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“Shit,” Montrose said. “We need to move. We stay here much longer, the queen’s guard will find and track us.”

Moving to stand between her and the steps, Westvane glanced at Samarin. “Where are we?”

“Forrestarian,” Samarin said. “Seventy miles south of Ipsalar.”

“I’ve never been.” Westvane glanced at Montrose. “Are you familiar with Ipsalar?”

Montrose tipped his chin.

Truly threw him a sidelong glance. Something in his expression tweaked her. Warned her. Made her watchful as she asked, “How familiar?”

An odd light entered his eyes. “Very. I know the city like the back of my hand.”

She became even more alert as understanding struck. “Brim’s there.”

“Bull’s-eye, Triple.” Montrose’s mouth curved, exposing the tips of his fangs.

“As good a place to hide as any. At least, until I can access my magic again.” She turned to Westvane, gauging his reaction. “Sound like a plan?”

“It’ll be a trek, princess,” he said. “You up for a road trip?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then why’re you asking?”

“Attitude,” he grumbled. “The trip through theEcotonedid nothing to improve your personality.”

She huffed.

Shaking his head, Westvane turned from her and mounted the porch steps.

His wing-tips slid across the treads, rustling against wood. Inky feathers fluttered then settled as he stopped in front of Samarin. While struggling with him, Truly thought Samarin was huge. Too broad. Too strong. An unbeatable foe, but… Westvane was taller, broader, much more menacing.

“You’ll cover our tracks?” Westvane asked, studying his fellow Assenta.

“Should anyone come looking, my liege, no one will know you were here.” Thumping his fist against his chest, Samarin bowed his head, showing respect like a solider would his commander. “On my honor. You have my word.”

“Good enough,” he said, clasping hands with Samarin. “You have my thanks.”

The Assenta nodded. “My sword is yours should you need it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Retracing his steps, Westvane walked to where she stood on the path. “Time to move. Fast and light, princess. No trace left behind.”

“Okay,” she murmured, hoping she could do as he asked.

She’d never been pursued before. Never feared for her life in a world not her own. Never been forced to run across rough terrain to stay alive. But as she left Samarin’s house, jogging at a fast clip behind Westvane, Montrose falling in at her back, Truly prayed for strength. Not only for the ability to run and run hard, but for the kind of luck that would keep the queen and her guard off their trail.

22

QUICK AND QUIET

The sun came up over fields of gold, burning across wide-open plains. Miles and miles of wild wheat undulating in the wind. Top shelfs laden with grain no one would ever harvest, waiting for someone to step into the long grass, danger disguised as beauty and abundance.

Running lead in the procession of three, Westvane scanned the fields on either side of the trail. Long strides. Light footfalls. Pace steady. No snakes yet. Although, he saw of plenty of holes for nests of vipers to hide in.

Too late in the day, perhaps. Too cold on the plain for the venomous creatures to be anywhere other than tucked deep in their dens.