Page 3 of Princes of the Outlands (The Castles of the Eyrie)

Chapter 3

Rangar

Princess .

Princess.

Prin-cess.

Rangar Barendur practiced pronouncing the foreign word under his breath as he raised his iron sword. He lunged forward and slammed the blade into the side of a pine tree, sending out slivers of wood into the falling snow. The edge had lodged deep in the trunk, so he caught his breath before freeing it. His chest was rising and falling hard from the exertion of combat training. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his bare chest.

“ Princess ,” he muttered aloud, testing out the word’s sound as he gripped the hilt, tugging his sword free of the tree.

He’d spent the last three years trying to master the Mir language. It was frustratingly dissimilar from his tongue, Baer. If he’d been more skilled with magic, he could have gotten a translation hexmark carved into his chest, as his aunt had. But despite the dozens of hexmarks scarring his muscles, the translation hex was so advanced as to be inaccessible to anyone other than mages. And so he’d persuaded his eldest brother, Trei, to obtain a book written in Mir. For the last year, he’d been painstakingly teaching himself the language one word at a time.

“ Well met, princess ,” he tested out. Briefly, his thoughts returned to the last time he had seen Bryn Lindane. She was the youngest daughter of the Mir royal family, the most powerful rulers in all the Eyrie, and thus far out of his league. If it hadn’t been for what happened when they were children, he probably never would have even been allowed in the same room as her. But fate had led her into the woods, following a white fawn. He’d been watching from her castle’s tower and had surmised what grave danger she was in. Luckily, he’d made it to her before the wolves did.

Now, he raked his sweaty hair off his face, fingers lingering briefly on the four claw mark scars that marred his face from temple to chin.

Bryn hadn’t escaped the wolf encounter unscathed, either, though her scars were hidden beneath her clothes. Not for the first time, Rangar wondered what it would be like to press his hands against the scars over her ribs that matched his own, forever binding them together.

“ Do you know who I am ?” he spoke in Mir, stumbling over the unwieldy pronunciation.

Two years before, he’d convinced his brothers to sneak into the Mirien on the eve of Harvest Moon Gathering. He’d seen Bryn dancing in a wheat field from a distance and had even managed to collect a button that had fallen from her gown. He kept it hidden in the rafters of the room he shared with his brothers, knowing they’d tease him ceaselessly about it if they knew.

He hadn’t been able to speak to Bryn at the Harvest Moon Gathering. With her father and brother so close, he would have been immediately run through with a sword. But the Low Sun Gathering was coming up in a few months. With tensions high among the kingdoms of the Eyrie, all the outland realms, including the Baersladen, had been invited to convene to discuss politics.

He would finally see Bryn again.

He might even talk to her.

Hefting his sword, he aimed at the last mark he’d made on the pine, intending to strike it again. He swung with all his strength, burying the blade deep into the wood.

Satisfied, he braced one boot against the trunk to pull the blade free, but before he could, a falcon cawed and landed on a branch overhead.

She was a small, light tan bird, and the leather tag on her talon was threaded with green glass beads.

It was Hurricane, Aya’s falcon.

“You’re speaking gibberish again,” a voice came behind him. “So I assume you’ve either gone mad or are trying to impress your Mir princess.”

Rangar turned to find Aya crossing the snow in her green wool cloak. He’d been friends with the junior falconer since she’d come from the village of Casim to train under Saraj’s guidance. Headstrong and confident, Aya was never put off by his brooding nature. Now, with her silky tresses loose and dotted with snowflakes, she looked almost like one of the woods sprites from the ancient ballads. She stopped in front of him, scrutinizing his bare chest marked with hexmarks.

“Or perhaps you intend to freeze out here, training shirtless?”

He gave a half grin as he heaved against his boot, freeing his sword. “I grow hot when I train.”

“Yes,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “You do.”

He laughed slightly as he started to sheath his sword, but Aya held out a hand. “Wait. Keep your sword drawn.”

He did as she requested, though his raised eyebrow said he was unsure of her reasons.

“Your grip is off,” she instructed. “You forget that my father was the finest swords maker in all the Outlands. He even made a sword for that Mir royal family you’re so taken with. Now, loosen your grip. Yes, like that.”

Rangar was one of the finest swordsmen in the Baersladen, rivaled only by his brother, Valenden. But, for all that Valenden played the part of a useless rogue, he was actually highly skilled in combat. And though Rangar’s swordsmanship instructor had given him the opposite advice about his grip, he didn’t question Aya’s suggestion.

She stood behind him, extending her arm alongside his, folding her small fingers around his larger ones. “There. Do you feel the difference? If you squeeze too hard, the sword won’t have enough give to take the impact.”

Though Aya stood half a head shorter than him, Rangar could feel her breath clouding against his bare shoulder. Her wool cloak tickled his skin. He tested out loosen his grip and found his sword felt much better in his hand.

“Yes, I see,” he noted, and then before he thought better of it added, “You smell good. Like honey bread.”

She paused, cheeks warming. “I’ve been helping bake rolls this morning in the kitchen,” she said, her hand still cupped over his on the sword hilt. “ You smell like, well, a sweaty soldier who’s been training too hard.”

He grunted a laugh.

As he sheathed his sword, Aya came to face him and touched a hexmark on his bare bicep. “The finding hex. It was the first one I ever got. I use it all the time—I’m forever misplacing things.”

Rangar combed back his messy hair. Now that he wasn’t exerting himself, he was starting to feel the cold as the snow continued to fall around them. It was invigorating—he had always loved snow.

Aya moved her hand over the hexmarks on his shoulder to his pectoral muscle. She tapped another hexmark. “What is this one? I don’t know it.”

“Protection from nefarious spells.”

“Do you have many mages trying to curse you, Rangar?”

“Everyone has enemies, Aya.”

“Please. You and your brothers are beloved by everyone in the Baersladen. They even have a soft spot in their hearts for Val.” She cocked her head. “Or were you thinking of enemies beyond our borders?”

Rangar couldn’t help but think of King Deothanial forbidding him and his family from setting foot in the Mirien, all for the apparent crime of saving his daughter’s life. Of course, it hadn’t been the rescue they’d taken issue with—it had been the Baer belief that a life saved is a soul owned. Rangar’s father claimed Bryn belonged to Rangar and wanted to take the young girl back to the Baersladen with them. The Mir King had refused with harsh threats, saying Bryn would never belong to savages.

But she’s mine , Rangar thought. Not his to own, not his to command—but his to protect. The belief ran deep within his culture that he was responsible for her safety now, and for nearly ten years, it had been torturing him not to be able to fulfill that duty.

Aya slid her soft fingers along the hills of his chest muscles, watching goosebumps rise from the heat of her touch on such a cold day. His pulse picked up. He swallowed, unsure suddenly about how he was feeling. He’d never quite noticed until now how Aya was the perfect height for him to hold close and rest his chin on the crown of her head.

“I enjoyed yesterday evening.” Her voice had softened. “The dance, I mean.”

It had been part of the Anniversary of Sovereignty celebration when Barendur Hold’s great hall was filled with music and festivities. Saraj had teased and prodded Rangar until he’d joined in on the dancing, and he’d found himself taking a spin with most of the girls in the castle, Aya included.

He’d enjoyed dancing with her. They’d laughed together. For a second, he’d even thought what a good pair they made…

“I’m not much for dancing,” he said, looking away, flushed with guilt that he was having improper thoughts about any girl other than Bryn.

“You’re not as bad as you believe yourself to be. You just need to loosen up. Like your sword grip. You’re too stiff, Rangar Barendur.”

Aya placed her hands on his taut shoulder muscles, kneading them in jest in a way that made his breathing tremble, but then her face turned serious. “I mean it, Rangar. Dancing with you was the best part of my day.”

He gazed down at the pretty falconer apprentice in indecision. He and Aya had never been anything more than friends, and yet there had been that moment at the dance last night when he’d wondered if there could be something more. While he wasn’t like his brother Trei, who only devoted attention to one woman at a time, nor was he as promiscuous as his other brother, Valenden.

He’d never considered Aya in a romantic way. His heart had always belonged elsewhere…but maybe he’d been a fool. Maybe his brothers were right to tease him about loving a girl a kingdom away that he barely knew.

What if there had been someone else in front of him all along?