Page 23

Chapter 23

Kat

“Wake up and get dressed.”

The prince’s voice startles me from my sleep. I bolt upright, my hand instinctively going to my chest to ensure I’m still wearing my binding. I am. This proves my insistence upon always wearing the binding, even while sleeping, is necessary. I exhale.

His words process in my mind.

“You’re back. Is everything alright?” I ask. It’s very early. I get up and gather my uniform but dare not change into it with him still in the doorway. It took me a long time to fall asleep last night after the way the prince rushed off after receiving that note. “Is your sister alright?”

“She is fine for now.” He considers a moment, then adds in a quieter tone, “I’m glad I arrived when I did.”

I lick my lips, something inside my chest easing. “Then I am glad too.”

He steps outside of my room briskly. The honesty between us seems to make him almost uncomfortable. When he speaks again, it is in his usual tone. “The queen has summoned me. I want you to come along.”

“The queen? Is she going to try to kill you again?”

He lifts one shoulder. “It wouldn’t be wise. I’m prepared now.”

I dress quickly once the door is closed, shake out my hair, and hurry to grab a quick breakfast from the kitchen before we leave.

The sun rises as we take the main road out of the city. It doesn’t take me long to figure out where we’re going when we veer onto a dirt road, and a cold shiver like ice descends, slowly covering my body.

We’re going to Caphryl Wood.

Why are we going to Caphyrl Wood?

Has he . . . discovered me? How could he have? It’s been days since I even touched the Wood!

A hand lands on my knee. I jerk away from his touch even before I process that it is Rahk. I look up quickly. He withdraws his hand, his brow pinched, his scrutiny sharp as it roves over me.

“I’m sorry, Master,” I manage.

“Are you—” He stops himself abruptly, his eyes widening. “Your mother. Nat, I—I am so sorry, I forgot you had such terrible memories of this place.”

Is he . . . sputtering ? I didn’t think a fae could sputter. Much less the infamous Prince Rahk of the Nothril Court.

He yanks open the curtain and shouts out the window, “We must go back at once!”

“What?” I blurt.

He leans back in to say to me, “This is my blunder, so I shall fix it. You need not go near the Wood.”

“The queen’s caravan is already there!” Edvear shouts from where he stands on the footboard of the carriage.

Rahk releases a low growl of frustration. He looks back at me, and that appears to be genuine concern flashing in his black eyes. “Very well!” he calls to the driver. To me, he drops his voice and says gently, “You can stay in the carriage. We’ll draw the curtains, and you won’t have to look at the place.”

So . . . he has brought me here for a different reason. He doesn’t know I’m the Ivy Mask. I breathe a little easier, my body unwinding from its tight coil.

The carriage comes to a stop. Rahk looks at me again as he moves to exit the box.

“I’ll go with you,” I say, trying to hide the bubbling of my curiosity. I’m supposed to be a traumatized boy, so I keep my shoulders scrunched as I follow Rahk out of the carriage.

He smiles down at me. As though he’s proud of my bravery.

We stand on the farmland waving with grass at the edge of the great, dark Wood. Knights in heavy armor stand at attention beside Queen Vivienne, who wears a shawl around her delicate shoulders. Rahk goes directly to her. I hang back, mussing my hair and slouching my shoulders even more. I don’t want to go anywhere near her for fear she’ll see through my disguise at once and recognize me.

So I stay with Edvear by the carriage.

“What’s going on?” I ask, nervously.

“The border of the Wood has begun receding.”

“It has?”

“It seems the queen is asking our lord to inspect it.”

The prince leaves the group then. He strides through the tall grass, his white hair falling between his shoulder blades and sweeping around his face as the wind picks up. He doesn’t slow until he reaches the edge of the Wood.

Queen Vivienne stays where she is, her chin lifted as she watches Rahk.

It hasn’t even occurred to me that it might not be safe for humans while it is receding. I’ve just been going in and out as I please. The prince turns around, beckons Edvear to come. His eye catches mine and his eyebrow lifts—giving me the option to join if I want to.

It’s probably a bad idea, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I follow Edvear out to meet the prince.

What I see takes my breath away.

The ground at the edge of the Wood isn’t green like the rest, but sparking with a chorus of golden glows. As though millions of fireflies hover just above the soil. The wind, always strong near Caphryl, blows my hair in every direction.

I stop where I am. The prince beckons me closer. “It’s safe.”

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“The forest is receding, but the land left behind is still saturated with magic.”

I look up in alarm. “Will it always be this way? Will we get hurt if we get too close?”

Rahk shakes his head. “No, on both counts. The remnants of magic will fade as the human cycle of death overtakes it. It won’t be long. It won’t hurt anyone. Not the ground itself, that is.” He says it with a dark furrow of his brow. “Though perhaps now the queen will be open to a dialogue about the Wood.”

I stay where I am as he leaves to speak with the queen.

The land is being returned. After all these years.

But the Wood won’t give back all it took.

I grit my teeth. Foolish as it may be, I cannot wait until my next raid. I walk back over, staying out of close range but within hearing distance just as the prince is saying to the queen, “I would be honored to attend your luncheon.”

“Two days,” says Queen Vivienne. “One discussion, and no more. We do not need fae here.”

Rahk bows cordially. “I understand.”

The next unexpected errand Rahk takes me on is to a sparring yard. I have no idea why he takes me, and not Edvear, but when he asks me to accompany him, I cannot think of an excuse fast enough.

The sparring yard is out of town again. I recognize the place as belonging to Baron Cranswick. My hackles rise as we step onto what seems to be a glorified courtyard, complete with barrels of weapons and an alarming number of shirtless young men.

Young men that I know .

There is Sir Alsbee and his crew, laughing and lounging on a few benches. There is Lord Oliver Cranswick, tossing aside his sword as he jogs to meet us. And beyond him, sitting fully clothed with no sign of exertion, is Lord Boreham.

Saints have mercy on me. What is Lord Boreham doing here?

I try to look anywhere at all, but nowhere is safe from the hairy bellies and pale chests. I happen to look up to find Rahk smirking down at me.

“This will be you someday,” he teases.

My disgusted reaction is out before I can help it. He chuckles as Lord Oliver catches up to us.

“You came!” he cries happily, sweating profusely and planting two hands against his narrow hips. He has one of the nicer torsos of the group, and the fact that I notice only embarrasses me more.

I shuffle partially behind Rahk, keeping my head bowed, my heart pounding violently when Lord Oliver glances my way. Please don’t recognize me. Please don’t recognize me.

“I am grateful for the invitation,” says Rahk with a warmth I’m not sure I’ve ever heard from him. “I hope it is no trouble that I brought my attendant. He is young, but he intends to go to war someday.”

I could murder him. He all but grins down at me, his dark eyes twinkling.

“War, eh?” says Lord Oliver, turning his sunny smile down to me.

I squirm in my shoes. I pray like I have never prayed before.

“Well, you’re in the right place, er . . .?”

“Nat. His name is Nat.” Rahk ruffles my hair. “Would you like to join us?”

“I can watch,” I squeak.

The two of them laugh. Rahk shucks off his boots, hands them to me, and then strips off his shirt. I frantically look elsewhere until the shirt drops into my waiting hands. When I brave a glance, he has mercifully left on his thin linen undershirt.

“Watch those for me,” says the prince as he strides barefoot toward the barrel of weapons.

I scurry toward an empty bench and carefully prop up his boots, folding his shirt and draping it over the bench. Then I sit cross-legged and pray no one looks my way ever again.

There are several circular wooden fences scattered throughout the yard. As I watch, two men choose their weapons, climb into the enclosure, and begin sparring. Rahk is busy inspecting blunted swords with Lord Oliver. He tests the weight of each in his palm and does not seem fully satisfied with his selection. Once he has a weapon, he leaps lightly into a pit. Lord Oliver follows, far less gracefully, though not without his own dignity.

Is this the prince’s way of connecting with the influential men of Harbright? I didn’t know they all came here to fight together like dogs.

Lord Oliver faces Rahk, both with their swords lifted. Lord Oliver attacks first, darting forward and aiming at Rahk’s forearm. Rahk blocks the blow and side-steps. Lord Oliver continues throwing quick attacks—faster and more precise than I would have expected from any young lord in Harbright’s aristocracy. Rahk stays back, blocking and dodging, but not striking.

“Come now!” cries Lord Oliver. “I know you’re better than me! You needn’t protect my dignity!”

The next second, his sword goes flying upward. Rahk darts forward and snatches it out of the air, and an instant later, he has both blades against Oliver’s throat. I press a hand over my mouth—and then rip it away when I realize how feminine of a gesture it is. I’m supposed to be excited about this. Nat wouldn’t be worried about Oliver.

Oliver lets out a chortle. “How did you do that? You must show me at once!”

Rahk seems pleased with this response, tossing the sword back to his opponent. His neck cranes quickly, and I find myself trapped in his sparking gaze. He didn’t search for me—he knew exactly where I sat.

Something about the look he gives me makes my cheeks flush.

He returns to his opponents. Many of the men have abandoned their respective matches in favor of surrounding the pit and watching Rahk. I cannot see a thing except the top of Rahk’s white hair, which moves as he instructs the onlookers.

He and Lord Oliver do two more rounds—none of which I can see—and after that, it is Alsbee who saunters forward and demands his turn. He proclaims that he wishes to fight hand to hand, no weapons. I have no idea where he gets the boldness for that. Maybe the same place he found the boldness to try to seduce me when I was sixteen.

I lean forward on the bench, very eager to watch Alsbee get trounced. There is no viewing pocket available to me, so I leave the safety of my bench and venture closer to the pit.

Laughter erupts just as I find a spot, several paces away, but at an angle where I can see. Rahk’s knees are bent, his hands gripping Alsbee’s forearms. Forearms that are wrapped around his neck. My gasp is out of me before I can stop it. Why are they laughing? How dare Alsbee play so dirty?

And then one of the men shift, and I get the full view. Alsbee hangs on Rahk’s back, his feet literally dangling off the ground. He is trying to pull Rahk down. Rahk, however, stays sturdy on his feet, and all he does is keep Alsbee from choking him. He isn’t even fighting.

Everyone is laughing at how ridiculous the young lord looks.

I find myself smirking, delighted far beyond what I expected. Maybe this trip isn’t the worst thing that ever happened.

Then Rahk pivots, prying Alsbee’s arm loose of his neck and swiveling. I cannot even follow what happens, but one minute Alsbee is hanging from his back, and the next he is flat on the ground, Rahk’s foot planted on his sternum.

I blush furiously.

“Now you must show us that one too!” cries Oliver.

One by one, all the young men want to challenge the prince. I don’t know how their dignity allows them to be so competitive. The prince is half a head taller than the tallest of them all, otherworldly with his silvery-white hair, pointed ears, and exquisite beauty. Everything about him screams warrior , and I feel a flutter of something that should be fear, but isn’t. The longer I watch, the more I see that he’s actually holding himself back to make it seem like he is only winning by a margin.

After all the young men have been thoroughly trounced, they pepper Rahk with questions and beg him to demonstrate his unusual techniques to them. A few of them have bruised egos and slink off to pout elsewhere—Alsbee being one of them—but most of them seem like good sports, and eagerly accept instruction, asking questions and watching as the prince demonstrates.

“So, what is it like being a servant for a fae?”

I startle out of my shoes—not having noticed someone sidling up to me. Lord Boreham . I swear under my breath, tensing to run. Honestly, I don’t even know why he’s here, because his fine doublet and velvet pants suggest he isn’t here to join the others.

I step to one side, putting distance between us and keeping my face downcast. Please don’t recognize me. I pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Will a little coin loosen your tongue?” Boreham presses, smiling like a cat in my periphery. “I understand. Money is hard to come by. Especially for one in your station.”

I bristle, even while relief nearly makes my shoulders sag. He doesn’t recognize me .

“Nat.”

The prince’s voice makes me flinch. He’s standing right in front of me, and I didn’t even notice his approach. So observant, Kat . Quit losing your wits!

“Master,” I croak. It takes me a second to drag my gaze all the way up to his face. Several long strands of his hair have come free, and they blow lightly around his face in the spring breeze.

There is something almost electrifying about watching someone best over a dozen men in their prime . . . and then shift their focus to you.

I’ve outsmarted him twice now, I think with a plume of satisfaction unfurling in my belly. Thrice, if counting the disguise.

“Would you like a turn?” Rahk asks.

I stare blankly at him. A turn for what? A turn for—

Oh.

He means . . . he means . . .

“Definitely not,” I blurt.

He smirks. “You said you wanted to go to war. You’ll need a few skills to stay alive.”

Lord Boreham has vanished, almost as if he was never here. I lick my dry lips, setting my brow in a stubborn line.

So Rahk insists, “You say you want to help take the burden off your sister. If you could defend yourself—and her, even—that would be a great peace of mind to her.”

I scowl at him. I don’t want to go to that pit and have all those eyes on me as I fumble around over some fighting techniques. I have nimble feet and I’m strong for my size, but my advantage as the Ivy Mask comes from avoiding confrontations that could get me killed. I’m not stupid enough to think I can go against a fae warrior several centuries older than me and escape with my life.

But Nat would want to learn.

So I force myself to follow him.

He offers me a hand into the pit, but I opt for a graceless scramble over the fence instead.

Rahk stands next to me, bracing his feet wide. “It all starts with the feet. Your strength and power come from properly engaging your feet.”

I try to mimic him, my toes splayed on the dirt. He kneels in front of me. I almost take a step back, but his warm hand comes around my ankle, positioning my feet for me.

“Like this,” he says. “See how solid you are now?”

I do not feel solid. Not with him so close. But I try to focus as he springs upright.

“You should know how to land a good blow,” Rahk continues. He comes to my side and mimes a slow version of a blow into the empty air. “This is the motion. This is how your fist should be arranged.”

I follow his example and give my own mimed punch.

“Just like that. Now faster and harder. Yes, exactly. You’ve got power in that blow!” Rahk grins, pleased.

I never thought a Nothril prince would be . . . enthusiastic about anything. Except meting out death, perhaps.

He shows me several different ways to dodge a blow. We go slowly, his fist coming toward me and giving me time to step left or right, duck, or retreat. This is starting to feel very useful for my raids.

“You’re a natural,” he declares.

I know his praise is only to encourage me—he’s not impressed with my abilities at all—but I find myself wanting to please him even so. I throw more energy and passion into following his instructions.

“Excellent!” he cries as my blows land across the flattened palm he offers me. “Use that back leg to stabilize you. Yes, just like that!”

I pause, breathing hard, but I’m smiling. Then I get back into position.

“Don’t tuck your hips so much,” says the prince, coming round behind me. “You can engage the muscles running down the back of your legs better if you aren’t tucked. It’ll give your movements greater power.”

“Tucked? What do you mean tucked?”

His hands land on my hips. I nearly leap away in shock but manage to do nothing but stiffen. “Easy,” he says gently, his voice dropping. “Don’t tense up so much. Relax. True power comes from being open and letting your strength flow out, rather than forcing it.” He grips my hips and pulls them back and up. I try to force away the heat in my cheeks. “Now, fill your ribs and try to expand them to every side. Your feet, hips, and ribs are all key areas to supporting your body and allowing your strength to flow.”

His hands start to go to my ribs, and my mind turns white-hot at the thought of him discovering my binding. Quickly, before he can touch me, I place my own hands at my ribs and do as he instructs, filling them wide.

“Excellent job,” the prince praises again, stepping away from me. His eyes somehow seem a shade darker than before. “Now we can start practicing in earnest.”

He takes his place opposite me. I gulp. His mouth quirks. “We’ll go slowly.”

I nod, face him, and take up my stance.

“Kat!” someone cries.

My attention breaks. I instinctively turn toward my name—

And the next thing I know, I’m hitting the edge of the fence, my head snapping back. Pain roars to life in my face a second later, followed by a terrible pressure and something hot and sticky sliding down my cheek.

“Nat!” Rahk is there a second later, crouching over me, horror stitched into every line of his expression. “You were supposed to dodge that!”

“I thought someone called for me,” I say stupidly, my face throbbing and my back pulsing from hitting the fence. I turn to the side, only to see a stray cat dart across the yard and disappear.

The prince’s shirt is off a second later, and he presses it to my face. It comes away red.

I stare at the blood in shock.

He mutters something under his breath, flicks his wrist, and returns the shirt to my face. The shirt is shockingly cold. He—he used magic to make it cold!

He’s talking to me, I realize belatedly.

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to hit you. Great Kings, I hit you very hard. Are you alright? Can you hear me? Nat!” He gives my arm a little shake. My attention snaps to him.

“What?” I taste copper.

Running footsteps come up behind me. Rahk looks up and shakes his head. “I’ve got him. Come on, let’s get you home. To think you’ve only just recovered from poison! I never should have pushed you this hard.”

He reaches for me, hands going to my armpits to lift me up. I can’t let him carry me. I can’t let him feel that much of my body—there is no way he wouldn’t realize at once how I’ve lied to him. My brain might be rattled, but I can deal with it later.

I knock his hand away and grab hold of the fence to pull myself up.

“Nat—”

The world spins once I’m on my feet. I hold on to the fence to keep from falling. With my other hand, I press his cold shirt to my swollen face. At least now no one will recognize me as Lady Vandermore! I choke back a hysterical laugh.

Then I face the prince. “Again.”

He’s on one knee still, as though he means to propose marriage. I fight back another delirious giggle and repeat firmly, “Again. Let’s keep practicing. I assume we ought to go over dodging once more?”

Laughter surrounds us. I startle and glance around, only to realize most of the men in the place hurried over in concern the moment I was hit.

“The lad’s fine!” one guffaws.

“He’s got the skull of an anvil!”

“Brings a new meaning to the mind being a steel trap, eh?”

I want to laugh along with them, even though the barest chuckle makes my head feel like it is splitting in two. But the prince is staring at me with such an iron focus, it’s almost as if he’s angry I would suggest such a thing.

“We’re leaving,” he growls, his voice low and cold. When I start to protest, he comes very close to my face and says, “At once.”

I clamber over the fence, mopping up the blood still seeping out of my nose, and try to move quickly despite my dizziness so the prince won’t decide I need to be carried. A few men clap me on the back and give me wishes for my speedy recovery or proclaim I’m as tough as nails. I’m reminded once again why I’ve tried so hard to avoid them and their marriage proposals. Most of them seem to be genuinely good-hearted people and I simply cannot risk being tempted to give up my fortune.

I sway. The prince’s hand latches onto my upper arm. He doesn’t move too fast for me, but we quickly exit the sparring yard.

He doesn’t speak a word to me the entire way home.