gloved hand thrust itself into the doorway of the carriage, it was not just for herself that Leisa rose to accept it. It was for Evaraine too. For the both of them. Soren might choose to pretend he had never been anything to Leisa but a king, but there were some things he could never take back.

He had taught her to despise bullies and protect the weak, and that’s exactly what she would do. Even if it meant protecting his own daughter from a plan that could aid her kingdom, but at far too high a cost.

CHAPTER 2

A  princess does not descend from a carriage on her own.

With Evaraine’s words echoing in her ears, Leisa resisted the urge to grit her teeth or wrinkle her nose and rested her own hand lightly upon the white-gloved one of a member of her honor guard. With her other hand grasping her skirts, she stepped out and down, into the full light of day, somehow without tripping over the carriage steps.

It was a small victory, but a much-needed one. Except once she was out, she wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to do next.

Ah. The gloved hand. Leisa turned to its owner, seeking guidance, and was relieved to see that Zander had taken on the role of her escort.

Tall, muscular, competent, and the leader of Evaraine’s Honor Guard, Zander was in his late thirties. There was gray in his tightly curled black hair, and a scar cutting across the weathered brown skin of his cheek, testifying to his many years of service. Despite having known the princess nearly since birth, on this occasion, he held himself aloof, and kept his opinions tightly locked behind fathomless dark eyes.

To his right was Kip—young, lightly tanned and blonde, with fierce blue eyes that screamed his anger to the world. He was too well trained to do anything to jeopardize this mission, but Leisa knew he hated the necessity of this alliance as much as she did.

He’d also been in love with Princess Evaraine for the past two years, a fact of which the princess herself was entirely ignorant.

Leisa, however, was not. In fact, he’d confessed the whole thing to her over drinks about a year ago, and now she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the way he looked at her. She felt as though she were taking advantage of him, or somehow cheating on the princess. Which was ridiculous, but then, this entire situation was ridiculous.

“Ready?” Zander whispered.

“No,” Leisa whispered back, honestly enough.

His mouth tightened, but he turned towards the steps and the palace, his shoulders rigid and his back perfectly straight.

Directly in front of them stood an unnecessarily tall man in a royal household uniform—all starched scarlet shoulders and polished jet buttons—who turned as if on well-oiled gears to lead them up the steps. Up all the steps, at the top of which Leisa could see two figures that glittered as though they were wearing most of their own treasury.

Perhaps they were. Garimore was, after all, the wealthiest kingdom on the continent, and seemed ever greedy for more. More wealth, more power, more territory. Perhaps no one else had yet begun to mutter the word “empire,” but Leisa knew King Soren had felt the weight of that possibility as he considered this alliance. Not that Melger would say so openly. Few among the Five Thrones had forgotten how their people had come to Abreia, and no one would welcome a return to any form of Imperial rule.

Leisa smothered a chill as she recalled her task here and concentrated on moving in the expected ways. Head high, steps small, displaying no strength or agility. Princess Everaine was known to be slight and delicate, so she took care to lean heavily on Zander as they ascended the steps, and forced her breathing to accelerate quickly.

But she did not stop or pause. There was only so much weakness she was willing to display in front of so many watching, weighing, judging eyes.

Particularly her potential fiancé’s.

Come to think of it, where was the man? There were only two royal figures at the top of the stairs, and as they drew closer, it was evident that both of them were older. Neither could be the proposed bridegroom, or even his elder brother, Danric, the heir to the Garimoran throne.

And where was the other man, the one King Soren had warned her about?

Evaraine’s father had attended Leisa’s “education” only once, appearing without warning while she was attempting to decipher the mysteries of the gavotte, a terrifying dance she could only pray she would not be called upon to perform.

He’d pulled her aside, looked at her with those piercing gray eyes, and handed her a tiny mirror.

She’d flinched, but he wrapped her fingers around it anyway.

“Only in an emergency, Leisa. Should your life be threatened.”

“I thought you said no one questions a princess,” she’d muttered back, wanting to drop the wretched mirror in the nearest hole and never look at it again. “Who do you expect to threaten my life?”

“There is a threat to your ruse perhaps even greater than any member of the royal court,” he said unexpectedly, looking somewhere over Leisa’s left shoulder—as if he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “He is almost always within earshot of King Melger, and they call him the King’s Raven. The royal bodyguard. He does not speak, and seems to exist only to do the king’s bidding. It is possible,” Soren admitted heavily, “that he is not a man at all beneath his mask and armor. But whatever he is, there are those who believe him to be the instrument of the king’s will in all matters regarding mages in Garimore.”

The king’s executioner was what Soren meant. The one who hunted and killed mages at the king’s command.

A pang of fear shot through Leisa as she recalled those words, and she nearly stumbled. But Zander held her up, and as they continued to climb the steps of the royal palace, she tried to surreptitiously scan the area for a dark, sinister figure. None, however, seemed in evidence, and all thoughts of ravens were soon driven out by a deeper panic as she suddenly remembered that she had only a dozen or so steps remaining before she would have to curtsy to the king.

Which curtsy was it?

Number thirty-two? No, that was for being presented to visiting royalty in her own court. Forty-one? No, not that one either. That one was only for formal state presentations, which she didn’t think this was, exactly.

Eleven. It was curtsy number eleven, which was generally appropriate for all introductions to reigning monarchs. Number ten was for royalty of equal rank, which would apply to Prince Vaniell. If he bothered to show up.

What did it mean that neither he nor his brother was present? What did it mean that the king’s personal guards also seemed to be missing? Did it signify that Farhall was a valued ally, trusted enough that guards were considered unnecessary? Or that they were too small and pathetic to be deemed a threat?

Sadly, it wasn’t as though there were any way to tell what they thought of her before introductions were made. So, with only the tiniest betraying wobble, Leisa removed her hand from Zander’s arm, ascended the last few steps, and sank into curtsy number eleven, nearly but not quite touching the ground with her left knee, and crossing her arms to touch each shoulder with the fingers of the opposite hand.

Balance. Balance was imperative. She had to make a suitably dignified yet reserved impression. Chin tucked just so, slightly to the left. The curtsy was to last for a count of five, and she was already on three when a quick puff of wind danced across the portico, carrying a few stray leaves and a tiny cloud of dust. It ruffled the queen’s skirts and disturbed the king’s robes only briefly before whisking right past Leisa’s carefully lowered face.

She sneezed. Not a tiny muffled sound easily concealed by a lace handkerchief, but a loud, explosive sneeze that knocked her right off her toes and into an undignified heap of skirts and petticoats and embarrassment.

She heard a collective gasp from the guards and ladies in her train, but was too busy trying to right herself to reassure them. It really shouldn’t be that difficult to find her own feet, but the accursed dress had so many layers… Fortunately, a hand appeared in front of her face for the second time.

But not Zander’s gloved one. This hand was alabaster-pale and covered in rings.

“Oh my dear, do let me help you.” The voice was warm, motherly, and somehow still slightly condescending, but this wasn’t a moment for rejecting an unexpected gift. Leisa took the queen’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled upright, while offering what she hoped was a shy smile rather than an irritated grimace.

“Your Majesty, I do apologize,” she said hastily. “And thank you.”

“Oh, think nothing of it.” Queen Portiana waved off Leisa’s apologies as she drew her around to stand between herself and her husband, King Melger, who… wasn’t at all what Leisa had expected.

For one thing, he was quite handsome, in an elder statesman kind of way. He was tall and obviously still strong, though there was gray in his hair and beard. His dark eyes, though they remained keen and piercing, suggested that the weight of statesmanship lay heavily on his shoulders.

“Princess,” he said, with a minuscule nod. “We are honored that you have chosen to give us this opportunity to show you what Garimore has to offer through this alliance.”

Eloquent, regal, and commanding—every inch a king, even if he did sound as though he were selling something. And perhaps he was—attempting to sell off his precious son.

“I am grateful,” he continued gravely, “to His Majesty, King Soren, for entrusting you to us. We will do everything in our power to ensure that your visit is of benefit to both our kingdoms.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Leisa murmured, in Princess Evaraine’s faint, colorless tone. “I am quite looking forward to it.”

King Melger nodded his approval of those sentiments.“Perhaps we should adjourn indoors?” He didn’t wait for an answer, simply turned away and left the portico, striding back through the wide formal doors at the front of the palace, which opened seemingly by magic at his approach.

No, not magic. King Melger hated mages. Hated anyone and anything that had to do with magic, including those races and kingdoms where magic flourished. At least that was the rumor that persisted in Farhall, and Leisa would choose to believe that rumor until she saw proof of its falsehood. In this matter, like so many others, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.

Queen Portiana smiled sweetly and followed in her husband’s wake, while maintaining a rather fierce grip on Leisa’s hand. As if there were anything for her to do but follow.

She really didn’t want the queen to feel her staring, but it was difficult to keep from studying the woman at such close range. Leisa’s impression thus far, gained through brief glances, was of a tall, slender woman with silver-gray hair, dark eyes, a motherly manner, and a secretive smile.

As they crossed the threshold, the queen paused and turned to the tall man in household uniform who’d led the way up the steps.

“Unger, please see to Her Highness’s entourage and ensure that they are treated with all courtesy while they are with us.”

He bowed, executed another perfect, well-oiled turn, and faced the party that had followed them up the stairs. Leisa tried to stop—meaning to enquire why, exactly, they were being separated—but the queen pulled her inexorably along, through the doorway and into the hall beyond.

The massive doors crashed shut behind them, and Leisa somehow found herself alone with the king and queen of Garimore.

Well, alone but for the usual complement of royal staff hanging about.

Was this normal?

Shouldn’t she be attended at all times by her ladies or her guards? But that wasn’t one of the topics covered by her hasty education, and she couldn’t afford to make a scene unless this was indeed out of the ordinary.

So she remained silent as the king turned and offered a smile that was somehow both sad and courtly. He’d probably been quite the charmer in his youth.

“Princess Evaraine,” he said, “welcome to our home. I would prefer to begin our acquaintance otherwise, but I’m afraid I must beg you to excuse us for a moment. There is something I must discuss with Her Majesty.”

“Of course,” Leisa murmured, not really knowing what else to say. This, also, seemed rather rude, but how was she to know how royalty treated one another?

The two of them retreated to the opposite side of the soaring entry hall, and Leisa turned partially to the side, pretending to allow them privacy. In reality, she would be able to hear every word, one of the odd quirks that had made her a perfect choice to guard the princess. Or, she thought grimly, to be used as a spy. Secret conversations weren’t much of a secret as long as she was in the same room.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as King Melger took a step closer to his wife. His expression remained kingly and serene, but his words gave the lie to the face he chose to present.

“And where, exactly, is your son?” he asked the queen, his deep voice grown cold with dislike. “I’ve been patient with him, and with you. I’ve coddled him and made allowances for his dissolute habits. But this is a matter of grave importance to the kingdom, and he cannot continue to play games with his duty. He’s disrespecting me and the continued safety of all Garimore with his reckless, irresponsible behavior, and I cannot permit it to continue.”

Leisa shuttered any expression of surprise and concentrated on maintaining an outward appearance of polite disinterest. Not that it was easy. These were precisely the sort of details she needed to know about His Highness, Prince Vaniell, if she were to determine his suitability as a match for Evaraine. And as a spy, though an ineffective and inept one, it seemed important to note the degree of discord between the king and queen.

Though considering the nature of their argument, perhaps it was normal, both for monarchs and parents. Not that she had any way to know about either.

Hoping to disguise the fact that she was avidly following their conversation, Leisa turned to observe her surroundings, noting almost immediately that there were an unusual number of guards in evidence. Perhaps that could be explained by the fact that the entry hall was poorly designed for defense, or perhaps simply because King Melger was hoping to overwhelm his guest with a show of wealth.

That the royal palace was far more opulent than King Soren’s she already knew, or at least guessed, but the vast difference between them was a testament to Garimore’s legendary affluence. The entry hall was tall and wide, with marble walls carved in bas-relief and a glass roof that permitted a great deal of natural light. The supporting columns were embellished at the top with gold leaf, which could very nearly be seen reflected in the polished marble of the floor. And hidden unobtrusively behind the columns, at least eight footmen hovered nearby, while perhaps a dozen guards stood silent sentry, each one outfitted in gold-chased armor that seemed more for show than actual function. Gold was too soft and too heavy to be any but a fool’s choice for protection.

None of the footmen or guards appeared to notice they were being watched, but a waiting bevy of what Leisa assumed were court officials did seem just a bit too pointed in their refusal to look in her direction.

“He must be made to bestir himself for his kingdom,” the king continued, “not force us to continually berate him for failing to meet even the simplest of his obligations!”

The queen wore a placating expression and seemed poised to protest on her son’s behalf when a new voice intruded on the conversation.

“I can hardly be blamed that the delegation from Farhall arrived several hours early,” the newcomer announced, in a cultured tenor drawl that grated on Leisa’s ears. “It seems no one could be bothered to inform me they were already here, or I would have been present to greet my bride. I don’t suppose she is…”

It seemed to be a cue of some sort—he’d been speaking far too loudly for anyone to miss—so Leisa turned and finally beheld Princess Evaraine’s potential fiancé as he strolled into the hall. Their eyes met, and a smirk lifted one corner of his lips, while the beginning of a sneer pulled at hers. His expression was quickly covered by a long-fingered hand, but she saw it, and he knew she saw it, which made it difficult to conceal her burgeoning dislike.

Prince Vaniell was—if Leisa were being entirely fair—magnificent. His dark hair was glossy and coiffed in artfully messy waves, while his coat appeared perfectly fitted. But said coat was also pure, pristine white, and encrusted with enough gold braid and gilt buttons to sink a sloop. Beneath it, the prince wore a startling yellow waistcoat embroidered in gold thread, which matched the topaz rings on every finger, and even a small golden gem that glittered from one ear.

In build, he was more like the queen, slender and graceful, though not as tall, and his skin was as fair as hers. His eyes were light and hooded, with mockery lurking in their depths, while that slight smile continued to pull at his mouth. Handsome, he certainly was, but cold, and older than Leisa had assumed. In fact, he probably had several years on her, who at twenty-three was two years older than the woman whose face she wore.

“And you must be Princess Evaraine,” Prince Vaniell said, in that same completely irritating voice. “Enchanted to meet you at last.” He stepped forward and held out a hand.

So many hands she was expected to take. Leisa had never liked touching others, especially strangers, and even more so those she didn’t trust. She had too many secrets, and some that might be exposed by magic through the mere brush of skin against skin. But this was Garimore, she reminded herself, and she was wearing gloves, so she set the fingers of her left hand carefully in Prince Vaniell’s and began to curtsy almost before she recalled which curtsy she was supposed to use. Number ten. Nearly the same as number eleven, except it was only the right hand that came up to touch the opposite shoulder.

“Your Highness,” she said, as insincerely as possible. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

A polite lie. Almost as polite as his.

The prince took a moment to scan her from head to toe before pressing a lifeless kiss to her gloved fingers. “You are as lovely as your portrait suggested.”

Hah. Leisa had seen that portrait. Princess Evaraine would never be called beautiful, but the painter hadn’t even tried to flatter her. He’d made her pale, narrow face look sickly and sallow, her auburn hair appear thin and brown, and her gorgeous emerald eyes he’d turned to swampy green.

Perhaps she should be grateful Prince Vaniell wasn’t bothering to lie about the princess’s looks, but he was probably just hoping she was too dim to notice.

Leisa rose from her curtsy, a growing sense of outrage enabling her to do so without a wobble this time. “I believe it unlikely that any mere painting could do you justice, Your Highness,” she responded, keeping her eyes lowered to hide her sarcasm.

His surprise jolted through his clasp on her fingers, so perhaps she hadn’t hidden it very well. “I do hope you’re wrong,” he replied smoothly, drawing her unwilling gaze to his smirking face. “You see, I’ve commissioned a terribly expensive portrait from some itinerant fellow who showed up at our court last week. Perhaps it can commemorate our engagement, eh?”

She forced her gaze to drop again, this time to hide her rage. So he thought she was that easy, did he? He thought Evaraine would simply fall at his feet? She would teach him to…

But no. She wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. However much she might want to. This was about survival. Farhall. Alliances. About what was best for the princess.

Satisfying her urge to teach Prince Vaniell a lesson was not likely to aid any of those causes, least of all her own.

So she nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak, as she couldn’t even seem to prevent her shoulders from remaining rigid with anger and dislike. That wasn’t a skill normally expected of bodyguards, so hopefully, the wretched man was as obtuse as he was vain.

“My dear Evaraine,” the queen interjected politely, “perhaps you would wish to be shown to the suite where you will be staying while you are with us?”

Leisa offered Her Majesty a grateful smile. “I would indeed,” she replied. “I assume that my maids and ladies have already been established there?” She assumed nothing, but she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to figure out why they’d been separated.

“Ah.” The queen’s smile grew pained and apologetic. “It seems perhaps your father did not tell you. I am sorry, my dear, but in Garimore, we are very strict in matters of security. Perhaps we do go beyond what is usual, but there are many who wish to destroy what we have built here, and we must be on constant guard against their jealousy.”

Forgotten? Jealousy? What had King Soren neglected to tell her? Leisa felt a brief chill—of anger as much as fear—but didn’t allow it to reach her face.

“I do apologize,” she said instead, “but I fear I don’t understand.”

“We do not permit outsiders to bring their own servants or retainers inside the palace walls,” King Melger informed her sternly, as though reading her a lecture. “With all due respect to King Soren, too many spies have wormed their way into our palace disguised as servants or retinue for us to allow unnecessary strangers to travel our halls unquestioned. You are our valued guest, so aside from your honor guard, we will provide you with everything you require while you remain in our care.”

“It is our way,” Queen Portiana assured her, with a sweet smile that did nothing to allay Leisa’s fears. “All of our guests from outside our borders are aware of these restrictions, and none have ever come to harm while availing themselves of our hospitality.”

Almost involuntarily, Leisa glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. Why hadn’t anyone bothered to mention any of this to her? And why did the other kingdoms allow Garimore to get away with such behavior? Did they already have so much power among the Five that no one dared to tell them no?

Leisa hadn’t been in the least bit fond of any of the ladies who’d accompanied her, but now that they were gone, she realized they’d provided at least a small degree of security. Without them, she had nothing and no one. Except, apparently, for her honor guard, who couldn’t exactly accompany her to her rooms—or anywhere else for that matter, except to public functions.

“My maids can hardly be considered a security threat,” she said, wondering if the Garimorans would offer any further clues to their reasoning. “They have attended me since I was quite young, and I don’t know that I can feel quite comfortable without them.”

“Nevertheless,” King Melger replied inexorably. “This was explained in detail to King Soren, and your attendants are to be returned home in accordance with our agreement. I regret the oversight that led to you being unaware of this requirement, but it is a point of security on which I will not compromise.”

“Yes,” Prince Vaniell interjected silkily, “one never knows when some poor backwoods principality might take advantage of our insecurity with an army of serving girls.”

“I’m sure no number of serving girls could ever threaten something so great as your insecurity,” Leisa muttered under her breath, in spite of her intention not to. She decided she would very much like to shove a backwoods principality down Prince Vaniell’s painstakingly cravatted throat.

It wasn’t that she needed her maids or the princess’s ladies to complete her mission—in fact, she’d been planning to avoid them as much as possible. But this seemed to be a grave breach of royal protocol, and it had been enacted without the slightest hint of embarrassment or remorse. Not to mention with King Soren’s knowledge and approval, which was easily the most infuriating part of this entire fiasco.

Aloud, however, Leisa knew better than to voice such sentiments. Instead, she allowed her hands to flutter along with her lashes, no matter how ridiculous it made her feel. “But my own maids know my habits and my preferences,” she protested. “They keep my schedule and my medicines. I cannot imagine that anyone else will be able to manage.”

“I believe you’ll find our servants to be far better trained than anyone you have access to in Farhall,” the queen said, while offering no hint of apology or remorse for the implicit insult. “And it’s just as well that they begin to learn to anticipate your needs and preferences, given that you will likely be a permanent part of our family very soon.”

There was little for Leisa to do but lapse into stunned silence, which was apparently taken as acquiescence. She couldn’t help but wonder whether her maids or her ladies had bothered to protest their dismissal, or whether they’d known all along.

Even if they’d known what was coming, she couldn’t imagine that her honor guard had submitted tamely to being separated from her so soon after their arrival—especially given that they had so little idea what to expect from the Garimorans in the future. Zander, at least, had probably protested, and she could easily imagine Kip having gotten himself into a fight on the princess’s behalf. She hoped he hadn’t fought too hard. She needed at least one friend here, even if he believed her to be someone she was not, and if her guards all ended up being sent home in disgrace for resisting the Garimorans draconian security measures, Leisa wasn’t sure who else she could trust.

Queen Portiana beamed sunnily, seeming entirely unaware of the turmoil she’d created. “Now that everything is settled, I hope you’ll take the remainder of the afternoon to rest and refresh yourself before your grand reception this evening,” she said. “You’ll be introduced to the court and be permitted your first glimpse of the many benefits that would attend your alliance with Garimore and its extensive resources.”

Translation: now that we’ve separated you from everything familiar, we intend to overwhelm you with our wealth and dazzle you with luxuries your poor little backwoods principality can scarcely even imagine.

“I will send an experienced woman of my own to ensure that you have an appropriate gown for the evening,” the queen continued. “Our prince’s bride will be the jewel of the occasion, and we wouldn’t wish for all that attention to prove awkward due to any lack of knowledge of our customs and fashion.”

And now Evaraine was to be dressed up like a doll so she wouldn’t humiliate her popinjay of a future fiancé. This day was getting better and better. They’d evidently decided Evaraine was a clueless, wide-eyed, ignorant excuse for a princess, and now it was up to Leisa to decide whether to give them one. Play the fool, or let them know that Farhall was fully capable of standing up for herself?

“Until tonight, then?” the popinjay said, obviously eager to be anywhere but in the princess’s presence. Or perhaps it was his father he preferred to avoid. Not that it mattered—Leisa wasn’t exactly enamored of his company either.

“Until tonight,” she murmured, dipping into curtsy number forty-six, the polite farewell—slight bend in the knees, brief drop of the chin, eyes on the floor.

Perhaps she should have restrained herself, but when she straightened, she looked directly at the prince, some instinct demanding that she show him she wasn’t to be quite so easily dismissed. Sadly for her attempt at defiance, she promptly stumbled, because another man was now standing directly behind him.

A chill spread down her spine, while some nameless instinct raised the hairs on the back of her neck. For a moment, Leisa was forced to reconsider what she’d heard about King Melger’s hatred for magic—the man seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, without a sound or word to give warning of his approach.

And there was truly nowhere he could have been hiding in the brightly lit expanse of the entry hall, because this man was the opposite of brightness.

His tall, broad-shouldered form seemed to swallow the light and give back only shadows wrapped in deadly silence. He might have been carved from mountain stone, so complete was his stillness, but he didn’t need to make any threatening moves to make Leisa want to take a step back, or step anywhere really, as long as it was away from him.

She tried taking a breath and was irrationally relieved to find that she still could.

He was just a man, she reminded herself. A man not quite so bulky as he first appeared, but all the more menacing due to the perfectly fitted black armor that made it seem he was cloaked in night itself. That and his sheer force of presence were what troubled her, along with the fact that she couldn’t see his face, let alone his eyes, due to a hood that covered his entire head.

As if he felt her incredulous stare from where he stood—slightly to the left and perhaps three steps behind the prince—his head lifted enough that she should have been able to tell what he looked like… if only his face had been visible. Instead, he wore a mask composed of the same dark metal as his armor, with only two narrow slits that permitted him to see.

And if that weren’t terrifying enough, directly in front of him, the apparition’s gauntleted hands rested on the hilt of an enormous sword that balanced, point down, on the shining marble floor.

Leisa had never seen a sword like that before. It was far too big and too heavy to wield in battle, with a blade at least a hands-width at the base, and long enough it would probably be chest high on her. It was a weapon meant for only one thing—to remind those around it of the implacable, inescapable nature of death.

And it could belong to only one man—the King’s Raven. This was obviously the one she’d been warned about, a combination of faceless warrior and nameless assassin.

King Soren had spoken of his brutality and the impossible tasks he’d undertaken for his king. No one had ever beaten him, no quarry ever escaped. His legend, according to Soren, was the linchpin on which Garimore’s quest for power turned.

While comfortably ensconced in Princess Evaraine’s suites back in Farhall, Leisa had dismissed such stories as mere embellishment. This Raven was, after all, just a man. Perhaps no more than a large man in armor carrying a blunt weapon, wearing a mask to make himself appear more mysterious. Tell enough stories, and anyone could appear threatening.

But now?

She swallowed convulsively and concluded that perhaps not all of the rumors were unfounded.

Prince Vaniell saw her staring, turned his head, and made a small sound of disgust.

“If you’re going to make your little pet lurk, Father,” he said with a sneer, “please have him do so somewhere more befitting his gloomy affectations. All that black makes me feel positively funereal, and you know how I hate anything depressing. Besides,”—and here he threw Leisa a dazzling smile—“unless you’re planning to execute someone in the front entry, he really doesn’t match the decor.”

So apparently, the king’s pet assassin didn’t intimidate everyone.

Leisa glanced his way again, wondering whether the assassin might decide to be offended simply by her scrutiny, but it quickly became clear his attention was elsewhere.

Faster than thought, before she could draw a single breath, that enormous sword moved, seemingly without effort, flashing from hand to gauntleted hand in a whirling arc that ended with the point of the blade resting in the center of the prince’s cravat.

With a soundless slither, the silken cravat separated and fell from the prince’s neck.

One of the nearby officials let out a high pitched scream of terror and crashed to the marble floor in a dead faint.

And Prince Vaniell—the vain, party-loving playboy—never so much as flinched.

How very interesting.

Unless Leisa was very much mistaken, curtsies had officially become the very least of her worries.

CHAPTER 3

T  he princess was watching him.

And beneath the strange weight of her gaze, the Raven could tell at once that she was not what he expected. Not what anyone expected.

In size and shape, she was still the slender, colorless creature that gazed lifelessly out of the portrait in the prince’s quarters. Still the mousy, unassuming woman the king had demanded his son woo and marry.

Her appearance lied.

But then, so did his. The point, he supposed, of all that armor. They hadn’t needed so much metal to chain him, but it served its purpose. To terrify and intimidate.

Just as the princess’s outer “armor” served to make her appear fragile and harmless.

He would have wagered there was nothing fragile or harmless about her, but there was no one to wager with. And in any case, he had no plans to share his observations. No one cared what he saw or what he thought. He was mute judgment made flesh, and he did only what his master commanded.

His master, who seemed to have forgotten that beneath the armor of his bodyguard lay the heart and mind of a living, breathing creature. To Melger, the Raven was no more than a thing—a tool to be used and not regarded unless it broke.

And he would not, could not break. After ten years beneath the weight of these chains forged by magic and steel, his life had been reduced to a single quest.

Revenge.

That revenge took many shapes in the private chambers of his imagination. The sweetest, most beautiful shape was death, and the Raven was almost past caring whose. Any death would do—any death besides those demanded by the king—but even that seemed no more than a distant dream.

More often, the shape of his revenge was defiance.

The opportunities were rare. His captor was as canny as he was evil, and rarely allowed more than a sliver of space for interpretation in his carefully worded orders.

But in the unrelenting darkness that was the Raven’s existence, that sliver had become his life. The sole reason he continued to draw breath.

If he could have, he would have chosen to end those breaths and thus end his slavery forever. He was not given even that choice.

For the first few years, he remembered feeling only rage. Raw and impotent. Fury at his foolishness, at the betrayal that had brought him to his knees, at the pitiless hypocrite who held his leash.

Now, there was no heat left to fuel his fury. He was cold as the winter’s snow, warmed only by the creeping tendrils of magic that drove him, and had seeped so far into his soul that he feared there was little left but darkness.

Once, he’d had a name. Now, he was nothing. Only dark purpose. King’s Raven, cloaked in the blood and the screams of the king’s enemies.

And he had been staring at the princess for long enough that she seemed to feel it—feel the weight of his gaze, or perhaps the pull of the darkness that cloaked him.

Whatever she sensed, she began to sway on her feet, like a fir tree in the winds of winter.

“I… I… oh dear,” she murmured, and fell.

But before she lost the battle with gravity, the Raven caught the stray edge of a thought that trickled through the control bond.

We can’t have her hurting herself. Farhall will blame us.

It was one of those rare moments where he had a choice. A true command had not been made, but he could interpret it as one. We can’t have her hurting herself. And he found that he wanted to get closer. Close enough to determine what she might be hiding. Close enough to find out whether he could see beneath her armor.

So he moved. He still possessed the lightning-swift grace of his people, and it was little challenge to catch her before she hit the floor.

Little challenge once she rested in his arms to determine that her faint was as genuine as Vaniell’s protestations of devotion.

And yet, she remained limp, her eyes closed as she feigned unconsciousness.

He held her suspended above the floor—her slight weight barely a burden in his arms—until, after a few moments, her emerald green eyes fluttered open.

After an instant of confusion, they landed on his mask, and she momentarily stopped breathing. Like a prey animal sensing a predator, her slender body tensed, preparing to fight or run, while her pulse accelerated wildly beneath her skin—a deer, caught in the sights of a hunting wyvern. The scent of her terror hit him, and he felt himself recoil in frustration.

Was it the armor? Or was it him? He would never know. All he knew was that no one could face him without fear, and his nose would be forever filled with the stench of that emotion.

Words pierced his focus.

“Thank you,” the king’s voice said coolly, “for so zealously protecting the well-being of our guest, but I believe the danger is past. Her Highness is to be a part of this court in the future, so perhaps it would be best if we allow her to become accustomed to enduring your presence without fainting.”

Again, not quite a command, but the Raven was not eager to continue touching her. He didn’t want to feel or smell her fear, or grapple with the unsettling realization that he’d been right about the lie in her appearance.

So he dropped her.

Straightened his arms and let her fall to the marble floor as quickly as he’d caught her. He heard her teeth slam together as her head snapped back and smacked the floor with bruising force.

Heard her involuntary moan of pain, which was greeted by a quick sound of distress from the queen and an unmistakable sigh from King Melger.

But within the mask, the Raven smiled, because according to the king’s words, he’d done nothing wrong.

Defiance. Small and petty, but nonetheless, it was the only thing left to him.

And in the name of that defiance, he determined that the princess called Evaraine would be worth watching. She was harboring a mystery—a strange defiance of her own that lurked at the back of those bright green eyes. Whatever was behind it, that defiance promised to be a headache for Melger, and possibly for Vaniell, which could only be of benefit to the Raven.

So he would wait, and he would watch, and he would learn what he could of her secrets.

At least until the king ordered him to kill her.

It was really only a matter of time.

CHAPTER 4

L eisa let herself lay on the floor for a few moments, gathering her thoughts along with her courage as she waited for the pain to fade.

“Oh my dear, please do get up,” the queen murmured, without making a single effort to be of help. “It isn’t at all dignified to be lying about on the floor.”

Leisa was almost surprised when Prince Vaniell deigned to extend a single be-ringed hand to assist her in rising from the floor.

“I do apologize,” he said smoothly. “I’m afraid Father’s pet isn’t exactly house trained, though he’s useful enough when it comes to killing or smashing things. After ten years, you’d think he would have learned some decorum to go along with his other, ah… talents.”

Father’s pet? House trained?

“The fault”—Leisa managed to get out between clenched teeth—“was mine. I’m afraid I’m terribly clumsy, and not very fond of surprises.”

“I shall have to remember that,” her future fiancé returned, smirking, before he turned to his father. “We wouldn’t wish Her Highness to come to any harm while she is with us. Perhaps whenever her honor guard is unable to accompany her, she ought to be assigned a temporary detail. Someone who is completely above reproach. After all”—his tone grew pointed and more than little smug—“it would end all hope of alliance if my princess were to be damaged or disrespected during her sojourn here.”

The king appeared unsurprised by this request. Perhaps he’d even planned for it.

“What a marvelous idea,” the queen interjected. “I’m sure King Soren would approve.” She sounded as though she were reciting lines.

King Melger glanced in Leisa’s direction, and she felt the burn of his assessing gaze. “I assure you, no harm will befall you while you are within these walls, but if you wish, a guard will be assigned to you. And now, I’m afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Without bothering to beg anyone’s leave (Leisa doubted he ever stooped to such pedestrian gestures), he strode away towards the cluster of his officials, leaving Queen Portiana to sigh, Prince Vaniell to wink, and the King’s Raven to…

The man in armor had disappeared. Almost as if he’d never been there at all.

Leisa had been in Garimore all of ten minutes, and she had already determined to her satisfaction that this alliance was a terrible idea. The prince was both arrogant and dangerously intelligent, the king was paranoid, and the queen utterly oblivious. And Leisa hadn’t even met the heir to the throne yet.

In their communication with King Soren, the Garimorans had indicated that they welcomed this alliance. But now they were all too quick to treat the princess of Farhall with what bordered on rudeness. Leisa acknowledged silently that she could be wrong about that, but it wasn’t like she was in a position to understand the nuances of her welcome.

And yet, if her assessment was correct, what might it mean? Were they offering her less than royal courtesy only because Farhall was too small to do anything about it? Or were they gauging Farhall’s strength by King Soren’s response to what seemed like obvious slights?

In either case, whether they dismissed Farhall for her size or King Soren for his perceived weakness, what could have been their reason to seek this marriage in the first place? Why did they want this alliance badly enough to go through the motions, and what would they be willing to do to ensure that it went forward?

And afterward? How much danger would Princess Everaine be in as soon as the Garimorans had what they wanted?

At least Leisa now had a plan to go along with her headache. These questions needed answers, and it seemed it was entirely up to her to obtain them. And while she was at it, she would have to keep an eye out for that wretched King’s Raven. Whoever and whatever he was, he gave her a strange, shivery feeling that—despite her familiarity with danger—she would prefer never to experience again.

As she made her way through the opulent halls of the palace in the Queen’s wake, Leisa imagined the first entry in the mental journal of her visit to Garimore: “Made the acquaintance of future husband. Would rather marry a troll. Fully expect elder brother to be worse. Future mother-in-law approximately as tactful as the average street vendor and twice as badly dressed. Can’t wait to make a fool of myself at the ball tonight.”

It was going to be a very long two weeks.

It didn’t take long for the queen to make good on her promise of providing a gown for the evening’s reception. And whatever Leisa might have imagined the queen’s idea of appropriate fashion to entail, it certainly hadn’t included her being presented to the Garimoran court while disguised as a wedding cake.

But as the hastily provided maids eased her into the garish confection of enough ruffles, petticoats, and gems to bedeck an entire fleet of princesses, Leisa thought grimly that this was probably one of the “benefits” Queen Portiana had referred to.

And maybe there were girls who would have been impressed. But the dress weighed more than a sack of flour and had so many layers it would be impossible to walk in, let alone run. If there was trouble, she would be trapped. Easy prey.

But then, that was what was expected of a princess. To wait, to trust, to allow others to fight for her. Except, in this case, Leisa wasn’t sure whether anyone else in this entire palace actually cared enough to do so. Would her honor guard even be allowed to attend her? Or would they, in time, be stripped away as well, leaving her entirely alone?

It was a sobering thought. Almost as sobering as the glance at her reflection once four maids had finished lacing her into the dress.

“For the love of…” It had not been a very royal thing to say, so she paused and tried again.

“This is not quite”—she searched for the right word—“as subtle as my usual style.” An understatement. “I typically prefer to wear my clothes, and I fear this gown may be wearing me.” Leisa offered a hesitant, if insincere smile, but the maids only continued to tuck and fluff. As if the dress required any help to make it bigger—it was wider than a hay wagon as it was.

“It’s the court fashion, Your Highness,” one of the maids finally informed her. “All of the titled ladies will be wearing flounces, and a princess should be wearing the most of all.”

Good heavens, a flounce contest?

“I see,” Leisa murmured, swallowing her more colorful responses as she tried to focus past the lingering headache from her earlier collision with the marble floor.

Tonight would be a far sterner test than her initial introduction. So many people to greet, though fortunately not too many curtsies to remember. A princess would only curtsy to other royalty.

But she would have to remember how to eat, and that was almost worse than the curtsies. Not to mention, there would probably be dancing. She would only be forced to dance with princes and dukes—and, divinity willing, there would not be more than a few of those in attendance—but even one was too many when she’d only learned to dance a few weeks before.

Leisa fully planned to take King Soren at his word and blame either clumsiness or indisposition when she inevitably crushed a few toes. After her two previous catastrophes, no one was likely to doubt her if she told them she was a terrible dancer.

A knock echoed through the suite, and one of the maids ceased fussing long enough to answer it. Or at least she tried.

The visitor didn’t wait for an invitation, merely strolled in as though he owned the room. Which, it turned out, he more or less did.

“I am here to escort my lovely princess to the festivities,” Prince Vaniell announced, in that smooth drawl that set Leisa’s back up and made her teeth clench until they ached. “And I thought perhaps I ought to ensure that our ensembles complemented one another, as a statement of our future intent to bind our kingdoms together.”

He smiled, and Leisa barely resisted the temptation to shield her eyes from his… er, magnificence.

His outfit was blinding. Whiter than white, spangled with hundreds of tiny crystals, it caught the light and threw it back, magnified a thousand times. Even the buckles on his golden-heeled boots seemed crusted in gems, while every finger bore multiple rings.

He did not, she realized sourly, want to ensure that they matched. He wanted to ensure that he wouldn’t be outshone. Small chance of that. His mother had provided the dress, and there was no possible way she would allow the princess of a backwoods principality to overshadow her precious son.

“You look quite…” Polite words failed her, as she’d warned King Soren they would. Diplomacy was not exactly one of her talents.

“Speechlessness was exactly the effect I was striving for, thank you,” Prince Vaniell said, relieving her of the need to say anything at all. It was probably the sort of husband he would make—one who never required his wife to praise him because he was only too happy to do it himself.

But whether that was an asset or a detriment, Leisa didn’t feel qualified to determine.

“Is it time for us to go?” She did her best to sound meek, which wasn’t one of her talents either. But she thought she at least managed to appear overwhelmed, as she had no doubt Evaraine herself would have felt under such circumstances.

“I suppose that depends on your theory of entrances,” the prince said, winking at her. “Does it confer more power to be the first one in the room, presiding over it as all others enter, or to be the last, fully secure in the knowledge that the party is pointless until you arrive?”

When he paused and actually seemed to be awaiting an answer, Leisa almost panicked. What would Princess Evaraine say?

“I would mostly prefer not to enter at all,” was what she finally replied—the truth, for both Evaraine and herself.

Prince Vaniell threw back his head and laughed heartily.

Really, would it be so bad if she simply slapped him?

“I can see that I was right.” He smiled down at her. “Our court can be rather intimidating, and you’re much too shy to field the sort of interest you’re bound to attract. I must have Father assign you a guard who can accompany you at all times.”

“Oh, but I assure you…”

Her assurances were brushed aside as the prince took her hand and rested it on his arm. She somehow managed not to pull away.

“No, my dear, you must allow that I know my own court, and I am certain you would find it most distressing without a bit of a… shall we say, buffer. Never fear.” He patted Leisa’s hand in the most patronizing way possible. “I’ll see to it personally.”

Again, she swallowed her biting remarks and followed as he led her out the door—not without a tug when her skirts proved wider than the doorway—and down the hall.

“As it happens,” Vaniell said comfortably, not seeming to realize or care that he was treating his future bride like a none-too-bright child, “I typically prefer to arrive last so that my latest fashion creation can have its full effect. But I believe that on this occasion, as it is in celebration of our potential engagement, I can bring myself to bend to propriety and greet the court as a royal host.”

“Truly, your magnanimity knows no bounds,” Leisa murmured, allowing herself that tiny moment of rebellion. It was that or burst.

“What was that?”

“I was merely expressing my awe at the surroundings,” she replied innocently.

Which meant, of course, that he spent the remainder of their stroll to the ballroom pointing out exactly how remarkable the surroundings actually were.

It was with a vast sense of relief on Leisa’s part that they finally reached the royal family entrance and passed through it into a chamber of such soaring grandeur, she found herself reluctantly impressed.

The ballroom alone was nearly the size of the entire ground floor of Farhall’s royal palace. Supported by intricately painted columns down both sides of the room, it was decorated by jewel-toned murals and hung with silken draperies to lend it warmth. Enormous gilt-framed mirrors reflected the light from crystal chandeliers and lent vivid hues to swirling patterns of rose and gold on the ballroom floor.

The room was already halfway to being full, at least by her estimation, and more people continued to stream in. Sure enough, the maid had been right about the trends in Garimoran fashion—flounces everywhere. But nowhere were there as many as on Leisa’s own gown except perhaps…

Queen Portiana sailed into view, and Leisa barely remembered to curtsy as she took in the sheer volume of the queen’s dress.

“So much improved, my dear,” Portiana remarked, as Leisa rose from her hasty genuflection. “No one can find fault with your gown, at least.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Leisa replied, after she unclenched her teeth. “I am most grateful for your thoughtfulness in providing it.” Hopefully, she was a better liar than a diplomat. She had a feeling she would be bending—or at least omitting—the truth on a regular basis for the next few days.

But where was His Majesty?

Ah. Standing a handful of paces behind them, looking regal, watchful, and somehow as though he were expecting her to do something odd, like burst into song. Or perhaps he was hoping to gauge the size of King Soren’s purse by staring at his daughter’s head?

“Are we to mingle? Or will we be receiving guests formally?” Leisa asked her escort, unsure which of those options would be worse.

“The court will come to us, of course, and be presented to you as befits your rank,” Prince Vaniell assured her. “There is no need for you to distress yourself.” Again with that pat on the hand. She longed to reach out, grip his sleeve, throw him over her hip, and watch the smug smile vanish from his face.

Until suddenly it did, only to be replaced by a calculating glance that threatened to revise her opinion of him. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” he murmured, not waiting for Leisa’s permission before moving to intercept a man who appeared bent on approaching them. Apparently, he didn’t want this particular member of the court to be presented to her at all.

Whatever he didn’t want her to hear was probably the only thing worth overhearing, so Leisa slipped to the side—hoping she looked more shy than surreptitious—until she could duck behind a nearby column. It was an easy business to move from one to the next, or would have been had she not nearly tripped over one of her five hundred flounces. Dratted court fashion.

“Is that her, Niell?”

The voice was deep, formal, and almost angry.

Leisa peered around the column to see Vaniell standing in front of a taller, broader, dark-haired man who was, now that she was standing near enough to tell, very obviously his brother.

Prince Danric. A close-cut dark beard hugged his stern, sun-browned jaw while fire lurked in his dark eyes. His clothing was designed along equally stern lines, without any visible embellishment, and Leisa gained the impression that he might have dedicated every breath, every thought, to being his brother’s exact opposite.

Except Prince Danric was the elder and his father’s heir. So perhaps it was Vaniell who had no desire to reflect his brother in any way?

The smile lurking on the younger prince’s lips offered a hint that this might be the case.

“Why, hello, brother.” He offered no other acknowledgment of their relationship or relative station. “And yes, the woman I escorted is my prospective bride, Her Highness, Princess Evaraine of Farhall.” He glanced around, and Leisa ducked hastily back behind the column, curious to hear the remainder of their exchange.

Perhaps Prince Danric was less concerned with his clothes and might be able to appreciate his brother’s future wife for the quality of her character, rather than the appearance of her wardrobe.

“Could they have made a worse choice if they tried?”

Well, it seemed that would be a no. Perhaps bluntness was an admired cultural trait in Garimore.

“And don’t try to claim you think otherwise,” Danric went on relentlessly. “She’s obviously shy, bland, and hasn’t a scrap of backbone. You’ll exhaust and humiliate her, and the court will eat her alive.”

Odd. In his blunt, uncompromising way, the older prince actually seemed concerned about Evaraine’s feelings.

“And what, dear brother,” Vaniell replied mockingly, “has compatibility or comfort ever had to do with a royal marriage?”

“Don’t pretend you’re ready to fall on your sword for the kingdom,” Danric growled back. “You’ve been avoiding sacrificing anything for Garimore since you could walk.”

“If you’re so eager to make sacrifices, why don’t you marry her?” There was venom in Vaniell’s tone.

Silence greeted that sally, so Leisa peered around the column again.

“Ah, that’s right,” the younger prince continued. “Because Father has bigger plans for you. He wants Farhall, but not enough to offer up his pride and joy on the altar of unequal matrimony.”

Danric’s jaw seemed to clench at his brother’s jab. “I hope you haven’t spoken of this to Evaraine.”

“Do you suppose she doesn’t already know?” Vaniell mocked. “I doubt a princess ever gains her majority without calculating her worth, even in a kingdom as small and relatively pointless as Farhall.”

Danric’s reply was caustic. “What gives you the right to speak of worth?” he said, sneering. “What have you ever done to justify your existence?”

“Why, agreed to shackle myself to a princess without beauty or wit,” Vaniell said smoothly. “Can you say the same, brother?”

The words stabbed, even though they weren’t truly aimed at her. But Leisa still needed to hear the remainder of their conversation, so she remained focused. She was so intent on the princes’ words, she almost missed the creeping feeling of dread that began by drying out her mouth and forming an ache in the pit of her stomach.

It felt like magic—a dark, angry swell of power—and as she pulled her awareness back into herself, Leisa could feel the pressure of a focused regard that left her hands shaking and her knees weak. Just like it had earlier that same day.

She knew who it was without turning and without seeing, just as she could feel the heat of the sun with her eyes closed.

But turn she did, and there he was—the Raven. His massive sword rested in a scabbard across his back, but that did nothing to diminish his aura of menace.

Leisa had always hated being frightened or feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it reminded her too much of the days after her parents disappeared, when she was helpless and friendless, too young to know what was happening or what to do next.

Her way of dealing with those fears had always been to attack. When she was younger, she’d fought like a tiny, snarling berserker until the king’s guards had taken her in hand and taught her tactics. Patience. Fighting skills that could keep her from being killed by the instincts that told her to rush in and destroy the fear before it destroyed her.

But now, this ruse in which she’d been forced to participate made her feel weak and uncertain, and none of those skills she’d learned were of any use. Her dagger was hidden in her room, and she couldn’t put any of these smirking Garimoran courtiers into a chokehold.

Let alone eliminate the threat that loomed before her now. She might be in a crowded ballroom, but behind this column, there seemed to be no one but her and the Raven. So naturally, when that surge of fear threatened to overwhelm her, she reverted to old habits—she attacked, with the only weapons left to her.

She said the first ridiculous thing that popped into her head. “I bet you’re nothing but a troll in a suit of armor.”

What was she, five? A real princess probably wouldn’t even think of saying such a thing.

“After all these years of doing nothing but terrorizing people, I’m surprised that armor still fits.”

Very smart. If she were any more eloquent, perhaps someone would hire her as a court jester instead of a bodyguard.

“Or maybe you’re actually dead. That would explain why you don’t speak. Or do you?”

He didn’t answer. But he also didn’t sweep out that sword and cut off her head, so she goaded him again, desperate for him to do something. Anything, really, as long as it made him appear human so she wouldn’t have to be afraid.

“Are the stories all true? Are you really a monster who can hunt down any quarry and has killed thousands in the name of your king?”

He was so inhumanly still, Leisa began to wonder whether she hadn’t been right about him being dead. There were dark mages who could conceivably manage that sort of thing, but she wouldn’t have thought to find one here.

“If you’re so devoted to protecting Garimore, what do you think of this alliance?”

It was more of a feeling than an actual movement, but she could have sworn she’d finally gotten a reaction.

“Do you think I’m ugly and witless and without a scrap of backbone?”

And at that, he actually twitched.

“So you do, then?” She’d found a weakness, so she pushed. “And are you staring at me because you’d like to add your own observations to the list of my imperfections? Opine on my unsuitability? Or because you find me suspicious and want to know whether I’m hiding that army of serving girls under all these flounces?”

Some spy she was. Maybe she could blame the corset. The wretched thing was clearly cutting off the blood to her brain and making all rational thought impossible.

And now, if she wasn’t careful, someone was going to find out about her talent for eavesdropping. Or that she was nothing at all like the reserved, proper princess she was pretending to be. And if the Raven informed his king of everything? Well, hopefully it was only Prince Danric who would be getting in trouble and not Leisa.

This conversation, if one could call it that, had obviously gone on long enough. She had gotten what she wanted—proof that she could act in spite of her fear—and now she really wanted to be somewhere else.

Leisa had just opened her mouth to excuse herself when the Raven moved. Not just a twitch, and not away from her, as she’d hoped, but nearer. He stepped towards her, each gliding motion bringing him closer to where she stood locked in place, unable to even twitch her toes.

Though that could have been the fault of her unbearably tight shoes.

Despite her trepidation, Leisa found herself listening for the sound of his boots on the floor, hoping for some incontrovertible proof that he was truly no more than just a man.

But he gave her nothing. Not even the whisper of a footfall, or the quiet rasp of armor as it flexed, metal on metal. He was so silent that before she’d even finished being amazed by how quietly he moved, he was standing directly in front of her, so close that she could have reached out and touched his armored chest with her trembling fingers.

Her hand began to lift, driven by some morbid curiosity, wanting to touch, wanting to know for sure that he was solid and real…

She jerked her hand back to her side, horrified by the impulse.

Don’t touch. No. Terrible idea. He would probably cut off her fingers, and then where would she be?

So she fixed her eyes on his chest plate and concentrated on wondering what that armor was made of. Would it be warm or cold? And was there really anything at all beneath it…

No. She could not let herself be terrified by her imagination. She needed to concentrate on what was real and what she could prove.

As she wrestled with herself, he continued to stand there, not moving, not speaking, not really even breathing as far as she could tell. Was he going to call her out for listening to conversations not meant for her ears? Threaten to expose her as a fake?

Leisa’s mouth was drier than a desert, but she held her ground, more out of indecision than courage. She couldn’t attack when he was standing that close, and there was no protocol for this that she could recall. Evaraine had forgotten to tell her what to do when confronted by looming mountains of inhuman menace.

Except that she was supposed to be Evaraine. She was supposed to know what to do. She was expected to be regal and reserved due to her innate royal dignity, not because her feet seemed glued to the floor.

The Raven still didn’t speak, only stared down at her with an intensity that somehow pressed, encircled, and surrounded her from head to toe. He had no eyes for her to read, but she felt them searching her, weighing her, compelling her to remain. That compulsion made her want to bare her teeth and go for his throat, but she couldn’t. A princess would never do such a thing, and if she gave in to that impulse, this entire deception would be over—all hope of alliance destroyed.

Evaraine. She was Evaraine.

That was, of course, the moment Vaniell discovered them.

CHAPTER 5

She’d been eavesdropping.

Oddly, this did not surprise him. It would, however, have surprised Melger, considering the opinions he’d voiced in private about the pale, shy princess of Farhall.

But more surprising to the Raven was the fact that she’d sensed him lurking in the shadows. Turned and sought him out, though he’d made no sound.

As she gazed at him this time, even though he sensed a surge of fear, what he read on her narrow face was anger. Her fingers twisted in her skirts, and her spine seemed to straighten. He could almost see her draw some invisible weapon as she looked into the eyes she couldn’t see and attacked.

Her weapons were only words, but for the first time in ten years, the Raven found himself in the unlikely position of being caught entirely off guard.

She was still afraid, and perhaps that made her choose her words less carefully. She sounded nothing like the reserved, stammering provincial he’d observed earlier. In fact, she was downright insulting, which was when he realized what she was doing.

Using words to attack her own fear. Possibly even provoking him on purpose, hoping to taunt him into doing something that would make him… more human. Less terrifying.

Interesting. Again, it was evident that she was more than she appeared.

Especially when she began asking questions that grew more and more pointed.

As he listened, two things became clear. First, the princess knew perfectly well that Garimore had insulted her—not only her, but Farhall itself. And second, the personal insults seemed to sting worse than the political ones—her face twisted ever so slightly when she repeated Danric’s brutal assessment.

King Melger would be very surprised to learn just how verbal his guest could be. Surprised and displeased, a thought that curled the Raven’s lips into a mocking smile beneath his mask.

The king had tasked the Raven with watching Evaraine, but he had failed to specify the purpose for that surveillance. He had muttered vaguely about ensuring her safety, but it did not seem to have occurred to him that the princess could be a threat. At least, not a real one. Like many powerful men, he perceived only certain types of power in others, and dismissed those he did not understand. Either dismissed, or destroyed.

For now, this princess fell into the former category, but if she was not careful, she would fall into the latter.

Perhaps the Raven should remind her that her fear was justified. That speaking so bluntly in front of him was hardly wise for one in such a precarious position.

He saw when she realized that she’d probably gone too far. That her words could easily be repeated in the wrong ears. Her chin lifted, and her mouth opened, but he didn’t give her a chance to either equivocate or apologize.

On silent, booted feet, he stalked her. Moved ever nearer, keeping his entire focus bent on her frozen form—frozen but for a tiny tilt of her head, as if she were listening. Listening for the sound of his steps, the sound of his breathing, for any hint that he was more than just a ghost.

But the Raven made no sound unless he wished to, and if he was to intimidate her, that unknowability was his greatest weapon.

So he gave her nothing. Not a breath, not a rustle of fabric, not even the clank of armor. And then he was standing in front of her—so near he could have reached out and touched her ashen cheek with his gloved hand.

He didn’t have to stand that close. Didn’t need to listen to her heartbeat, sense the warmth of her skin, or search her features for the remains of her fear. But for reasons he didn’t care to consider too carefully, he did anyway, which was when he became aware of the unsettling brush of her power—an energy that hummed just beneath her skin and gave her that strange vitality he’d already noted more than once.

Except now, he could give it a name—the princess was a mage.

Evaraine was not supposed to be a mage. Melger would have chosen her anyway, but he was particularly pleased that his youngest son’s prospective bride lacked the magical talent he loathed so much he’d undertaken to drive it from these lands entirely.

If he ever found out…

The Raven’s thoughts slithered to a halt, because the princess’s hand had begun to move.

She lifted it, reached towards him, as though she intended to actually touch him…

It was his turn to be frozen by shock. She was supposed to be horrified, not curious.

But before he could move out of her reach, she jerked her hand back, as though startled by her own behavior. And yet still, she made no move to retreat. Made no attempt to get away. And oddest of all, she no longer stank of terror.

Who was she, this unsophisticated princess who stammered with shyness one moment and challenged him the next?

He stared down at her, as though he could read the answers in the emerald green of her eyes, the slender fingers of her hands, or the auburn strands of her hair. She was not beautiful, even for a human. But she was… arresting. Something about her had pushed its way past his icy indifference, and even he had no idea what it was.

It wasn’t merely that she’d concealed her magic, though that was startling enough in itself. But there was more, a hidden intensity that kept him from moving away when he should have been sliding back into the shadows. Kept him searching her face when he should have coldly ignored her.

Whatever it was, it held them both there, caught in one another’s gaze, until Prince Vaniell swept onto the scene.

“My dear, I’m so terribly sorry.” He stopped by Evaraine’s side and took her arm, patting it in a patronizing way that made the Raven wish to rip the offending hand from the prince’s body.

An odd impulse, and one he couldn’t quite explain.

“I didn’t realize this fellow was lurking about,” Vaniell continued, wearing his usual slight smirk. “Begone!” He waved a hand at the Raven as though he could be dismissed as easily as any other servant.

The Raven did not deign to respond, only bent his gaze on the princeling with a menacing tilt of his head—one that typically sent courtiers scurrying to be elsewhere.

“No, it’s quite all right,” Evaraine said breathlessly, interrupting their staredown in the almost childlike tone she’d used when she first arrived.

What had she done with the fearless, incisive princess she’d been only a moment before?

“I’m sure His Majesty was correct,” she continued meekly. “I must become accustomed to seeing him, mustn’t I? And I don’t suppose he would actually hurt me, would he?”

The Raven stared at her. Every instinct he possessed shouted that she was a danger, but no one had asked him for his opinion.

“Of course not,” Prince Vaniell said soothingly. “He’s really quite safe, unless you’re an enemy of the king or plotting some form of treason, which I’m certain you are far too innocent to contemplate.”

The prince’s smile was indulgent, but his eyes rested thoughtfully on Evaraine’s face, as though he awaited some sort of response.

The Raven could see her weighing her words. Considering how to reply. For an instant, he wondered whether she might attempt another faint simply to avoid the question, but she didn’t. Instead, a tiny bit of the steel she’d shown him entered her green eyes as she addressed her future fiancé.

As if she’d suddenly recalled that she was no one’s “dear,” but a princess in her own right.

“I am not too innocent to understand the importance of this alliance,” she responded, meeting Vaniell’s gaze boldly. “Why would I do anything to jeopardize an agreement so vital to both our kingdoms?”

The prince had no words for a moment as he stared back at her, but suddenly the tension broke. He chuckled and patted her hand again. “Of course you would not.”

But the look in his eyes…

He didn’t believe her.

Eventually, the prince and his father would discover whatever it was Evaraine was hiding and command the Raven to kill her.

He had no business wondering about her secrets. And there wasn’t enough left of his soul to commit any part of it to searching out the reason for his fascination.

It would only destroy him further when he was forced to take her life.

The Raven snuffed out his curiosity and every other feeling that had somehow been given life by this strange, contradictory princess.

And then he disappeared back into the shadows where he belonged.

There was no longer any place for him among the living, and he would do well to remember it.

CHAPTER 6

T  he Raven had disappeared. Again. Without a single sound or clue as to where he’d gone.

Leisa decided to be grateful. His absence meant that she was able to draw a steady breath as Vaniell led her out from behind the pillar in the direction of his parents.

As they walked, she looked around, suddenly observing that her fears had been realized—her honor guard was nowhere to be seen. “Where are my guards?” she blurted out, not recognizing until after she’d said it that the words would make her sound uneasy. “My honor guard was to be here this evening, I’m quite sure. Were they not informed, or has something happened?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence,” Prince Vaniell returned easily, just as a short, stocky man in uniform strode up and bowed deeply to them both.

The prince introduced her to one of the three generals of Garimore’s army, then a duke, the duke’s daughters, a marquess and his wife, and before long, Leisa completely lost track of how many people had approached them requesting an introduction.

She might have only imagined the parade to be never-ending, but she did not imagine the calculating glances, the sly smiles, the amused pity, or the occasional outright hatred. Some of her new acquaintances were undoubtedly hoping to use her, and some were amused at Prince Vaniell’s predicament. Some seemed to think he deserved it, and some seemed to think he deserved better. The latter were mostly the younger, female members of the court, none of whom, Leisa reminded herself, were wearing more flounces than she was. For whatever that was worth.

But it was the last of them who speared Leisa with her eyes and came close enough to conceal her hands before grabbing Leisa by the wrist and yanking her forward.

“He is mine,” the young woman hissed in Leisa’s ear. “He has been mine since we were born, and no alliance can change that. Especially not with a weak, pitiful kingdom of mage-lovers that will soon be…”

Vaniell yanked Leisa back with more force than was strictly necessary.

Too soon. She desperately wanted to know what the other woman thought was about to happen to Farhall.

“Perhaps, Lady Marceline, you would care to sample the air on the terrace,” the prince said sharply. “I hear it is fresh and quite… healthy. Unlike the air in ballrooms.”

Marceline’s face paled visibly at the threat, and she backed away. Her eyes were still angry, but she was obviously wise enough not to press the matter further.

“I do apologize,” Vaniell murmured, his gaze following the other woman through the crowd. “I fear I have waited too long to act, but that’s easily remedied. Come.”

He took Leisa’s hand and basically dragged her across the ballroom until they reached the dais where King Melger and Queen Portiana held court. His father frowned, but Vaniell only paused long enough to release Leisa’s hand before he approached the throne and whispered in his father’s ear.

There were a tense few moments, punctuated by grunts and then thoughtful glances as the prince continued to whisper.

Eventually, the king rose to his feet and clapped his hands once.

That was all it took. The ballroom fell silent, which did nothing for Leisa’s nerves. Whatever was about to happen, she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like it.

“It has come to my attention,” the king said in booming tones, “that there is some unease over my choice of a bride for my youngest son.” He paused, and his brows lowered. “I wish to be clear on this point—I do not care.”

One might have heard a butterfly flapping about the room. No one dared even the slightest whisper, least of all Leisa.

“Those whose opinions matter have been consulted, and you are required only to submit to my decisions as a mark of your fealty and respect.”

She heard the unspoken “or else” about the same time she heard the tiniest intake of breath from the crowd and felt a renewed sense of unease from behind her right shoulder.

And suddenly, Leisa was absolutely certain that the Raven was standing somewhere behind her.

“But in order to prevent accidents,” the king continued, “and as an unmistakable mark of my dedication to this alliance, I now announce the commitment of my most trustworthy lieutenant to the defense of the person and honor of Princess Evaraine of Farhall.”

No applause greeted this announcement, only a vague feeling of dread. Prince Vaniell, Leisa noted, was the only one smiling. What did King Melger mean by his most trusted lieutenant? He wouldn’t have any need to worry about the defense of her person or her honor had he not separated her from her honor guard in the first place.

“I will brook no insults, no opposition to my will in this,” the king continued. “Defy me at your peril. That is all.”

Obviously done discussing the matter, he sat down again.

Judging it the best possible time to register her own objections, Leisa approached and curtsied, hoping no one could tell how badly her knees were shaking.

“Your Majesty,” she said, as humbly as possible, “I don’t pretend to understand, but if I could perhaps only speak with my honor guard, I’m sure there would be no need to trouble your own guards.”

“Have you something to hide?” the king inquired sternly.

“N-n-no,” she stammered, “but my father entrusted me to their care. It is a matter of protocol, and Her Majesty said…”

“And I changed my mind.” Melger subjected her to a harsh gaze for a moment before softening his regard. “You’re far too young and innocent to understand what kinds of treachery lurk in the hearts of even your closest confidants, but I do know. And I am the only one who knows how best to protect you from the dangers of my court. My decision has been made. You may select two members of your guard to remain and act as messengers, but the others will be returned to Farhall immediately.”

“Don’t worry,” the popinjay soothed, stepping towards Leisa to take her hand and place it on his arm again. “We have arrived at a solution that will satisfy everyone. You will be perfectly and entirely safe.”

“But how do you know?” she pleaded, certain she didn’t really want the answer.

Vaniell turned to gesture across the dais. “Because His Majesty has decreed that from this point forward, for as long as you remain a guest in our court, you will be protected by his own personal bodyguard.”

Leisa stared in horror.

Surely not.

But there was only one person he could mean.

The king had just assigned her the most deadly warrior under his command. The man he trusted the most to protect him from all threats, both mundane and magical—his personal mage assassin.

And the Raven was staring at her as though he already knew her secrets.

There was no question about it—she was the world’s worst spy, and the fact that she’d warned King Soren beforehand did little to ease her frustration.

The remainder of the evening passed in torturous fashion, and Leisa found herself wondering how often Princess Evaraine felt this way as she endured the court at Farhall. People came and went, faces blurred together—the movement and noise seemed never-ending.

Leisa had no idea how she continued to smile and behave as if it were all quite normal and nothing was troubling her. The matter of forks seemed a distant concern in comparison to the specter of dread hanging over her every move.

That specter matched the tall, broad-shouldered form that seemed content to hover somewhere just out of her peripheral vision, afflicting her with a constant itch between her shoulder blades that indicated she was being very thoroughly watched.

Of course, he was not truly a specter. After all, he’d caught her in his all-too-solid arms, so she knew he had both form and substance. But that was little comfort when she happened to glance his way and felt his attention fixed, unwavering, on her person. She didn’t feel protected—she felt like prey.

Was this the king’s intention? Was his Raven not a bodyguard but a spy, assigned to determine whether Farhall was intent on overthrowing Garimore from within? If so, she was going to have to be doubly careful.

Leisa decided not to attempt any dancing. There would be time enough to display her ineptitude on another occasion, and she was sufficiently discombobulated that she could scarcely discern a waltz from a minuet.

So instead, she sat and watched as her prospective bridegroom grew steadily more intoxicated and flirted wildly with every woman in the room who might reasonably be supposed to be under forty.

From the glances and comments she intercepted, this was simply his typical behavior, but from the expression on King Melger’s face, it was no more acceptable for a nearly-engaged man in Garimore than it would have been in Farhall.

Obviously, Leisa could not be said to be suffering from jealousy, either on her own behalf or Princess Evaraine’s. But it was difficult to keep her eyes from narrowing in disapproval as she watched his progress, imagining what his lack of decency and consideration would do to the princess’s feelings.

Evaraine did not, she’d confided, expect love. That was rarely possible in royal marriages, and to expect it would be to court disappointment. But she hoped for respect. Mutual consideration. The ability to share their lives and duties peacefully.

Prince Vaniell, Leisa suspected, despised peace.

“He’ll never change, you know.” Her antagonist from earlier in the evening took the seat next to Leisa without bothering to ask, casting a knowing glance from the corner of her eyes. “I saw you watching him. If you marry him, you’ll always be jealous of his flirts and his paramours, so if you have any illusions of him being faithful, perhaps you should look elsewhere for an alliance. Danric, perhaps? I can promise you he’s as rigid and impossible as he looks.” She let out a little trill of laughter. “But then, I suppose that might actually appeal to you.”

“Lady Marceline.” Leisa greeted her with a nod, unsure of the woman’s position but doubting she was anyone a princess would be required to curtsy to. “I appreciate your efforts, but I assure you, I know my duty.”

She snorted softly. “Oh, but do you?” She looked Leisa up and down with an insulting gleam in her eye. “With your… indispositions, I can’t see you bearing heirs anytime soon. Perhaps I should simply stop interfering. After all, you’ll be dead before long, and then the prince will be free to do as he pleases.”

Outrage snapped Leisa’s head around to meet Lady Marceline’s mocking smile. No matter what the other woman chose to think in private, her comment had been poorly calculated. After all, Evaraine might be ignorant and lacking in flounces, but she was still a princess, and Marceline was not.

But her words had also been unspeakably cruel. The truth was, no one knew what afflicted Evaraine, only that she was weak and often ill. But she never complained. Never showed anything less than courage and the determination to participate in life however she could. For this harpy to so calmly speak of death in front of a person she believed to be vulnerable…

Leisa started to rise. Probably would have done something to blow her cover for good, but there was suddenly a solid, black wall between her and Lady Marceline.

Her response died in her throat as she stared at the Raven’s back. What was he going to do? Defend her honor by cutting some poor woman’s head off in the ballroom? She might not like Marceline, but she certainly didn’t think the woman deserved to die for being a heartless viper.

His sword. It was still in its scabbard on his back. Not that Leisa imagined he wasn’t perfectly capable of doing unspeakable things without resorting to weaponry, but at least they weren’t likely to involve bloodshed. Perhaps he would settle for intimidating the harpy instead.

He was a full head taller than she was, Leisa realized, swallowing convulsively as she looked up towards the top of his lowered hood, relieved to be able to stare at him for a moment without feeling the pressure of his gaze. And his hands… At that moment, they hung at his sides, still covered in black leather gauntlets. But even allowing for the bulk of the leather, he could probably wrap just one of those hands completely around her throat.

A point of which Lady Marceline seemed very well aware. She squeaked and retreated, abandoning her dignity along with her chair. All without Leisa’s new personal shadow either speaking or brandishing a weapon.

Come to think of it, perhaps there were benefits to this new arrangement.

The Raven didn’t move, even after Marceline disappeared, and Leisa began to wonder whether there was a royal protocol for this sort of thing.

“Er… thank you?” she said.

He didn’t move. Not even an inch, but somehow she got the distinct impression that he was listening.

“I’m quite safe now. You’ve vanquished Her Snippiness, so you may go back to lurking, if you like.”

It had to have been her imagination, but she had the oddest notion that the looming mountain of menace was suddenly feeling… amused?

“Evaraine, there you are!” Queen Portiana appeared by her elbow, the older woman’s face plastered liberally with false cheer. She took Leisa’s arm and steered her in a tight circle, all but dragging her away from the Raven and away from the ballroom floor. “I do apologize for neglecting you this evening, but this reception has been so very popular—so many subjects to speak to. I hope you’re not offended.”

“No, of course not, but…”

“I’m sure you must be exhausted after the day you’ve had, so I’ve spoken to His Majesty, and he’s agreed that you’re to be permitted to retire. There will be plenty of other opportunities for you to meet other members of the court.”

As she spoke, the queen continued to pull at Leisa’s arm, her fingers digging in like claws as she drew her further and further towards the margin of the room.

And then Leisa understood. There was something she wasn’t supposed to see. Something she wasn’t meant to know.

Was it Vaniell? Had the queen only just realized that her son was making a fool of himself and a mockery of their potential alliance? Or was it something worse?

“I’m grateful,” Leisa said, “but I’m really not all that fatigued. Perhaps…”

“Oh, and here’s Lady Piperell to walk you to your suite.” Portiana’s smile had become a grimace. “I do hope you’ll rest well and allow yourself to be at ease. You’ll be quite safe.”

And then she was gone, disappearing so entirely into the crowd that Leisa wondered whether this was some sort of talent Garimorans shared.

She cast a glance back at the Raven, opened her mouth to ask, and thought better of it. It wasn’t as if he would answer, and it probably wasn’t a very diplomatic question.

Apparently, Evaraine was going to bed whether she wanted to or not—like an unruly child, or one considered too young for the featured entertainment.

“Would you walk with me, my lady?” The even voice of the newly arrived Lady Piperell helped Leisa recall that there was nothing to be gained from protesting. In fact, it was probably to her benefit to establish a reputation for retiring early.

“Yes, thank you.” She cast a quick, sideways glance at the other woman, then another, when she realized that Lady Piperell didn’t quite fit in with anyone she’d seen at the Garimoran court thus far. For one thing, she wasn’t wearing a single flounce.

Her hair was black, with threads of gray, her skin a warm, tawny brown, her gaze dark and direct. A simple gray silk dress flattered her form without being in any way ostentatious, and she wore no jewelry.

“Lady Piperell, I apologize for speaking abruptly, but are you one of those who has been assigned to replace my own ladies?”

“Would you like me to be, Your Highness?”

Leisa considered the question. Lady Piperell was probably almost twice the princess’s age, so she was likely to have far more court experience than the vast majority of waiting ladies. But it was also odd for a woman of her years to remain at court, unmarried, when most were promised by their twentieth year for the sake of alliances.

So was she here in hopes she would appeal to a motherless girl such as Evaraine and thereby encourage confidences? Or because she was disgraced, and therefore a logical choice to look after the uncultured, backwoods princess?

Trying to think like a spy was giving Leisa a headache.

“I would be pleased to have you, yes,” she said, for lack of any reasonable objection. “To be more blunt than is strictly diplomatic, I believe I would enjoy the company of another woman who shares my less complicated sense of style.”

Lady Piperell threw her a quick, surprised glance, then broke into what could only be called a grin as she looked more closely at the borrowed dress. “I thought this looked like one of Her Majesty’s.”

Leisa had been parading around the court in a borrowed dress? There was no way that had gone unnoticed. She would be a laughingstock for weeks. But had Portiana planned it that way, or simply considered it less humiliating than Evaraine’s own dresses might have been?

Leisa wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“In that case, I’m quite grateful for Her Majesty’s generosity,” she said, without a shred of truth.

A raised eyebrow greeted her lie. “And yet you’ll be even more grateful to be rid of it?”

Leisa’s eyes widened at the older woman’s willingness to say such things aloud, but she wasn’t ready to make either enemies or allies of these strangers just yet. “I will be grateful to rest in a proper bed,” she replied instead. “My journey was long, and I slept poorly while traveling.”

Lady Piperell seemed to grasp her meaning and nodded briskly. “Then I will see you to your suite and ensure that you have whatever comforts you require. I understand your maids and ladies will be returning to Farhall, but will we be accommodating your honor guard while you are with us?”

Leisa resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. “I have been informed that two of my guards will be allowed to remain, yes, but I fear only for the sake of appearances. I have been advised that my safety during my stay is to be assured by the King’s own bodyguard.”

Shock crossed Lady Piperell’s face, and she literally stumbled before recovering her former aplomb. “That is… unusual,” she said. “Are you…” She looked over her shoulder, and Leisa read in her eyes the same fear the Raven seemed to inspire in nearly everyone.

“I feel that this situation is one my father will wish to discuss with His Majesty, King Melger,” Leisa replied carefully, and instantly felt proud of herself for such a politely pointed answer. Perhaps she could manage this diplomacy thing after all.

When the other woman didn’t seem reassured, she tried again. “Such arrangements may be highly out of the ordinary, but I am confident no harm will arise. I have every reason to trust that His Majesty has acted in good faith and that his provision for my safety will prove more than adequate.”

Perhaps that was a bit much, but Lady Piperell seemed comforted. She leaned closer. “I know he seems threatening,” she whispered, “but there is no real reason to fear. Rumor says that he cannot act outside of the king’s directive. If he has been commanded to guard you, he should not be able to harm you in any way.”

Wait. What?

Rather than being reassuring, her words disturbed Leisa profoundly. She was forced to resist the urge to stare again at her bodyguard as their meaning sank in.

He should not be able to? Lady Piperell was implying something far beyond mundane orders. The only thing that could so completely command the will of a thinking being was a magical compulsion, a practice only indulged in by renegade mages. It was a dark, foul form of magic, one no decent mage would contemplate. And this from a king who rumors declared an enemy of all magic?

Then again, this could be simply another rumor. An assassin who did the king’s bidding without question could well be assumed to be under his control in some way, and magic was often used by the ignorant to explain anything they didn’t understand.

But if it were true?

It simply wasn’t a problem Leisa was equipped to deal with. Not with all the other truths she’d been tasked to discover. She knew little enough of her own magic, let alone how to dismantle the craftings of others.

They completed the walk to the princess’s suite in not quite comfortable silence, at which point Leisa was relieved to see that her things, at least, had all been delivered safely to her rooms. All twenty-three trunks worth, twelve of which were nothing but dresses she would probably not be permitted to wear—dresses Farhall’s treasury could ill-afford.

Lady Piperell oversaw her preparation for bed, including the administering of her “medicine,” which came from a series of carefully prepared bottles of harmless nothings. Leisa was thankful no one asked questions about them, nor did they try to replace her night-wear. The idea of wearing flounces to bed wasn’t one she was willing to contemplate, even for the sake of diplomacy.

She was just tying the belt of her dressing gown when she heard a bit of an uproar coming from the hall outside her rooms. Not stopping to wonder whether it was appropriate for a princess, Leisa rushed from her bedroom into the antechamber where her new bodyguard lurked, arriving just as the door from the hall burst open.

“…speak to Her Highness immediately!”

Four of Evaraine’s guards entered the room, swords drawn. Zander came first, followed by Kip, then Terek and Nyssa.

They formed a line, leather and steel contrasting oddly with the brocade furnishings and velvet curtains. Plush red carpet cushioned their feet, and Leisa tried not to imagine the pile hiding the blood of men and women she’d known since she was a child.

But as they faced the still, dark form of the Raven, she felt only a chill certainty that their blood would be spilled if she didn’t stop this immediately.

“What is going on here?” Leisa asked, aiming for flustered, verging on alarmed. “Zander, did His Majesty send you? Or is there some threat of which I am not aware?”

“The threat is standing right there,” Kip said harshly, jerking the tip of his sword minutely to indicate Leisa’s new bodyguard. “Perhaps you didn’t know, but as soon as we were separated, they forbade us from attending you or even seeing you without permission.” Fury was visible in every line of his face, and Leisa felt a brief pang as she wondered whether Evaraine had ever returned his regard. He wasn’t the sort of man Leisa herself found appealing, though she couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful. Such devotion… she wouldn’t mind having someone—anyone—who cared about her simply for herself. Leisa. Orphan and bodyguard. Not particularly gifted mage. No one particularly special.

King Soren cared to a point. Princess Evaraine probably cared. But only because she was useful.

“Oh!” Leisa allowed understanding to dawn in her eyes. “All is well, I assure you. This man has been assigned as my personal bodyguard by His Majesty, King Melger.” She took care not to let them see what she really thought of the situation. As a clueless, backwoods princess, she could have no idea of what any of this meant. She most certainly must not roll her eyes. “A few of you will be allowed to remain, but due to certain security measures, my day to day protection will be seen to by Garimore.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Zander said grimly, “but that’s not good enough. Your father has tasked me with ensuring your safety, and I will not entrust it to a stranger. Garimore has overstepped, and I will stand by my objections in front of His Majesty King Melger if necessary.”

Then had King Melger lied? He claimed Soren knew about these “security measures,” but why would Soren not have at least informed her guards?

Leisa wasn’t given the luxury of a moment in which to consider this discrepancy. She actually saw the Raven move this time, as he interposed himself between her and her guards with slow, sinister grace.

“Step away from Her Highness,” Zander ordered, threat darkening his tone, and Leisa knew if she didn’t resolve this, someone would die. All hope of alliance, genuine or sham, would be drowned in blood.

Before she could decide how to proceed, the Raven’s sword materialized in his hand.

Two of Leisa’s guards took a step towards him, ratcheting the tension in the room to its highest point and leaving her with a split second in which to choose her way forward. She could continue to be shy and retiring—continue to give them the Evaraine they expected—but if she did, someone’s blood would be staining the carpet within the next few moments.

She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t watch people she cared about die for the sake of pretense.

Leisa darted forward, around the black-clad wall of muscle and armor, and threw herself between the five of them with a cry of “Stop!”

Everyone froze, herself included. She heard a whimper of terror from one of the maids, or possibly Lady Piperell, but she didn’t dare move to find out.

Three blades hung motionless in the air, only inches from the skin of her throat.

“Your Highness.” Zander’s whisper was hoarse, shaky. “What are you doing?”

Leisa was asking herself the same question, but second-guessing would have to wait. “There will be no bloodshed here tonight,” she said, lifting her chin in a display of certainty she was far from feeling. “If Farhall and Garimore are to be joined in alliance, we cannot possibly begin with violence and suspicion. All of you, put away your weapons. Now.”

Her guards only stared at her, stunned into immobility.

She imagined she could feel the Raven’s steady regard from the opposite direction and steeled herself to accept the consequences of her decision to act.

Evaraine was no coward, but the sight of edged weapons often made her physically ill. It was one of the reasons Leisa typically carried her dagger rather than a sword—because it could easily be hidden. In a moment like this, the princess would be more likely to vomit than step between five people intent on violence.

Could Leisa pass it off as the actions of a woman overwhelmed by fear and exhaustion? Or had she just given away the game entirely?

In her head, she reminded King Soren that she’d most certainly told him so, while frantically searching for a way to finish resolving the situation at hand. Because no one was moving. And in the end, it was better to behave out of character than to allow anyone to cross blades.

So she met Zander’s eyes and hardened her expression, hoping he wouldn’t recognize the stubborn set of her jaw on another’s face. Because this look was pure Leisa, and while she didn’t know Zander well, he also wasn’t stupid.

“As your princess, Zander, I’m commanding you to lower your weapon.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the point of his sword began to fall. When the other men followed suit, she turned to the Raven. “You too,” she said, as sternly as she could manage while confronting his imposing height.

He didn’t move. This wasn’t going to work unless they all chose to cooperate, so Leisa took a tight grip on the folds of her dressing gown and stepped towards him, directly into the point of his blade. If Lady Piperell was mistaken, this could go very badly for her…

But it appeared she would have to wait to find out for sure. The moment the tip of his sword brushed against the fabric of her robe, the blade was gone—returned to his back, in a movement too fast to follow.

Leisa felt her eyes widen, and she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. To hide her reaction, she whirled around to face her guards, expecting to be forced to exert her will again. But now that their enemy was unarmed, they seemed content to re-sheath their weapons, though they in no way relaxed.

“Thank you,” she said. She didn’t care for how breathless she sounded, but she should probably be grateful everyone else was still breathing. “Now, if everyone can agree to put their differences aside, I would very much prefer that we discuss this in the morning. Zander, if anyone wished me dead, it would have been far simpler to poison me at the reception. King Melger would hardly assign me his bodyguard as a method of assassination unless he wished to provoke a war.”

He knew she was right, but Leisa doubted it would help with his instinct to stay close to her. Zander was as honorable as they came, and he would do whatever was necessary to fulfill his duty to his king.

She was about to suggest a compromise when the sound of running feet in the hall outside her room announced the arrival of an entire contingent of Garimoran Royal Guards, who appeared at the door to her sitting room with their swords drawn.

“Your Highness,” their leader said, entering the room and bowing crisply. “My apologies, but your men have trespassed on the trust accorded them by virtue of their position, and it is now my duty to take them into custody.” His men continued to file in behind him as he spoke, until six of them flanked Zander, Kip, Terek, and Nyssa. “We cannot permit the armed forces of a foreign power to rampage through our halls unescorted, as they were well advised upon their arrival.”

He took a hostile step towards Zander, and suddenly Leisa understood exactly what had happened.

The Garimorans had planned this.

They’d laid down rules they knew no sane royal guard would endure, then left them unattended, with just enough of an opening to tempt them to revolt. A king as obsessed with security as Melger would never have left enough holes in his guard rotation to permit four armed soldiers to reach Leisa’s room unquestioned—unless they needed a reason to remove them from the palace entirely.

And with a timid, backwoods princess like Evaraine, they probably thought they could get away with it. Again, she had no way of knowing whether it was a test of Farhall’s sovereign resolve or a deliberate show of disrespect.

But no matter their motivation, now it was up to her to fix this. Without losing her temper or punching anyone in the face.

But she couldn’t revert to shy, timid Evaraine either. She had to be confident enough to get their attention and convince them she wouldn’t be patted on the head and dismissed like a child. So she faced the Garimoran’s leader and inclined her head regally. At least, she hoped it was regal. “Of course you cannot. It would be a terrible dereliction of your duty to your king, ah…” She looked over his uniform but didn’t see any indication of rank. “Captain?”

He jerked a single nod, obviously a bit confused by the princess’s sudden capitulation. “Captain Orvell, Your Highness.” He bowed, but not too deeply, as though not entirely certain what sort of gesture of respect was appropriate to the situation.

Leisa felt something from behind her, some intangible change from where the Raven stood, but couldn’t identify it. She only knew that it wasn’t the usual sense of threat, so she ignored it for now. It was going to take every bit of her concentration to speak in “princess” for the remainder of this conversation.

“Thank you, Captain.” She tried to look pleasant but firm, and decided in the process that she should have spent more time practicing in front of a mirror, no matter how deeply she loathed them. There was simply no way to guess how her expressions might look on Evaraine’s face. “I understand that you feel obligated to follow your orders to the letter. Just as my own guards do. And while we are merely guests in your kingdom, we are welcomed and invited guests, with every reason to believe we will be treated with cordiality and respect.”

Leisa could see the beginnings of worry crease the captain’s forehead, so she pressed on. “Perhaps it is different in Garimore, but in Farhall, the function of an Honor Guard is not merely to protect. If we had not implicitly trusted both the security and the hospitality of His Majesty King Melger, I would have arrived with an entire battalion of troops, not a handful of unarmored guards.” Evaraine’s guards were fully as capable as a battalion, with or without armor, but there was no reason for anyone else to know that. “By separating me from my guard, you have—inadvertently, I’m sure—signaled contempt for my station and the sovereign status of Farhall.”

Captain Orvell’s face turned a little green at the word “contempt.” So Leisa smiled graciously, letting a bit of Evaraine’s shy sweetness back into her voice.

“I’m certain—absolutely certain—His Majesty is simply unaware of this oversight, as he has been so welcoming in all other ways. I have every reason to believe that he desires our alliance to prosper, as does my father. However, should my guards be detained for the simple act of upholding their oaths and following their orders to serve as physical reminders of the respect due to a member of Farhall’s royal family, I fear the hope of continued accord between our kingdoms may be placed in grave doubt.”

Well, slap me with a fish, Leisa thought. She had no idea she was capable of so much malarkey. Maybe those three weeks of being closeted with Evaraine really had made a difference.

Of course, she had just made a none-too-veiled threat to dissolve this entire alliance if they didn’t give her what she wanted. Which was probably a step too far, judging by the look on Zander’s face.

However…

Captain Orvell bowed a bit more deeply. “Your Highness, my apologies, but I am only a member of the guard and can do nothing to change my orders without speaking to my superior.”

“I completely understand,” Leisa said pleasantly, waving a hand at the various chairs, couches, and cushions strewn about the opulent sitting room that served as an antechamber to her suite. “Fortunately, there is plenty of space for all of us to wait comfortably while you do so.”

An exaggeration. Between Orvell’s guards and Evaraine’s, plus Leisa and her new shadow, there were thirteen people, which didn’t count Lady Piperell and the three maids still hiding in the bedroom. It was a ridiculous number for a room this size, especially considering most of the guards were overly large and heavily armed.

But she’d started down this road, so she was going to have to follow it to the end. Leisa took a seat on one of the smallest chairs, carefully arranged the folds of her robe, and then nodded to Captain Orvell. “Don’t hesitate on my account,” she said. “I am quite weary from travel, but it is my duty to Farhall to see this through. I am more than willing to wait until your superior is free to discuss the matter.”

The captain swallowed convulsively, glanced around the room, and seemed to come to a decision. “Your Highness,” he said, then bowed and left in evident haste.

Just as Leisa was beginning to wonder how to soothe the tension that remained, Lady Piperell glided into the room. She paused beside Leisa’s chair with her hands folded and bent her head meekly.

“Your Highness,” she said, giving Leisa a discreet wink, “perhaps we could offer everyone some tea.”

On the inside, Leisa burst out laughing at the idea of an entire roomful of guards juggling swords and china teacups, but on the outside, she merely nodded her assent.

“Of course, Lady Piperell. That would be quite refreshing.”

Did she in fact have the nerve to serve tea on royal porcelain to ten guards who had probably never bothered with tea before in their lives?

Why, yes. Yes, she did. Or rather, Lady Piperell did, as though it were a normal, everyday occurrence. Though Leisa did notice a slight blush staining the older woman’s cheeks after Zander bowed and thanked her as properly as any courtier.

And it was only ten guards because Lady Piperell hadn’t seemed to even consider the idea of offering tea to the Raven, who had taken up a post in one of the corners. He was, after all, wearing a mask, and there was no way for him to drink without taking it off. Perhaps he never took it off in front of others.

But as Leisa sat there watching the others nervously sip their tea while waiting for Captain Orvell’s return, the demon of curiosity (or perhaps sheer contrariness) began to plague her.

So she gestured to Lady Piperell for another cup. When the other woman held it out, steam rising sinuously from the surface of the russet liquid, Leisa deliberately ignored the voice in her head suggesting she was about to do something stupid, and took it. Then she made her way to the corner of the room where her new shadow lurked, silent and still.

“Would you care for tea?” She asked shyly, her eyes on the cup as she held it out in both hands.

From the general response, one might have thought she’d suggested he might like to eat a small child. All conversation in the room fell silent and was replaced by a sort of mesmerized horror, as if they knew something terrible was about to happen but couldn’t look away.

Leisa ignored them. Again, she felt that strange prickling sensation that she was convinced meant the Raven was watching her. But this time, she lifted her gaze and watched him back, focusing intently on the eyeholes in the mask. She wondered whether whoever was in there could feel her regard as she did his. Whether he even liked tea. Or why she even cared.

The steam from the cup curled through the air between them, the only motion in the room as she held out her offering, wondering how long her stupidity—or stubbornness—would demand that she stand there.

Too long, probably. Leisa finally let out a sigh and dropped her eyes to the tea. Perhaps she’d insulted him. Or perhaps she was assigning motives and emotions where none existed. She might as well drink it herself.

But before she could retreat, before she could lower the cup, one black-gauntleted hand covered hers. It never touched, merely hovered over the cup as if asking a question.

Leisa didn’t dare breathe, and from the silence around her, neither did anyone else in the room. She simply lifted the cup again, fractionally, to make clear that she intended him to take it.

When he did, she almost fell over.

CHAPTER 7

T  he cup seemed tiny and fragile in his hands. What had possessed him to take it? He couldn’t drink it, and the incongruous sight of a porcelain teacup in his gauntleted hands was likely to make him a figure more to be ridiculed than respected.

Especially now that he was stuck standing there like a statue with steam curling up in front of him, obscuring his vision when he needed it the most.

And what was the princess doing? After shocking him so profoundly?

She simply returned to her seat. As though there was nothing very surprising about either of their actions.

The spectators, however, gave the lie to that assumption. The moment she seated herself, it was as if the entire room began to breathe again. Had they been waiting for him to dash the cup to the ground? Behead her in cold fury? Or had they simply expected him to ignore her as he typically ignored everyone?

As he should have done.

Why hadn’t he?

Interest seemed a poor excuse for his actions. Yes, she interested him, as precious little had interested him in the past ten years. Little, that is, except his desire for escape. For revenge. Those filled his heart and mind so completely, there should be room for nothing else.

So how had she suddenly captured his attention to the point of provoking him into behaving out of character?

He could blame her lies, or the secrets she carried behind her enigmatic green eyes. Blame her bizarre shifts from shy and stammering to pointed and provoking. Or he could blame that unfamiliar power that seethed beneath her skin, calling him as nothing else in this dry, magic-dead country had called to him in years.

She was smiling now, as she gazed into her tea—a mysterious expression that made her look… happy.

Why should it have made the princess happy to give him tea?

And why did she not smell so afraid anymore?

Ahah. Perhaps that was the explanation. She was still attempting to make him more real, more knowable. As she had in the ballroom, she was attacking her own fear by changing her perception of him.

The Raven experienced a moment of startled respect as he acknowledged her tactics and wondered whether he’d erred by allowing her to succeed.

If she’d actually succeeded. And if she had, it was only on her own behalf—no one else in the room was bold enough to allow their glances to wander in his direction. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one to be unnerved by their exchange.

But unnerved or not, now he was stuck with tea that he couldn’t get rid of.

Fortunately, he was saved from this dilemma by the return of Captain Orvell, an obsequious little weasel who lived to do his king’s bidding. He was an excellent captain in many ways, but he hadn’t a thought in his head that the king hadn’t put there and would probably hesitate to draw a breath without the king’s express permission.

Which explained why, in the face of a princess who refused to behave as expected, he’d gone running to fetch His Majesty to solve the problem for him.

King Melger strode into the room, surrounded by the near-visible cloud of his annoyance. At his heels? Prince Vaniell.

After so many years, the surge of hatred that followed his captor’s appearance had grown almost unnoticeable. Commonplace. As familiar as the burning ache in the Raven’s chest where his magic boiled and churned behind its invisible chains.

The king was… frustrated. After all this time, the Raven knew his moods, could feel them from halfway across the palace. And he was deeply aware that Melger had little patience for anything that did not fall in line with his plans and expectations.

The princess from Farhall had been chosen for Vaniell in part because she seemed weak. Easily manipulated. Easily controlled. With every passing hour, that assumption came further into question. Which meant that the king’s mood would grow ever more volatile.

Which was when he tended to employ violence to get what he wanted.

So swiftly it would have been difficult for eyes to follow, the Raven emptied his cup into a nearby vase, then set it on the floor. He could have set it down still full, but…

He hadn’t. And he did not care to dissect his reasons. He was certain they would make him uncomfortable.

The roomful of guards leaped to their feet as the king entered, those from Garimore bowing deeply, while the four from Farhall remained stiffly at attention.

Melger’s eyes, however, were not on the armed guards. He was watching his true mark—the princess, who even now met his eyes as they took one another’s measure.

The Raven could feel the king’s uneasy curiosity, the beginnings of questioning his own decision. Was this woman the sweet, quiet, fragile person they’d been led to believe? She was meant to be the simplest part of the plan. Easily manipulated, easily overlooked. Wooed, won, and then forgotten.

If only the Raven could have cheered for her success in upending their expectations. But those who disappointed Melger’s expectations tended to meet a swift end—on the edge of the Raven’s blade. Every life he was forced to take ate away at another corner of his soul, and this one… If he was forced to kill the princess from Farhall, he knew somehow that it would haunt him.

They are more troublesome than expected. The king’s observation echoed across their link. It was not yet a command, but the Raven’s shoulders tensed as he awaited the words that would force his obedience. The princess must agree to this alliance. Therefore you will not permit her to be harmed or disrespected, nor will you permit her guards to poison her against us. Your duty is to be her constant shadow. I will be informed if she or her people engage in treachery, or if my son does anything to endanger this accord. You will, of course, send word the moment the princess decides for or against the marriage.

Beneath his mask, the Raven’s lips curled upwards in a cruel mockery of a smile. For a decade, he’d pretended to be less than what he was—an automaton, with no thoughts or feelings of his own. It ensured that the king underestimated him. Everyone did. They feared him, yes, but they did not expect him to think.

But today, the king had gotten careless, and his words were less than specific. An entire flock of wyverns could’ve flown through the holes in those orders.

Beneath the Raven’s iron control, emotion began to seethe and take shape. But he shoved it back, into the deepest, darkest part of his mind. He couldn’t let Melger feel what he was horrified to realize were the smoldering embers of… hope.

But no. He refused to indulge in that most treacherous, most useless of emotions. It didn’t matter that the princess was not what anyone expected her to be. It didn’t matter that she was unexpectedly tenacious and likely to cause a great deal of chaos. It most especially did not matter that he found her intriguing. There was no hope. None. Not ever.

The Raven turned his attention back to the moment, expecting Melger to argue or assert his will. To be condescending and dismissive.

Instead, after he had gazed on the princess for a handful of moments, the king turned to address Captain Orvell.

“You and your men return to your posts.” That was all. He assigned neither blame nor commendation.

Then he turned back to the princess. “Choose your two,” he said bluntly. “I think it would be best if we avoid any repetition of this incident.”

“We?” Prince Vaniell murmured under his breath, so quietly, he probably hadn’t meant it to be overheard.

By the minute twitch of the princess’s eyebrows, she’d heard him anyway but chose not to respond.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said instead, with such overwhelming dignity it seemed certain she was longing to point out Melger’s staggering hypocrisy. “And, taking that into account, I will be appointing these four”—she pointed to her guards—“to attend me for the duration of my stay. The remainder I will personally dispatch in the morning to oversee the return of my maids and ladies to Farhall and ensure their safety on the road.”

If the Raven hadn’t been watching Vaniell closely, he might have missed the tiny smirk that creased the prince’s lips.

The viper was amused.

Whatever King Melger had expected, it wasn’t for the princess to deny him. But when he failed to assign blame, he had also surrendered the moral high ground, and the princess seemed very much aware that she’d been handed an opportunity.

The king opened his mouth.

But to the surprise of—apparently—everyone, Vaniell entered the fray on the princess’s behalf.

“My dear Evaraine,” he said, moving towards her to take her hand and press it to his lips, “that is an eminently sensible suggestion. We are grateful for your understanding.”

What was this? He was actively obstructing his father? The Raven might have thought the two men were planning something deeper, but for the emotions resonating across his link with his captor.

Shock. Outrage. It seemed that King Melger very much desired to know what sort of unfamiliar being was currently wearing his son’s clothes.

“Now that we’ve sorted this out,” the insubordinate prince continued, “I’m sure we should leave you to your rest.” He wore a smile so soppy and insincere, the Raven felt vaguely nauseated. “But first… a gift.”

The initial surge of surprise from Melger melted into apprehension.

And as before, the Raven still felt that inexplicable urge to remove the viper’s hand from the princess. Or perhaps he just wanted to remove the hand. Come to think of it, that would be far more satisfying.

“I meant to present it this evening at the reception,” Vaniell continued, “but was unaware you had retired. Please accept this as a token of my wish that our relationship, and the relationship between our kingdoms, may flourish. May we become ever more inextricably linked.”

He removed the “token” from his pocket, and the Raven froze, throttling his shock and his fury as he saw what dangled from the prince’s fingers.

It was a delicate chain, composed of interwoven strands of silver and bronze—gorgeous, intricate work, as sinister as it was beautiful. The Raven could almost feel it reaching for him, claiming him, wrapping his will in smothering bonds. He held himself still only with tremendous effort as his eyes fell on the gem that dangled at the end of the chain—an enormous diamond. Hard-edged, cold, and bright. Much like Vaniell himself.

The princess was startled. Almost visibly uneasy.

As well she should be. Could she feel the magic that laced this seemingly innocent gift? Sense the darkness that crouched at its core?

“It’s lovely,” she said, though her voice was as stiff as her spine. “I trust I may accept it without considering that I have entered into any agreement.”

Vaniell chuckled inanely as he moved behind her to string the vile object around her pale, slender neck.

The Raven’s fingers twitched, yearning to yank it away and throw it into the deepest hole in all of Abreia.

But he couldn’t move, not even when he saw the princess flinch as Vaniell’s fingers brushed her skin.

That settled it. Someday, the prince would be missing a hand.

“Perhaps in Farhall, this would seem a mark of some binding contract,” Vaniell said. “But I assure you, my princess, in Garimore, this is merely an expression of how greatly I esteem you. Call it a courting gift, if you will. Much like flowers, except you will have this forever to remind you of the day we met.”

As the cold weight of the gem fell to the center of the princess’s chest, the Raven felt it. Felt his newest shackles fall into place.

Felt a surge of revulsion from the princess, who clearly yearned to rip the prince’s gift from around her neck.

Oddly, her anger steadied him. Enabled him to watch as the prince continued speaking.

“It is tradition,” Vaniell said smoothly, “to wear a courting gift until such time as you have decided for or against a suitor. I hope I will have the pleasure of seeing it on you as we deepen our acquaintance in the coming days.”

“Of course,” the princess murmured, giving no hint of the unease that only the Raven could feel. She mustered a polite smile. “And now, I am so sorry, but I must beg your leave to retire. It has been an exhausting day, and I will be much more convivial company after I’ve rested from the long weeks of travel.”

Her gaze moved to Melger, and the Raven found himself pinned between their minds. Speculation and unease from the princess. Shock and fear from the king.

Shock. And fear. He had not known what the prince intended. He had not planned this.

Vaniell acted on his own. He had blithely handed the princess the key to his own undoing as if it were nothing more than an expensive bauble.

The prince was many things, but a fool was not one of them. What could he intend by it? To provoke his father? But to what end? And in what unspeakable ways would the Raven be forced to suffer for the feud that seemed to be brewing between the two people he hated most in all the world?

But the moment shattered as Melger broke the silence.

“Yes. Rest,” he said to the princess. “Your guards will be given quarters within the palace grounds, and we will speak more tomorrow about their restrictions and what will be expected of them.”

The princess nodded regally, her self-possession fully intact, and turned to the captain of her guard. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, “for your devotion to my security. I believe I will be safe enough for tonight, and tomorrow we can discuss what your new duties will be.”

The king was unhappy. Unsettled. He was no longer in control, and he didn’t like it, but he was also not foolish enough to push the princess further.

“You.” King Melger turned abruptly to the Raven. Speaking aloud for the benefit of those listening. He couldn’t afford for them to realize that he had no need of speech to communicate with his personal bodyguard. “Establish your post outside these chambers for the remainder of the night so that no one may disturb the princess’s peace again.”

After he’d finished speaking, he simply left—no polite farewells, just an abrupt departure that left everyone in the room scrambling in his wake.

Captain Orvell approached the leader of the guards from Farhall and announced that he would show him to his new quarters. After one last worried glance at the corner where the Raven stood, the other guards followed, with a sneer of anger from one of them.

Once the guards had filed out, Vaniell, too, abandoned the scene, his hands in his pockets and a smug smile on his face. And then there was only the princess, her attendant, and the Raven.

He remained still for a few moments after the others were gone. The king’s mind receded into the distance, leaving only the odd, unwieldy presence of a mind unaware of their connection. As silence fell, the Raven took a moment to probe for any hint of awareness, any stray thought that might reveal whether she could feel him in return. He let his head turn from side to side, as if sweeping the room for further threats. And when he found none, either physical or otherwise, he forced himself to leave the room and shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER 8

L eisa’s eyes narrowed as she regarded the closed door with frustration. She was beginning to believe that the Garimorans had spent centuries perfecting the most abrupt and disconcerting way to leave rooms. And conversations. And possibly anything else they didn’t want to be a part of. Did that extend to marriage? Political alliances? Or was she making silly conjectures based on a tiny cultural quirk?

Probably, she decided. She would need to spend a lot more time observing before she drew any kind of conclusions. Which meant she needed to hurry up and pretend to go to bed.

Hurry up and pretend that sleep would be remotely possible.

But how could she possibly sleep after such a strange confrontation?

Lady Piperell was moving quietly about the room—tidying up and stacking teacups on a tray with the help of the maids. The teacups reminded Leisa… What had become of the tea she’d given the Raven? By the time King Melger entered the room, the cup had disappeared.

Perhaps it was silly of her, but she wanted to believe her strange new bodyguard liked tea. Perhaps it would help dispel his aura of danger and mystery if she knew he drank tea just like anyone else.

But the others had been so shocked and horrified when she offered it to him. Did they simply not think of the Raven as a person? The king clearly did not, as he’d ordered him to spend all night standing in the hall outside her room after, presumably, being awake all day.

Did it mean, as she’d first feared, that the Raven was not a man at all?

As she pondered the question, she happened to catch Lady Piperell’s wide-eyed stare. The older woman beckoned her over to where the Raven had stood.

On the floor in the corner was a single, empty teacup.

Leisa couldn’t help breaking into a grin, feeling absurdly as though she’d scored a victory. Of what sort, she had no idea, but she needed all the confidence she could get.

Especially after the debacle of her performance just now.

Someone—whether the king, the prince, or her own guards—had to be suspecting that she was not who she pretended to be. Evaraine would never have behaved so boldly as to countermand the king’s orders. But what else could she have done?

And then Vaniell had blindsided her with that horrifying “courting gift.” Leisa would never have accepted it, but Evaraine didn’t have a choice, even if it seemed a bit early in this relationship for such an expensive gift. She would simply have to be very, very careful not to lose it before she had a chance to give it to its intended recipient. This wasn’t the sort of token one could lose without repercussions.

Not to mention, it made her profoundly uneasy, for reasons beyond its evident value.

But, as before, there was nothing else for her to do but accept it. Nothing else but to move forward with the plan and pray that she didn’t mess up any worse than she already had. Any worse than she’d known would happen long before her arrival in this palace full of secrets and rudeness.

She could only pretend to be meek and biddable for so long, and even Evaraine would have proven recalcitrant if subjected to the sort of treatment they’d shown her thus far. But whether Evaraine or Leisa, circumstances had conspired to shatter all her careful pretense. She’d called their bluff, and she wouldn’t be backing down, whether by royal prerogative or pure bone-deep stubbornness.

King Soren said it had to be Leisa, so if he didn’t like her way of handling things, he could go for a swim in the moat. His castle didn’t have a moat, but she would almost be willing to dig one just to make her point.

Leisa went to bed after that, unsure what to think and eager to begin the next part of her task. She would, after all, eventually need some time for actual sleep.

Lady Piperell assured Leisa that she would be staying in the rooms originally designated for Evaraine’s waiting ladies, at least until it was decided who would be attending the princess on a regular basis. Leisa need only call out, and Lady Piperell would hear.

Leisa thanked her, feigned a yawn, and fell into the wide, pillowy expanse of her silk-covered bed.

An hour passed before she decided it was probably safe to move about. From the trunk that contained the most personal of her belongings, she retrieved a parcel of books that had been strapped together with overly complicated knots, specifically to deter the fingers of over-dedicated maids. They were easy to remove if one knew the trick, and the books contained no actual pages, only a hidden compartment for Leisa’s clothes. Her real clothes. Her boots were inside one of the trunks that supposedly belonged to her “maids,” along with her dagger and other assorted necessities.

Then she faced the full-length mirror, both relieved and worried about what came next. As she always was.

Leisa’s magic was a mere parlor trick, but there was a very good reason King Soren had always insisted she keep it secret. Once others knew what she could do, they would lose all trust in her. Wonder whether they could ever believe what they were seeing.

There were other reasons she chose not to speak of it—personal ones, scars that cut deep, and pain she kept carefully buried. Who would even understand if she tried to explain?

The chamber was dimly lit, with no illumination but the moonlight streaming through the window, but it was enough. She’d made this particular change enough times, she didn’t need to see the details as clearly.

In the mirror, Leisa gazed at Princess Evaraine and held the image in her mind—her slender body, narrow, oval face, thin-lipped mouth, pointed chin, and wide green eyes. And then… well, she had no idea how she did it. She just did. It was as natural as waking and sleeping, as easy as letting cool water slip down her throat.

The face in the mirror simply changed, and suddenly she was Leisa again—shorter than Princess Evaraine, with sinewy muscles and small, calloused hands. Her eyes were blue, her hair red-gold with a hint of a wave, falling to the middle of her back. Unlike Evaraine, she had a few freckles from the sun, a snub nose, and a stubborn, full-lipped mouth.

Leisa thought her own face looked ridiculous with the brocade dressing gown, so she hastily removed it and slipped into her own things—close-fitting pants and a dark shirt, a leather vest to hold her tools, and supple leather gloves. Her hair was quickly braided and tucked under a hood that was attached to her shirt. When she pulled it low over her face, no one would be able to see much above her mouth.

Much like the Raven.

For some reason, when she thought of him, her hand rose to the pendant that still hung around her neck. She should, she thought, take it off, as it would mark her if anyone saw it. But even as she reached for it, she decided against it. Such a valuable item shouldn’t be left unguarded. And if it stayed tucked beneath her shirt, no one would ever know.

So she lifted it by the chain and dropped the gem behind her collar. It felt strange against her thin chemise, but as the hard edges pressed against her breastbone, it proved less cold than she expected. In fact, it felt almost warm, which had to be her imagination.

Most likely, she was trying to distract herself from what came next, which was finding a way out of her room that didn’t involve using the door.

Leisa’s magecraft and sensitive hearing made her an excellent choice for spying, but she had other little quirks that she knew were going to get in the way.

For one thing, she wasn’t terribly fond of heights. But sneaking around in the dark when decent folk were sleeping meant that she would most likely be spending a lot of time climbing, either in or out of windows or finding her way across rooftops. Balconies. Heaven forbid she discover a need to scale a tower. She could climb, she just hated it.

Her climbing rope was hidden inside the false bottom of one of her trunks, which would have been impossible to disguise if the rope were as bulky as its human-made equivalent. This was spider-weave, a near priceless commodity purchased decades ago from night-elf traders, back when they’d still had occasional contact with humans.

The rope was thin, light, and utterly unbreakable. Leisa carried the entire length of it in a pouch on her vest, yet it was long enough for her to rappel from the tallest tower in King Soren’s castle. She’d asked him once why it was called spider-weave, and when he told her the answer should be obvious, she’d promised herself never to think about it again. Why?

Her second weakness was spiders.

There was only one window in her room, and as she opened it to look out, she resigned herself to a long night. Some quirk of Garimoran design—or perhaps of King Melger’s obsession with security—meant there was no balcony to her room. Nor anywhere else on this side of the palace that she could see. Leisa was going to have to start at the ground, which meant figuring out the guard rotation before she made her first move.

She spent about a half-hour watching, but as there were no paths between the palace and the wall—which was a mere thirty feet from the first-floor window—it appeared that no guards regularly passed this way. More than likely, they patrolled the outside of the wall, or even had posts higher up, where they could see more of the grounds with no need for a patrol.

And wasn’t that a pleasant thought. She could be shot from above the moment she left her room.

Reminding herself that King Melger’s paranoia would most likely result in her being captured and tortured first, Leisa looped the rope around the bedpost and threw both ends out the window. One side of the rope went under each arm, crossed behind her back, then returned to the front, where they passed beneath her legs to form a makeshift harness. It wasn’t her favorite—the rope burns were the very devil if done wrong, but her leather vest and gloves should protect her from the worst of it.

Grumbling at Soren under her breath, she dropped out the window and let the rope out slowly as she made her way to the ground. The party, she guessed, was still going on, as there were few lights from the windows on this side of the palace. She could hear faint sounds of music, bursts of laughter, and occasional shutting doors. If she focused, she could probably hear a lot more than that, but she wasn’t in the mood for random eavesdropping. She needed to know more specifically what was being said of her, and Farhall, in her absence.

After reclaiming the rope and removing her climbing gloves, Leisa kept to the shadows as she made her silent way along the side of the palace, testing each window as she went. She needed a way back in, and she didn’t want to have to change again if she could help it. Windows didn’t make the best mirrors, and though they would work in a pinch, she also didn’t want to have to deal with the issue of clothing afterward.

Technically, she could change her clothes along with her face, but inanimate objects were incredibly difficult, and the energy required to change even something small would leave her exhausted for hours. The one time she’d tried to change her clothing, she’d been forced to remain in bed for half a day.

Luckily, she found a window that hadn’t been properly locked, and was able to disengage the latch with the tip of her dagger. The room within was dark but uncluttered—a salon of some sort she imagined—which permitted her to approach the door and peer out with little fear of apprehension. Outside, the hallway was mercifully quiet, which left her with the question of which way to go. What she needed was stairs.

While lazing about at the reception earlier, she’d noted a second-floor balcony encircling the entire ballroom. The musicians had claimed one end, but the remainder had seemed startlingly empty. A testimony, she supposed, to King Melger’s confidence in his own security. If he didn’t allow anyone suspicious past the guards on the outside, there was little reason to post guards on the inside.

Not that she intended to trust appearances entirely.

A trio of lightly flounced ladies entered the hall from a nearby doorway, conveniently pointing out which way Leisa needed to go to find the party. They seemed in various stages of intoxication, though they were expressing similar degrees of dissatisfaction.

“…how long we’re expected to pretend to believe this farce,” one of them said, followed by a giggle that she’d probably be embarrassed about if she remembered it in the morning.

“…so relieved it’s not Danric,” one of the others added, and sighed so deeply, Leisa was afraid she might collapse right there in the hallway.

“Maybe they’re planning some sort of accident for that poor sad thing from Farhall,” the third one chimed in, perhaps less drunk but rather more vicious than her companions. “They can’t exactly risk the second prince being the first to reproduce.”

The other two girls burst into giggles again.

“Well, I don’t care as long as Prince Danric is still available,” the sighing girl said, pressing a hand to her chest as though contemplating a faint purely for effect. “I know he’s bound for a marital alliance, but I hate the thought of all that man being wasted on a foreigner who won’t appreciate it.”

“I’m sure you can steal a moment or two behind a curtain if you want a taste that badly,” one of the others replied, while her companions tried very hard to gasp and sound shocked.

Leisa gagged a little, very quietly. Handsome Danric might be, and strong, and manly, and commanding, and all the other things girls seemed to want in a man. But he was also incredibly rude and probably heartless to boot.

And why did they assume Vaniell’s engagement was a farce? Because Evaraine was so obviously ill-suited to be his bride? Or because of their prejudices against Farhall itself?

She filed those questions away for later consideration as their laughter and their flounces faded away down the hall, then slipped out of the room and made for the hallway they’d emerged from.

Her sensitive hearing made sneaking around easier, as she could generally tell when someone was coming, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. On her way towards the ballroom, she was forced to duck through three separate doors to avoid being discovered, and in one case, only went unnoticed because the couple already occupying the room was far too enthralled with each other to care about any intrusion.

But she did eventually find the ballroom, and the balcony, which was reached by a narrow set of stairs hidden behind a secret door. She would probably have gone on looking forever except for the nervous-looking flute player who dashed out on his way to the privy with his instrument still hanging around his neck.

When she followed him back through the door, Leisa discovered that the balcony was much smaller than she’d imagined, and that there were several sections. Fortunately, she’d chosen an area at one end of the room, where the exhausted musicians were entirely focused on their work. The sections along the sides were, in fact, guarded, with three archers ranged along each, watching the floor from shadows that made them difficult to see.

With a little effort and a short climb, she found a niche at the far end from the stairs, between two columns, where she could observe without much danger of being likewise observed.

The scene below was not much different than the one she’d left a few hours before. Dancers whirled, gems glittered, and flounces flounced. Drinks had obviously been flowing freely, as everyone was a bit louder and more jolly than before.

Except for the royal family. Who were nowhere to be seen.

Leisa frowned, believing she had to be missing something. Her education in protocol indicated that when the king retired, the party was over, but apparently not in this case. Which meant that the evening had been almost entirely wasted on her part. It was the royal family she needed to watch and listen to. See what was happening when Evaraine wasn’t there to observe it.

But they were certainly not in the ballroom. As she turned away in frustration, she felt an odd sensation against her chest. Heat. She reached up to rub it away, and her fingers brushed against the gem beneath her shirt.

Now that her skin touched it directly, Leisa knew it wasn’t her imagination—the pendant was considerably warmer than it had any reason to be. And as her fingers brushed quickly across its surface, she realized there was something else unnatural about Vaniell’s unwelcome gift.

The moment her skin touched it, everything sharpened. Sight, hearing, even… ugh. Smell. The stench of sweat rising from the ballroom below became overwhelming, right before she jerked her fingers away with a series of horrified questions racing through her mind.

But before she could give those questions the attention they deserved, she glanced up and experienced another unwelcome shock, along with a surge of familiar dread.

The Raven stood at the top of the secret stairs.

His head didn’t move, but it didn’t need to. He was looking for something—someone—amidst the sea of movement on the ballroom floor.

Did he know she was here? Or did he simply suspect? Was it possible that he’d tracked her, or had he heard some small sound and come to investigate?

It hardly mattered now. Either he knew Evaraine was no longer in her room, or he merely thought it possible, but the only way to potentially save herself was to get back to her room before he did. And hope he would hesitate to execute a princess.

There was no time for finesse, no time for sneaking. If he’d followed her this far, it was only a matter of time before he pinpointed her location. Leisa’s enemy stood between her and the exit, so the only answer, the only way to save her own life, was speed. The element of surprise.

She ruthlessly smothered her fear and jumped off the balcony into the crowd.

Leisa knew how to roll with a fall, but it still jarred her spine and shot a spike of pain through her knees. No time to limp, no time to assess whether she was actually hurt—only time to run.

The screams and the chaos gave her cover as she darted between brightly clad bodies, hoping to provide the archers with less of a target, choosing to believe they would hesitate to endanger Garimoran lives.

Blood pounded in her ears in rhythm with her boots on the ground, her pulse doubling as she looked back and saw a shadow dropping from the balcony to pursue her.

He was twice her size. Faster. Stronger. And he knew the palace, which she did not. How could she possibly get back to her room before he did? How could she convince him that Evaraine had never even left?

A trio of guards with swords drawn ranged themselves in front of her, across the arched doorway that led out of the ballroom. Better three than one, she thought, as she ran straight for the gap on the left side.

One of the many things Leisa had learned as a bodyguard to Princess Evaraine was the sheer uselessness of swords for fighting in close quarters. With no room to swing, and the potential danger of hitting someone other than your target, they left you hampered, and were more of an encumbrance than anything.

She drew her dagger. “Catch this!” she called, and threw it up in the air, an arching toss that simply revolved a few times before falling back down. But it accomplished exactly what she’d intended. While their eyes were glued on the dagger, Leisa folded her left knee and let herself fall backward into a slide, feet first across the polished marble floor, right between two of the guards.

One nearly managed to get his sword around in time to take her head off, but not quite fast enough. Her dagger dropped back into her hand as she came to her feet—a perfect toss, she thought with satisfaction—then she was off again.

And somehow, she found herself grinning wildly as she ran. This was where she belonged, not prancing around in a dress pretending to be someone else. She might be flirting with death, but she felt more alive than she had since the day she left Farhall.

As much fun as she was having, though, Leisa still had to get back to her room before someone realized she was gone. She couldn’t do anything about the fact that they realized there was a spy in the palace—she just couldn’t afford for them to connect that spy to Evaraine.

She’d had to take her rope to prevent it being discovered, so she couldn’t go back up the way she’d come. She also couldn’t go back in the main door of her suite—too many chances to be discovered, and the Raven no doubt knew his way around far better than she did. All he would have to do is go back and wait for her to show up.

No, her best chance would be from above, which meant she needed to go up—to the third floor, directly above her room.

She could do that. Probably.

If nothing else, there was no time like the present for learning the layout of the castle. Or at least, so Leisa told herself as she sped down the hall she’d come from, around a corner, past startled maids, and into the dark, narrow confines of a servants’ stair. Up one flight, then two, thighs burning, three, four, and then stop by the door. Peer out.

Lamps burned, but dimly. She heard running footsteps and pulled the door nearly closed just in time as a guard ran past—searching for her, most likely.

After listening for another few seconds, she ducked out and headed in what she hoped was the opposite direction from the one she’d traveled around the outside of the castle. When she’d gone far enough, she began looking for a likely candidate, and found it, about three doors down—a room with no lock and no light under the door. Taking care to silence her steps, she crept in and nearly jumped back out again when she was confronted with a sea of white-shrouded shapes.

Not ghosts, she told herself firmly.

She’d entered a music room, and under each shroud was an instrument—harps, claviers, viols, and lutes, for the most part. It seemed a veritable noise-trap for the fumble-footed, but there was enough moonlight for Leisa to pick her way through the silent assembly to the window. There, she was relieved to discover she had not been far off.

Only a short distance to the left, she could see the section of the wall that paralleled her room. Two doors down, most likely, would give her a straight drop. Thank divinity for architects who insisted on aligning all the windows, or her job would be a great deal more difficult.

A sudden noise from the hall outside sent her to the floor, listening for the tramp of approaching footsteps.

“There’s no way he made it up this far this fast,” she heard someone say.

He? Leisa really hadn’t thought her leather vest was that concealing, but at least it meant they hadn’t connected the intruder with Evaraine.

Their confusion was a relief, but it made her wonder why her bodyguard had shown up in the ballroom at all. Perhaps the Raven had simply left his post to pursue a more urgent matter and would return after the trespasser had been dealt with.

“We’re just patrolling until they give the word that he’s been found. Raven is on the hunt, so he can probably smell out wherever the fool is hiding.”

Smell? Leisa shivered and tried not to wonder whether it was true. Because honestly, she had no idea whether she smelled the same when she was Leisa as she did when she was Evaraine. They’d never tested it, though, in hindsight, they should have.

But it was probably just a figure of speech. The Raven was only a man, and there was no way he could smell her at all.

Still, she didn’t waste any time after the patrol’s footsteps died away, but darted out to investigate the door she needed.

Just her luck, it was locked. Didn’t have time, didn’t have time… Her lock picking skills were rusty, but she managed this one in about twelve seconds. Fear was a particularly effective motivator, she thought with a grin, as she whipped inside, shut the door, and dropped to a crouch, barely daring to breathe.

She was in someone’s bedroom.

Someone who apparently didn’t merit an invitation to the reception below—or who simply didn’t care to attend—because he was fast asleep in his un-curtained bed. Either he was a sound sleeper, or this entire endeavor was about to come falling down around her ears.

Dropping to the floor, Leisa used her elbows to pull her across the carpet. Not as plush as the one in her suite, she noted, wondering whether the less welcome guests were assigned to the third floor.

A quick snort and a smack from the bed froze her in the act of removing the rope from her vest, but the man seemed to settle again into the long, steady breaths of sleep.

A quick loop around the bedpost secured the rope, then Leisa slithered to the window. Thank all the gods for Garimore’s wealth, she decided, because their windows were in excellent shape. It swung open without a creak, so she scrambled into her makeshift harness, then looked out. Still no movement. Why were there no patrols? Where was the overly paranoid Garimoran security? Or was that simply a boast on Melger’s part that he had no idea how to follow through on?

All the better for her. With one last glance at the sleeper, she stepped out, let the rope take her weight, and began the descent to her—thankfully—still open window. Without looking down. She didn’t want to know how far away the ground was this time.

There were still no lights burning in her room, so it seemed as though her absence had not yet been discovered. Only a few more feet and she would be safe. Mostly.

A light breeze stirred the edges of Leisa’s hood, jerking her gaze to the open window above her. For a moment, the window hesitated, and then, unmistakably, moved with the wind.

She moved faster—down, then in through the window feet first. The moment her feet hit the floor, she dropped as silently as she could, which wasn’t all that silently. The thud made her wince, but she was too busy shedding her harness and pulling at one end to free it from the bedpost upstairs.

Hand over hand, she reeled it in until a fresh gust of wind rushed along the side of the castle, and one of the window panes upstairs swung shut with a loud, hearty crash.

Leisa heard swearing.

Praying the man wasn’t yet awake enough to know what he was seeing, she pulled harder, and was rewarded by the sudden drop of the second end out the window.

Footsteps upstairs. Footsteps in her antechamber. Footsteps approaching from the end of the hall outside her suite.

She’d never moved so fast. The end of the rope shot in through her window just as she heard both panes of the upstairs window pulled shut. She stuffed the rope into its pocket, then ripped off her vest and shoved it into the bed, followed by her shirt and trousers. Her boots went back into the maids’ trunk. Leisa ran to the mirror in nothing but her underthings, gazed for an instant at her wide blue eyes, then watched her reflection ripple and change until Evaraine’s emerald-green eyes stared at her once more.

The belt of her dressing gown was already tied neatly around her waist when the tentative knock came at her door.

“Your Highness?” It was barely above a whisper.

“One moment,” Leisa called, trying to sound sleepy and running her fingers through her hair to muss it before she opened the door. “What?” She didn’t even have to try to sound irritable.

“I’m so sorry, but…” Lady Piperell couldn’t even finish the sentence. Just jerked her head to indicate the anteroom behind her.

The Raven was waiting.

CHAPTER 9

He could sense her unease, though she disguised it well behind a frown and fluttering lashes.

“Why am I being disturbed?”

He didn’t say anything, just took two steps closer, wondering what it would take to break her facade. To make her admit to the startling truth of her earlier activities.

“I believe there was an intruder,” Lady Piperell said to the princess in a quiet voice. “Perhaps he means to ensure that you are unharmed.”

Perhaps… and perhaps not. Perhaps she was not even a princess. Would a princess be so adept at spying? Would a princess have the ability to pick locks, leap off balconies, and rappel down walls? It seemed unlikely, especially given what he’d overheard about the princess from Farhall.

Sickly. Shy. Underwhelming in looks and personality. This woman’s face matched her portrait, but nothing else matched what King Melger had expected to find in his son’s prospective bride. Especially not the magic that lurked beneath her skin.

If King Melger knew what the Raven now knew, he would likely demand the girl’s execution. Or at least that she suffer an unfortunate accident. But the king didn’t know, and he hadn’t commanded his bodyguard to tell him.

And yet, neither could the Raven simply stand by and watch as this disaster unfolded. He was… curious. For the first time in years, he felt another emotion balancing out that burning desire for revenge, and it was strangely unsettling.

The princess finally seemed to gather her courage. She straightened her spine, folded one arm across her chest, and let the fingers of her other hand fall on the gem around her neck.

Then she pulled it free and rolled it around in her fingers, touching it to her bare skin for only the second time.

He felt when it burnt her. Felt the shock and unease ripple through her emotions. Felt when she recognized the link, reached out, and…

It was like looking across a crowded room full of strangers and unexpectedly meeting the eyes of someone he knew.

She reached through the bond, and she saw him. Or at least she saw his presence. Not his physical form, but the truth of his power and his heritage—the magic that scalded his very bones, straining to be free.

And he, in return, saw hers. Oh, she scrambled to hide it. After that initial moment where her mind blazed up in recognition, her presence seemed to stagger away from his, reeling with shock.

But they were too closely linked now for her to hide from him completely.

He could almost watch as her magic tucked itself into a ball and rolled into the corner of her mind, out of sight, feigning harmlessness.

Naturally, she didn’t want him to know she was a mage.

But there was more—more than shock, fear, or the desire to protect herself.

The Raven felt a new emotion swell and burn as it grew and overwhelmed her fear.

Rage. Like a quiet fire in her mind. Not at him, which, for no reason he could name, struck him as amusing. She was angry at Vaniell, for giving her the gem. For linking her to someone without her consent. And she was furious with…

She dropped the gem, and the link with her mind faded. Too soon. The Raven experienced an unreasonable sense of irritation at his inability to determine exactly who she’d been most angry with.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said finally, almost mechanically. She was obviously still disturbed. “But I’m quite well, as you can see. Merely distressed by all the interruptions to my rest.”

The princess had an odd definition of “rest.”

She was also pretending nothing had happened. Hoping, perhaps, that he was unaware of what she had just experienced?

Before the Raven could decide whether to challenge her further, the sounds from the hall outside came to a stop outside the door. The princess’s fingers tightened in her dressing gown, just as whoever was out there decided to use their fists to indicate their desire to enter.

Lady Piperell winced, but glanced at the princess for instructions before moving.

“I suppose you may let them in,” Evaraine said with a sigh.

She appeared calm, but her grip on her dressing gown had not eased. Probably wondering whether the guards would insist on searching her room. Especially once they discovered the Raven had returned to confront her himself.

The moment Lady Piperell opened the door, a handful of guards pressed in, almost causing the older woman to stumble with their abrupt entry. The princess took a step back, as if frightened by their armed presence. Then again, she probably was. With as many secrets as she had to hide, it was a wonder she could face them so innocently.

“We believe there may be an intruder hiding somewhere on this level,” one of the guardsmen said, addressing himself to Lady Piperell. “We’re searching all the rooms, and we’ll need to question Her Highness.”

“I do not give permission for you to violate my privacy,” Evaraine objected, her voice shaking audibly.

The Raven did not think she was pretending—the stench of her fear was growing stronger. Still, her face revealed nothing but what might be expected of a shy yet determined princess who’d been pressed past what she was willing to endure.

“I am a guest, and princess of Farhall,” she continued, “and this is the second time I have been importuned this evening. If His Majesty’s guards continue to treat me with such discourtesy, I will have no choice but to make official objections. I’m sure my father would not wish me to be subjected to such an unseemly uproar.”

Technically, His Majesty King Melger could do whatever he wanted. He’d already proven that many times over.

But the Raven couldn’t help but feel some reluctant admiration for her audacity. She had no allies here, and she was hiding secrets so explosive, they could easily result in her death. He guessed she could not afford for them to search her room, but there was no one she could count on to take her side.

She’d seen him on the balcony. She had to be wondering whether he meant to betray her secrets.

And he could. Perhaps he should. But again, that curiosity raised its head, and the Raven found himself reacting in the strangest way.

He pivoted to face the guards and drew his sword, letting his stance say very clearly what his silence couldn’t.

His place was to protect the princess.

The shock of that silenced the entire room. The guards looked at each other as if trying to decide whether it was worth their lives to continue carrying out their orders, while the Raven felt the pressure of the princess’s eyes as she stared at his back.

Hopefully, she was as confused as he was.

Because this was not the work of King Melger’s compulsion. After so many years, the Raven knew too well the feeling of his decisions coming under another’s control. Knew what it felt like when his very muscles rebelled against his own commands.

This action he had chosen for himself. And he had no idea why.

“Your Highness, it is simply a precaution…” Whatever the guardsman had been about to say died on his lips as the Raven took a single step towards him. If nothing else, he had always enjoyed terrorizing the king’s flunkies.

“I’m sure we can entrust the security of this suite to His Majesty’s bodyguard,” one of the other guards said hastily. “My apologies for disrupting your rest.”

They bowed and backed away carefully. Once the door had finally shut behind them, Lady Piperell collapsed into one of the chairs, her head shaking slowly.

“I can’t imagine what that could have been about. But to see him standing up to them…” Her eyes widened abruptly as she glanced up at the Raven, obviously embarrassed to be caught talking about him while he was still there to hear her. Like everyone else in the palace, she never seemed quite sure whether to treat him like a person. Most of the time, he scarcely noticed anymore, but today, for some reason, it bothered him.

“Your Highness,” Lady Piperell said, turning to the princess, “may I assist you in returning to your rest?”

“No, thank you.” Evaraine offered her a tremulous smile. “My nerves are quite overwrought, and I am so weary, I’m sure I will simply fall into bed and be asleep in moments.”

Overwrought nerves? The Raven found himself struggling with an unaccountable desire to laugh. The woman who had only recently leaped over a balcony railing into the middle of a royal ball could hardly be feeling intimidated by a brief confrontation with a few inept royal guards.

But Lady Piperell seemed to take the princess’s statement as fact. She rose silently, curtsied, and disappeared into the small room where she’d presumably been sleeping until a short time earlier.

That left Evaraine and the Raven regarding one another with what seemed to be equal degrees of curiosity.

Until the princess opened her mouth.

“Thank you,” she said. Her words were soft and tentative, as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was thanking him for.

But it hardly mattered. Yet again, she’d confounded him, and because she wore Vaniell’s gem, it was impossible to doubt her sincerity. Her simple words pierced his defenses—she was genuinely grateful, and yet still unsure…

Then he saw her lifting one hesitant finger towards the jewel still resting on the lapel of her dressing gown. When she touched it gently, it still burned her. He could feel her discomfort, but she pressed past it, back to the point where his magic and hers seemed able to regard one another.

And then she pressed still further, until she found… him.

She saw him—not his magic this time, but his very self. And she felt him, in the same way he could feel her, and it startled him so profoundly that he lashed out.

He confronted her so swiftly that she barely had time to leap away, could only scramble backward until her back collided with the wall.

Holding her pinned with his invisible gaze, he stalked nearer, knowing only that he needed to frighten the princess into retreating and never coming that close again. No one could ever be allowed to see, to know, what he was. What he’d become. The darkness he’d been compelled to embrace.

The truth of his slavery was too ugly, and it made him furious to think that she might have sensed it.

But even once she stopped, unable to back away any farther, he kept moving forward. Kept moving nearer. He could see the tremor in her chin. Hear the panicked breaths she tried to contain.

Until suddenly, her panic seemed to drain away.

Even with him looming over her, she’d somehow relinquished her terror.

Or was she only pretending?

The Raven drew in a deep breath through his nose, bracing himself against the stench of her fear, but it was completely gone.

What could have happened?

Her green eyes raised to meet the slits in his mask and her eyebrows drew down in what looked startlingly like annoyance.

“Stop that,” she snapped.

The Raven regarded her with stunned surprise.

“I very much appreciate you stepping in to stop those guards, but I won’t be smelled like I’m something you might prefer to eat.”

Good grief, she didn’t actually think he ate people, did she? That rumor had certainly made the rounds more than once, but her lack of fear indicated she didn’t take it seriously.

She touched her finger to the gem again, and this time, their connection was nearly instantaneous. She was curious. Frustrated. Exhausted. And… not remotely intimidated.

And he couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t fully grasp it, let alone decide how he ought to respond.

But he could at least acknowledge that to an outside observer, there would undoubtedly be something amusing about the picture they presented—a tiny, slender princess glaring up at a giant, nightmare warrior without a trace of fear.

As if she could command him with a twitch of her finger.

But the true difficulty was, so long as she wore that gem, she probably could. And if she ever discovered that potential?

It hurt him to think of it.

He didn’t even know why, only that it made him recoil inside to think of her learning what the gem was actually capable of.

“I should… I should retire,” she said, stuttering slightly and looking away. As if recalling that he was supposed to make her nervous, and that shy, magic-less Evaraine should be justifiably terrified of a creature like him.

“Will you be staying in here or standing guard outside?” she asked, then sucked in a quick breath as her entire expression changed. “Wait, when do you sleep? Will someone be taking your watch for part of the night, or do you just…” Her voice trailed off.

And yet again, the Raven experienced surprise.

She was concerned for him. She should be shaking in terror of her own predicament, but she was worried about whether he actually slept.

He took a step back, then another. It was time for him to leave, before they went any further down this bizarre road.

“You do sleep, don’t you?” she asked.

Even if he could have answered, there was nothing he could have said—no way to explain the nightmare of his existence. So he only continued to retreat until he reached the door. Pulled it open and left the room, closing it behind him with what he hoped was sufficient finality to put an end to her painful questions.

Neither of them would have liked the answers.

CHAPTER 10

L eisa didn’t manage much in the way of sleep that night. She was too unsettled. Too…

She couldn’t even begin to name what she was feeling. Couldn’t have said why she no longer felt afraid of her intimidating bodyguard.

But for some reason, even as he’d stalked her with that focused, intentional grace—like some giant predator—and smelled her as if she were food, her fear had vanished.

Maybe because she’d finally heard him breathing. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how greatly she’d feared that there was no real and living man within the armor. But as she heard the hiss of air drawn in through the mask he wore, something within her had loosened in relief.

She should still be afraid. After all, at this point, there was no denying that he knew at least some of her secrets—more than enough to betray her to King Melger.

But how could she be afraid now that she guessed the truth—that he was even more a prisoner here than she was.

The second time her skin brushed against that gem, once she pushed past the heat, she’d known. She’d felt him, and oh dear gods, he was like a furnace. She could have closed her eyes and pointed to him a hundred miles away. It was as if someone had encased the burning heart of a star in that armor and then sealed it off so that somehow, the power could never be unleashed.

That much magic… Leisa couldn’t even comprehend it. In comparison, her own was a mere spark against the raging heat of a forge. Who—or what—gave that dark armor its form? How could anyone have captured him, let alone contained him and forced him to do their bidding? And what was Prince Vaniell really playing at, because there was no way in all Abreia that he didn’t know what he’d given her.

This gem, this innocent diamond pendant, was anything but. It was a magical link between her and the Raven, and gods help her, she had no idea how it worked. She could feel him, yes, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

He could almost undoubtedly feel her in return. But how much could he see? What did he know? If he saw too much, all of her secrets would be instantly laid bare. He would know that she had magic.

Was that why Vaniell had done it? To ferret out her secrets? But if it was, why had the Raven not revealed the truth of her late-night activities?

He had to suspect she wasn’t who she claimed to be. But he not only seemed to be keeping that information to himself, he’d also defended her against the king’s guards.

What had Lady Piperell said? That if he’d been commanded to guard her, he would be unable to harm her in any way? He’d followed her, that much was certain, but perhaps it had not been because he intended to apprehend her. Even if he suspected her of spying, it was possible that he still had no choice but to protect her.

And if this line of reasoning was correct, how far did his compulsion extend? He might not be able to harm her physically, but would he be loyal enough to Melger (or enspelled enough) to eventually tell the king what he knew about her nocturnal activities?

As she tossed and turned through the early morning hours, Leisa only grew more deeply unnerved by the situation, and by the reality that she had no one to trust. There was no one she could even ask for information.

But in the midst of her worries, she realized that she’d also set a new task for herself.

She had to know more about the Raven—about who he was and how he came to be here.

She’d felt him. And not merely his presence—through the link forged by the gem, she’d become aware of his frustration, his suspicion, even his curiosity. Suddenly, it was incredibly important to her to determine whether she was correct in believing him a prisoner. Was it still possible that the Raven was simply another of King Melger’s servants? Or was he a living, breathing person who’d been magically enslaved to serve without question and, apparently, even without rest?

The answer mattered immensely.

It mattered in part because Leisa refused to benefit from anyone’s torment. Even if he was a criminal, such treatment was cruel and inhumane. But it also mattered to her because of what it said about Melger, and about Vaniell.

As king, Melger obviously knew the nature and identity of his bodyguard. He had to know of the immense magical power that was contained within that faceless armor. Which suggested that she was right—Melger was unlikely to allow that much power to roam unchecked, so it was looking more and more probable that the Raven was, in fact, an unwilling slave to the king’s will.

But Vaniell’s gift of the gem suggested that he also knew, and was therefore complicit in whatever had been done to the Raven.

And even if Leisa were willing to lay aside what this meant for the Raven himself (which she was most assuredly not), the discovery, if proven true, had immense implications for her purposes here.

If this was how Garimore treated mages, they could never be allowed to set foot in the kingdom of Farhall, let alone gain power over its people. The result would be unthinkable, and Leisa would gladly devote her every remaining breath to preventing that from coming to pass.

Before anyone entered her room the following morning, Leisa took care to have all incriminating evidence of her late-night wanderings concealed in their original hiding places. And once her three maids did appear, it took something in the neighborhood of forever for them to bustle around setting up tea and pastries, applying cosmetics to conceal the evidence of her mostly sleepless night, and then doing something unspeakable to her hair.

By the time Lady Piperell arrived, Leisa was almost presentable. But only because she’d insisted on one of her own gowns—a green one for her royal visit. The dress they’d originally intended for her to wear had been… as unspeakable as her hair.

Lady Piperell smiled when she saw the results. “That gown suits you,” she said simply. “I’ve brought your schedule for the day, if you’d care to look over it. Should there be anything that you wish to discuss or amend, I would be happy to be of service, as it will be part of my duties to oversee your daily activities.”

“How very… formal,” Leisa said wryly. “But I would very much prefer it be a part of your duties to explain to me what I am to expect. My visit here can hardly be said to have been planned for my own amusement.” She caught a hint of chagrin in the older woman’s glance, but it was quickly buried.

“Of course not,” Lady Piperell responded hastily. “As soon as you are ready, I will go over each of your appointments to prepare you for the people you will most likely meet and the expectations that will accompany your presence.”

“Is…” Leisa almost asked about the Raven, but stopped herself. A princess would probably not normally express such interest in the life of a bodyguard, so she would simply have to wait to see for herself whether he was still at his post in the hall outside her rooms.

Glancing over the list that Lady Piperell handed over, she noted one glaring omission.

“I believe someone has overlooked my first responsibility—to oversee the departure of my retinue for Farhall.” Not that Leisa had expected differently, but on this point, she was unwilling to budge. Giving ground on the matter of Farhall’s sovereignty over her own citizens was no way to begin an alliance.

When she saw an uncomfortable look cross Lady Piperell’s face, it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what had happened.

“They’re gone, aren’t they?”

Lady Piperell folded her hands, dropped her eyes, and nodded.

And after Leisa had specifically stated her intention to bid them farewell herself. Was this King Melger’s way of gaining his revenge for her minor victory the night before?

Princesses did not grind their teeth together—or so she supposed—nor did they take out their frustration on persons who were not in the least to blame. But she did need some way of making Farhall’s displeasure known to King Melger.

Ah. The first meeting of the day. Evaraine was to attend the king in his council chambers to discuss the details of the marriage agreement. How fortuitous. After that, she was scheduled for a stroll through the gardens with Prince Vaniell, then a formal luncheon with Queen Portiana. During the afternoon, she was to be allowed a brief rest, then was expected to endure a dissertation on Garimore’s economy from the Minister of Finance, followed by a dress fitting for a formal ballgown. The evening would be occupied by a private dinner with the royal family and culminate in a masqued ball.

If she had actually been Evaraine, she would never have been able to manage such an exhausting parade of events. Leisa wasn’t sure she could manage it herself.

“Very well,” she said, forcing a smile. “Perhaps we should make haste. It appears His Majesty is expecting me shortly, and I would like to get a better idea of the layout of the palace on our way.”

Lady Piperell appeared relieved that her charge did not intend to argue or press the issue of her retainers’ overhasty departure.

“I would be pleased to escort you to the council chamber by way of several of the palace’s most popular sights,” she said, coming to her feet and smiling graciously. “The sculpture hall and portrait gallery are quite impressive, as is the mosaic of the founding of the Five Thrones.”

“Perhaps we should settle for seeing just one.” Leisa rose from her seat and shook the wrinkles from her green satin skirt. “I fear I become exhausted easily and wouldn’t wish to ruin the day by missing any of my appointments.”

They left the room, and Leisa felt a brief, odd surge of apprehension as they stepped out into the hall…

The Raven was still there. And suddenly she wasn’t sure whether she’d been feeling apprehension or anticipation. She almost reached for the necklace but kept her hands at her sides by gripping her skirt.

Leisa’s mouth opened to tell him where they were going, but she was saved from the error by Lady Piperell, who headed blithely off down the hall, assuming he would follow.

“He can’t guard me today,” Leisa insisted in a low voice as they walked. “He’s been awake all night. My own guards are very capable, so there’s no reason for him to be forced to remain alert for this long.”

Lady Piperell shot her an odd look. “I don’t… I don’t think he sleeps,” she said uncomfortably. “Or rather, I don’t think he sleeps very much. I’m certain His Majesty knows what his guard’s limitations are and will ensure they are not exceeded. Your safety is his primary concern, I assure you.”

So Leisa had erred once again. Most likely, Lady Piperell would expect a real princess, when confronted with a bodyguard who never slept, to express concern for the risk to her own safety rather than to her bodyguard’s health.

But in this case, Leisa didn’t really care whether the other woman approved of her concern or not. She was stuck with her bodyguard, and he with her. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t show him compassion—treat him as a reasoning being, with thoughts and fears and needs. Leisa couldn’t imagine the isolation of having spent years with everyone acting as though he were invisible. Maybe he preferred it that way, but it seemed wrong to make such an assumption.

And she knew all too well that a bodyguard couldn’t possibly be expected to subsist on little to no sleep. He would need to be awake and alert enough to counter threats to the body he guarded. When there were guests in the palace and she was the primary guard for Princess Evaraine, she was never expected to remain on duty for longer than six hours.

So while Lady Piperell might be sure of King Melger’s intentions—and her charge’s security—what Leisa was feeling was far from certainty. It was more like pity. Or at least concern. For a giant, scary, magical assassin who had dropped her on her head only… yesterday. That had been yesterday.

The next few weeks were going to last an eternity.

Lady Piperell led the way to Leisa’s first appointment by way of the portrait gallery, which proved to be mostly filled with unimaginative paintings of past members of the royal family, all looking as stiff as humanly possible.

Leisa had to admit that the official portraits of the current princes were quite detailed and true to life, obviously the work of a painter who knew his subjects well. Danric’s expression held a stoic certainty of purpose, while Vaniell’s lips curved with some secret mockery. As she pondered his portrait, she wondered anew—just how much keen intelligence could he be hiding behind an elaborate pretense?

Melger’s portrait, on the other hand, seemed to be the work of a different, less talented artist. It was an older painting, certainly, of a younger king with less gray in his beard and fewer lines on his face. But the real Melger’s eyes seemed to burn with some inner fervor, while the painted one merely appeared cold. Withdrawn. Still regal, but in a stiff and distant way, where the man himself was commanding.

As she gazed up at the trio, it struck her that while Danric and Vaniell were clearly brothers, Vaniell did not resemble his father in the slightest. His mother’s elegant features were even more striking on his pale, masculine face, but there was nothing of Melger’s kingly gravity.

Was that why his father held him in such contempt? Because the two men were nothing alike? Or was it merely the prince’s dissolute habits that drove a wedge between them?

As they continued through the portrait hall, a small collection of landscapes caught her eye, clustered together as they were in an out of the way spot. One, in particular, drew her attention, differing as it did from those around it in nearly every way.

Most of the paintings were of clearly Garimoran scenery—fertile fields, green orchards, gently rolling hills, and gracious country estates. This one…

Well, it was a palace, but one unlike any she had ever seen or imagined. Built of gleaming red stone, it towered and loomed and grew to impossible heights, and the artist had somehow made it even more menacing than its size would suggest. Armies crowded the plains below its gates, while storm clouds obscured the sky, allowing only a single ray of light to fall on the highest tower.

Leisa shuddered almost involuntarily. If someone had undertaken to paint a nightmare, she imagined it might look like this.

“What is this one of?” she asked, as innocently as possible. “It’s quite dark. Almost frightening, I should think.”

“That?” Lady Piperell frowned. “I believe King Melger brought it back from one of his journeys to the east.”

East? Straight east was Eddris. Of the Five Thrones, they were more isolated than any but Farhall, and kept mostly to themselves. A kingdom of hunters and foresters, Eddris butted up against the nearly impassable Yllian Mountains and shared a brief stretch of border with the shapeshifting night elves. The red palace was most certainly not in Eddris, nor did Eddrisians have a reputation for harboring many gifted artisans.

Perhaps Lady Piperell meant further east, but east of Eddris were the mountains. Past the mountains was the sea, and past the sea?

The Zulleri Empire.

Leisa could easily believe this scene might exist in a place that still haunted Abreians, hundreds of years after their ancestors escaped it. But where would King Melger have gotten the painting? And why place it in his portrait gallery?

As they moved past, she happened to look back and saw the Raven, for once not watching her. His head was turned, and if he had eyes, they were trained on the same painting that had captured her attention.

If she touched the gem around her neck, would she be able to tell what he was thinking? Perhaps get a glimpse of what attracted him to that work more than any of the others? Or would she simply find out that his suspicions of Farhall’s princess drove him to inspect anything that drew her attention in hopes of ferreting out the truth of her intentions?

Leisa’s curiosity dimmed somewhat when she saw her suitor awaiting them just outside the gallery. He appeared delighted to see her—far more delighted than their current relationship could explain.

“A beautiful morning,” he exclaimed cheerfully, taking Leisa’s hand and pressing it to his lips. Ugh. As gloves were not considered proper for informal occasions, she’d gone without, so there was nothing to prevent her from feeling his kiss on her knuckles. “I see you are wearing my gift.” His smile, when he wished it to be, was gorgeous. “You have no notion of how happy that makes me, my dear Evaraine.”

Leisa swallowed her protests that she was not his dear anything. “Did I perhaps misunderstand what such a token represents?” she asked hesitantly. “By wearing it, I am making no statement of my position on our engagement or this alliance.”

“Of course not!” He released her hand. “You are merely demonstrating that, at present, my suit continues to be acceptable.”

“Ah.”

His head cocked to one side as his eyes met hers, this time with a sharp, calculating edge. “Forgive me if it seems presumptuous, but you seem to have gained somewhat in confidence since yesterday. Have you perhaps grown comfortable enough with our court that you find yourself imagining a future role here?”

So he’d noticed. Leisa kicked herself in her metaphorical shins as she considered whether to revert to her shy, backwoods self, or come up with an explanation for her newfound assurance. She supposed she could claim that exhaustion had muddled her thinking and made her reckless, but if her experience so far was any indication, she was likely to spend most of her time here in a state of perpetual exhaustion. Was there really any point in continuing the charade?

“Perhaps,” she hedged. “Or perhaps I simply find myself more comfortable in the role I already possess. I might be shy, your highness, but I hope that is not all I am.”

And suddenly, Vaniell’s smile was at its most brilliant. “My most exquisite Princess Evaraine,” he said softly. “I hope that too.”

Their eyes met, and his suddenly blazed up with a fiery purpose, entirely at odds with the flippant, lazy persona he typically exuded. For whatever reason, he truly did hope Evaraine was more than she appeared, and Leisa couldn’t decide whether that should engender confidence or heart failure.

She wasn’t the only one hiding things.

Prince Vaniell reverted to form quickly enough as he escorted Leisa to the council chamber for her audience with King Melger, chatting inanely about everything they saw and everyone they encountered.

Much to Leisa’s disgust and dismay, she found not only the king, but also his heir awaiting them in the large, elegantly furnished chamber, though his council was, thankfully, absent. The Garimorans seemed impatient to begin, and as a footman offered her an exquisitely uncomfortable chair, she recalled the mention of Danric she’d overheard the night before. What had they said? That they wouldn’t want to risk Vaniell being the first to produce an heir?

Perhaps she could understand their concerns for the succession, but so far as she knew, no rumor of the older prince’s engagement had yet crossed the border. Though if Melger were planning further alliances, he might not want rumors to taint his present negotiations. If he indeed intended to bind two of the Five Thrones to Garimore through marriage, the action would only add urgency to the whispered speculation that he harbored imperial aspirations.

“Finally,” King Melger said, seating himself without a word of greeting. “I don’t see any reason to dither on the issues at hand. Do you or King Soren have any questions or concerns regarding the marriage contract?”

Leisa glanced at Vaniell, but he was seating himself by her side and appeared entirely unconcerned with the conversation.

“I was not given to understand that I would be expected to negotiate on my own behalf,” she replied, not having to feign her uncertainty. That sort of thing was done by kings and their advisors. She was here to experience the court, to meet Vaniell, and to form her own opinions of the suitability of the alliance, not to decide the fate of the kingdom.

“A monarch must always be prepared to lead,” King Melger said impatiently. “And to know what will best serve his or her kingdom in the future. I trust you’ve at least read the contract and know what it contains.”

“I… yes.” He was trying to fluster her, she decided. And it was working. But she wasn’t yet ready to give up the ground she’d gained the night before, and it was time to remind him of that. “But before we discuss the contract, there is another matter that I feel must be settled between our kingdoms—a breach of sovereignty that I must admit I find troubling.”

Melger’s air of impatience sharpened into a near-predatory focus. “You wish to discuss last night?” His lips thinned for a moment, as he seemed to consider how best to respond. “Perhaps that is something better left to negotiation between myself and your father. I was willing to allow a certain degree of latitude, considering your youth and inexperience, but this is hardly the time or the place for us to enter into petty wrangling over some imagined slight. Perhaps you cannot be expected to understand the realities of keeping a kingdom secure, but there is time for you to learn, if you are willing to accept the advice of those who have come by their wisdom through painful experience.”

In her head, Leisa pushed King Soren into the nonexistent moat and then threw a half-dozen or so razor-beaked turtles in after him. A bodyguard shouldn’t have to deal with this sort of thing. Did she defend Farhall’s sovereignty? Maintain her retiring demeanor? Refute Melger outright? Or bury her dagger in the table between them and declare war?

She was pretty sure that last bit was out, but honestly, none of this had been any part of her original assignment. A social visit, they’d called it.

Hah.

“As you said, Your Majesty, a monarch must always be prepared, and must know what will best serve his or her kingdom in the future.” Leisa kept her tone respectful, and her hands folded in her lap so they wouldn’t twitch. “Perhaps my father would choose otherwise, but by sending me here, he has indicated his trust in us both—in Garimore, to treat me as an extension of Farhall herself, and in me, to represent Farhall with honor. If I did not demonstrate my willingness to defend my subjects, I would consider myself to have behaved with cowardice and displayed a lack of respect for the confidence that has been placed in me.”

Oh, he didn’t like that at all. If Melger had been even a particle less kingly, he probably would have been sputtering in outrage. Possibly even dissolved into apoplexy. Perhaps she shouldn’t have thrown his own words back in his face, but when a man handed her the perfect weapon to use against him, it would be downright ungrateful to pass up the opportunity.

Except now King Melger wasn’t the only one subjecting her to further scrutiny. Prince Danric was staring as though she’d grown a second head. Take that, Mr. “Hasn’t a Scrap of Backbone.”

The only one enjoying the conversation? That would be Vaniell, who rested his chin in one hand and looked from one face to the next as though he were considering selling tickets.

“And how exactly do you feel it necessary to ‘defend your subjects?’” Prince Danric demanded.

Evaraine would never have been able to hold his accusatory gaze, so perhaps it was just as well Leisa was not her.

“I do not pretend to know how such things are viewed in Garimore, but in Farhall, we would never presume to give orders to the personal servants of a member of visiting royalty. Nor would we dismiss them without a word, nor deny a guest access to her own guard upon request. And we most certainly would not eject them from the country unaided, unthanked, and in complete disregard of said guest’s requests to bid them farewell in person.”

“They were ready to leave,” Danric said coolly. “I could hardly force them to wait while you sipped your tea and dallied over your choice of a morning frock.”

Leisa had never thought to be thankful to King Melger, but it was only his interruption that saved her from a probably disastrous outburst. She was on the verge of leaping to her feet and favoring his eldest son with her opinion in extremely unprincess-like terms when the king spoke up. And in an unexpectedly conciliatory tone.

“Perhaps we were a bit hasty.”

Leisa’s jaw threatened to drop as Melger addressed her gravely. “Princess Evaraine, I fear Garimore owes you an apology. You are correct in your protest—you should have been permitted to see your retinue off properly, and I regret forcing you to endure such an unpleasant discussion by ignoring your wishes.” He sighed and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “I pray you will forgive an impatient old man and be willing to give us another chance.”

In Farhall, some of the older generations still believed in the efficacy of temperature shock in driving away winter-sickness. They would smother themselves in blankets, sit by the fire until they were streaming with sweat, then run outside and plunge themselves into a snowbank.

Leisa had always preferred to suffer through the cough and sore throat, but suddenly she felt as though she’d been put through the polite, political version of that rather barbaric cure. From fire to ice with no warning whatsoever.

But what was she to believe? Danric’s icy scorn, or his father’s over-warm apology?

“Apology accepted, of course,” she said graciously. “Perhaps instead of dwelling on what is past, we might briefly discuss how to move forward. My remaining honor guard will be waiting to know how they may continue to serve and what expectations I will have of them.”

It took only a handful of minutes for King Melger to agree to her suggestion that a member of her guard report briefly to her suite each morning. They furthermore concurred that two of the guards should be allowed to attend any official court function at which she was to appear. Melger then waved off her offer for them to share the responsibility of guarding her room at night, and as she was not yet confident enough to broach the subject of whether his pet assassin ever actually slept, she chose not to argue. She’d already won far more concessions than she expected, so perhaps that could wait.

“And now,” King Melger said at length, “regarding the marriage contract, perhaps I have been too hasty in that as well. I’m sure you would wish for more time to accustom yourself to our kingdom before making any decisions about your future with us.”

Prince Danric looked frustrated, but the King was already rising from the table, forcing everyone else to rise with him.

And honestly, Leisa was feeling a bit unsettled herself. Based on her perusal of the marriage contract back in Farhall, she already had any number of questions about what it contained.

For example, it stipulated that Princess Evaraine would be expected to reside in Garimore for at least half the year. Farhall and Garimore would be mutually committed to one another’s defense in cases of foreign aggression, but the requirement was listed in number of troops rather than a percentage of their full fighting force. Should she be called upon to fulfill that promise, Farhall’s ability to defend herself would be nonexistent, while Garimore would only be sacrificing a small portion of her standing armies.

Then there were the economic provisions. Again, in numbers rather than percentages. Trade concessions. Not to mention that the contract included a sneaky little clause that gave Vaniell a say in the governance of Farhall, but no such provision for Evaraine to influence Garimoran policy in any way.

Leisa understood the political realities. Garimore was larger, wealthier, and far more powerful. They were in a position to make demands in exchange for their aid and protection and stood to gain relatively little in return. But for Farhall to surrender any portion of her sovereignty sat ill with her, and she needed to know what Garimore’s posture towards Farhall’s continued self-governance might be.

But apparently, her questions would have to wait.

She curtsied without much thought, realized too late that she’d chosen the wrong one, and then breathed a sigh of relief as she noted that Melger and Danric were already on their way out and hadn’t seen her lapse.

Until a chuckle from Vaniell reminded her that they weren’t her only audience.

“Oh, shove off,” she muttered under her breath, far too quietly for him to hear, only to feel a sudden jolt of unfamiliar emotion.

Or not so unfamiliar. She recognized the feeling—it just hadn’t come from her.

The Raven. He remained behind her chair, silent and inscrutable. Had he heard her? Leisa’s hand rose involuntarily to the gem around her neck and found it once again over-warm to the touch.

She jerked her fingers away before she could feel any more. Perhaps she had only imagined that surge of emotion. Or perhaps it had indeed come from her silent shadow, somehow reaching her through her unwilling connection to the obviously magical artifact. If so, she was going to have to be far more careful what she said, even to herself. In this case, the gem had not been touching her skin directly, so whatever link it had formed might be growing in strength.

Though, she wouldn’t have said the emotion felt like anger. More like… surprise. Possibly even a sort of amusement. Was it possible she had amused the giant, terrifying, magical assassin? And if so, did she want him to be amused?

“What a delightful morning.” Leisa’s suitor quite heedlessly interrupted her thoughts, as he frequently seemed to do. “Would you do me the honor of walking with me, my princess? I believe we are scheduled to view the gardens. Or if you would prefer to avoid the sun, the sculpture hall is almost never crowded.”

No guesses why. Who would want to view what were probably the self-congratulatory likenesses of former Garimoran kings and queens when one was forced to deal with the living ones while she was at it?

No, Leisa found she much preferred the idea of the gardens and the sun. Not the least because she found herself wondering—what would her bodyguard look like in full sunlight?

“I would be delighted to take a tour of the gardens with you.”

CHAPTER 11

A s it turned out, the gardens truly were exquisite. Garimore was known for her agriculture, and it seemed those talents were not limited to fields and orchards. A profusion of flowers in every imaginable color flanked the golden brick paths, all of which appeared to be laid out at precise angles with perfectly tended borders. Not a twig was out of place, even in the hedges, which occasionally grew high enough for privacy.

Personally, Leisa found it a bit sad—sterile, even. A great deal of planning had gone into placing each plant where it would blend with the one next to it, each one a perfect size and shape to contribute to the effect of the whole. But everything was too controlled. Nothing had been allowed to grow wild, and even the trees appeared to be contained in invisible cages.

“You don’t care for the gardens, Princess?”

She turned to Vaniell, offering him her most gracious smile. “I would far rather you address me as Evaraine, Your Highness, and I find the gardens quite competently tended. Your gardeners are to be commended.”

“Which is not the same thing as liking them,” he observed. “Tell me what bothers you. There are many ways for us to learn more about one another, and I wish to understand your preferences.”

“And what will you do with that knowledge once you have it?” Leisa asked bluntly. “To be quite frank, I have already observed several of your preferences, and I find them disturbing. Do you ask about my opinions so that you can mock them or so that you can pretend to share them?”

Vaniell concealed his surprise well, but his steps slowed for a moment. “I can’t imagine what you mean, Evaraine.” Then he stopped entirely and took her hand. “How can I prove to you that I am as committed to this relationship as you would wish me to be?”

She looked into his inscrutable dark eyes, really looked, and admitted to herself that whoever this man was, and whatever he actually wanted, he was far more experienced in this game than she. He’d probably been manipulating courtiers since he was five, with his sparkling good looks and charming manners. He committed to nothing, gave nothing, but implied everything. Had he truly accepted the necessity of this marriage, or was he hoping to find a way out of it?

“Your Highness,” Leisa replied after a moment’s thought, only to have him interrupt her with a gentle brush of his fingers against her cheek.

“Please. Call me Vaniell.”

She fought her gag reflex and won. But barely.

“Vaniell, we both know that you consider me beneath you. Farhall is small, isolated, and unsophisticated in comparison to Garimore, and I bring little to this arrangement in terms of material gains.”

He began what she suspected would be an elegant denial, but she didn’t give him the chance to lie.

“There is no use pretending that you would be either loyal or faithful to me. I am perfectly aware of your reputation, and was treated to an exhibition of your habits last night. But I was raised to know my duty to Farhall and will not balk due to something so commonplace as dissolution. In truth, there would be no reason for your drinking or womanizing to affect me once we were married.”

This time, she had genuinely shocked him.

“Evaraine, I would never…”

“Save your breath,” Leisa told him. “Consider this part of your lesson in my preferences. I might be unsophisticated and hopelessly gauche, but you will never need doubt what I am thinking. Nor should you doubt that I am quite well aware of what you think of me and my kingdom. So if you want to prove to me that you are committed to an alliance, there is truly only one thing I require from you, and that is a little plain speaking in return.”

This might not work. But there was so much she needed to know, and she doubted King Melger would be honest with her. Vaniell wasn’t as committed to the political necessity of the match as his father was, nor did he seem to despise her quite as thoroughly as his brother. Plus, there was the matter of that necklace. He’d gifted her with an obviously magical object, and she refused to believe he could have done so out of ignorance.

“Of course, I will do my best, my dear Evaraine, but…”

“What is Garimore’s stance towards mages, Vaniell?”

His recoil was a trained, calculated thing, but he betrayed himself by the briefest glance towards Leisa’s chest. As he had not done so at any point before gifting her the necklace, she rather doubted he had suddenly developed a fascination with her decidedly unspectacular bosom.

“Why would you ask about mages?” He shuddered theatrically, but then, Vaniell did many things theatrically.

She quite deliberately did not answer.

“My dear princess, whatever my kingdom’s position towards mages may be, it is well known that you, yourself, are not magical in any way. There is no need for concern.”

Leisa let him suffer for another moment, then struck out along the path at a measured pace, forcing him to follow.

“Perhaps not,” she allowed, “but as your father so wisely said, a monarch must always be prepared, and must know what will best serve his or her kingdom in the future.” She was going to make all of them regret that piece of condescending drivel—over and over again. “Farhall is home to many mages, as well as a fair number of non-human magic users, and I would consider it inexcusably shortsighted if I failed to consider their well-being.”

“Their well-being?” Vaniell echoed, as if confused by the concept.

“Are mages or non-humans being persecuted by Garimore?”

The words were barely out of her mouth when an invisible horse kicked her in the chest.

Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Leisa stumbled as Vaniell’s head whipped around to face her, but she didn’t even get a chance to gloat at the shock in his eyes. She couldn’t even breathe. Her head spun, completely disoriented by a surge of emotion so powerful it almost knocked her off her feet. Her chest ached as the path seemed to undulate beneath her, and she wobbled, dizzily, leaning closer and closer to the ground…

Inevitably, she lost the fight. The hedge rushed up to meet her, but somehow she didn’t quite fall into it.

Instead, she hovered in the air for a moment before finding herself clasped against a very broad, very strong, very armor-clad masculine chest.

Oh, sweet mother of Abreia, the Raven had caught her again.

“Don’t drop me,” Leisa squeaked involuntarily, and then froze, because the giant, scary, magical assassin was touching her, and she had no idea what to think or what to feel. Her face was inches from that dark and featureless mask, which, in full sun, was not as featureless as she’d supposed. She could see delicate etchings in its surface—the artwork of some diabolical metalsmith—and wondered what might be hidden beneath the edges of that hood. If she pulled it back, would she see the shape of his ears and the color of his hair? Or had that too been hidden?

As they all remained motionless for that handful of seconds, Leisa became aware of the unmistakable rise and fall of the Raven’s chest as he held her. She felt a scalding heat from the gem around her neck, accompanied by a sense of intense, unwavering focus. Was he merely concerned for her well-being? Or had something about her words caught his attention?

And if so, what was it?

Her heart was racing madly, and she found herself still struggling to draw a breath. This close, everything about her bodyguard was overwhelming. His presence seemed to surround her, his focus pressing in on her mind and her magic alike. He was too strong. Too close. Too… too much.

“Put me down,” she said breathlessly, and he complied, fortunately, less abruptly than the time before. Her feet hit the brick path, and she wobbled for a moment before she was able to look up at Vaniell with a wide-eyed smile.

“Well, that was embarrassing.”

He continued to stare.

“I’ve always been a bit clumsy. Lucky for me that His Majesty’s bodyguard is quick on his feet.”

“Lucky,” Vaniell repeated.

“Anyway”—Leisa brushed at her skirts and tried to sound normal—“to return to the question at hand, I wish to know whether the rumors are true. Does Garimore actively persecute those who practice magic?”

Inside, however, she was screaming a different question. What was this gem around her neck, and why had Vaniell bestowed it on her? Had it been the gem itself that blasted her the moment she asked about the persecution of mages? Or the one the gem seemed to link her to? And why would he have reacted that strongly to her question?

But Leisa still couldn’t afford for Vaniell—or anyone else—to find out that she was affected by it. Because Evaraine, bless her, wouldn’t have felt a thing. Was that why he’d given it to her? Because Evaraine didn’t have any magic and shouldn’t have been able to feel that inexplicable link with the king’s bodyguard? Because then the Raven would be able to follow her easily without her ever being the wiser?

“That’s quite a complicated question,” Vaniell said, falling into step beside Leisa as she moved off down the path once more, somehow not glancing behind her at her ever-more-perplexing shadow. “Garimore is not necessarily concerned with the actions of all mages, merely those who have the greatest capacity for evil. Those who could potentially misuse their powers and endanger everyone around them.”

“Potentially misuse?” she echoed. “Isn’t the potential misuse of power a trait that we all share, magical or otherwise?”

“Ah, but there are some who, historically, have more often turned to evil,” Vaniell explained earnestly. “Mages are far more likely than normal humans to attempt to control or enslave others. It is simply common sense to keep them under careful containment, especially those with talents that originate in darkness.”

Leisa swallowed her horror at this casual display of ignorance and prejudice.

“Such as?” If the prince noted her glacial tone, he gave no sign of it.

“Boundary mages,” he said, leaning towards her and speaking quietly as though he’d said something terrible. “My father says their kind traffic in death.”

She couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping open. “Do you actually know anything about the different types of magecraft?” She might have sounded a teeny bit condescending, but how could she help it? He was being utterly idiotic.

“Of course.” Vaniell favored her with a pitying glance. “I know that life force mages derive their power naturally, from living things. That they align themselves with one particular source, such as spirit, animals, nature, or the self. That there is a limit to their power because they cannot cross boundaries, such as the boundary between life and death.”

Fair enough, if simplistic. He’d also left blood off the list, but it wasn’t like reminding him that mages could derive power from blood was going to help her at this point.

“Boundary mages,” he continued, in an unmistakably superior tone, “thrive in moments of pain and darkness. Birth, death, fire, and war. Catastrophes, such as storms or earthquakes. They derive their power from suffering and chaos.”

That part was only half true. “Boundary mages don’t have any more affinity for suffering and chaos than you do,” Leisa snapped. “Nor do they enslave people for fun, as you seem to think. They derive their power from places where one thing passes into another. When new life comes into the world, when another life passes from it, where calm becomes tempest, or where one substance passes from physical existence into a blaze of light and heat. These moments produce a surge of magical energy that can be used, and they are neither specifically good nor specifically evil.”

No magic was. All types of magic, all mages, could go wrong, just as all types could be used to serve others.

“I understand that you’ve been taught to believe such things,” Vaniell said kindly, “but I assure you, my father has traveled widely and seen the truth for himself.”

“And has he traveled past the borders of the Five Thrones?” Leisa asked boldly, recalling the sinister painting in the gallery. “What exactly did he see there?”

“My father has no desire for war,” Vaniell said shrewdly, as if interpreting her thoughts. “His only desire is to protect the people from anyone who may pose a danger to peace.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Vaniell.” She couldn’t let him distract her. “What happens to mages in Garimore? What of elves? Night elves? Huldra? Dwer?”

He made a dismissive sound. “I don’t believe elves or dwer are ever seen here, let alone night elves or huldra. Such creatures are far too dangerous to be allowed to roam within our borders.”

“Dangerous, how?” she retorted. “The elves and the dwer have no interest in conquest! They love beauty and wild places and are too repulsed by human violence to remain near us for long. The huldra might sing their songs and lure a few travelers into remaining in their lands for a while, but they don’t hurt anyone, and it’s simply a part of their nature.”

“And the night elves?” Vaniell asked, a bit mockingly. “What sort of excuse do you make for them? Do you make the same allowances for the gryphons, the wyverns, and the storm cats? Must they be allowed to hunt us because it is simply a part of their nature?”

“Night elves are people,” Leisa said fiercely. “With the same right as Farhall or Garimore to defend their borders and protect themselves.”

“Then you don’t have any objection to them raiding your borders and harming your people?”

“I didn’t say that!” She had wandered past her depth, and she knew it. Vaniell was trying to play her for a fool, talking in circles with his father’s insidious prejudices. “We have been at peace for centuries. If they are raiding now, there is a reason, and a king or queen should always attempt to understand those reasons before she turns to war.”

Vaniell laughed sharply. “Then you would have us reason with a race who regularly take on the shape of animals, the better to hunt us with?”

“They don’t hunt us… I beg your pardon.” Leisa was so angry, she’d stopped paying attention to their surroundings. She was therefore utterly startled when a group of courtiers seemed to suddenly appear on the path ahead of them.

“Your Highness!” Lady Marceline stood at the forefront, wearing the most fabricated expression of surprise Leisa had ever been privileged to witness. “How delightful. We were just taking the air for a few moments before returning to my salon for a light luncheon and some entertainment. Won’t you do us the honor of joining us, my prince?”

Everyone froze for a moment as they took in the full scope of her deliberate rudeness.

“Oh.” She turned to Leisa and let out a titter of fake laughter. “Princess Evaraine. I didn’t see you there. Perhaps it was the color of your dress.” She took a handful of steps forward until she could reach out and stroke Leisa’s sleeve with one perfectly manicured finger. “It’s as if you intended to blend right in with the shrubbery.”

Leisa found herself almost mesmerized by the other woman’s effrontery as her hand reached up again—probably to do something horrifying like pat the princess’s cheek—but it never landed.

Before anyone else could react, before Leisa really even knew what had happened, Lady Marceline’s wrist was gripped in a black leather vise. The Raven had appeared beside her, looming over them both with a menacing posture that very clearly proclaimed his disapproval.

Vaniell let out what Leisa was convinced was an entirely involuntary curse. One of the male courtiers screamed, and Lady Marceline turned the color of fresh snow before swooning in the Raven’s grip.

For a moment, she simply hung there, while he remained unmoving. But he must have gotten tired of it, because he dropped her, just as he’d once dropped Leisa. Lady Marceline’s head, fortunately, hit one of her arms instead of the brick path, and for two or three breaths, everyone just stared at her prone form.

“How unfortunate,” Leisa’s suitor mumbled under his breath, as the fallen woman’s friends knelt at her side. He shot Leisa a glance, and for once, it appeared she had utterly perplexed him. “My dear Evaraine, perhaps we should continue our conversation at some future time.” He let out a sigh that might actually have been genuine. “I will call for assistance for the lady and ensure she is returned to her chambers where a physician can examine her. In the meantime, I’m sure you would prefer to have a moment to prepare for your luncheon with Her Majesty.”

It was not a suggestion. Leisa was being ordered away—as if she were the problem in this scenario.

Perhaps she was. It wasn’t as though any of them had asked to be saddled with a foreign princess. They had their own habits, their own friendships, their own sense of belonging in a world she didn’t understand. Evaraine would always be an intruder, and her presence would create ripples of change throughout every area of their lives.

Leisa decided she probably shouldn’t be too hard on Marceline for wishing her world could go on exactly as it had before Vaniell’s proposed betrothal. She didn’t have to like Marceline—the beautiful courtier had been too cruel and spiteful for that—but she could at least show some pity for what the other woman had lost.

“Yes, thank you,” Leisa said, wondering that she still felt a bit stung by her exclusion from a group she hadn’t wanted to join anyway. “Our conversation need not be concluded immediately. I thank you for your time, Your Highness, and I believe I can find my own way back.”

She didn’t curtsy. Or offer Vaniell any other mark of respect he didn’t deserve. She might have it in her to pity Lady Marceline, but the Prince of Garimore was another matter. Their conversation thus far had chilled her deeply, and until they resolved it to her satisfaction, Leisa would remain in grave doubt that any alliance between their kingdoms was possible.

CHAPTER 12

T  he princess was lost.

Not that long ago, the Raven might not have been able to tell what she was feeling, but the link forged by the gem had grown stronger. He could sense her growing more humiliated by the second.

What he couldn’t understand was how she could have lost her way. After her incredibly effective evasion of half the king’s guards the night before, finding her room in the middle of the day should have been simple.

And why should she be embarrassed when there was no one but a bodyguard to see her?

He heard a small sound in her throat—a groan of frustration he assumed—before she whirled around to face him.

So he stopped, leaving five or six paces between them, and waited, wondering whether he could unnerve her simply by staring.

Somehow, after everything he’d seen, he doubted it. The princess was far more resilient than she wanted people to believe. She was also more politically astute, as her manipulation of Melger proved, but it remained to be seen whether she could outwit the king once he realized she was not so innocent as she pretended.

Evaraine clearly grasped some of the more troubling aspects of this alliance, along with some of the more troubling aspects of Prince Vaniell’s character. She had character enough of her own to care about her people, and courage enough to question Garimore’s plans for their future. She even had enough backbone to challenge the king to his face, which had surprised them both. In the long run, however, that would probably prove to be a mistake. King Melger did not care to be thwarted by anyone, let alone a princess he’d anticipated would remain neatly beneath his dictatorial thumb.

As she stood perhaps six paces away and stared at him, unblinking, the Raven realized it was the first time the two of them had been alone for that long. And as the silence stretched on, the Raven found himself wondering what she was thinking.

He could feel her emotions, yes, at least distantly, but not the thoughts that accompanied them. She was worried. Exhausted. Frustrated. Self-conscious. Curious.

Curious? He focused on that for a moment and realized that her curiosity was just as focused—on him.

It had been so long since anyone dared express curiosity, he found himself momentarily taken aback.

They continued to eye one another before the princess finally broke the silence.

“All right,” she said, crossing her arms tightly in front of her chest. “I admit it. I lied.”

She must be more unnerved than he thought, to just blurt out a confession like that. But as he simply stood and stared, she seemed to take his lack of response as permission to keep talking.

“I have no idea how to get back to my suite. But I couldn’t exactly ask for directions in front of that lot.”

He heard derision in her voice, but her emotions? She felt… hurt. As much as she despised the courtiers, their rejection had wounded her.

It was perplexing, but the Raven sensed that observation would turn out to be important. Whatever mysteries the princess was hiding, a soft heart seemed likely to be one of them.

As evidenced by her concern for his ability to go without sleep. A very un-princesslike query, now that he thought about it. Royalty seemed trained from birth to ignore those beneath them.

Nor was compassion a helpful trait for a spy, and the Raven almost sneered inside his mask. A soft heart would get her nowhere. This world would crush it, and her, as easily as swatting a gnat.

But it explained why she insisted on talking to him. Giving him tea. Treating him like a person. She considered him an object of sympathy.

Obviously, he was going to have to make more of an effort to convince her of the truth. There was nothing about him to like, nothing to pity. Nothing worth her sympathy or her curiosity. But how could he convey those truths when it was his job to protect her life?

“I have an idea,” she said, into the echoing silence of the otherwise empty hall. “What if you were to walk with me instead of skulking along behind me? It would help if you could show me where I’m going, and it isn’t as if you can’t protect me from here.”

When he didn’t move, she added, “And I promise not to tell anyone that you aren’t as scary as you look.”

He supposed it was difficult to be frightened of someone who drank tea and fended off vengeful debutantes.

But why did that now irritate him? Before, he’d been relieved not to have to smell her fear.

He’d spent too much time lingering in confusion, so the princess turned back around and confronted the hall in front of her with a sigh. “What if I promise not to look? I could even shudder and pretend to feel faint if that would make you feel better.”

Was she trying to make a joke? How long had it been since anyone dared joke with him? Or even near him?

Feeling a sudden surge of frustration, the Raven surrendered to the impulse to make her fear him again, as she should.

He moved—swiftly and silently—and when the princess looked back over her shoulder a moment later, he was standing directly behind her.

She yelped, and he felt a surge of surprise through their link. Still no fear.

But how? She couldn’t have heard his approach.

“How do you even do that?” she hissed, looking around as if hoping no one had seen her behave like a startled cat. “A little noise would be nice. Unless you were doing it on purpose…”

She stared at him. He stared back.

“No,” she said firmly. “I refuse to believe it. There is simply no way that a legendary masked assassin is going out of his way to scare me merely for the sake of his own amusement.”

She thought he’d been playing a game? At that point, he nearly spoiled everything by giving in to the unnerving urge to laugh.

It was a close thing, and would have been a grave mistake. There was no way she could have missed feeling that kind of emotion through their link. And what could possibly be funny about this situation anyway?

The princess’s eyes narrowed. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t do that again.” She whirled on her heel and took a single step down the hall. “And you being right behind me is even worse than you lurking ten steps away. Would it be so bad if you just walked beside me?”

So he moved again, soundless as a shadow, to appear in her peripheral vision. Not quite behind her, not quite beside her. She took another step, and he mirrored it.

Suddenly her emotions battered him again, a surge of delight and amusement that nearly rocked him back on his heels.

She knew he was mocking her. And she thought it was hilarious.

“Fine,” she said, a tiny smile lurking at the corner of her mouth. “But I fully intend to blame you if I’m late to the luncheon.”

Not the effect he’d been going for. Laughter wouldn’t keep her safe. A sense of humor wouldn’t help her when the king decided it was time to remove her head.

But something had changed, and in spite of his efforts, she seemed utterly immune to his menacing presence. In fact, she went so far as to tease him.

It was disconcerting. Irritating. It might even have been infuriating if he hadn’t suddenly realized that what he really wanted was for her to tease him again.

Somehow, she’d reached across the silent space between them with that soft heart of hers and made a connection. Become real and knowable. A person he was in danger of… liking.

It was the very last thing he should do. The very last thing he could afford. He had no heart, and any attempt to pretend otherwise would bring only unimaginable pain.

So he drew back and remained in his flanking position as the princess took off down the hall again. When they reached the end of it, he simply pointed to indicate which way they ought to go.

She thanked him, and they went on in this same way for a half dozen turns until they finally approached a stair that triggered recognition across their link. The princess finally knew where she was. One more turn, cross the balcony above the atrium, and she would be almost back to her rooms.

But as they approached the arched opening that led towards the balcony, he heard voices.

Melger. And in the midst of his words, the Raven heard the words “mage,” “monster,” and “hunt.”

And suddenly, he knew only that he couldn’t let the king see them. Couldn’t let Melger link the princess and mages in his head. Not after that conversation she’d had with Vaniell in the garden. Not after she betrayed a familiarity with magecraft that came only from knowledge and experience.

So he stepped in front of her, grasped her upper arms, and swung her around until her back was to the wall, parallel to the arch—out of sight.

She was startled, of course, and opened her mouth, probably to tell him off, but he couldn’t afford for them to be discovered.

So he closed the distance between them until their chests nearly touched, pressing her closer to the wall as his arms caged her in on either side. Hoping to distract her. To intimidate her. To prevent her from moving if at all possible.

His mistake.

Because as they pressed more closely together, her face hidden in the folds of his cloak, his mask only inches from her hair, he could no longer deny that his motivation had been far less straightforward than he first thought.

He was still curious. He was still somewhat amused. And he was still completely fascinated by the vivid, compelling, mysterious princess from Farhall.

She could not be allowed to come to harm.

Not merely because King Melger had ordered it so—no, this was different. Because everything in him seemed to understand that the greatest threat to her safety was not from anyone outside these walls—it was from Melger himself.

His head bent nearer, almost against his will, as if by getting even closer, he could somehow come to terms with the war being waged within him. Could find a way to understand what it was that drew him in instead of repulsing him. But even as he struggled to convince himself to step away and smother whatever impulse drove him to protect her… he was taken completely aback by her reaction.

Her face lifted. Her lips parted. Her pulse raced, and he knew instinctively it was still not from fear. Almost as if she felt it too. As if… she wanted to be nearer. Were he any other man, he might have thought she was expecting a kiss.

And as the shock of that resonated through their link, Melger’s voice grew too loud to ignore.

The princess suddenly blinked, and her pulse slowed down. Apparently, she found the thought of dealing with the king less threatening than the Raven’s dark, brooding nearness.

The Raven was no longer certain he would agree.

“How many did we lose, Orvell?”

“Unknown.” The guard captain’s voice trembled, like the cowardly weasel he was. “They were expecting to face trouble, but not one of them. The regiment was scattered.”

Melger was hunting again, and all the Raven could feel was relief that he’d been spared. If he was busy protecting the princess, he couldn’t be sent to murder innocent mages.

But the princess grew tense, and he felt shock resonate through their link.

“Inform the local garrison,” Melger ordered, “and dispatch a battalion in support. I want him dead, Orvell. I won’t allow one of those monsters to terrorize my people.”

Who was the monster this time? A mage? Or some poor creature guilty of nothing more heinous than not being human?

The Raven had no particular love for mages, but they were almost entirely non-violent. They would defend themselves, if necessary, but using magic as a weapon was largely a losing proposition, at least for humans. They simply couldn’t command enough energy to sustain it.

Not to mention they were too few in number. If mages ever turned their power towards cruelty rather than helping their neighbors, they would be overwhelmed in moments. It was why mages chose their apprentices carefully and often lived apart from others.

Which was what made Melger’s vendetta that much more reprehensible.

Very likely, whoever he now hunted had done nothing to justify the attack. The mage’s mere existence was justification enough in Melger’s eyes.

The princess was listening intently, her eyes wide, jaw clenched. She appeared to have forgotten her response to the Raven’s nearness, even to the point that one small hand had grasped his arm where it caged her in. As Melger expressed his wish for his quarry’s death, her grip tightened until her knuckles went white.

But all the Raven’s dazed mind could comprehend was that she was touching him.

No one dared touch him of their own volition. Not in the last ten, interminable years.

And as much as he wished to, he could not focus on the warmth of her fingers, because the men on the balcony seemed to have stopped only a few feet from the archway.

“Take the archers,” Melger said. “It’ll have to be done from a distance. And for the love of Abreia, send someone who can find out how the Empress continues to sneak her agents across our borders. I thought we’d dealt with the last of her mirror mages, but apparently, there’s still at least one plaguing the world. Where there’s one, there may be more, so we must continue to be vigilant. Hunt them wherever they may be found.”

The princess froze. Her breath, even her heartbeat, seemed to pause.

“It won’t take long, Your Majesty,” Orvell said, beginning to sound more sure of himself. “This will soon be behind us.”

Melger snorted. “This one, yes. But how many more are out there? How many times must I remind the others that these boundary mages are too dangerous to be allowed to live freely! And the mirror users are the worst!”

He was building steam now, embarking on a rant the Raven had heard too many times to count.

“Their kind exist only to deal in lies and deception. If they are not already the Empress’s spies, she’ll poison them against us soon enough, and then they’ll bring down death and destruction on us all unless we can stop them. The other kings talk, and they talk, and they pretend to agree, but we must do something. Not just continue to discuss it endlessly.”

The princess still wasn’t moving. She had to need air, but her breath seemed to have caught in her lungs.

Fear suddenly rose from her skin to fill his nostrils, but it was a different sort of fear. It still stank, but it didn’t repel him—it enraged him. It made him want to destroy whatever had made her afraid. And as he confronted the oddity of that reaction, he realized that the princess was far more frightened by what she’d just heard than she’d ever been of him.

Melger and Orvell continued on their way, and the Raven listened as their footsteps retreated into the distance. The princess still seemed to be struggling to breathe, and the Raven had no idea what to do. How to help. He wasn’t even supposed to want to help, but he did.

“I…” she finally whispered. “I need space. I need you to move.”

He didn’t move fast enough. Her hand released his sleeve, bunched into a fist, and hit him in his fully armored chest.

“Back!” she hissed, cradling her hand against the pain as she realized her mistake. “They’re gone. I’m safe, and, and… you’re too close.”

As if her words jolted him out of some strange trance, his arms fell, and he took a step away. But only one.

He couldn’t bring himself to put any more distance than that between them. Not while she was still afraid.

But the princess tilted her head back, looking right into his blank mask as he remained unmoving, only a few inches away. Questions appeared in her eyes, along with suspicion and confusion, but then they vanished.

Her hand twitched, as though she almost reached for the necklace, but she resisted. Grasped her own skirt instead, as if she had to physically prevent herself from touching the gem.

But then, without making a single move, she reached out through their link.

There was an uncertainty about her that he hadn’t sensed before, a hopeful sort of question that quickly made itself plain.

She felt lost and alone. Something about the king’s words had unmoored her completely, and she was looking for something, anything, to grab on to.

It could not be him. Never him. He’d stumbled enough, thanks to his incomprehensible need to protect her—a need that went far above and beyond the king’s command.

No more. He had to put some distance between them. Had to convince her that he would not—could not—be her ally.

So he lowered his walls and let her in.

She staggered backward for the second time that day.

The Raven hardened his heart against the shock and pain that filled her eyes. He knew exactly what she would find.

Fury—bright and burning like a forge-fire. Rage—icy cold and implacable. Self-loathing—a dark quagmire that would swallow up anyone unlucky enough to approach it.

She was supposed to recoil and withdraw.

But she kept searching. Pushed past the surface emotions that clouded his mind and found more.

Confusion—a glowing tangle of emotions that wasn’t as hostile as it should have been.

Concern—a strange, banked glow that the Raven himself hadn’t even realized was beginning to separate itself from the confusion.

Enough.

He slammed down his walls again, and as he did so, the princess hastily broke the link. She blinked several times and tried to pull herself together.

The Raven wasn’t sure what would have happened had a pair of footmen not entered the hallway some distance away and glanced towards them.

“I’m going to be late,” Evaraine said, obviously struggling to keep her voice level. “I must return to my room. Change. Luncheon with the queen.”

Whatever was between them seemed to dissipate, and the Raven found himself pointing towards the balcony. As if to say, “All is well, carry on.”

So she carried on. Wrapped up her doubts and questions and fears, made her way to her suite, and dressed for her luncheon. They arrived late to the luncheon, then were forced to go directly to her audience with the Minister of Finance, from which she was dragged to a dress fitting.

And through all of them, the Raven trailed silently behind her as though nothing had happened. As though he didn’t care one way or another what her future would bring.

He had never told himself a more audacious lie.

Despite all his efforts to the contrary, he’d begun to care very much indeed.

CHAPTER 13

L eisa couldn’t even begin to count the number of mistakes she made. Afterward, she had little memory of the no-doubt fascinating dissertation on the Garimoran economy, nor any idea what the queen had nattered on about for nearly two hours. She did recall dropping a teacup, stubbing her toe on a ceremonial suit of armor, calling the Minister “Sir,” and threatening to remove most of the flounces from her nascent ballgown with a pair of embroidery scissors.

But mostly, all she could do was try to prevent her fear and confusion from choking her. Try not to constantly look over her shoulder at the shadow that lurked behind her. Try to pretend that everything was all right, and she was feeling perfectly fine, thank you.

Nothing was all right, and she had no idea what she was feeling.

In the midst of her worry, she could sense the Raven hovering closer than ever, which only made it worse. She had no idea why he did so, and the uncertainty made her want to scream at him. Force him to talk to her. Or maybe just make an attempt on her life so she would know whether he had figured out the truth.

Whatever the truth was.

What sort of magic did Leisa have? Were the Five Thrones really all agreed that mirror mages were dangerous? And was this the real reason King Soren insisted she keep her magic secret? Because he thought she could be dangerous and intended to use her, or because he believed she would be the target of hatred and wanted to protect her?

She had no idea what to make of any of it. Melger had referred to mirror mages as monsters who dealt in deception, death, and destruction. Leisa had never imagined using her one silly little magic trick in any way that could be considered dangerous. Had no idea how that might be done. But she could do no magic outside of mirrors, so did that make her a mirror mage? Did that make her the kind of monster Melger intended to hunt down with an entire battalion and then murder with arrows from afar?

And why had she never heard any of this before?

Come to think of it, no one had ever really explained Leisa’s magic to her. She’d always assumed she was a life force mage, because every time she changed—especially anything that wasn’t her own body—it depleted her energy. But King Melger seemed to think otherwise.

And yet, as terrifying as it was to contemplate King Melger’s opinion of mages, what mattered far more at that moment was her bodyguard.

As Leisa made her way back to her rooms after the ballgown fiasco, she could barely manage to watch where she was going. Her entire focus remained bent on the shadowy figure trailing her through the halls.

She still had no idea who or what was under that armor, only that he was incredibly fast, silent, and strong. He wielded that enormous blade with deadly skill, or rather she assumed so given the proficiency he’d displayed thus far.

For now, he seemed to be protecting her, but she knew better than to trust him. He was huge and terrifying and could decapitate her with about as much effort as swatting a gnat.

And she had no idea what he was thinking. Only what he was feeling, and his emotions had seemed as tangled as her own. The only way to find out more would be to touch the gem again and… no. Just no. It was bad enough that she could sense some of his emotions without touching it at all.

But why had the Raven stopped her and held her against that wall? For the briefest moment, she’d had the absurd idea that he’d intended to kiss her. To her eternal embarrassment, her body had reacted as though that were about to happen. She didn’t even know for sure whether the Raven had lips, and anyway, he hadn’t exactly been focused on her face.

He’d been focused on shielding her.

But what could have been his reason? His only duty was to protect her, so why did it matter whether she’d crossed that balcony right then? Was it part of his orders to keep her away from sensitive conversations? If that were the case, he should have simply walked her right on by.

But he hadn’t. He’d stopped her—deliberately—and held her there while King Melger blew her world to pieces.

Had he wanted her to hear what the king said? Perhaps he’d been trying in a roundabout way to provide answers to the questions she’d posed to Vaniell. Or, perhaps he’d been forcing her to listen in hopes she would somehow reveal her secrets.

If the latter, she was already doomed. Leisa had no doubt her bodyguard could read the panic on her face. Could feel the terror and confusion that left her hands trembling even now, hours later.

Risking a quick glance back over her shoulder, Leisa confirmed that he was still there, still silent, still watching.

After today, it was clear that her future and her success might now depend entirely on him. On his relationship with Melger, and on whether he would tell the king what he knew. Whether he even could, or whether he had a choice.

Her safety might also depend on what the Raven thought of mages, and that, she had no way to know. Not without touching that infernal gem.

And if she touched it, she might accidentally find out what he thought of her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Did he see her as the pathetic princess he’d been forced to look after? Did he resent her? Plan to kill her eventually? Or did he realize she was also an unwilling participant in all of this?

And why did it matter so much what he thought? Why did she even care?

Leisa’s fists clenched, and her chin came up, so of course, that was when she tripped on the hem of her gown and nearly face planted on the marble floor.

The Raven caught her.

Somehow, he closed the six paces between them and grasped her arm, pulling her up before she even had time to yelp in surprise.

They both paused. Leisa’s breath caught in her chest, and she realized distantly that she couldn’t hear him breathing either. And somewhere in those few breathless moments, she lost control of the wall she’d put up around her emotions and accidentally allowed herself to feel their link again.

… Confusion. And concern. Just like before. Was he concerned for her? She experienced a completely unjustified surge of happiness, and then a hard mental shove that sent her physically reeling.

He was concerned, yes. But he didn’t want this link any more than she did.

Again, he caught her before she could fall, but this time, he dropped her arm like it burned him and took two deliberate steps back.

It was the most pointed rejection she’d ever experienced, especially considering it required no words at all. And it left her in much the same place she’d begun—wondering who he really was and whether he deserved her fear or her pity.

She could not imagine submitting tamely to the life he seemed to lead—a life of loneliness and death, without even the natural oblivion of sleep. Without the freedom to choose his own actions. But with as much power and skill as he obviously had, how could he have been forced to obey the king’s orders?

What, exactly, had Melger done?

But there was no answer to that, and for now, Leisa knew only that she couldn’t risk changing again. Not with the Raven already far too close, and far too knowing. He might feel some budding concern, but he was also clearly conscious of her fear. Whatever concern he might be experiencing, she doubted it would stop him if the king ordered her destruction, which Melger would no doubt do if she gave any hints of her ability.

As much as she longed for an ally, she could not let herself rely on the Raven.

By the time she reached her rooms, Leisa knew there was no possible way she could attend the scheduled dinner, let alone the ball. She was an exhausted, cranky bundle of nerves, and facing King Melger would only make it worse.

So she told Lady Piperell she was feeling poorly and that she would be staying in to rest for the evening. The older woman offered restorative tonics and the attendance of the queen’s own physician, but Leisa claimed to be untrusting of any doctors other than her own and shut herself in her room.

Where she commenced pacing from wall to wall in an attempt to corral her thoughts and limit the explosion of questions that had nearly paralyzed her all afternoon.

She was just a bodyguard. This mission wasn’t supposed to be about her, and yet, those few overheard words had made it very much about her after all. But it was also still about Evaraine. About Farhall. About King Soren and his lies. About whether this new information should have anything to do with her sense of loyalty.

What did she owe King Soren if he’d been lying to her for eighteen years—both about what she was and why he’d chosen to save her? What did she owe Evaraine, who was, in the end, little to Leisa beyond a job?

Did Evaraine deserve to be used as a bargaining chip between kingdoms? No. That much hadn’t changed, but did Leisa deserve to be used as a dispensable resource? To be manipulated into risking her life when she had no understanding of the true dangers or the stakes?

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been thinking in circles—probably a few hours—when she began to hear an angry voice in the hall outside her suite. Her own anger remained unabated, so it suited her mood to throw the door open with a crash and stride across the anteroom to do the same with the door into the hall.

“What?” She snapped, glaring at the two men who appeared to be sizing each other up like a pair of tomcats.

“You didn’t show up to the ball, and they wouldn’t tell us anything,” Kip said, glowering at the Raven. “I demanded to see you, but he was just going to stand there in front of your door until we all died of old age. So I decided to do something about it.”

Oh, Kip. Leisa could have cheerfully taken him by the arms and shaken him till his teeth rattled. The young fool was going to get himself killed before this was over.

“Did you stop to think that perhaps I remained in my rooms because I wanted to be alone?” Leisa hissed.

At his startled look, she relented. “Very well. Come in. I will do my best to reassure you so you can carry the news back to Zander. Then hopefully, the lot of you will be willing to leave me in peace until tomorrow.”

The Raven stepped aside without argument and allowed Kip to follow her into her anteroom. To her surprise, he even permitted her to shut the door with him outside.

Which was when Kip decided to put his entire foot in his mouth, boot and all.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing low, and then instantly dropped to one knee in front of her. His gaze captured Leisa’s with burning intensity as he spoke in quiet but urgent tones. “Princess, you must hear me. We all know this is a trap. They won’t stop trying to separate us from you, and no one has any idea what they’ll do once they succeed.”

In a tremendous breach of etiquette, he reached out and took her cold, unresisting hand in his. “I can tell you’re afraid. I’m afraid for you. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, and I don’t believe you want to stay and marry that idiot Vaniell, so please, just say you’ll let me take you away from here. It wouldn’t be that hard to escape, and if it was just the two of us, we could travel fast. Travel light. I could have you home before you know it.”

Oh, the poor lovesick fool. There was no way he’d cleared this with Zander, because if he’d tried, Zander would have tied him up and sat on him before letting the younger man anywhere near her. Instead, Kip had taken matters into his own hands and blundered badly. He probably had no idea how badly. What he’d suggested was treason, not to mention incredibly stupid.

But Leisa couldn’t bring herself to deny that the idea was incredibly attractive.

She could leave with Kip. Count on him to help her get out of the palace. Afterward, she could change her face, take on a new identity, and disappear. No one would ever know what had happened to her, and she would be safe, no longer at the mercy of manipulative kings or prejudiced princes. King Soren had lied—or at least hidden the truth about her magic—and this wasn’t her fight. Why should she sacrifice herself for his ambitions?

Except none of this was really for him, Leisa reminded herself. She was doing this for Evaraine. And for Farhall. Because whatever her king had done, Farhall was still her home, and Leisa loved every craggy cliff, every hidden waterfall, every deep forest glade and mysterious echo. And if she did what Kip suggested—if she disappeared—Farhall and Garimore would have no choice but to go for one another’s throats.

There was only one possible winner in that scenario, and Leisa couldn’t let it happen. Not to her kingdom, and not to the innocent people living there, who had no part in any of this scheming.

“Kip,” she said gently, pulling him to his feet before removing her hand from his grasp. “I thank you for your concern. I confess that I share many of your misgivings, but as for tonight, I am merely tired. There is still much for us to learn before we return home. I can only counsel patience and request that you remain ready to escort me home whenever my business here is concluded.”

An incredulous expression crossed his face, and he reached for her again, but she was too fast. She stepped back just as the door swung open to reveal the Raven looming in the doorway.

“It’s time for you to go,” Leisa said, begging him silently to listen. To remember his duty and obey his princess. She might be frustrated with him, but she didn’t want him dead, and if he challenged the Raven, she could imagine no other ending.

“Fine,” he said harshly, then added, “Your Highness. I pray you rest well. We will attend you tomorrow, as King Melger permits, to reassure ourselves of your continued well-being.”

He turned on his heel and went out. Leisa listened as his footfalls died away into silence before jerking her head at her remaining companion.

“Shut the door, would you?”

He complied, but remained in her antechamber, almost as if he’d read her mind and knew she’d wanted him to stay.

How much of her mind could he read? Did the gem around her neck give him access to her emotions as clearly as it allowed her to read his?

As she thought of it, Leisa reached for the gem, grasped it between her fingers, and found that she was tired of wondering. Sick from worrying. She wanted answers to something and couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking for them.

“You heard it all, didn’t you?” She didn’t bother with lies or justifications. There wasn’t much point.

He neither confirmed nor denied, but she could sense his agreement. Or maybe she was simply losing her mind.

“He’s young,” she said, “and impulsive, and…” Leisa hesitated, but it seemed important to at least try to explain why Kip had done it. “He’s been in love with me for years. He knows it’s hopeless, but I think he simply can’t help being worried.”

The Raven regarded her coolly.

“I’m begging you not to report him to anyone,” she went on, hoping she was making the right decision. “He’s an excellent bodyguard and will continue to do his job. Whatever rules he’s broken, he’s broken out of concern for me, and I’m requesting leniency on his behalf.”

And do you love him back, she imagined that looming shadow asking her.

Imagined? Or heard?

“I don’t love him,” she answered, not really caring whether the question was real. For whatever foolish reason, she wanted him to know the truth. “I know better than to love anyone. Even if it would be nice…”

She broke off. Did she really want him knowing so much about her heart? But it wasn’t like he was going to tell anyone. “I can’t deny that there is something attractive about being loved so completely, so fully, that there is no thought of kingdoms or politics. That someone cares about me for my own sake, rather than what they can use me for.”

That puppy only worships you from afar, the Raven scoffed silently. His love could not exist without the reality of your status. Would he love you as well if you weren’t so unreachable? So mysterious and unknowable?

“Me?” Leisa protested. “Mysterious and unknowable? I’m nothing of the sort.” But Evaraine was, much as she hated to admit it.

You have too many secrets, he whispered in her head. You’re afraid of everyone but me. What is it that you fear? Why do you feel as though you’re walking to your own death?

“Because I am!” The strength of her outburst startled her into realizing what she’d been about to say, and she glared at the man across the room. The man who hadn’t said a word, and yet somehow, she’d been arguing with him.

It was not her imagination.

Leisa’s mouth fell open, and in a rush of anger and confusion, she gripped the gem tighter. Even as it seared her hand with its phantom heat, she didn’t let go. She held on as its edges cut into her palm and confronted the presence lurking there just below the surface.

Get out of my head, she demanded.

And this time, she heard his voice as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud. It was somehow dark and deep, full of shadows and mockery and pain, and whatever magic allowed her to hear it was strong enough to make the hair on her arms stand on end.

I’m not in your head, Princess. You’re in mine.

CHAPTER 14

T  he gem fell from the princess’s fingers and dropped against her chest with an audible thud.

Her shock was clearly visible, but even if she’d managed to hide it, the Raven could feel it battering his emotional walls. She was probably trying to decide whether she’d only imagined his voice in her head.

And for his part, he wished he could take it back. He never should have spoken. Of course, he hadn’t realized at the beginning that she would be able to hear him.

But then he hadn’t been able to stop.

He’d heard that ridiculous stripling profess his love and longed to pummel him until he never dared look her way again. Which made no sense. The princess was in no danger from her own guard, especially given that she was too wise to accept his profession of adoration.

But some part of her had wanted to, and he’d been unable to resist sneering at that puppy’s pathetic idea of love.

The boy saw power and status and longed to worship it from up close rather than afar. But he had no idea who he worshiped, or he would never have proposed running away. He failed to see or understand how much strength it took for her to stand here and face her enemies each day, bearing the weight of her kingdom on her shoulders. She would never bend, this one.

But she would break, because Melger would break her. He would learn of her magic, and he would order the Raven to destroy it.

He could not continue to care. Could grant her no more grudging respect. She had to understand that he was her enemy, because if she did… perhaps there was a chance she might survive him in the end.

And at the moment, she was staring at him with so much suspicion, he dared to hope she might already understand.

“I’m not doing this,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “This is ridiculous, and I’m going to bed.”

If only she’d listened to herself.

But instead, she paused only an instant before reaching up to take hold of the gem again. When she did, the Raven felt her accursed conscience and realized she was caring about him again.

“Look, I realize it’s silly of me to ask,” she said, “and really none of my business, but when do you sleep? You’ve been standing guard without any rest for at least two days, and I can’t imagine that you won’t need to sleep sooner or later.”

Worried, Princess? He made the question a mocking one.

“Yes!” She really was. Now, if only she could be convinced to be afraid of him, rather than for him.

I do not require much sleep. You need not fear that I will not be vigilant.

He let her hear it as a warning—he didn’t sleep, and he was always watching.

But instead of being afraid, her curiosity surged against his mental walls. She seized his words and hung on like a starving wolf to the last deer of winter.

“But how is that possible?” she asked. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

This had to stop.

Don’t you ever get tired of pretending, Princess?

That drew a jolt of fear. She had to know she was on dangerous ground. And yet still, she refused to retreat.

“A princess is always pretending,” she told him, with a strange calm that suggested the lull before a storm.

But is a princess always a spy?

She did not move, but her mental walls cracked. She obviously had no idea how open that left her mind and heart. No idea how much he could read through the deepening link between them.

She was desperately afraid, yes. Battered by a storm of questions. And not just questions about Garimore, or even about the Raven’s intentions. She also had questions about herself. About her power. About what would happen if King Melger found out the truth. Not the truth that she was a spy—no, she was wondering what he would do if he found out about her magic.

As if she knew she could not hide from their link, she looked the Raven in the face and spoke what was in her heart.

“Sometimes, a princess must be a spy. What choice does she have when she has been given responsibility for an alliance of such importance that she cannot afford to make a mistake?” she countered simply. “In order to protect my people, I need to learn everything I can. And how am I to know the truth if I only listen to what I am meant to hear?”

How are you to know the truth if you listen only to what people say?

“Are you suggesting I know them by their actions?” she scoffed, suddenly angry. “A princess is always pretending because she is surrounded by pretense. I know perfectly well that all I see and hear is a display for my benefit. But what other avenues do I have? I am caged by expectations as surely as you are caged by that armor!”

She knew nothing. And yet she knew everything. She knew he was a slave, and he hated her for knowing. Suddenly burning with rage, the Raven moved and found himself looming over her. This time, he surrounded her with the shadows of his own torment, not to protect but to force her to see. To understand what he was.

What do you know of cages? Even his mental voice burned with bitterness. You are free. Free to stay or to go. Free to live or to die. Your own will is the only one that constrains you.

She stared up at him, angry and still unafraid.

“And what do you know of my life?” she returned, an odd twist to her lips. “I wear no chains, and therefore I should not compare my situation to yours. But I am bound by my station. By the needs of my kingdom and my people. How is it freedom that I am commanded and coerced to do what terrifies me for the good of others?”

No one can force you to bow to their demands. It is only the strength of your own will that commands your actions. Freedom is always within your grasp should you but choose to ignore the consequences.

She winced as she mentally acknowledged the truth of that, and the action exposed the strength of her resolve. Her heart told him clearly that she would never willingly ignore those consequences. She acted because she chose to—because she could not, with a clear conscience, do otherwise. The lives of others depended on her, and the consequences of her failure would be far more than she could bear.

But somehow, despite her own impossible situation, she focused on him, with a dogged determination that frustrated his every attempt to discourage her.

“Then I am a prisoner by my own choice,” she whispered. “But you—you are the prisoner of another’s will. Another’s magic. This is so wrong, and yet, what can I do?”

Stunned into even mental silence, he regarded the princess much as he might have surveyed an astonishing new species of bug.

She was supposed to fear him. Should have been thoroughly unnerved by his ability to know her thoughts and feelings. Instead, she saw him as an object of compassion. Comprehended the horror of his prison and considered only how it affected him, not how it endangered her.

He could not decide which angered him more—that she saw him for the monster he’d become, or that she refused to recognize the danger she was in. She needed to understand what he was capable of if she was to be safe, even if that was not how he wished her to see him.

And the fact that he cared how she thought of him enraged him more than all the rest.

But she interrupted his fury and self-loathing with another question.

“Do you report on my thoughts and actions to your master?” she asked bluntly.

So she did grasp the danger. To a point, at least. Then how could she face him so calmly? At least she’d given him the opportunity to convince her that he was the greatest threat to her safety. But how did one lie to a person who could read him as easily as he read her?

I serve as I am compelled to do. No more. No less.

She shivered, and he knew she’d grasped his meaning. Only the darkest of magics could enslave a mind to such a degree, and only the darkest of hearts would put it to a use such as this.

Perhaps now she would understand that she was never safe. That the Raven was no more than an extension of his sovereign’s will.

If commanded to betray her, he would do so without hesitation. No matter how he might feel about it. She should… she must be made to understand this.

But instead? He felt from her a brief flare of hope, and knew that he had no choice but to crush it, as ruthlessly as he had ever crushed the king’s enemies.

Do not fool yourself, princess, he told her harshly. I am no one’s ally, even if our enemy is the same. There may be a moment when our purposes align, but when the time comes to act, I will act for myself. I will not always be a slave, and when that day comes, those who dared to cage me will die. Those who stand in my way will die. Those who have merely waited and watched will die.

“They would never let you live, after that,” she whispered, her voice gone hollow. As if the thought made her sad.

She should not be sad. If he were dead, she would be safer.

Is not the ultimate freedom the ability to choose death?

When she lifted her eyes to gaze into those empty slits in his mask, her lashes were wet.

“You were right,” she said softly. “I know nothing of cages. You’ve been trapped in an existence so terrible it makes you long for death, and even that is denied you.” She bowed her head. Blotted her face with her sleeve and looked back up.

“But, you’re also wrong.” She might weep, but she still did not bend. “The ultimate freedom is to choose between hope and despair. As long as you feel you have no option but despair, you will always be a prisoner.”

Do not speak to me of despair. He lashed out across their link. Not while you have the ability to fight and choose not to. Not while you surrender yourself willingly to an alliance with murderers and thieves.

“You think I want this?” she snapped, her rage suddenly matching his own. “You think I would tie myself to that half-witted clothes-horse if His… If King Soren hadn’t asked it of me? If it weren’t vital to the safety of my kingdom?”

He sensed her leashing her anger again, corralling it and forcing it back behind the bonds of civility and deportment.

As if she’d finally accepted what he’d been trying to tell her all along—he could still be forced to report her every word to his king.

Do what you must, Princess. But if you choose to cross His Majesty, know that I will have no choice. If he orders it, I will be your death, and I will feel nothing when my blade separates your head from your shoulders.

The princess looked up into his mask and smiled. As if he hadn’t just threatened her life.

“Yes. I will do what I must. As will you. But don’t think to tell me who I am allowed to defend, let alone how. I choose who I will care about, just as I choose which battles are mine to fight.”

She tweaked death’s whiskers with a smile, and it hurt him. It hurt as nothing had hurt him in years, because she was brave and beautiful and ridiculous, and he was going to have to kill her someday.

He’d intended to intimidate her. To convince her that she should treat him as an enemy. Instead, she’d somehow decided he required a defender.

“And perhaps you’re right,” she continued. “Perhaps I am free to choose whether or not to wear the chains of this marriage. But perhaps you are wrong as well. Perhaps you are more free to choose than you admit. Because whether I have magic or not, I am familiar enough with its limitations to know that it cannot change your emotions. Love and hate are beyond its scope. So you might tell yourself that you feel nothing, but that, in itself, is a choice. A choice to bury what you feel—to embrace despair instead of hope. You can preach to me about choices if it makes you feel better, but you’ve chosen to stop fighting even for the right to your own feelings.”

His fury blasted across their link and battered the walls of her mind. But she didn’t back down. She’d done a bit more than tweak his whiskers this time—she’d kicked him in the teeth and all but dared him to kick her back.

Because she still didn’t understand. He couldn’t feel. He didn’t dare. Not with King Melger’s compulsion in place. Even what he’d done tonight was too much, because this link…

Abruptly, she seemed to realize she’d gone too far.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, lifting her chin and directing her gaze at the featureless expanse of his mask. “I should not be so quick to judge when I truly know nothing about your suffering. Nor should I have started an argument with someone who has no way to fight back. It was thoughtless of me, and I apologize.”

His fury died as though it had been cut off by a knife. How did she disarm him so easily? And what kind of princess apologized when she had done nothing wrong?

He had no idea what to say, so he retreated.

And so did she.

“I’m tired,” she said stiffly, dropping the gem as if she couldn’t bear to touch it any longer. “I think I’d best retire now. Good night.”

He didn’t answer. By the time the final word was out of her mouth, he was out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Alone in the hall, but not in his head.

There, he was never alone, and he had begun to feel the stirring of suspicion.

King Melger’s attention had been drawn to their link. And across the distance between them, the king had suddenly begun to wonder—what could have caused such an excess of emotion from his cold, passionless assassin?

CHAPTER 15

L eisa returned to her own room and shut the door before falling back against the wall, closing her eyes, and taking a deep, shuddering breath.

What in all Abreia had she done?

She’d just spoken to the Raven. To the immovable mage assassin who held her very life in his hands.

She’d yelled at him. Contradicted him. Told him half her secrets and practically dared him to do something about it.

She might as well turn herself in to King Melger right now and confess to spying and magic and who knew what else. Just to save time.

But then again…

Who knew what the Raven would do with her revelations? He was not what everyone thought, and there was far more to him than dark magic, bitterness, and death. True, those were a part of him. And if she had any sense, she would no doubt be afraid for her life—terrified by everything he was and everything he represented. But she couldn’t be. Not anymore. Not after she’d reached through their bizarre link and touched the mind on the other side.

Whoever or whatever he was, when their minds connected, she sensed no violence or hatred directed towards her. There had been moments of shock and fury, yes, but also of curiosity and confusion. Even amusement. He was a living, thinking, feeling being, just like her, and he’d been subjected to unimaginable torment.

Their conversation changed everything. And it changed nothing. It turned her careful observations of Vaniell into so much smoke and illusion, and yet it returned no truths in the process.

If anything, it served to show her just how thin was the ice on which she walked. She was surrounded not only by enemies and deception, but by the darkest kind of magic imaginable.

So what did she do now? Had she gained enough information to conclude her mission? Enough to retreat to Farhall and declare the alliance too dangerous to continue?

She would have to be able to convince King Soren beyond all doubt. Pacing from one side of her room to the other, Leisa took careful stock of what she knew, what she suspected, and what she only guessed.

Where to even begin?

Her own mind was cluttered with questions about her enigmatic bodyguard, but he was only a part of the emerging picture, and potentially not even the most important as far as the alliance was concerned.

Even laying aside what someone had done to him, Leisa now knew for sure that Garimore was prejudiced against mages. Perhaps more so against boundary mages, but prejudice was a greedy mistress, and she would not stop simply because she got what she wanted. She would always want more. And as for mirror mages… Leisa’s mind slammed that question into a tiny little box, locked it, and threw away the key.

She also knew that Prince Vaniell was more than the flashy playboy he appeared to be, though she doubted that whatever he was hiding would count in his favor. He was as prejudiced as his father and could claim both profligacy and dishonesty amongst his other sins. Not to mention hypocrisy. There was simply no way he’d handed her this gem around her neck in complete ignorance of its nature. She suspected he’d merely intended to make it easier to keep an eye on her (while hoping she wouldn’t notice or find out), but there was no denying that he’d also created a magical bond between two people without their knowledge or consent. For a man who claimed not to care for mages, he seemed oddly eager to rely on their work.

But she wasn’t actually going to complain, because thanks to his hypocrisy, she now knew her bodyguard to be a prisoner. She also knew he believed her to be a spy, though whether he considered her a danger to Garimore was a trickier question. She suspected he might, but that he also made every effort to confound his captors by following his instructions only so far as he was bound to do. If they hadn’t specifically directed him to report information? He probably wouldn’t. At least, he hadn’t yet.

Perhaps she should be more worried about Melger finding out she’d referred to his younger son as a half-witted clothes horse, but she rather thought the king might agree with her on that point.

And whether the Raven was forced to report on her words or not, he was obviously not entirely in his master’s thrall. After all, he had deliberately ensured that Leisa would overhear sensitive information—information that King Melger would be very upset to discover she now possessed.

At least that was her hunch. Hardly a conclusion. And, like her other suspicions, she had little to no evidence.

Beyond that, she knew very little for sure.

Actually, that wasn’t true. She knew with absolute certainty that she could never approve of this alliance, even if King Soren did. While Vaniell might respect Evaraine on the surface, his other habits would mortify her, his court would very likely ostracize her, and his parents would disregard her wishes. Even after such a short time, Leisa could in no way tell King Soren that an alliance with Garimore would be anything but a complete disaster for his daughter, and that was reckoning without the consequences for Farhall itself.

Now for what she guessed…

This part was the hardest, because all of her guesses were terrifying.

She guessed that the Raven still believed she was Evaraine, but he’d known she was pretending about something. Most likely, he was referring to her magic—that Evaraine was only pretending not to have any—but Leisa didn’t dare stake her life on that guess, especially not when he’d accused her of being a spy. He was obviously perfectly well aware of her nighttime ramblings, and only refused to tell his master out of spite.

She also guessed that the reason Melger was impatient to get his hands on Farhall had more to do with mages than troops or economic concessions. Those would do him no good, but his sudden capitulation on several points seemed to indicate that he was unwilling to risk losing this alliance by offending her. No, he was far more eager for this than any material goods could explain, but if he truly hated and feared mages that badly? Might he marry off his younger son merely to gain a foothold from which to spread his prejudices and hunt them down?

Leisa guessed that he would, but a guess wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t go home with such nebulous theories and accusations. She needed proof—something she could give to Soren as a real reason why he ought to reject this alliance and find some other way to defend his borders.

But how could she stay and look for proof now that she’d admitted to her bodyguard that she was exactly as suspicious as he thought she was? Did she dare trust him to keep her secrets, even if only to defy his master?

There was no way forward without risk. No answer that didn’t leave open the possibility of devastating failure. But this was why she’d been sent, and now that she was in Garimore, Farhall would have to rely on her judgment as to which path had the greatest chance of success.

And finally, it seemed time to choose the path she was best at.

Sneaking.

Her “medicines,” thankfully, weren’t all for show. A few of them were very real—they just didn’t do what their labels insinuated.

Leisa’s traveling kit contained all the necessary supplies for letter writing, so after she penned a note, she sealed it with wax and summoned Lady Piperell from her room to order tea. Once it arrived, it was a simple matter to beg the older woman to join her, slip some sleeping drops into her cup, and wait for her to grow heavy-eyed.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” Lady Piperell mumbled eventually. “I seem to be yawning after every second word.”

“I’m sure it’s been a trying day,” Leisa said kindly, feeling a little guilty for the deception. “My day was exhausting as well, and I’m sure I haven’t done half as much as you.”

“Oh, no,” she protested. “I’ve quite enjoyed it. Looking after you is no trouble, and it’s been a pleasure getting to know your…”

She stopped. Blushed. And yawned again.

“Zander is quite attractive, isn’t he?” Leisa was thankful the other woman didn’t make her drop hints. Or elaborate. “You know, I can’t help but be concerned for my guard. I wish I knew whether their quarters were comfortable and if they have everything they need.”

“Oh, quite comfortable,” Lady Piperell said, reaching down to take off her shoes. “They’re in the old north wing of the barracks, just off the rear courtyard. It’s been refurbished and fitted with indoor bathing facilities, and the kitchen there is well staffed.”

“That’s a relief.” Leisa beamed at her as she slowly tilted sideways until her head rested against the arm of the settee and her eyes began to close. “Thank you for setting my mind at ease.” And for making this all so much easier.

Once Lady Piperell was bundled off into her bed—in her clothes, as she was far too sleepy to change into her nightgown—Leisa rummaged guiltily through the older woman’s wardrobe. She needed a dress that was expensive and elaborate enough not to appear out of place at an evening party, but nondescript enough to blend in. Which seemed apt to describe nearly every one of Lady Piperell’s dresses.

True to Leisa’s first impression of her, Lady Piperell didn’t seem much more comfortable here than Leisa did. So why did she stay? Did she not have a family or a home outside the palace?

It could all be an act, Leisa reminded herself. The other woman could just be trying to gain her trust for nefarious purposes, so there was no need to feel so guilty. No reason to concern herself with Lady Piperell’s fate once this was over.

Once she had what she needed, Leisa returned to her room, faced her mirror, and forced herself to ignore everything she’d heard that day. So what if she was a mirror mage? She wasn’t powerful. Or dangerous. What she could do was just a silly trick. But hopefully, that silly trick was going to gain her the proof she needed to convince King Soren that an alliance with Garimore would destroy Farhall forever.

First things first—Prince Vaniell’s little gift was going to have to stay behind. She reached for the chain, lifted it, and began to pull it over her head, then suddenly found herself across the room looking out the window. It was a beautiful night, and the moon rising over the gardens made a…

Odd. Leisa returned to the mirror and watched herself reach for the necklace again. The moment her fingers touched the chain, they seemed to slide away, and she realized her hair was a mess. It badly needed to be brushed and braided.

The braid was half-finished before she shook herself and recalled with icy clarity what she’d been about to do.

There was no way to doubt it—the gem was spelled in more ways than one. Vaniell, it seemed, was even more of an enigma than she’d considered possible. She was going to have a fair number of pointed questions for him, should it ever occur that she was in a position to ask them.

Fighting back panic, Leisa once again returned to the mirror. Even if the Raven didn’t intend to report her, none of this would work if he followed her everywhere she went. If nothing else, he needed to remain in front of her chambers to give the illusion that she was still within. She had to escape him, even if only for a short while, so the necklace had to come off.

If she was indeed one of these terrifying mirror mages, maybe she could use whatever power she had to help break the magic on Vaniell’s gift. The very idea seemed absurd, on the surface—she had never even tried to use her magic for anything of the sort. Rarely used it at all, and not only because of Soren’s insistence on secrecy. In truth, she’d never known for sure whether her magic was the reason her parents abandoned her. Every time she faced herself in the mirror, she thought of them and wondered…

But this time, her need was greater than her fear, so as Leisa reached for the chain around her neck, she focused on her reflection. More specifically, on the delicate metal links that had begun to seem more like a noose. And when her fingers brushed against them, she visualized herself no longer wearing the necklace. Saw herself forcing the chain off over her head and wrapping it around her hand rather than her neck.

When she dropped her eyes from the mirror, the gem dangled free, and the necklace itself was strung through her shaking fingers.

It worked. Somehow, she had used her magic to counteract someone else’s magecraft. It was a stunning revelation, and one she didn’t have time to consider too deeply. Thrusting the entire mess beneath her pillow, Leisa returned to the glass and completed her change. As soon as Lady Piperell’s kind, middle-aged face looked out of the mirror, Leisa donned her dress and straightened her spine.

This was the most perilous moment of the entire plan. It depended on the Raven’s focus being keyed to the necklace, rather than the princess. And it depended on Leisa’s ability to fool everyone into thinking she was a woman she knew very little about.

She took only the basic items she thought she might need—the note for Zander, two lock picks, her dagger, and her rope—all but the note concealed easily beneath her skirt. With luck, she wouldn’t need any of them, but better to be prepared. Then she threw on a shawl and strolled out of her room towards the door.

The door into the hallway. Where the Raven waited.

This had to work.

Leisa jerked the door open.

Her bodyguard stood in the hallway just beyond and showed no visible reaction to her appearance. Leisa opened her mouth to give an excuse for leaving and remembered only just in time that Lady Piperell would never do such a thing. She wouldn’t really even notice that he was there, except perhaps to shiver in fear as she passed through his shadow.

So she lifted her chin, wrapped her shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders, and walked away, feeling the whole time as if there were a target painted between her shoulders. Any moment now, the Raven could realize that she wasn’t who she appeared to be. At any moment, he could enter her suite looking for her and find her gone.

But she kept walking, somehow not looking over her shoulder, somehow continuing to put one foot in front of the other until she passed out of that hall and into another. Once out of sight, she took an enormous gulp of air and leaned against the wall until her heartbeat returned to nearly normal. But only for a moment. For all she knew, he would be able to hear that she’d stopped and come looking for a reason.

Leisa pushed away from the wall and continued on her way, muttering a prayer to the patron saint of fools, if there was one. If not, she would be a shoo-in for the job after she was dead.

It was a decided relief when no one gave her so much as a second glance as she made her way through the halls of the palace, out into the courtyard, and across it to the barracks on the other side. She paused once or twice, pretending there was something in her shoe in order to check behind her for any sign that the Raven had followed after all, but saw nothing. Which proved nothing, but enabled her to continue on.

Once she knew she was in the right place, Leisa stopped a Garimoran page and asked for directions, claiming to have a message from the Farhall princess for her guards. Well, not just claiming, since it was actually the truth.

The page was very obliging and trotted ahead of her all the way into the barracks. They passed through the dining hall, up a set of stairs, and into a common room where an argument seemed to be taking place.

And no wonder. Kip, it seemed, had already returned, and was in the midst of being verbally flayed by Zander for his indiscretion in sneaking around the palace.

If only Zander knew what he’d actually done. Leisa doubted poor Kip would survive the aftermath.

She dismissed the page and cleared her throat gently.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, in what she hoped sounded like Lady Piperell’s quiet, well-modulated tones, “but I have a message from Her Highness.”

Zander jerked around to face her, and Leisa instantly felt remorse as she took in his expression. He was worried. Afraid. Exhausted. And about to go mad with his inability to do anything to help or protect his princess.

Despite her external protestations, it had been an easy matter for Leisa to accept Garimore’s restrictions on her guard—unlike Evaraine, she had never relied on them to protect her. Protecting herself, seeing to her own safety, was far more natural than worrying about whether her bodyguard remained close.

But Zander had no idea that she wasn’t his fragile, easily exhausted princess. He no doubt imagined her isolated and terrified, and himself helpless to do anything to change it. She should have thought to offer him some reassurance in the note, but she’d been too preoccupied.

“Thank you, my lady,” Zander said, moving forward and bowing less deeply than he would have to Evaraine. He accepted the note as his eyes searched her face. “Can you tell me whether she is well? Is she eating? Resting? Content with her situation?”

Leisa suspected he wanted to ask far more pointed questions but knew better than to imagine Lady Piperell could answer. A lady in her position had no more power than he did. And, from the softening in his expression, Lesia suspected he rather liked her.

“She is well,” Leisa said carefully. “If perhaps feeling worn out by the events of the day. Her Highness remained in her room this evening and sent her regrets for the planned family dinner and masqued ball.”

Zander seemed relieved to hear it. “I look forward to seeing her in the morning then, and will pray that we find her well-rested.”

Leisa nodded and gestured to the note in his hand. “Her Highness indicated that she would expect a response. If it is not too much trouble, I am happy to wait and return it to her in person.”

Zander’s hesitation was evident as he glanced down at the paper to confirm the seal, as she’d guessed he would. An unsealed note from the hand of a stranger—especially one containing the instructions this one did—would have done nothing but arouse his suspicion.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said finally, bowing again and retreating to the next room.

She waited, and the three remaining guards quite pointedly did not offer her a chair. Whether the real Lady Piperell would have been offended by this, she had no idea, but a bodyguard was rarely allowed to sit, so it didn’t bother her to remain standing.

It did begin to concern her when Zander did not reappear for some time, though she knew her note had been anything but reassuring.

Zander,

I have become aware of some alarming information and would ask you to personally investigate. A full regiment of Garimoran soldiers is being dispatched, almost immediately I fear, to hunt down a mage somewhere in the kingdom. I do not know the full details, only that they intend to send archers to shoot this person down “from a distance” and implied that the mage in question may have origins in the Empire. Given that I have been offered nearly overwhelming evidence that Garimore harbors enmity and prejudice towards mages in general, and towards boundary mages in particular, I feel that understanding this situation may be vital to any decisions we might make concerning an alliance. If the mages among our people will be endangered by my marriage, I cannot in good conscience move forward. But I also cannot return home without proof, which is why I beg you to aid me in this. I know that what I ask of you is not without danger, so please be safe. I will await word of your return.

Her Royal Highness,

Evaraine

Eventually, Zander did emerge, his face set into an icy mask.

“For Her Highness.” He placed an unsealed paper in Leisa’s hand. “Thank you for your kindness to her, and to me, in delivering this note.”

Leisa nodded as regally as she knew how and turned to go, feeling his eyes on her back but not knowing what else she could offer him. They both courted danger, and that would not change until they were safely back across the border into Farhall.

Once outside, she hastened through the courtyard to an out-of-the-way corner and paused to read what Zander had written. She could not risk going further if he’d said anything that might arouse suspicions if it fell into the wrong hands.

I thank you, Your Highness, for your reassurances. It is a relief to know that you have found your visit thus far to be both restful and enlightening. Please know that we stand ready to fulfill your slightest wish at any time and look forward to the day when we may return to His Majesty with news of this future alliance. Be brave, my princess, and Farhall will never fail.

- Zander

A sigh of relief escaped her as she read over his words again. He’d managed to cleverly disguise his response, but he was as concerned as Leisa and would do as she’d asked. Now it was her turn to wait in an agony of nerves until she heard from him again.

And given what the princess’s fiancé had planned for her over the next several days, agony was exactly what she anticipated.

CHAPTER 16

F rom the beginning of his captivity, the Raven’s life had been many things, most of them unpleasant. He was often bored, frequently repulsed, and, more often than not, filled with fury or self-loathing.

But ever since the advent of the princess from Farhall, he had known nothing so consistently as surprise.

Even when she frustrated him, she continued to be surprising. Perplexing. Even shocking.

And the most shocking moment of all was when she walked blithely out of her rooms, head held high, wearing another woman’s face.

Princess Evaraine of Farhall was a mirror mage.

A significant number of his questions regarding her secrets were automatically answered, though an equal number of new ones instantly took their places. At least he now understood her horror at the conversation they’d overheard between King Melger and his captain. He’d meant her to know how Garimore treated mages—how they treated anyone suspected of magic. Instead, she’d learned of their specific hatred for anyone like her, and now that he looked back, he could not stop a brief surge of reluctant admiration.

She might have been afraid, but it had not stopped her. The princess was fierce, audacious, and took bold risks that would make the average person huddle under their covers, whimpering in terror.

She was also up to something significantly more sinister than confirming her kingdom’s desire for an alliance.

But what monarch desperate for aid would risk being caught spying on a much larger, more powerful neighbor? What king would send his only daughter into a situation fraught with such deadly dangers?

Unless, of course, the woman wearing Evaraine’s face had never been Evaraine at all.

That made far more sense than any other possible theory, and it explained a great deal about the princess’s odd behavior—in particular, her periodic deviation from the princess’s expected personality. At times she remembered to be meek and easily led, but more often than not, she forgot herself. And during the bizarre chase across the palace that first night, she’d proven to possess capabilities that would seem highly unusual in a princess.

Climbing. Rappelling. Dagger-throwing. Spying.

No, it seemed clear that the woman he knew was not Evaraine at all, and the Raven found himself curious about her reasons for the deception. More than likely, she was here for exactly the reasons she claimed—to determine what dangers the alliance held for Farhall. He would have known if she’d lied.

But who was she really? And how far was she likely to go in her quest for information?

Fortunately, she seemed not to know that his link with her now extended beyond the gem itself. The Raven suspected that connection had been formed because she possessed her own deep well of magic, and while it created complications he did not particularly want to contemplate, it also created opportunities.

He could follow her anywhere, with her none the wiser.

Except, in this case, the Raven had no desire to follow her. What he did not know, he could not be forced to reveal. And despite his annoyance with her disregard for her own safety, he was finding himself uncomfortably disinclined to do anything that might put her in further danger.

Therefore, it was imperative he remain at his post, no matter how much he might want to know where she was going and who she intended to spy on. As long as he remained, he was actually protecting her—his presence ensured that no one would suspect the princess was not in her rooms.

No one, including King Melger himself—who was quickly moving across the palace in that direction.

Coming to check on his son’s fiancée. Perhaps under the guise of concern for her well-being, but the Raven doubted that was the king’s only motive. There was too much suspicion raging through his mind.

So the Raven remained at his post—motionless and implacable. Emptied his mind of all emotion until he was little more than a shadow made flesh. The task was far more time-consuming than usual, and he cursed the woman who made herself so difficult to forget.

But by the time the king’s ceremonial-robed form appeared at the end of the hall, the job was done. The Raven’s armor might have been empty, judging solely by the lack of motion or feeling coming from within.

Melger came to a stop, perhaps five paces away. Outside the range of the Raven’s sword. It was deeply satisfying to know that the man still feared him.

“Indisposed again, is she?” the king asked.

He did not expect a response. Melger had little magic of his own—and the knowledge that he possessed any would probably horrify him—so he was unable to sense what the Raven thought or felt with reliable accuracy. Unlike Evaraine. Unlike the Raven himself, who could hear his captor’s direct orders and sense his emotions. Not his thoughts, thank all the gods that ever were. The king’s emotions were dark and troubling enough, and the Raven typically chose to block them out whenever he could.

So the Raven simply nodded. The princess was most definitely indisposed to spend any more time around Melger or his viper of a son.

“You’re sure? She’s not simply avoiding us to be missish?”

The Raven didn’t bother with a response because he knew the king wouldn’t expect one. Melger had no idea that an answer to his question was actually possible, and the Raven intended to keep it that way.

“And what of you?” The king turned his attention solely on his bodyguard. “You’ve been more volatile than usual, lately. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I don’t like it.”

Melger could feel strong emotions but not identify them. All he would know was that his cold, emotionless assassin had begun to feel something. And he was far too paranoid—too controlling—to leave that alone. He would want to know, and if he could not know, he would want to destroy. He would take steps to ensure that his Raven was under his complete control, and those steps would not be pleasant.

One more piece of the Raven’s soul would be sacrificed to appease the king’s need for security, and he wasn’t sure he could afford to lose any more. Not without losing the last bits of himself he still clung to.

“If things don’t settle down, I’ll be forced to take measures,” the king said, as if discussing a thing, not a person. “I don’t like it when you get your own ideas. So whatever you’re thinking, stop. Or I’ll have to take you off this job and send you out hunting mages again, where it won’t matter so much if you screw up.”

The Raven did not move, breathe, or think. He simply was. Because that was what the king expected—a death-dealer without a heart or a conscience.

“Now, do you have anything to report about the princess’s disposition regarding the alliance? Any sign of treachery from her guards?”

Melger had insisted that he not permit her guards to poison her against Garimore. Well, one had tried, but the boy had not succeeded, so there was nothing to report. Melger had also intended the Raven to inform him if the princess or her people engaged in treachery, or if his son did anything to endanger the treaty. But nothing in his wording required the Raven to make a report, so he would not.

And finally, Melger had instructed him to send word the moment the princess decided for or against the marriage.

But the Raven had just realized that the woman he was guarding wasn’t actually the princess, so for the briefest moment, he allowed himself a smile beneath the mask.

The king’s orders were, effectively, meaningless. So he shook his head once.

“Hmm.” Melger seemed frustrated by his reply. Had he been hoping for treachery?

It would, the Raven realized, accomplish Garimore’s goals just as well as an alliance. If Melger could claim that the princess had come only to spy on them, he could declare war on Farhall and take it over with a snap of his fingers, and the other three Thrones would be unlikely to balk.

In fact… Could that have been the king’s goal all along? Might that have been his reason for removing all witnesses and subjecting the remaining guests to conditions no ordinary royal party would endure?

He should warn the princess. She needed to know…

But no. He should not. She did not. There was no connection between them. The Raven forced his mind back to a state of blankness.

“Perhaps the next few days will prove more fruitful,” King Melger finally said, and the Raven felt his captor’s frustration alongside his eagerness. “We have only a few short weeks in which to convince them of our desire for this alliance, so we must move quickly. And she must not suspect that you are anything other than a sign of my respect for Farhall.”

He cast the Raven a glance from under lowered brows. “The princess does not suspect you, does she?”

The Raven shook his head once more. The real Princess Evaraine of Farhall had no idea he even existed.

“Very well.” Melger sighed. “When Vaniell produced that wretched courting gift…” he paused, frowning. “I know he would betray me if he could, but obviously, he was only toying with me. Someday I will repay him for his defiance, but not until…” He trailed off and shot the Raven a startled look. As if surprised to find that he was talking to his pet.

“Never mind,” he said suddenly. “Evaraine would not know how to make use of such a thing, even if it were given to her.”

Men like Melger always underestimated those they didn’t understand, and in this case, he’d underestimated the woman he thought of as Evaraine. She knew very well what she had, and what it said about the one who made it.

A clash was coming, sooner or later. And the Raven was beginning to wonder whether Melger had finally found an obstacle that might slow him down.

Not stop him. He had too much power on his side for that. And eventually, he would simply command his Raven to kill, and the Raven would. That was how these things always ended.

But maybe, just maybe…

The Raven recalled a pair of bright, curious green eyes and reminded himself not to hope. Hope was for those who could not be forced to take the life of someone they cared about. Hope was for those whose heart had not been brutally crushed too many times to count.

For the Raven, there was nothing but waiting. And wondering how long he would have before the light in those eyes died on the edge of his blade.

CHAPTER 17

L eisa’s fear of being discovered did not abate over the next few days. If anything, it grew and was merged with her larger fears for Zander and for Farhall itself.

Though as far as she knew, the Raven had communicated none of his suspicions. No one else accused her of espionage or hiding secrets, and Prince Vaniell continued his probably-meant-to-be-charming attempts to talk her over to his own view of mages.

Each morning she staged a polite meeting with two members of her guard, who took turns visiting with her so as to hopefully disguise the fact that Zander was nowhere on the palace grounds. They had decided to pretend he was deathly ill and had to remain sequestered in the barracks for fear of infecting others.

And every day, Leisa submitted more or less tamely to being dressed up and paraded around to whatever functions were deemed worthy of her attendance. Or perhaps whatever functions were considered likely to impress her.

None of them did. The best of them bored her, and the worst of them irritated her to the point where she was forced to continually rein in her caustic comments.

The Raven had not spoken again, but she didn’t think she was imagining the fact that he seemed to hover closer than before. Whether to protect or intimidate, she didn’t ask. At most functions, her shadow remained so close to her chair, she was approached only by the bravest souls, and none of them dared more than the most inane and polite of conversations.

So she talked to the Raven instead.

At first, it was only the unflattering observations she wished she could make aloud, like comparing Vaniell’s latest outfit to an accident in a dyer’s shop. More than likely, the Raven never heard her—she didn’t like to draw attention to the gem by touching it in public—but she knew he was there, and it felt less lonely to have someone to talk to.

Once or twice, she thought she felt the flicker of a reaction, though so faintly she knew she’d probably imagined it. But she was lonely—and worried for Zander—so she let herself continue to imagine it, and from that point forward, it became something like a game. Could she provoke her silent shadow to laughter, or even curiosity, without betraying herself?

Before too long, she was holding entire conversations in her head, never really expecting an answer, but imagining her companion’s responses and carrying on as though he’d made them. Even if he couldn’t hear her, those imagined conversations made her feel less alone, and gave her something to do as she waited for Zander’s return.

For seven endless days, she waited, enduring countless fetes and flounces while feigning interest in all the meaningless drivel Garimore’s court could invent for her entertainment. Or her distraction.

Leisa suspected the latter, because King Melger did not summon her again, nor did meetings of any importance appear on her official schedule. She was shepherded around by a simpering, smirking Vaniell, but kept well away from anything that resembled a meaningful discussion of their kingdoms’ futures.

Were they now trying to buy Evaraine’s approval with luxury and amusement? It was in the midst of her fuming over this treatment that Leisa decided she had no choice but to take matters into her own hands. When Zander returned, she needed to be ready to act on whatever he’d learned. And without more information about what Melger envisioned for Farhall’s future, she had no way to paint anything like a clear picture for King Soren. No way to convince him that it was better to reject the alliance with Garimore and look for a new way forward.

She needed to do something unexpected. As the Raven had said, how could she know what to believe if she only listened to what she was told?

So, in spite of her fears, after Zander had been gone a full week, Leisa used the mirror once more and slipped out of her room just before midnight, leaving the gem behind.

She had no particular purpose or destination in mind. What she needed was to listen—to hear what was being said when she wasn’t around.

As she drifted soundlessly through the rooms and halls, more of a shadow than a presence, she caught the passing words of servants and courtiers alike. Few were of interest, as most folks were caught up in their own day-to-day concerns. A maid spoke of her crush on a handsome guardsman, while a young Marquess fretted over his father’s demand that he stop spending money so freely. Two guards argued over which of them was due for a promotion sooner, while a pair of weary clerks headed towards the gates, ready for home after a long day of balancing ledgers.

Her wandering feet took her to parts of the castle she’d never seen before, and eventually led her outside, where she climbed from the top level of the palace down to a portion of the outer wall. The shadows enabled her to avoid the guards as she made her way around to a turret well within rope-toss distance of the single balcony on the entire castle.

Leisa swung herself across right over the heads of two guards below, then pulled herself up and over the railing to pause behind a cluster of potted trees.

So much for Melger’s security. This was a perfect hiding spot for an assassin. But perhaps, she thought bitterly, his guards were so busy hunting down mages, they were stretched too thin to be focused on protecting the castle from internal threats.

Or, they simply weren’t that worried. This balcony led to the king’s own apartments, which undoubtedly contained a full complement of guards whenever the king was within.

As Leisa was hoping he would be tonight.

Clinging carefully to the shadows, she slunk nearer the doors until she found a good spot to crouch in the darkness and simply listen.

For the first hour, she heard nothing but the night breezes and the footsteps of the guards patrolling below, but her patience was eventually rewarded by the sound of a door crashing open.

King Melger’s heavy footfalls entered his suite, followed by the sounds of arguing.

“…my patience is at its end. I’ve warned you of the consequences if you fail to bring him to heel, and I will not stay my hand forever!”

The other voice was softer. Melting, where the king’s was icy. Female.

“…done all I can. Why can you not see that he is suffering, too? You blame the boy, blame me, but it’s your own fear that goads you. Ever since you returned from that tour, you’ve been driven by this… this madness, and I don’t understand it!”

“Madness? Is it madness, then, to protect this kingdom by any means at my disposal? Madness to ask your son to serve his people in this one small way? I’ve allowed him to wallow in his dissipated life at your insistence, but now that I ask one simple thing, he denies me with a smirk on his lips. Puts me off incessantly. Drinks himself into oblivion instead of doing his duty.”

“…cannot make him resigned to this marriage by yelling.”

“No, but I can motivate him with the only threat that has ever seemed to work.”

Silence.

“You bastard,” the queen said finally, but it was with a note of defeat. “When did you become so cold that you would threaten your own family? Sometimes I believe you invented this story of my unfaithfulness for no better reason than to use it against your own son.”

Whoa.

Leisa had hoped to hear something she could use, but this was not at all what she’d had in mind.

Vaniell was illegitimate?

Or at least, Melger believed him to be. The queen seemed to be denying it, but apparently, Vaniell considered it likely enough that he was willing to do the king’s bidding when threatened with exposure.

Oh, this explained so much. And yet, there was so much else it did not explain.

But no wonder Vaniell was willing to marry Evaraine. It would give him the legitimacy he lacked, and prevent his father from using that as a weapon against him in the future.

But what made them think he was putting it off? Vaniell had done nothing but try to convince her to agree to this marriage.

Well, Leisa supposed he could have tried harder. Stopped drinking and flirting. Spent more time being agreeable. But the marriage was not truly in either of their hands, so what more did Melger expect him to do?

“…toying with me,” the king was saying. “I saw the look on his face when he gave her that ‘courting gift.’ He knows it’s a slap in the face… nothing I can do. No way to take it from her without suspicion. If only I knew for certain the thing is a fake. If it’s not, and she ever learns what it is…”

“She won’t,” the queen said with weary resignation. “You know perfectly well she has no magic. You confirmed that with every source at your disposal. And if she had even a touch, your pet would already know. He’s killed enough mages at your command, I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to kill another.”

The voices faded, but Leisa remained frozen against the wall.

Vaniell knew perfectly well what the gem did. And he’d definitely given it to her as an act of defiance against his father. He’d linked her with the Raven against his father’s wishes. Was he not his father’s puppet after all?

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Raven knew she was a mage, and the king knew Evaraine was not.

Did that mean the Raven had known all along that she wasn’t Evaraine?

And if he did, did he believe she was merely a convenient body double, or did he know…

Oh, dear sweet Abreia, was that why he’d stopped her that day? So she could overhear the conversation about mirror mages?

Heart pounding, Leisa tried to reason herself through the possibilities. Why hadn’t he acted? If he’d killed that many mages, why wait? Was he simply waiting for her to betray herself fully before denouncing her to his master? Or did he have his own reasons for protecting her secrets?

She needed to get back to her room.

Moving silently to the edge of the balcony, she peered over to gauge the position of the guards below. She would need to swing down and use the cover of the shrubbery to find her way in on the ground floor.

But as her gaze swung towards the looming bulk of the wall…

Her heart simply stopped.

The Raven stood there in the shadows, his featureless mask lifted towards her, his unseen eyes resting on her hooded face.

Leisa’s face.

She’d taken off the gem, and he’d followed her anyway.

There was no hope for her secrets now, but some irrational voice insisted that if she made it back to her room, perhaps she would be safe. But there was no way down that didn’t lead past the Raven, and no way up that she could climb. That meant through.

Into the private chambers of the king himself.

One way or another, she was probably going to die, but for some reason, she decided she would rather risk the king than his assassin.

Leisa bolted back towards the doors leading to the inside. Peered in. No one was visible but a half-asleep pageboy wilting on his chair. Probably a guard or two outside her line of sight.

She could work with that. But she had to do it before the Raven caught her, which meant setting some kind of record for speed.

Lock picked in eight seconds flat.

Guard rendered unconscious in four.

Page boy tied up and relieved of his coat in nineteen.

She pulled the coat on, tucked her ponytail into the back of it, and marched her way brazenly out of the suite, past the still arguing king and queen, past three more guards, holding her breath until she’d almost reached the main door.

“Where is Petrin?” One of the guards asked suddenly. “I’ve never seen you before. And why aren’t you wearing your proper uniform?”

Which was, of course, Leisa’s cue to run.

This time around, getting back to her room was much easier, as she now knew this palace nearly as well as her own. Well, Soren’s anyway. Just inside the doorway to a narrow servants’ hallway, she pressed her hands and feet against opposite walls, climbed up near the ceiling, and balanced there, arms and legs screaming as several groups of guards ran by. Then she dropped to the floor and jogged after them. Once she reached the ground floor, Leisa borrowed a scullery maid’s dress from a laundry pile and ditched the page boy’s coat, then made her way back up through the servants’ stairs. No one so much as glanced at her a second time, and when she peered out into her own hallway, it was empty.

The Raven had not yet returned.

She breathed out a deep sigh of relief, which was probably misplaced. He knew she’d been out of her rooms. And it was only a matter of time before he either reported or confronted her. But for the moment, the way was clear for a sprint to her door. She yanked it open and slipped inside, closing it softly in hopes that her maids and Lady Piperell would sleep through the noise.

When she heard no further disturbances, Leisa made her way to her room and shut the door thankfully behind her.

She had to come up with a story. Had to figure out how she was going to defend herself. So before she did anything else, she stepped up to the mirror and changed her face.

Her hood was deep, so she had to hope that the Raven had not truly seen her as Leisa. And even if he accused her of being a liar—even if he knew she’d been spying on the king—it was far better that he believe Evaraine untrustworthy than that he discover she was actually a mirror mage.

But… how had he followed her? How had he known her, even without the gem? And why hadn’t he returned yet, to silently accuse her of treachery?

Shivering, Leisa threw on her dressing gown right over the top of her trousers and vest, dropped the accursed gem back around her neck, and wondered how she was going to get out of this. Which was how the Raven found her when he opened her window from the outside and dropped silently into her room.

Even when she was expecting him, his presence caused her heart to pound and sucked the air from her lungs.

Even without coming any closer, he managed to lift the hairs on the back of her neck and make her wonder whether he would kill her immediately or wait until the king pronounced her sentence.

They stared at one another as the moments drew out, longer and longer. Leisa opened her mouth to say something—anything—but before she could get any words out, he took a step forward, with the graceful, sinuous stride of a hunter.

He stalked her, moving around the bed as she froze in place, striding closer and closer until they were separated by no more than arm’s length.

And then he stopped. Breathed in. Once again, Leisa had the irrational thought that he was somehow smelling her.

She tried to say something, but the words remained stuck in her throat. Neither of them seemed willing to be the first to move. At least not until someone pounded on the outer door to her suite, and the moment shattered.

“Evaraine! You are needed! Wake up!”

And then the Raven moved. He whirled to face the threat, shifting her to stand behind him as his sword appeared in his right hand, and his left gripped her wrist.

He was touching her. By choice. Firmly, but not painfully. Not because she’d fallen and he needed to catch her, but to ensure that she stayed behind him.

Where she would be safe.

“Evaraine!”

Was that… Vaniell?

“I’d best see what he wants,” Leisa murmured, finally forcing actual words past her lips.

The Raven paused, and she thought he seemed reluctant to move. But after a moment, he let go of her wrist and moved towards the door. She followed him through it, which provoked an expression of open-mouthed shock from Lady Piperell, who was about to admit their insistent visitor.

“Your Highness, I…” Further words seemed to fail her at the sight of the Raven coming out of the princess’s room. Apparently, speechlessness was catching.

“Just let him in,” Leisa said with a sigh. It wasn’t as if there were any explanation she could give that would make the slightest bit of sense. She wasn’t sure she understood it herself.

She’d been right, though. It was Vaniell waiting in the hall outside, but he didn’t linger there. He entered, glanced briefly at the Raven, then jerked his head at Lady Piperell.

Perhaps it was some sort of universal sign, because she instantly disappeared back into her room.

“You’d best prepare yourself, Princess,” Vaniell said, and for once, his tone was neither grating nor flippant. “It seems one of your honor guards has been caught in the act of spying and returned to Hanselm to face the king’s justice.”

No. Not Zander.

For a moment, Leisa was sorely tempted to try fainting again. And considering how fast the blood was draining from her face, it wouldn’t even be that hard to pretend.

But she had to be stronger than that. Zander had followed her orders, and now he faced death because of it. He would be counting on her to save his life.

She stared at Evaraine’s would-be fiancé and tried to see past his newly serious mien. For perhaps the first time, he met her eyes with something approaching gravity, and she wondered again why he might have given her that necklace without his father’s knowledge. What game was he playing?

“This is disturbing news,” she said slowly. An extreme understatement. “I suppose I will be expected to answer for his supposed crimes.”

Vaniell cocked his head. “Can you?”

“Do I have a choice?” Leisa met his gaze coolly. “A good monarch takes responsibility for the well-being of her subjects. And acts with honor whether or not she agrees with every decision that is made. I suppose that rule extends to espionage, as well as arranged marriages.”

For some inexplicable reason, this seemed to make him happy.

At least until her next words.

“I will need to see this person immediately. Do you know the name of the captured guard?” She had no choice but to feign ignorance. Not if she was to maintain her innocence long enough to hopefully salvage the situation.

“No,” he admitted, looking decidedly uncomfortable, “but I believe he has already been placed in the dungeon. It would not be appropriate for you to visit him there.”

She straightened her shoulders and pinned him with her sternest stare. “This man is my loyal subject and should not be treated as a criminal until I have heard proof of his crimes. To do otherwise is to spit on the sovereignty of Farhall and her people.”

“Be that as it may”—he didn’t dare disagree with her there—“the dungeon is no place for a princess.”

“Well, neither is it any place for my guard, and yet he is there anyway. I will go, even if I have to find it myself.”

Leisa didn’t give him a chance to argue, but returned to her room and dressed herself in one of Evaraine’s plainest gowns. No corset, no flounces. She didn’t even try to put up her hair, just left it flowing loose down her back. It was the middle of the night, and Zander’s life now hung in the balance, so she couldn’t care less whether anyone approved of her appearance.

Then she marched out to where Vaniell and the Raven seemed to be doing their best to ignore each other and said, “Come or don’t. I’m going.”

Vaniell hastened to take her arm, and the three of them proceeded out of her rooms, down the hall, towards the one part of the palace Leisa had never seen nor even hoped to see.

The dungeons. And she wondered, as she glanced back over her shoulder at her silent shadow, whether she would ever return from them once she entered.

CHAPTER 18

T  he Raven had a great deal to think about on their way to the dungeons.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the accusations—he did. The “princess” herself was a spy, so her guards were likely to be as well.

But what had her man been looking for? Had he found it? And what would the fake princess do now that her guard had been caught?

The Raven had almost expected her to disavow the unfortunate spy. It would certainly have been safest for her to claim that she knew nothing, and that therefore his punishment should be on his own head. But not this princess.

She cared. Deeply. He’d seen it in her thoughts before, but this moment forced him to confront the idea in a more personal way. He’d long believed humans incapable of caring for anyone beyond themselves. But this one, for whatever reason, cared about a lot of things.

She cared about her kingdom. She cared about its people as individuals. She cared whether Garimore persecuted mages. She even cared about people who weren’t human at all.

He’d learned a lot about her during the past few days, as she’d chatted to him in her head, blissfully unaware that he could actually hear her.

The fake princess was snarky, impatient, and full of scorn for her fiancé. She was stubborn, hated pretending, and actually harbored a great deal of antipathy towards her own king.

And she was terrified. Of failing. Of being found out. Even of her own magic.

She hid it well, but she was close to breaking.

And now that they were on their way to what literally might be her doom, she somehow contained all of her fear and self-doubt behind a regal facade as they made their way to the dungeons.

Again, he yearned to rip her hand from Vaniell’s arm. Protecting her had become far more inclination than compulsion, and he hated it, while at the same time, he raged because he could not do it properly.

This feeling was nearly as strong as the hatred he bore for Melger and for Vaniell.

But he could not allow himself to become more deeply involved. Could not afford to give himself away, or Melger would force him to kill her for no better reason than to bind his Raven even more tightly in chains of despair.

So he followed tamely as they made their way down, deep beneath the palace, to a torchlit hallway that ended in a cell door.

When Evaraine saw it, she pulled her hand from Vaniell’s arm and raced forward to wrap her hands around the bars.

“Zander!” she cried, and her emotions cried out silently in unison. “What have they done to you?”

The man on the floor of the cell pulled himself to a sitting position, but only with effort. He’d been beaten, and between the blood and the bruises and the swelling, he might not have been easily recognized by his own mother.

Footsteps behind them gave warning of the king’s approach. He was alone, and an odd mixture of anger and satisfaction pulsed across their link.

Evaraine released the bars and whirled to face Melger with fire in her eyes and murder in her heart.

Caution, the Raven said, before he could think better of it, and her clenched fists relaxed just a fraction.

“This is a clear violation of Farhall’s sovereignty and a perversion of every possible concept of justice,” she said, her haughty tones belying the panic that pulsed through every corner of her mind. “Garimore has neither right nor reason to torture my subject until a thorough investigation has been made and guilt established beyond doubt.”

For weeks now, Melger had been treating her like a pretty, innocent child, but his patronizing air was gone.

“Do you think I care about your pathetic excuse for justice in Farhall?” he said, his mind a swirling maelstrom of cold, uncompromising rage mixed oddly with anticipation. “This man was apprehended while spying on my soldiers. Farhall has spat on our unceasing and unstinting hospitality, and my patience is at its end. He will meet Garimoran justice, or Farhall will face the full force of our majesty and resolve in the form of open conflict.”

For the first time, the princess faltered. “You would declare war? Without a trial, and without ever establishing guilt?”

“As far as Garimore is concerned,” King Melger said harshly, “guilt has been more than sufficiently established.”

Frustration put a crease across her forehead. “The other Thrones will not stand idly by while you assault Farhall on such a flimsy pretext. It begins to appear that you would force us to your will, using your word as the only evidence of the treasonous actions of a man who has protected me since I was a child.”

That was a lie, the Raven thought with satisfaction. He had not protected her that long, which meant she was most definitely not Evaraine.

“Given the offense,” Melger returned coolly, confident now that he controlled the situation, “I believe you will find that the other Thrones have no objection whatsoever to Garimore’s actions.”

She was cornered, and she knew it. And she still didn’t give up.

“I demand a trial,” she said. “I would hear whatever evidence you can provide before I give consent to any punishment.”

“Your consent is neither needed nor required,” Melger returned implacably. “However…”

The fake princess held her breath.

“We will consider showing mercy and allowing the spy to keep his life, if…” He paused for effect. “If you, Princess Evaraine, will consent to an immediate acceptance of Garimore’s offer of alliance.”

The princess’s mouth dropped open.

Melger smiled.

Vaniell blanched.

“You are asking me to…” She couldn’t seem to say the words.

“You will marry my son immediately,” Melger confirmed.

“No!” The guard, beaten and bruised as he was, lurched upwards and crawled towards the bars. “Your Highness, you must not do it. I am more than willing to rot here rather than see you forced into this.”

“Shhh, Zander. It will be all right,” she soothed, but they probably both knew it would never be all right.

The Raven took hold of himself and forced his hands to remain still. Forced his rage to submit to his will. Forced himself to notice that the viper prince was no happier about his father’s demands than the obviously reluctant bride.

Now, why would that be the case? Vaniell had spent this entire time trying to impress her. Or had he?

Before the Raven could consider that further, the princess found her voice.

“As proud as I would be to save the life of a man who has saved mine more times than I can count, you must know that I cannot.”

“And why is that?” Melger inquired smoothly.

She summoned a look of patient condescension. “A princess of Farhall cannot marry without her sovereign’s consent. I must be permitted to return home and speak with my father before any marriage can take place.”

“Consent?” Melger waved a hand. “That can be gained in writing. No, I will not permit you to leave while this alliance is still in question. Farhall will be brought to realize that they cannot trample on Garimore’s goodwill and hospitality.”

“Then you will allow me time to send a message?” the princess queried.

“You will send nothing,” Melger all but shouted. “Do you imagine that I believe this man was spying of his own accord? I will send a message, apprising Soren of what has occurred. He will be informed of his options, and until his answer arrives, you will remain here, in your rooms, under constant surveillance.”

His expression grew menacing. “And if at any point you behave or speak in a way that I find threatening or suspicious, I will post my bodyguard in your very chambers until you have married my son and this alliance is settled.”

“Ah, Father…” Vaniell raised one slender hand as if looking for permission to speak, but Melger had seized the reins, and he was not relinquishing them to anyone.

“You will do nothing and say nothing other than what I tell you,” he snarled, and no doubt, everyone in the room could hear the unspoken or else.

Vaniell subsided, but rather than angry, he looked thoughtful.

And the princess? She was looking at the Raven.

To anyone else, perhaps she would appear to be shocked and appalled by the king’s threat. But to him?

He could feel her fear. Not for herself, but for her guard. For her kingdom. And he could feel her resolve. She would not be sitting tamely in her room, waiting for her future to be decided.

The Raven held back what he feared might be a smirk as he considered King Melger’s reaction to the eventual news that he’d married his son to a nameless girl from Farhall.

Was it possible that Soren might have the same thought? Let the marriage go forward, thereby saving his own daughter and invalidating the treaty?

Thereby destroying the lives of everyone he’d sent to act on his behalf?

The thought filled the Raven with rage, but the fake princess was still looking at him, and he… He could not bring himself to terrify her further.

So he said nothing. Did nothing.

“Very well,” the fake princess said at last. “I can see that you have left me no choice. I will return to my chambers and await King Soren’s reply. Until that time, however, I would beg of you the services of a physician to care for my subject. In the event that an accord is reached, I would not wish for the alliance between our kingdoms to begin with his death.”

Having gained her acquiescence, Melger seemed inclined to be reasonable.

“I would not have it said that we are cruel beyond reason,” he allowed. “Someone will tend his wounds, though I would caution you not to expect me to be concerned with his comfort. The man is a traitor and a spy.”

“A spy, perhaps,” the princess countered. “But he is not your subject, therefore it is for me to decide whether he has committed treason.”

But Melger had her under his thumb now, so he merely smiled blandly at her defiance.

“I believe it is time for you to return to your chambers,” he said icily. “My Raven will ensure that you do not go astray.”

It was a true compulsion, and the Raven felt as it took hold.

She must be returned to her rooms.

Hatred and revulsion shook him as he reached for the princess’s arm and pulled her away.

“No!” The hoarse cry of the imprisoned guard followed them. “Your Highness, do not sacrifice yourself for me.”

She continued to walk, never once looking back, but her arm under the Raven’s glove was rigid and unyielding. Whenever he touched her, the link between them grew stronger, and he could feel how it was killing her inside to walk away. To show no fear, no pain. To give Melger no weapon against her.

And yet, their future also loomed closer—the moment when Melger would demand that the Raven take her life—so he dared not offer her comfort.

There was only his steady grip on her wrist. And then somehow, as they left the dungeons and retreated to her rooms, her wrist slipped from his grasp. But she did not run or pull away. Her tiny, shaking fingers wrapped around his arm, and she gripped it as if he were the only thing holding her upright.

She touched him. And even with the layers of his armor and his clothing between them, it felt as though she’d wrapped her fingers around his heart.

As if she’d taken a sledgehammer to the ice that encased it.

It was in this moment, when the walls of his indifference were at their weakest, that he needed them the most. Needed to prevent her from burrowing any deeper into his care and his concern.

But thanks to the bond neither of them asked for, he could not escape from her. Nor could he deny his own reactions to her.

He could only continue to move forward, neither giving nor taking, and dreading the future more with each step he took.

CHAPTER 19

L eisa walked the halls at the Raven’s side, her mind blank, feeling as though she were living a nightmare, and any moment would awake to find herself in her bed. In Farhall. Rising to face another day as Princess Evaraine’s bodyguard.

But no. She had only to clench her fingers and feel the iron of the Raven’s arm beneath them to know that this was no dream. Zander had been caught and accused. King Melger had at last found a way to force them to accept his heinous treaty and left no way out that did not involve war.

And it was her own fault.

She should never have asked Zander to act as a spy. He was no more trained for it than she was. But what choice had she been given? She knew this alliance was a mistake, but King Soren was too desperate. He would never accept half measures or half-hearted assurances, so she’d needed proof.

Now, all she had was certainty that Farhall’s destruction could be laid at her door.

If only there were anyone she could ask for help. Advice. Or just a listening ear. But there was no one to trust. The enigmatic man at her side was not her ally.

Neither was he her enemy, she’d concluded. There had been far too many times he could have betrayed her and didn’t. But he had made it clear that she could not trust him, no matter how badly she wanted to. Something told her that he could bear the weight of mountains, were he free of Melger’s chains.

But neither of them were free.

When they reached her rooms, Leisa removed her hand from his arm and reached up to touch the gem around her neck.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Whatever happens now, know that I do not blame you.”

You must never trust me.

“I know,” she told him. “Whatever you may believe, I do understand. I wish I could break whatever chains he uses to hold you, but now I cannot even break my own.”

The Raven was silent.

“I’m going to make a request, though I understand if you cannot grant it. Will you stand guard outside my rooms until morning? No matter what?”

I have been commanded to return you to your rooms.

She smiled, wondering how it could be that they somehow understood one another. “Thank you.”

And then she left him standing in the hallway, wondering as she did so whether that was the last time she would be allowed to consider him a friend.

Lady Piperell fussed over Leisa for what seemed an interminable half-hour before returning to her own chamber. Once she was gone, Leisa wasted no time changing both her clothes and her face. Armed with dagger, rope, and lock-picks, she left the gem behind and slipped out her window, back through the palace, silent and pale as a ghost.

The guards were more alert than usual, but these guards were probably more concerned with people sneaking out than sneaking in. Leisa had little difficulty returning to Zander’s cell, and found the captain of her guard slumped against the wall, eyes closed, grimacing in pain.

She was so concerned she almost forgot to change.

It took a moment with the pocket mirror King Soren had given her, but her face was very shortly Evaraine’s once more.

Then she approached the bars.

“Zander!” she hissed.

His eyes opened, and his head jerked in her direction.

“Your Highness!” His whisper was a hoarse, shocked sound of protest. “You cannot be here! What are you thinking? If they catch you, they may throw you in alongside me!”

“They won’t catch me,” she soothed. “Zander, I’m going to do everything I can for you, but first, I need to know what you learned.”

His eyes closed again. “You were right, Your Highness. I followed the king’s men while they hunted and shot down an unarmed boy—a boy no older than you. A mirror mage, they said, but I saw no evidence. And they’ve done it before. No mage is allowed to live inside Garimore’s borders. Sometimes they give them a chance to leave, sometimes not.”

Leisa felt her gorge rise but held back her horror. She needed to know more. “And… the Raven? What is his part?”

“He is the worst of all,” Zander whispered. “At least the mages have a chance to fight back against the king’s men, but the Raven is too fast. Too powerful. I heard them talking…”

He began to cough, a hoarse, congested sound.

“Shhh,” Leisa murmured, wishing there were more she could do. Wishing there were some way to save a good man who’d only been obeying her commands. He should not be forced to suffer like this for faithfully serving the woman he thought was his princess.

“Please.” Zander leaned forward and fixed her with an urgent stare. “Please, my princess, you must listen. You need to leave. Now. Tonight. You cannot stay, and you cannot allow them to bind you to the prince.”

Leave? Now?

“I cannot.” Leisa shook her head. “Zander, where would I go? How would I travel? And if I leave, you’ll die.”

Her guard pulled himself closer to the bars and reached one hand through them. Leisa took it.

“If you don’t leave, you’ll die,” he said softly. “Evaraine, you cannot let them find out about your magic.”

Leisa nearly stopped breathing.

Evaraine? Had magic?

But Zander wasn’t done.

“Farhall must be told what has happened here. They must know why this alliance can never be made. Garimore is already preparing troops to hunt down mages in Farhall. Our people must be made aware of the danger, and you are the only one with a chance to tell them. Kip, Terek, and Nyssa will be watched. If they even breathe the wrong way, they’ll be in this dungeon beside me. It has to be you, Your Highness.”

“I…” How could she do such a thing? How could he ask her to leave, knowing she left him to his death?

“I know it will be hard,” Zander went on, stern and implacable. “But there is no one else.”

“They’ll kill you!” she pleaded. “Zander, don’t ask me to do this!”

He squeezed her fingers. “I took an oath, my girl. To protect you with my life. To protect Farhall with every breath in my body. And this… this is how I must protect you both now. It’s the last thing that I can do, and I do it gladly.”

Leisa realized tears were running down her cheeks. Because he was right. Farhall had to know the truth. Before they could send back any messages that might seal a deadly alliance.

“Now go,” Zander urged her. “Go quickly. Don’t stop, don’t look back. Steal what you must and run as fast as you can. Go north and east. Use the sun to guide you. And Princess…”

She squeezed his hand in return. Held back more tears.

“Yes?”

“You can do this. I’m so very proud of you.”

“Zander,” she whispered.

“Go.”

She went.

She didn’t dare return to her room, but there was nothing in her room that she needed. Nothing that would help her. Leisa used her tiny mirror to change her face, then pulled up her hood and considered her options.

They were bleak indeed.

No matter what exit route she chose, eventually King Melger would send his men to hunt her down.

His man. The Raven. He could find her even without the gem, and she had no doubt he would move like the wind on a hunt.

She would have to outrun him. That meant stealing a horse—a horse and supplies, so she wouldn’t have to stop any more often than necessary.

The stables.

It was late enough that few servants lurked in the palace halls. A few guards patrolled, but Leisa’s sensitive hearing kept her well away from any danger of being discovered. Once outside, she blended into the night and raced across the palace lawns on her way towards the stables.

A feeling of complete unreality surrounded her. The night, the silence, the sound of her own footfalls—all of them seemed far away. She’d wanted so badly to be free, to go home, but not like this.

And yet, there was a fierce satisfaction in finally being allowed to fight this battle on her terms. No more dresses, no more pretending. She was herself now, in a world she understood. Running for her life was somehow less terrifying than facing the prospect of a waltz with a smirking Prince Vaniell.

If only she weren’t leaving people behind. If only their fates would not haunt her with every step she took, every mile she put between herself and Hanselm.

But as Zander said, she had no choice. She’d been given none. Farhall had to know the truth, and there was no one else to tell them.

The stables finally loomed before her, a stone building with gleaming lanterns and wide, well-swept aisles. She took a single step inside and was instantly spotted by a tall, silent guard.

“Halt!” he called, and Leisa halted, annoyed with herself for taking that incautious step.

“Who sent you?” the guard asked, striding over to confront her. The moment he came within arm’s length, she whirled to the side, taking his back in a single, silent turn. Her arm went around his neck, elbow towards the floor, and she squeezed.

He lost consciousness and crumpled to the floor, and Leisa moved on.

She heard low voices and moved towards them. She needed a horse, and tack, with minimal delays, so if she could steal someone else’s…

For the first time since crossing the border into Garimore, luck seemed to be with her.

A horse stood in the next aisle, tied to a ring in the wall with a casual loop. She was saddled and loaded down with gear, while her rider seemed to be involved in a conversation inside a nearby room.

Too easy?

Yes.

It was almost as if they were begging her to steal it.

Begging her to flee on a horse that probably bore a royal mark and would draw attention wherever she went.

Cursing herself for not thinking of that sooner, Leisa retraced her steps and left the stables, racing instead towards the gates. She waited in the shadows nearby until the gates opened to permit a slop wagon to exit, then she hitched a ride, clinging to the side of the putrid conveyance until it was a block past the gates.

Once it was well into the dark warren of the city streets, she dropped silently to the ground and trotted off between the buildings.

She was free. Free of the palace, free of her masquerade.

Now to escape Garimore entirely.

She stole the first horse she found—a staid carriage horse standing in its stall behind an elegant mansion only a few blocks from the palace. She took a bridle, but nothing else, more concerned with distance than comfort. Her hopeful theory was that the Raven had tracked her by smell—given how often he seemed to be sniffing her. If she rode, he would be less likely to catch her scent, and if she changed horses often, it would confuse him further.

That first horse took her to the edge of Hanselm, where she traded it for a courier’s mount while he lounged inside an inn, drinking rather heavily for a man charged with delivering official messages.

She was in luck—the horse was fresh, and still carried the courier’s bags with all of his gear. There was a blanket, an oil-skin slicker, a tinderbox, and several other useful items that might have been packed specifically for her.

So she left him the carriage horse and hoped he would be drunk enough that it would take him till morning to notice that he’d been robbed.

Once mounted, Leisa turned her horse’s head north and carefully set aside every pain, every question, every regret. There was no room for second-guessing, no time to waver in her resolution. She would mourn Zander and the others after she returned to Farhall. After she was safe in the capital city of Arandar.

And she would eventually stop to wonder whether the Raven ever thought of her. Whether he would ever break free of his chains.

But she must not allow him to catch her. Everything depended on her ability to outrun him, and so outrun him she would. She tapped the horse’s side with her heels and urged him into a trot down the road and into the night.

Leisa alternated between walking and trotting until dawn began to lighten the sky, not willing to risk her horse’s legs by going any faster in the dark. But the moment she could make out any small variations in the road, she urged her mount into a ground-eating canter until he’d worked up a considerable sweat.

Then she dismounted, and they walked. Garimore was nearly flat farmland for miles in any direction, so it would not be difficult for any pursuer to spot her. Taking that into consideration, she knew it would be necessary to take a different route than her enemies would expect. So at the first possible opportunity, she turned east. Then north again, then east. And the moment the farms began to thin and give way to wild, uncultivated land, she turned off the road and plunged into the brush.

She traded horses again at a farm on the edge of a half-wild orchard and continued on. When her new mount began drooping with weariness, they stopped for a few hours. Leisa catnapped, while the horse stripped a small patch of grass.

At each stop, she avoided the corners of her mind where her link with the Raven lurked. If she could feel him coming, she didn’t want to know about it. Didn’t want the sensation of looming dread weighing her down.

She had enough other problems—the worst of which was the pain from her legs. She was no novice—she’d learned to ride at a young age—but didn’t do it often, so her legs had been rubbed raw by the saddle long before the end of the first day. Each following day, the pain grew worse, and when blood stained her trousers, she was forced to stop and wrap her wounds before continuing on.

Leisa thought it had been three days when she crossed into Eddris. She was not fool enough to believe it would stop her pursuers, but hoped it would slow them down. Hoped she’d gained enough distance to win this deadly race.

And yet, she was rapidly approaching a level of exhaustion that would eventually pull her out of the saddle. She’d slept only a few hours, and only when conditions were too rough to continue in the dark. What little sleep she stole in those hours was broken and fitful, marred by dreams and constant wakefulness as she jumped at every shadow, every sound, every hint of pursuit or lurking presence.

Once into Eddris, it grew easier to avoid habitation. It was a country of hunters and foresters, deep valleys, and silent, wooded hills. But this also meant that the going grew slower, and as Leisa’s path gradually turned north, towards Farhall, she hoped desperately that she had not made a mistake. They were now covering only a few miles per day, and it was growing harder to hide her tracks.

But still, she forged on, until the fifth night when she could no longer hold herself in the saddle. She finally collapsed near a small stream, and was forced to drag herself to its edge for a drink. Her horse, though not as weary as she was, seemed almost as grumpy. Once she managed to regain her feet long enough to remove his saddle, he spent the next five minutes rolling in every patch of dirt he could find.

Somehow, Leisa held herself together long enough to rebandage her wounds with mostly clean strips of her blanket. She ate the last of the food she’d stolen from a Garimoran farm, then huddled on the ground, shaking with pain and weariness and nerves.

She could feel him now. No matter how hard she tried to push it away, the Raven’s presence had grown too insistent to ignore. She’d walled off that part of her mind, but he’d smashed through her walls. He was coming—powerful, dark, and implacable. The strength of his compulsion drove him after her, an unrelenting taskmaster that would never let him stop, never let him rest, never let him sleep.

But Leisa could go no further. Not without an hour’s rest. Not without a moment to close her eyes.

Then she would get up, drag herself onto the horse’s back, and move on.

Only an hour.

She awakened with a start, instantly aware that she’d slept too long.

It was still dark, but he had not stopped. He was so close now. And in the woods, he could move faster on foot than she could on horseback.

Coming to her feet, Leisa nearly screamed at the pain from her legs but didn’t pause on her way to repack her gear—only what she could carry on her back. She set her horse free, not caring where he went, knowing that her pursuer was too close for it to matter.

With panic mounting in her chest, she took off into the woods—north, as fast as she could run.

Which wasn’t that fast. Exhaustion weighed her down, and fear robbed her of breath. But she still ran when she could, keeping to thinner patches of forest where the moon could light her path.

She couldn’t fail now. Not when she’d come this far. Not when Farhall was still in danger.

A fallen tree blocked her path, nearly as wide as she was tall, and she was forced to move parallel until she could find a way over. Coming down off the other side, she tripped, fell on her face in the dirt, and had to grit her teeth to push herself up.

One step after another. She found a deer trail and jogged down it until she put a foot wrong in the dark and fell, twisting her ankle painfully in the process.

He was coming.

As she pulled herself to her feet, Leisa paused to listen. She still could hear nothing—no one moving through the brush besides herself—but that meant very little. She was crashing around like an entire herd of milk cows. Still, the Raven was larger, and heavier, and carrying all that armor. Surely he would make enough noise to warn her of his approach.

For nearly an hour, she staggered along, barely staying on her feet, limping heavily on an ankle that had clearly swollen inside her boot. She had to stop. But how could she stop? She couldn’t keep going like this. But how could she not try?

Tears rose to her eyes as despair threatened to swamp her. How could it have come down to this? Alone and injured, still too far from home, stumbling through the dark as her death moved ever closer. It seemed the worst kind of trick, and Leisa was forced to choke back a wild cry of agony as she reached the top of a rise and tripped over a tree root hidden beneath the brush.

She fell and rolled, crashing into at least one rock on her way down the hill, only to come to a stop on the shore of a quiet forest pool.

It was mocking her, she thought bitterly—peaceful and still in the moonlight. It had no fear of being wrong, of being too late, of meeting its death too soon.

But at least it was water, and she was thirsty, so she crawled to the edge and scooped up water in her palms. Took a drink, then lifted her head, and focused on the reflection on the other side of the pool.

Her heart battered frantically against her ribs when she saw what seemed to be the shape of a man. Tall, dark, and unmoving.

But it was only a tree stump. Only a reflection.

She lifted her chin, still dripping with water, and squinted into the shadows.

They moved.

And Leisa was suddenly out of time, out of hope, out of ideas.

The Raven regarded her silently from the opposite shore of the pool.

Time slowed to a crawl, and Leisa’s thoughts slowed with it. There was an extraordinary clarity in the moments before you faced death, she realized—a distilling of everything into the few, bright memories that mattered most.

And as her final thoughts sped past, Leisa was forced to recognize that her own memories held few truly bright or loving moments to cling to. She’d spent her whole life doing what others expected. Fulfilling her obligations, serving because she felt she owed a debt.

And what did she have to show for it? This. A lonely, painful death, far from home, and miles from anyone who might be inclined to mourn her.

And she wasn’t certain whether anyone would care enough to mourn.

She did not regret her service to her kingdom. Nor did she regret trying to save it. Farhall was full of innocent lives—people just doing their best from day to day—and they did not deserve what Garimore had planned for them.

But she did regret Zander. Kip, Terek, and Nyssa. Lives wasted because she hadn’t been fast enough or strong enough.

And she regretted that she’d spent her whole life waiting. Waiting to figure out who she was and where she truly belonged. Waiting to form true friendships because she was too afraid to be known—too afraid someone might find out the truth about her past and her power.

She should have tried harder to find her family. Should have asked her questions. Learned more about her magic. Forgiven herself for her mistakes.

But at least she could die knowing that she’d given everything she had in the service of something larger than herself.

“I tried,” she said into the darkness. “But I was never meant for this sort of thing. The lying, the pretending, the politics… Still, I did my best, and I gave it everything I had. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you caught me. Sorry you have to be the one to do this. At least…” She swallowed the lurch of panic. “At least I know you’ll make it fast.”

With a painful effort that left a sick feeling in her stomach, Leisa struggled to her feet. She was going to face this standing up.

And by the time she’d gained her balance, he was only an arm’s length away.

She’d been fearing this moment for days—the moment when he would finally catch up with her, and she would have to confront the true horror of his captivity.

But now that he was standing in front of her, the fear melted away and left only a strange calm in its wake. Even when he reached out with one, implacable, gauntleted hand and wrapped his fingers around her neck, she felt no terror.

You are a fool.

Leisa gasped as his voice echoed in her mind. How could she hear him without the gem?

He said nothing more for a moment, tilting his head slightly as though searching her features. It was the first time, she realized, he’d seen her face unhooded.

She wondered what he thought of it. Then wondered why it mattered. Was this face really more hers than Evaraine’s had been? Than any other face she had worn?

I warned you that this day would come.

“I would change nothing,” she said, and marveled at how calm she sounded.

And yet you changed everything.

What did he mean? Leisa reached out for the link between them and felt the dark surge of his emotions. Not hatred, but something so deep and complex she couldn’t begin to give it a name. And yet, why should she care when she was about to die?

“Look, can you just stop being cryptic and get it over with?” she snapped, her fear erupting into anger. “Or are you always this chatty before you murder people?”

I am not here to kill you.

What? His words left her speechless and confused. Then why was he here at all?

I was commanded to return you to my master. He will deal with you himself. Or you will be executed later. Either way, my concern is only to deliver you to him.

No. Her heart raced and every muscle locked in place. Somehow, she knew this was worse than immediate execution. She could not go back there. She could never let Melger get his hands on her or her magic. For whatever reason, the thought of facing the king of Garimore was far more terrifying than facing death on the edge of the Raven’s blade.

“But”—she scrambled desperately for a way out—“now you know I’m not the princess. I was never the princess.”

That does not change my orders.

It was little consolation that she thought he felt the tiniest bit of regret.

On other occasions, my orders have been less than specific. But this time, the king was most careful. I cannot return without you. His compulsion will not allow it.

His hand was still wrapped around her neck, but his grip never tightened. Never threatened.

“Hang the compulsion!” she burst out. “Tell me what you want! Tell me what you would do if you were free to choose! Would you serve him? Would you return me to face Melger’s idea of justice? Or is there some part of you—any part—that cares about what happens to me?”

His hand fell.

I told you many times what I am. That I can be no one’s ally. I am bound too tightly, and even if I were not, my only desire is to be avenged on those who enslaved me.

“Then why did you help me? Why did you make me feel safe? If you don’t care, why didn’t you betray me days ago?”

Those dark emotions surged towards her. Enveloped her mind and buffeted her with their power.

I must not care. I must never care. A thousand times, I have bled for this lesson and have excised all other hope or feeling from my life for the sake of what little is left of my soul. Why should I risk such pain for you?

If she had merely heard his words, she would have cringed away from the anger and the pain in them, but she felt the turmoil in his mind and knew that it was not that simple.

His very soul was broken and torn, unwilling to feel because all feelings could be used against him. And yet, his heart still beat somewhere under all the armor and compulsion and the foul magic that enslaved him. Perhaps he did feel something akin to pity, but could not afford to pity one he might be forced to kill.

She did not blame him. Could never blame him for this horror that was none of his making. But whatever he felt—or didn’t feel—wasn’t enough. For all practical purposes, she was nothing to him. Nothing to anyone. She had accomplished nothing meaningful in her life, and the one good thing she had thought to attempt was now in ruins.

Unless…

Unless she could escape him somehow.

Escape the implacable, unflinching assassin who had probably killed more mages than she had ever met. He outweighed her. Could outrun her, outfight her, and probably outwit her.

And yet… There was one thing she had not yet tried. One thing she’d been cautioned never to reveal.

But the Raven already knew about her magic. Already knew what she was capable of. And if mirror mages were so feared, there must be a reason. Maybe her magic could be used for something far more powerful than simply changing her face.

Now that she’d reached the end of this road, if she were to fail anyway, she would far rather die here than in Melger’s dungeons.

So she bolted. At least, she tried, but her ankle folded under her, and her legs gave way. Instead of fleeing towards the forest, she fell to her knees by the edge of the pond, and ended with her arms held behind her, her captor looming over her as she stared at their reflections in the water.

And still, though he grasped her wrists in an unbreakable grip, he did not hurt her, and the realization gave her hope.

Leisa gathered the last of her strength and determination and focused on the water. Fixed her gaze on the Raven’s face reflected in the moonlit pool. She couldn’t see much, but she could see enough, and she could remember the shape of his mask—the flat black metal, the delicate tracery, the empty eyeholes.

She envisioned them. Held them. And then… she changed them.

Changing objects was never as simple as changing herself. It required every bit of energy she had to give, even when she was not already exhausted.

But somehow, Leisa’s desperation summoned a surge of magic. It came from somewhere deep, and it hurt, as her magic had never hurt before. But it locked onto the mask that hid the Raven’s face, seized on its form and its nature, and made it something else entirely.

Metal softened and flowed. Grew thin and delicate. A new pattern appeared—flowers and leaves on a white background.

The enspelled steel became a mask of thinnest white linen, embroidered with delicate stitches. And as Leisa watched, darkness encroaching on the edges of her vision, the linen fluttered loose and fell away, unheeded, to the ground.

The last thing she saw was eyes.

The Raven’s eyes. They glowed and burned with power beneath his hood, and Leisa somehow marveled at their beauty even as she finally let go and surrendered fully to the darkness.

CHAPTER 20

L ater, he would recall the strangest details about that moment. A tiny cloud crossing the face of the moon. The quiet plop of a frog or a fish into the murky waters of the pond. The scrap of white linen lying in the mud. And her pale, broken form falling towards the water.

He was frozen—his mind and body unmoored from the unrelenting compulsion that drove him. For the first time in ten years, no other presence tainted his thoughts.

He was free.

So why was his first thought of her?

Why could he not hold back the trembling of his hands as he realized that he would not be forced to take her life?

A splash drew him back to the moment and enabled him to move—to pull her out of the shallow water where she’d fallen. When she lay on the shore, he dropped to one knee at her side and watched to ensure that she still breathed.

Watched. No, he no longer needed to be content with watching. He could feel. He could…

In a sudden fury, he stripped off the gauntlets that bound his hands and covered his skin. Then the chest plate. The greaves. The gorget. Everything.

Everything but the bracers. And as he tore at them with his bare hands, he felt the marks in the metal and nearly howled in fury as he realized they, too, were spelled. He was not fully free.

But his mind and his body… Those were his own. When he dropped to his knee again, he laid one trembling hand against the side of her neck and felt her heartbeat, slow and weary against his fingers.

She’d freed him, this wildly unpredictable woman with fiery hair, a stubborn mouth, and freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her true face. Completely unfamiliar, and yet not, because he knew her. Knew the truths that she hid no matter what face she hid them behind.

Perhaps such magic should have terrified him. But had he known what she was capable of, he would have offered her everything he would ever possess to do what she had just done of her own free will.

From those last scattered thoughts he’d glimpsed before she freed him, she hadn’t known whether it would work. Had no idea what her magic might do. It had been a final, desperate gamble, made in the hope that revealing his face might disconcert him enough that she could slip away.

On a sprained ankle in the middle of the night when she was already practically falling over with weariness. So ridiculous and determined. He wanted to laugh, and he wanted to shake her. Wanted to know her and wanted to run from her. She had seen him at his worst. She knew the ugly truth of his captivity, and he yearned to destroy everything that could remind him of that feeling. And yet, he had never been able to hurt her, even when she’d been his enemy.

And now?

He was free to go, if he chose. Free to disappear into the night and return to his home. No one would ever find him. No one would ever know what had happened. Melger could rage for the next fifty years and find no trace of the one he’d dared to consider his possession.

Except… He could not leave her like this. Even if his heart had allowed it, he would not have been able to disappear. He owed a debt. Everything within him rebelled at the idea—it was just another form of chains—but that did not change what he must do.

She would probably never understand what she had done. What a gift she had given. Even if he could fully explain… he never would. No one else should ever be forced to face the horror of that prison.

Knowing full well what he owed her, he knelt beside the woman who’d freed him and reached out with his magic. But it did not obey. It lay within him, a raging furnace of power that he could neither touch nor command.

He tried again, and met with failure. And again, as if beating himself against a door that would not open.

Fury swept through him as he acknowledged that it must be the bracers. The last remaining piece of Melger’s insidious spell, the workings on them must be what contained his magic. The mask had chained his will, but the bracers chained his power.

So he was now doubly bound once more. Even if he’d been willing to abandon his debt and his concern, he could not leave the woman yet. Whether or not she awakened healthy and whole, he was tied to her as surely as he’d been tied to the king, and the knowledge flayed him like a knife.

He didn’t want to need her, but he did. Desperately. He needed her magic if he was ever to truly be free. Whatever she asked or demanded, he would do. He would even beg if he had to—offer her anything she desired if she would agree to finish what she’d begun.

That is, if she didn’t faint in terror the moment she laid eyes on him. King’s Raven. Specter of terror. Harbinger of death.

But no. He need not be those things ever again. Raven was not his name, and he vowed to erase it from his memory as he bent and carefully cradled the unconscious form of his savior.

He would stay with her. Aid her, if she would allow it. And perhaps, if she was not too afraid, there might be some way he could convince her to free him from the bracers.

There must be a way. There had to be. For the first time in ten years, he dared allow himself the luxury of hope that he would someday be free to return to his own land and see the ones he loved once more. He finally had a reason to fight, and he would let nothing stand between him and his home.

CHAPTER 21

I t was the fire that drew her back to consciousness—the fire, and the illusion it presented of warmth and safety.

Leisa searched for her last memory and found pain. Panic. The certainty of death.

Eyes. Eyes that glowed beneath the shadows of a hood.

Hands. Lifting her, carrying her, brushing the hair from her face, and holding a cup to her lips.

A voice that soothed in deep, quiet tones.

Was she home? How long had she been unconscious?

She sat up. Or at least she tried, but her muscles weren’t ready yet, so she ended up merely falling back to the ground with a groan.

The ground was hard, and there was a rock under her right shoulder, so that pretty much ruled out her being home. Not to mention that the ceiling over her appeared to be nothing but trees and stars and cool night air.

Leisa turned her head and looked across the campfire.

A familiar hooded figure sat there, arms draped over his knees, looking utterly relaxed. Which seemed wrong, somehow.

It was the Raven. And yet… not the Raven. Something was different, even beyond the obvious.

What had happened in those last few moments before everything went dark? She’d tried to use her magic in a way she’d never attempted before. The effort had drained her completely, so obviously, she must have done something, but her memories were too hazy to know whether it had worked. She might not have accomplished anything beyond angering her captor.

For all she knew, he could have dragged her hundreds of miles back towards Garimore by now.

“Where are we?” she asked, looking around into dark woods not much different than the ones she last remembered running through.

“Eddris.”

Her eyes jerked to the figure across the fire. That voice had not been in her mind. It was the voice from her memories. Quiet and deep and a bit hoarse, but not threatening.

“What did I do?” she whispered, almost to herself, but the other voice answered anyway.

“The impossible.”

“Then, you’re…” She couldn’t say the word. If she was wrong, it would feel like she’d hit him, and if she was right? It seemed too much to hope.

“Not entirely free,” he said, and her hopes plummeted. “But as for the part that will matter the most to you, yes. The compulsion is gone. Melger is no longer in my head.”

Leisa hadn’t even realized how clenched her muscles were until they released, and she went boneless against the hard ground. He was free, which meant she was free as well.

She hoped.

“Then you’ll let me go?”

The oddest of all possible sounds issued from beneath the concealing hood—a laugh.

“Go? It has been three days, and you cannot even sit up. Where would you go?”

“Three days?” Panic suffused her. “I have to go home. I have to warn them! If Melger’s message arrives before I do, King Soren may sign a treaty, and all of this will have been for nothing!”

The dark figure across the fire rose and walked towards her on silent feet. “You panic for nothing, little human. Garimore will send no message until the princess of Farhall is back in their hands. There are some days yet before Melger realizes that neither of us will be returning.”

“Then you didn’t tell him? That I’m… not her?”

He crouched beside her. “I did not.”

It was odd—now that he was free, now that he could no longer be compelled to kill her, Leisa felt far more anxiety at his nearness than she had before.

She had to sit up. She felt too vulnerable lying there with him looming over her.

Gritting her teeth, she gathered her strength and managed to struggle to a sitting position. Her head spun, but she was stubborn and closed her eyes until the world stopped turning in circles.

Then she looked at the Raven again. Sitting up helped, but not by much.

“So why are you still here?” She cursed the breathlessness of her voice. It wouldn’t help at all if he figured out how intimidating she found him now.

He didn’t say anything for a few moments, and when he did, he sounded disappointed.

“You’re afraid.”

“I’m…” She didn’t know whether their link had been broken, but even if it had, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him. “I’m nervous, yes. I don’t know what you want from me. Why you stayed. Almost every time we spoke, you warned me not to trust you, and that you would be avenged on everyone who wronged you. And I don’t yet know whether that number includes me.”

He rose and turned towards the fire, leaving his back towards her. “Perhaps it should. Out of all the humans I have met in the last ten years, you are the most perplexing. The most worrying. And the most confoundedly irritating.”

Leisa’s breath caught, and her stomach lurched. Had he stayed simply so he could kill her on his own terms?

“But you are also the only one who ever saw me or treated me as a person,” he continued flatly. “And in the end, you did the impossible and freed me from a prison I had begun to believe I would never escape. I thought of myself as one dead in every way that mattered, so whatever bits of my soul still remain are thanks to you.” He turned around to face her. “In truth, I owe you everything that now is or ever will be mine. And while I feel some resentment for the depth of that debt, I find that I require still more of you, and it rankles.”

She had no idea what to make of that speech. Did he hate her for saving him? What did he still want? And why did he keep referring to her as a “human”?

“What do you need?” she asked, keeping her voice as steady as she could.

“My magic.” His tone was bitter. “It is still sealed. Behind these bracers, which was the only part of that accursed armor I could not remove. I long to return home, but I dare not without my magic, so I must hope that there is a chance you can do the same to them. Change them, as you did the mask that chained my voice and my will.”

Leisa sucked in a quick, startled breath. She’d felt his magic, and it was immense. If she could free him? He would be the most dangerous person she had ever encountered. Most likely, he already was, even without his magic. His speed, strength, and skill with a blade were staggering.

Did she dare release that magic without knowing what he might do with it? And if she could, did she have the right to refuse?

“I don’t know whether I can,” she said honestly. “And it will be some time before I have the strength to try.” Perhaps time enough to determine whether she should. “But in the meantime, I would prefer you forget this idea of debt between us. I will never accept either payment or thanks for the use of my magic. It is too painful for that.”

She sensed his curiosity. Some remnant of the link between them?

“Painful, how? I have never heard of magic that causes physical pain.”

If there were any way to avoid telling him, she would. The story haunted her, and the wounds seemed to grow deeper with each retelling. But he needed to know why there must be no debt between them.

“It is not that kind of pain,” she admitted. “The truth is, I never knew what to call my magic until Melger named it. It’s always been kept secret, at King Soren’s insistence.”

“What are you to King Soren?” The Raven did not move closer, but seated himself—perhaps for comfort, perhaps so he would seem less threatening. Either way, Leisa was grateful.

“I don’t know,” she confessed, choking back a quick surge of emotion as she realized that she truly didn’t. “For most of my life, he’s treated me like a second daughter. Took me in after my parents disappeared when I was five. Raised me in the palace. Trained me as a guard to the princess and told me to hide what I am.”

When she paused, he asked thoughtfully, “What happened to your parents?”

“I think they left.” She somehow managed to sound as though that didn’t affect her. “Because of me.”

“Because of your magic?” he asked, his voice somehow softer.

“Because I had a sister,” she blurted out, and then wondered why. She’d never told anyone all of it.

“They left because of your sister?”

“She was a year younger than me, and she died when I was five. We were best friends. When they told me she was gone, I couldn’t be consoled. I cried for days. Then, one day, I was looking through my mother’s things, and I found a mirror. I’d never seen myself in one before, and I wanted so badly to see my sister’s face.” She had to swallow a painful lump in her throat. “It was the first time I changed. My face became hers. I was only five, and for a moment, I thought I had brought her back to life in the mirror. I called my mother and she… She was terrified.”

She’d gone ashen and fainted. Leisa had panicked and tried to revive her, then gone after her father, who predictably, acted as though he’d seen a ghost.

“My parents were so upset. Or maybe just scared. I was too young to tell. I only know that they pleaded and cried for me to change back, and I tried. I tried so hard. I tried for days, and then in a moment of frustration, I broke the mirror.”

Her eyes closed, recalling her own panic. “By the time my mother was able to buy a new one…” The words stuck in her throat, forcing her to whisper. “I couldn’t really remember what I looked like. At least, not enough to change back.”

Silence fell over the campsite, but for the crackle and hiss of the flames. The Raven was silent as Leisa battled her tears and eventually held them back.

“So I hate it,” she said finally. “I’ve stolen my sister’s identity, and I bought my magic with the loss of my family. It’s always seemed to me like a useless trick that left me alone in the world, without even a face to call my own. At least until I can find my parents and ask them if that was why they left me. So for now, I live in the palace, and I try to be useful. Try to repay King Soren for taking me in. And I only ever use my magic in the service of Farhall. If there is a true need.”

After the pause that followed, Leisa heard a sigh. “There is nothing more human than treating magic as though it can be fixed or should be punished. Magic is simply another way of seeing and interacting with the world. A part of you—neither good nor bad, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. You were only a child. Someone should have taught you, guided you in discovering your gift, not punished you, or silenced you for possessing it.”

He did not condemn her. Maybe it was only because he needed her, but his acceptance was still a relief.

Though there was still one question that continued to nag at her. “You keep calling me ‘human,’” Leisa said finally. “Why?”

The Raven let out a brief, mirthless chuckle. “I suppose it is unfair to ask for promises until you know the truth of who you are aiding.”

“No,” she countered firmly. “That’s not why I asked. Don’t judge us all by Garimore’s standards.”

A sigh escaped him. “Even outside of Garimore, I suspect my welcome would be harsh.”

Leisa made a dismissive sound. “You’re not judging me for who I am, so why should I judge you? Maybe you should tell me the truth before you make up your mind about how I’m going to react.”

“You’re still barely able to sit up,” he said coolly. “I would rather not frighten you to death by showing you my face. Perhaps we can discuss this again in the morning.”

But Leisa didn’t want to wait. She was already awake, already nervous. She would never be able to sleep with his vague hints turning over in her mind, so she decided to prove him wrong and rose to her knees.

The world spun in circles again, and she would have tipped over if he hadn’t moved more swiftly than humanly possible and caught her by her shoulders.

Than humanly possible…

She looked up into the shadows of his hood and found the banked glow of his eyes watching her warily.

“Just tell me,” she whispered.

She might have been afraid, but he was touching her, so she felt his reluctance through their link. Felt his fear of her rejection. Fear that she would refuse to help him if she knew the truth.

So while he knelt there in front of her, holding her shoulders in that gentle but unbreakable grip, she reached up, slowly, giving him every chance to pull away or object.

He didn’t move. She wasn’t sure whether he even breathed.

She pulled his hood back.

And gasped. A quick breathy sound that made him freeze, as if trying not to startle her further.

“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t. Please. I’m not afraid. Just surprised.”

And he couldn’t call her a liar, because their link made it plain that she told the truth.

She was very surprised indeed. Shocked, and more than a little intimidated. Leisa had never felt so small and grubby and helpless as she did when she realized that hood had been hiding the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

No. Not a man. Not a human anyway. His face was sculpted with a breathtaking precision that drew her gaze at the same time it reminded her that he was entirely other. His shoulder-length hair was braided away from his face on both sides to reveal his delicately pointed ears, and its strands glowed white in the light of the flames. The pale, silvery gray of his skin should have looked strange, but in the moonlight, it simply looked right. As though this were where he belonged.

And it was.

Her Raven was a night elf.

The most powerful and mysterious of all Abreia’s magical races. Shapeshifters. Hunters. Feared and avoided.

And his eyes had begun to glow brighter now, with the banked glow of his magic rising from within.

“How are you even here?” she asked softly. “I have heard stories all my life, but to my people, you are barely more than a terrifying legend.”

His hands dropped from her shoulders.

“I am here because I was a prideful young fool,” he said, holding himself still and tense, as though he expected her to run from him any moment. “I was… traveling. A few days from here. In Eddris. Melger was also there. I sensed his interest—even a form of obsession—but I ignored him. Whenever my people travel outside our borders, humans behave similarly, so I judged him no danger to me. I was wrong.”

“How did he capture you?”

His hands clenched on his knees. “I recall hunting in the forest. Fleeing through the snow with blood running down my arm. I must have been hit by a poisoned arrow, because my next memory is of waking in Garimore, encased in that spelled armor, with no recollection of the time between.”

Leisa hissed a curse. “He ambushed you. The same way he does human mages.”

The Raven shrugged. “I let down my guard among humans. Perhaps I deserved what came of it.”

“We aren’t all evil-minded bastards,” Leisa argued, feeling stung.

“No?” One elegant eyebrow rose. “I was enslaved for ten years. In plain sight. How many of your people walked on by, choosing to ignore the proof that was right in front of them because it would be inconvenient to admit what Melger had done?”

It was not an unfair question.

“Maybe they were afraid. Maybe they didn’t think there was anything they could do.”

“Maybe they never tried.”

“Because they were afraid.”

“Is that how you humans allow so many atrocities between you? By convincing yourselves that fear absolves you of responsibility?”

She wished she could deny it. But she’d seen the proof.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “You’re right. We’re not that great sometimes. We lie and cheat and steal and do other terrible things because we act out of our fears. We will do almost anything to make ourselves safe, even trample on others. But I believe some of us are trying. Trying to be better and to do better and to make the world safer for those around them.”

His silence suggested he was unconvinced, and she could not blame him. He’d endured too much at the hands of an evil man, and now he remained at the mercy of yet another human. Forced to rely on her to set him free.

“I’ll find a way to free you,” she said suddenly. “I swear it. Just… come with me to Farhall. I have to warn them, or Garimore will do to our mages what they forced you to do to theirs.”

He stood up, so suddenly she fell backward in surprise.

“You’re asking me to trust humans. To risk myself among them again.”

She was. Leisa realized abruptly that her request was blindingly naive and unfair. She had no right to ask it of him, no matter how urgent her errand.

But she also wasn’t willing to risk her kingdom’s safety for his sake.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I have to do this. I can’t afford to wait until I’ve fully recovered, or everything I have risked to this point will cease to matter. All of our people will suffer, and mages most of all. But I won’t ask you to go with me. I will go alone and tell King Soren what I learned. My debt to him will be resolved, and then I’ll be free to come find you and help you.”

“And now you’re asking me to trust you,” he said softly, tilting his head and pinning her with that strange, glowing gaze.

Leisa didn’t know if she could convince him, but she had to try.

Somehow, she found the strength to stand. Balanced carefully until her knees stopped shaking, then crossed the distance between them and willed her arm to stop shaking as she reached up and placed one hand on his chest. It felt different now, without the armor, but the muscles beneath were nearly as hard as steel.

He was so close. So tall. So beautiful and deadly. He could kill her with a breath. Destroy her with a twitch of his finger. And yet she felt no fear.

“I know we’ve barely spoken to each other,” she said. “And for most of the time since we met, we were bound to different sides. But despite that, I believe you’ve inadvertently seen more of my heart than I’ve ever shared with anyone else. Even with the people I call friends. You know my hopes and fears, even the depth of my wounds.”

Perhaps it was a mistake to make herself so vulnerable, but if she wanted him to trust her, she could do no less. “You’ve seen me at my weakest and most afraid, so perhaps you could find a way to think of me not as a human, but as a person. Someone you know. Someone who does her best to fight for those she cares about. Someone who would never betray you.”

He was still beneath her fingers, but for the beat of his heart, and when he did not respond, Leisa began to believe she’d failed.

“Perhaps,” he said at last, but reluctantly, as though the words were being wrenched from his chest. “I don’t know that I can ever bring myself to trust, but this much is true—you are not just another human.”

CHAPTER 22

She was so much more.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

He wanted to resent her—for being kin to those who enslaved him, for having seen him at his weakest, for having the power to free him when he could not free himself.

But she had somehow destroyed his defenses and sneaked inside when he was too alone, too eaten up with anger and despair to realize what was happening. She had been the only bright and beautiful part of the last ten years of his life.

Bright. Beautiful. Was that really how he saw her? It should have been impossible. Like all humans, she was short, soft, and pink. She was noisy and stubborn and had no idea how to move through the forest. She wouldn’t last a day among his people, and she shunned her own magic instead of embracing it as the gift it truly was.

But courage was a language they could both understand, and hers never faltered. Neither did her compassion, and that was perhaps the most difficult thing of all. Because amid the darkness of his desire for revenge, he, too, felt compassion—for this lonely human with nothing to cling to but her duty to a kingdom that had been so blithely willing to risk her life.

She felt alone, and that was not something any creature should be forced to suffer.

“If I wait for you,” he said suddenly, “after you return, would you come with me?”

Her face went blank.

“Come with you where?”

“Home,” he said, not really comprehending the reasons why he asked such an impossible thing, only knowing that he wasn’t ready to walk away from her yet.

And then he instantly felt a fool. No human would willingly go to a place where they would be surrounded by creatures that probably populated their darkest nightmares.

But before he could brace himself for her reaction, she smiled as though he’d offered her the moon.

“Yes.”

“You… would?”

She nodded. “I’ve been planning to leave Farhall after I deliver my report. I just didn’t know where I might go. If your people would have me, I would love to visit your kingdom with you. At least until we figure out how to free your magic.”

Visit. His kingdom.

He probably should have thought things through before he issued that impulsive invitation. Life at home was going to be a mess for a while, and once they learned his story, a lone human was unlikely to be popular. Or safe.

But he could keep her safe. Once he was home—once she freed him—he would have the power to keep anyone from harming her again.

He would have to warn her before they returned. Have to give her some idea of what to expect. But there would be time enough for explanations later.

“Although…” She seemed to be having second thoughts. “Will your people hate me?”

“Probably.” With anyone else, he might have tried to hide it, but enough of their link remained, she could probably tell if he lied. “But you will be my guest, so they will forgive you for being human. Eventually.”

Instead of being horrified, she laughed. “That sounds ominous. But I trust you.”

He’d thought she was perplexing before, but this…

“Why?” The question burst out of him. “Why do you trust me?”

She shrugged. “I guess because I know I would have failed in Garimore without you. Maybe we weren’t friends, or even allies, but if you hadn’t been there, I would have been found out long before the end. Or I would have simply given up. You were there for me, even if you didn’t mean to be. You were someone I could talk to. And you helped me in all the ways you could, even when there was nothing in it for you but pain and frustration.”

She thought he’d helped her? The human mind was utterly bizarre, but for once, he was thankful for it. He supposed at some point he should admit that he’d only wanted to hurt Melger in whatever ways he could, but he was reluctant for her to think badly of him.

Her. A human.

What was happening to him?

How could he suddenly be questioning truths he’d long taken for granted?

All at once, he was drowning in confusion and frustration—at everything. And at nothing. He backed away from her touch and paced around to the other side of the fire to stare at her.

“How can you say those things so easily? You say you trust me, but you know nothing about me.”

The corner of her mouth curled up a little. “You don’t know that much about me either. With this face, you probably wouldn’t even recognize me in a crowd.”

“I would always recognize you,” he said shortly. “But you’re right. I know very little. The only thing I know about you for certain is that I could never hurt you, and I don’t understand it. I was forced to kill many humans and felt nothing but despair at my captivity, but you… I suspect it would have destroyed me if I was forced to end your life.”

The words fell out without his conscious permission, shocking them both with their honesty.

She blinked and seemed lost for words for a few moments. “Perhaps it was the link?” she suggested hesitantly.

But it was not hesitation that echoed back at him across their connection.

It felt like… joy.

She was happy that her death would have brought him pain.

Why should that make her happy? And why did he feel so much satisfaction at having been the cause of her happiness?

Suddenly, he reversed course. He moved around the fire again, intent on gaining something more from her. Something he could know and hold on to—no more of these vague and confusing feelings.

“Tell me your name.” It was a command, and among his people, it would have been the height of rudeness. Even among humans, his peremptory tone would be frowned upon, though humans neither gave nor protected their names in the same way.

He expected her to reject his demand, but she kept on surprising him.

“Leisa,” she said simply. “My name is Leisa.”

His mouth opened, and he said, “Kyrion.”

He gave her his name. As if she were a trusted friend or family member. As if she would know what it meant, or how it was to be valued.

As if he wanted her to know him.

And maybe she understood more than he gave her credit for, because her face showed an instant of shock that resonated through their link.

“I’m honored,” she said softly. “I swear your name will be safe with me.”

He stared down at her, wondering how she managed to reach inside him and wrap her fingers around his heart so easily.

Wondered what she would do or say if she could hear what he was thinking.

So he backed away again.

“We should sleep,” he said abruptly, putting space between them before he did something else foolish, like touch her.

“Tomorrow, if you’re stronger, I will escort you across the border to a place where you can make the rest of the journey in safety. Then I will return here to wait.”

She looked startled, as if her thoughts had been somewhere else. “Oh, um, yes. Thank you.”

Was it possible her thoughts echoed his?

No. His own were ridiculous enough without wondering whether she shared them.

But she let out a quiet sigh as she returned to the bed he had made for her and settled under the single blanket. He was listening so closely, he even heard her shivering a little as she drew it around her.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said stiffly. “Nothing will hurt you. I sleep lightly, and will awaken if anyone approaches.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, and she sounded as if she smiled. “Just cold.”

So he built up the fire and sat beside it while she drifted off, wondering whether he would find it possible to let her leave him when tomorrow came.

CHAPTER 23

Despite the hard ground and despite the turmoil of her emotions, Leisa slept. She awakened well after the sun was up to find that she was alone in camp, the fire dead, and a neat pack resting by its ashes.

Rising carefully, she was relieved to find that her legs were perfectly willing to hold her up, and her head only protested for a moment or two before subsiding.

Good. She should be able to travel on to Arandar today.

At least once her unlikely companion returned from wherever he’d gotten to.

Unless he’d changed his mind.

Thoughts of the previous night brought a blush to her cheeks as she wondered anew what exactly he meant by his invitation. She’d thought he meant for her to visit his home until his freedom was fully restored. But there had been something else, a confusion that she could feel through their link that couldn’t be explained by his dependence on her magic.

Almost as if… he cared for her. She didn’t dare use any more serious words, even in the privacy of her thoughts, because she was pretty sure she was halfway to falling head over heels for him, night elf or no.

As if someone like him could ever think of her that way.

But that didn’t seem to matter to her heart. In spite of the danger he presented, there was something about his presence—his implacable strength and his silent, deadly grace—that called to her as no man ever had before.

And yet, she was just plain old Leisa. A stubborn scrapper hiding a world of heartache and a longing for home. The only things she’d ever taken pride in were her loyalty and her skills as a bodyguard, and soon she would be leaving both of those behind forever.

What did she have to offer someone like him? Or any man, for that matter.

Just her magic. Just the one thing she would choose to remove from her life if she could.

So she would do well to remember that the only thing Kyrion needed or wanted from her was that same magic. His interest lay solely in her ability to free him to return to his people and his life.

Don’t get attached, she chided herself silently. Don’t fall for all that gorgeous, mysterious elf-ness.

And in reality, she’d never even seen him in daylight. Maybe she wouldn’t be quite so fascinated once she realized he wasn’t as powerful and intimidating as he seemed at night.

“Are you ready to leave?”

Leisa jumped three feet in the air and turned to where the object of her thoughts had just emerged from the trees on silent feet, lowering his hood and wincing as the sun hit his face.

No, she realized with chagrin, he wasn’t any less fascinating by daylight, though his silver-gray skin and white hair somehow seemed far more at home under the light of the moon. But he was still gorgeous, and his focused regard made her begin to blush again until she had to turn around and hope he wouldn’t notice.

“Just need to wash up,” she announced brightly. “Give me a minute.” Then she zipped off into the trees towards the sound of running water before he could ask any questions about why she was acting so strangely.

Time, unfortunately, was short, so she didn’t have time to wash much. Just to splash some water on her face, plait her hair, and compose herself before walking back to the campsite where Kyrion waited, arms folded, her pack over his shoulder.

“Ready!” she announced. “But I don’t know exactly where we are, so I’ll need you to get me started in the right direction.”

“We didn’t come far.” He made no move to hand her the pack. “We’re still in Eddris. If we head north, the border with Farhall should be no more than a day’s journey.”

“Great!”

Egad, she sounded like an idiot. She really needed to pull herself together and squash all these ridiculous, wistful thoughts.

But before she could even begin, he’d turned and walked away, forcing her to jog to catch up.

She followed him through most of the morning in silence, partly out of uncertainty and partly out of necessity. She wasn’t yet back up to full strength, and he was setting a pace that pushed her to her limits.

Eventually, though, the silence seemed to grow more and more awkward, so she risked breaking it.

“What do you plan to do while you wait?” she asked tentatively. “I hope I won’t be too long—no more than a few days—but you’ll be alone out here.”

He shrugged. “I’ve waited ten years. A few more days is little more than an inconvenience.”

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to come with me? Farhall has quite a few residents who aren’t human, and I’m sure Soren would welcome you.”

“No,” he said, and there was no room for negotiation in his tone.

When he showed no signs of continuing the conversation, Leisa fell silent again, feeling weary and confused. Perhaps he preferred not to talk. Or perhaps he simply preferred not to talk to her.

But despite her weariness, as she trailed him through the forest, she couldn’t help but continue to be awed at the way he moved through the trees. Effortless and graceful, he seemed to blend with the shadows, his form a mere flicker that could easily be mistaken for a passing fancy of the imagination.

Once, he stopped to listen, then signaled her to halt while he disappeared, so quickly she couldn’t even tell which way he’d gone. When he returned just as suddenly, he took her by the wrist and led her in a different direction, giving her all manner of heart palpitations at the feeling of his skin against hers.

It was possibly the strangest day of her life, and despite her need to return to Arandar with news, she didn’t want it to end.

Too soon, the sun began to sink, and Leisa began to recognize their surroundings. Too soon, the bright, narrow ribbon of a road appeared through the trees up ahead.

Kyrion stopped.

“You will be safe from here?” he asked, staring at the road instead of looking at her.

“Yes.” She stepped up to stand beside him. “I know where I am. If I stick to that road, I’m sure to run into a guard patrol before long, and they can take me the rest of the way.”

He nodded, a single jerk of his head. “I will return to the other side of the border. If you approach that general area, I’m certain I will be able to find you from the noise you make blundering about in the forest.”

It was on the verge of being a joke, but he looked almost angry.

“You shouldn’t have to wait for long,” she reminded him. “Hopefully, Soren won’t keep me above a day or two to answer his questions, and then I’ll be free.”

“If I let you go”—he paused for a moment, his jaw clenched tight—“you will come back.” He said it as if trying to convince himself that trusting her was the right thing to do.

“I won’t betray you,” she said firmly, but she could tell it did no good. He still wasn’t sure of her, and she wasn’t certain there was anything she could do to change that.

Unless… Touch had always strengthened their link, so perhaps there was one last thing she could try.

Before she could think too hard and lose her nerve, Leisa reached out and took his hand, wrapping her short, calloused fingers around his stronger ones. “I don’t know if you can hear me better this way, but it’s worth a try.”

She took a deep breath. “Kyrion, I swear I will come back. There is nothing here that I want—no one I need to stay for. I love my kingdom, but King Soren used me, and I don’t know if I can forgive that. I think I need to get away for a while, and even if I didn’t, I would never leave you in these chains if there were any way for me to help.”

With an abruptness that nearly knocked her over, he pulled her around to face him.

“I know that you mean what you say,” he insisted, almost harshly, while staring down at her as if perplexed. Whether with her or himself, it was impossible to say. “But that has nothing to do with trust.”

He was right. Trust did not always follow where the mind led. Trust was a matter of the heart, and the heart followed its own dictates.

“Then trust this.” Leisa pulled from his grip, but only to turn his hand over and place the hilt of her dagger in his open palm. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s my one link to my parents—the only thing I have that might someday lead me to them and the answers I want. Take it. That way, you’ll know that I’ll at least come back for it, even if you can’t trust me to come back for you.”

He didn’t immediately accept her offering, so Leisa decided to pull death’s whiskers one last time—she wrapped his outstretched hand in both of hers and gently closed his fingers around the dagger’s hilt.

And he let her, his eyes fixed on that space between them as though he couldn’t quite believe she’d dared to touch him.

Feeling suddenly warm and more than a little embarrassed, Leisa yanked her hands away.

Only for his eyes to suddenly blaze up like silver stars in his shockingly beautiful face.

The dagger fell unheeded to the ground as one of his hands darted out, caught her wrist, and wrapped it in an unbreakable grip. The other lifted towards her face, slowly and tentatively, almost as if it moved despite his will.

His fingertips brushed her cheek. They traveled across her cheekbone, light as a breeze, wiping away tears she didn’t realize had fallen, then to her ear, brushing back a wisp of hair that had escaped her braid.

And all the while, his gaze burned against hers as if he could somehow stare past her eyes and into her heart.

“I will trust you, Leisa.”

At the sound of her name in his deep voice, Leisa nearly melted right into the ground.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “I won’t let you down. Just wait for me.”

“I will wait for you.”

Across the link between them, something new and alarming flared into life, as fiery and dangerous as staring into the sun. And for a single moment, Leisa stared into that inferno and willed it to burn.

But she couldn’t stay there. She had a job to do, and all Kyrion needed from her was her magic. If she could only remember that. Perhaps if she reminded herself of it every time he entered her thoughts, she could avoid being consumed by this fire that seemed to blaze all the hotter the longer she stood too close.

So she pulled away from his touch and from the link they shared. “Be safe,” she said, already mourning the loss.

The glow in his eyes died. “And you,” he returned coolly, bending to retrieve her dagger before holding out her pack.

She took it. “I’ll be back by the time you’ve decided you don’t really miss me at all.”

He didn’t even smile.

She choked back a feeling of dread that insisted she stay. It screamed at her that leaving would end up breaking her heart, but she ignored it. She had to do this.

“Then this is goodbye,” she managed.

“Yes.”

She couldn’t take it anymore. She whirled to face the road and took a step towards it. Then another step. Three steps later, she was running, and she didn’t stop until her feet were firmly planted on the hard-packed dirt.

Finally, she turned back, but he was already gone. And she wouldn’t see him again until she finished her mission.

With an effort that left tears running down her cheeks once more, Leisa wrenched her heart and mind back to her true purpose—saving Farhall. If she failed, these past few weeks would have been for nothing. Zander’s life would have been thrown away in vain. Maybe even Kip’s, Terek’s, and Nyssa’s. She couldn’t let their sacrifices be wasted.

Her own feelings, her own future, would have to wait.

Shouldering her pack, Leisa set her face towards home and jogged off down the road into the gathering dusk.

Click here to continue the story with THE UNSEEN HEIR!

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BOOKS BY KENLEY DAVIDSON

FANTASY ROMANCE

LEGENDS OF ABREIA

The Faceless Mage

The Unseen Heir

FAIRY TALE RETELLINGS

THE ANDARI CHRONICLES

Traitor’s Masque

Goldheart

Pirouette

Shadow & Thorn

Daughter of Lies

Path of Secrets

ROMANTIC SCIENCE FICTION

CONCLAVE WORLDS

The Daragh Deception

The Concord Coalition

The Linden Legacy

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kenley Davidson is an incurable introvert who took up writing to make space for all the untold stories in her head.

She loves rain, roller-coasters, coffee and happy endings, and is somewhat addicted to researching random facts and reading the dictionary (which she promises is way more fun than it sounds). A majority of her time is spent being mom to two kids and two dogs while inventing reasons not to do laundry (most of which seem to involve books).

Kenley is the author of The Andari Chronicles, an interconnected series of fairy tale retellings, and Conclave Worlds, a romantic science fiction series.

She also writes sweet contemporary romance under the pseudonym Kacey Linden.

kenleydavidson.com

kenley@kenleydavidson.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With every book, these acknowledgments get harder to write, not because I have fewer people to thank, but because there is so much in my mind and heart when I think back over the process of bringing a book to life.

Even more so now. It’s been over a year since my last book, and that time has been full of obstacles and challenges that have changed me as a person as well as a writer.

I couldn’t bring myself to write the books I’d intended to write. Nothing went the way anyone expected. And yet, every book has its time, and the seeds of this one have been with me for far longer than I’ve been an author.

So to my team, thank you—for pulling me along with coffee, encouragement, and late-night pep talks. For believing in a book I wasn’t sure I could write.

I’m grateful to my beta readers—Tiffany, Chloe, Theresa, Railey, Shari and Brittany—for loving this new series and making me keep going.

I owe endless thanks to Theresa—my extraordinary editor and map geek—for finding my typos, fixing my subjunctive (if subjunctivitis were a thing, I would totally have it), and pointing out where my characters indulged in geographical impossibilities.

Thank you to MoorBooks Design for the incredible cover—I couldn’t be happier with how well it turned out, and how wonderful everyone has been to work with.

As with every book, I’m thankful to Jeff for all the everything. From layout to marketing to handholding, he’s the ultimate author sidekick and my favorite fan.

And to all my readers: thank you for sticking with me through this long and crazy year. I hope these characters find their way into your hearts as they have mine.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Thank You

Books by Kenley Davidson

About the Author

Acknowledgments