Page 12

T heir caravan stopped for lunch at an earl’s estate, where the nobleman himself greeted them with flowery language and deep bows. He praised the impending alliance with Capria and paid special homage to Jaoven and Lisenn. The carriages changed horses and the party continued at a fresh pace.

Denoela and Clervie, having made themselves at home, chose to remain with the princesses of Wessett for the afternoon. Several of the men opted for horseback. When Iona’s view out her window showed Jaoven and Elouan cantering alongside them, she tucked her chin to her chest and pretended to sleep.

The land rose, from foothills to narrow mountain passes, the foliage growing denser and deeper only to break away into magnificent, far-flung views. The snowcapped ridges of the Morreinn slid past in the midafternoon, and Sorrow’s Linn lay only a half-hour beyond.

The last stretch of road, marked only by a pair of wheel ruts in the newly sprouted grass, was so narrow that the horsemen had to ride in front of and behind the carriages. A sharp ravine dropped off to the left, its dark stone walls the channel for a crystal river, the Awinrea, that flowed all the way to the island’s western coast. True to Iona’s prediction, the waters ran high, swirling white foam atop their swift, green depths.

They could hear the waterfall before they saw it, the roar loud enough to pierce the carriage confines. A short, steep footpath marked their final ascent, requiring them to leave horses and carriages behind. Lisenn climbed on Jaoven’s arm. Iona hung to the back of the group with the servants who carried their blankets and supplies. The whole party surfaced on a huge, flat stone that overlooked the idyllic scene.

The pool, Sorrow’s Linn, had swollen in its basin. Its waterfall churned from a cliff a hundred feet above, at this season a monstrous cascade of white foam that propelled the sweeping current.

Jaoven tried to speak, but the noise of the river swallowed his words. Beside him, Lisenn shook her head, not comprehending. He pointed to a berm that ran round the pool, its highest points almost submerged. The Caprians, through shouts and pantomimes, decided to explore the area, and Lisenn on Jaoven’s arm necessarily went along. Iona declined their invitation and settled instead in the center of the flat stone, where she opened the sketchbook she had brought along.

The afternoon, warm for this time of year and elevation, waxed old. As she sketched trees and rock formations, she kept one eye on her sister, so easily visible in that deep red cloak. Some of the Caprian men ventured into one of the calmer corners of the pool, their trousers rolled up to their knees, while the women egged them on. They winced with every step into the cold water, careful not to slip.

Across the distance, they appeared youthful and carefree, an innocent set of friends instead of a collection of monsters and tormenters.

Perhaps Sorrow’s Linn truly did cleanse those who journeyed to its shores.

Iona, weary of their mirth even from afar, contemplated her own dilemma. The nearby path and the horses that waited at its base beckoned to her. It would be a simple task to slip away, to hop into a saddle and ride for oblivion. The servants would report her, but the roar of the waterfall and the length to reach their masters would delay the message. She might arrive at the main road before anyone could follow her, if they even thought to try.

Pieces of that morning’s conversation kept pulsing upon her mind: Lisenn had jumped straight to killing a rebellious subordinate, in hypothetical. Would it truly come to that between them one day if Iona failed to properly submit?

With a shiver, she snapped her sketchbook shut. The Caprians were returning, her sister in their midst. Soon they would be on the road again, to one of her father’s estates and a herd of servants she didn’t know—servants who held no allegiance to a spare princess. She had lost her window to escape.

Her cowardice might one day be the death of her.

She stood as the first of the Caprians, Clervie and Neven, ducked under a low-hanging pine branch and scaled onto the flat rock again. Neven spared her a cagey glance, but Clervie smiled and waved. They continued on to the footpath and passed out of sight.

Denoela came next. A flash of red between the trees warned that Lisenn was not far behind. Iona stood, her legs stiff from sitting so long, and started toward the footpath. The red cloak came into her periphery as she picked her way down. Her foot slipped, but she caught herself from falling.

Perhaps she should have let Lisenn precede her. Pebbles tumbled past her on the trail, and a glimpse of red above quickened her heartbeat. The Awinrea churned in rapids to her right, a smaller cascade tumbling from the upper pool to feed the river. The twisting footpath wound toward its drop-off and away again. Iona increased her pace, eager to reach the base without mishap.

It was nonsensical, her paranoia. Lisenn would never attack in front of so many witnesses unless they were confederate to her crime. The Caprians still believed her to be pure as the waters of Sorrow’s Linn, though. She would save her torment for when she and Iona were alone .

But ahead, at the carriages, Clervie and Denoela were pulling their knapsacks from within, transferring them from one vehicle to the other. Iona stopped short, dismayed. Her father’s estate was at least two hours away, and two hours alone with Lisenn after the elder princess had been forced to wear a pleasant facade all day was a disaster in the making.

Footsteps approached from behind. The hairs on the back of Iona’s neck lifted as her sister paused beside her.

Lisenn’s mouth stretched wide in a triumphant grin. “The Caprians have been such lovely company, but you seem tired. I asked them to ride in the other coach to let you rest.”

Iona backed away, but she had nowhere to run. Between the river and the carriages and the upper footpath, she was nicely hemmed in, and her sister loved every second of it.

Indigo eyes flitted to the sketchbook she clasped protectively to her chest. Lisenn extended an imperious hand. “What have you been drawing? Give it here.”

Not a muscle did Iona move, as though she had not heard the command.

Her sister’s expression flattened. “You can’t keep it from me forever.”

But she could. Lisenn would only deface and destroy the small collection, as she had countless others. Iona had the power to create her drawings anew, and in this moment she had the means to destroy them by her own hand. She spun from her sister, bolting for the nearby ravine and the river that coursed high within its dark stone channel. She leapt over ferns and bracken, eyes fixed on the point where the land dropped off. On her heels, Lisenn grasped for her shoulder, for her arm. She caught Iona’s cloak and tried to reel her back.

They were close enough to sloping ground. With the roar of the river in her ears, Iona flung the sketchbook. It arched through the air, the covers flapping open, the cream-colored leaves catching on the wind. The book fell and crashed into the current, and the waters devoured it in a greedy wave .

The hand on her cloak released, and the heavy material fell to Iona’s side. She turned, victorious, her breath short in her lungs.

Lisenn stood with deathly stillness, crimson against a backdrop of spring greenery. Her face twisted and her palm shot out to connect with Iona’s chest, thrusting her backwards. There was a moment of weightless horror, of the ground behind her too steep to catch her footing, and then she tumbled, her cloak tangling around her, into the ravine.