Page 5

“He didn’t even ask me, Ollie,” Lachlan said, a morose tone he usually tempered finding its way through. “Didn’t even trust me enough to have a conversation about the betrothal.” Lachlan was sure his past behavior might have solidified his father’s mistrust in him, and he was pretty sure he didn’t deserve to be crowned king.

“I wonder, Lach, if the truth is that you did want those in court to hear. That you did want the gossip to reach the princess’s ears. That you did, in fact, want to sabotage a possible wedding rather than face the wrath of your father just by having a face-to-face with him.”

Lachlan pressed his teeth together, hating Ollie’s adept perception, even if he thought it was bollocks. The idea that he couldn’t face his father wasn’t something he wanted to consider. He preferred to be the victim in the situation. So, he didn’t respond. A prince didn’t have to.

“Your marriage to her would have secured a strong alliance,” Ollie added.

“Freida Beaknose?”

“Yes, Princess Freida Truisante.” Ollie rolled his eyes at him. “The alliance would have opened Jast’s western borders and given us a straight route to the Mourning Sea. And if these negotiations with Kaloma prove favorable, Jast will have access to the southern border and the Dauntiss Ocean.” Ollie sighed. “Now, we’ll have to do damage control and hope Truisante isn’t vindictive.”

“Forgive me. I couldn’t condemn my life to be married to someone I don’t choose. Even for trade routes.”

“Spoken like a young, headstrong, impetuous prince.” Ollie tsked and shook his head. “Those in positions of power rarely have the choice.”

“Do you think that’s what my father is trying to teach me by forcing us on this trip and making us trade places?”

“No. I think it’s an opportunity. And I think what your father wants is to protect you. The switch is only a safety precaution until we rendezvous with the queen.”

Lachlan made a noise in his nose of incredulity. At twenty-five, he and his father rarely saw eye-to-eye. Nose-to-nose was a much better description of their relationship. If his father said “left,” Lachlan went right. If Lachlan said “here,” his father went there. Lachlan’s mother had remarked that they were too alike, but Lachlan didn’t see it. While he admired his father and thought he was a good king, there was a lot between them as a father and son that didn’t work. It was fortunate they had so many people between them to build bridges. Lachlan’s mother and Ollie, to name two very important ones.

“I think my father would prefer it if you were the prince, Ollie.”

“Bullshit, your highness.”

Lachlan glanced at Ollie, who was grinning, and smiled as a new noise was added to the clopping of the horses on the narrow path. It sounded like a quick tug on a horse’s leathers while adjusting the saddle. Lachlan felt it move the air to the right side of his face, and out of the corner of his eye noticed the tell-tale shaft and fletching of an arrow as it skimmed the top of Ollie’s shoulder. As if in slow motion, he swung to look, going for his sword as Captain Johesha yelled, “Attack!”

Lachlan turned, pulling up on Goldie’s reins as Ollie yanked on the reins of his own horse, moving backward, away from Goldie, drawing the arrows away from Lachlan. The royal guard, including Johesha, swarmed, but one soldier near him—Jennings—dropped. An arrow protruded from his neck and another from his side. Jenning’s riderless horse darted forward, spooking Goldie. Another volley of arrows looking for purchase pierced her flesh and she reared.

Goldie bolted, leaving behind the chaos of the ensuing battle. With a glance over his shoulder, Lachlan caught Johesha’s eye before facing forward to gain control of his mount. Lachlan was an excellent horseman, but his skills had been tested on the royal grounds of Jast. He hadn’t had many opportunities to try and stay seated on his horse in mountainous terrain as his horse careened through the old growth forest of a land with which Lachlan wasn’t familiar. He ducked low as they crashed through the forest, holding the reins and her mane, hoping to get her under control.

It was the wrong worry.

He and Goldie were moving fast.

Using his legs, his voice, and the reins, Lachlan tried to calm her, but his horse was frantic with fear and pain. When the edge of a cliff loomed ahead, Goldie seemed to sense the danger ahead and tried to stop, pulling up, but lost her footing, unable to gain it on the course rock. She slid, her momentum driving them forward, and before Lachlan could jump, his boot caught up in the stirrup, he and Goldie slid over the lip of the ravine and plummeted.

Lachlan, clinging to his horse, hit the raging water of the river. As they slammed against the surface, she took most of the impact of the fall, but she also became his anchor, her weight pulling him under. His breath was sucked from his lungs, and his body snapped against Goldie’s in the current. He’d definitely broken bones, ribs. The water pummeled him as he fought against his horse’s broken body, twisting and turning in the raging tumult. Every bone and muscle inside him screamed that he needed to be still, but his lungs needed air. Being tethered to Goldie, who was unsuccessfully fighting the current, drew them both deeper, the water holding on with cold and unforgiving hands.

Somehow, Lachlan found the dagger on his hip and used it to cut his way out of the stirrup. Though his lungs were on fire, he discovered he was caught in the reins too. He wasn’t going to make it, he realized, but sawed through the leather anyway, unwilling to give up. There was an underwater tug and snap of the tether, and suddenly Goldie was drifting further away, rising toward the surface, completely still, without him.

His wet clothing dragged him down, his vision dappling dark like Ollie’s gray gelding as his body slipped toward unconsciousness. Still, he managed to shed the weight of his outer layers, then found the will to kick. He needed air, needing to live more than he was ready to give up.

He broke the surface. Gasped a harsh breath, everything burning, his body refusing to cooperate.

Since he weighed significantly less, the current propelled him forward, and as he struggled to keep his head above the water, he caught up with Goldie, now drifting dead in the water. He grabbed hold of her and held on, pulling himself up onto her body as far as he could. The grief at the loss of his horse hit him in increments, but Lachlan couldn’t stay in it, aware that death was coming for him as well. So Lachlan Nikolas, first prince of Jast, heir to the throne, floated down the Grimz River on his dead horse, broken but clinging to her for his life.

3

At the birds’ morning song, Tarley grinned and stretched contentedly under her blanket. She opened her eyes, reorienting to her surroundings under the linen-canvas roof of her small tent. Despite the circumstances that had pushed her into the woods, she was happy to be there. She could hear the music of the river moving in the distance, one of her favorite sounds. A light breeze drifted through the summer trees, moving leaves, shrubs, and tall grass. The bugs were buzzing, the birds flitting, and creatures scurrying. If Tarley could hide in the woods from Kaloma law forever, she would have, but the registry existed, which meant so did she. There was no disappearing.

Crawling from her bedroll, Tarley righted her bedding before donning the wrap around her breasts, then the boy’s pants, tunic, and sweater given to her by her brother. She braided her hair, wrapped it in a coil, and pinned it before stuffing it into a cap. Finally, she flopped onto her backside and scooted forward to the entrance of the tent to stuff her feet into her boots before venturing out to start a fire and make herself some coffee and cakes.

The air, still carrying a morning chill, wouldn’t warm much further, but that didn’t bother her as she bent close to the smoking tinder and gently blew on it as it caught. It was summer in the Whitling Woods, which meant nothing more than no snow for a few weeks and summer plants to harvest for the winter ahead. Tarley added some more substantive pieces of wood to the burgeoning fire, knowing she only had a few weeks of the year when she could escape into the woods to hide from laws that kept her—and all Kaloma women—repressed. The thought grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed it mercilessly. She snapped a branch to add to the fire with a bit more fervor than necessary, then took a deep breath, unwilling to shed the happiness of being where she was for the oppression she would inevitably return to. The cool air cleared her lungs, and she reset as the heat of the fire settled her. She was glad when the coffee was done, sipping with her hands wrapped around the warmth of her cup as her cakes cooked.

Way back when, she’d argued with her father about her trips for this summer, especially after a woman had been found dead in the woods. Tarley had overheard the rumors spread by patrons of The Copper Pot that the woman’s body had been defiled. Though she dismissed the rumors, she understood the reality. A woman was dead. Though it was likely that she’d been a runaway avoiding collection and was killed by her inexperience in the Whitling Woods by a wild woodland creature, Tarley couldn’t help but be shaken by those circumstances as much as by something more sinister.

She shuddered.