Page 20

Full night has fallen by the time a fist pounds at the door to the tower. My heart skips a beat at the sound. I scurry down from the spire—which, upon exploration, is actually quite cozy despite the pitched ceilings and lack of windows—and practically fly across the chamber. But when I open the door to Penn, I instead find Jac standing there on the threshold, holding familiar saddlebags in one hand, an unfamiliar satchel in the other.

“Special delivery,” he says, thrusting both bundles into my arms. “Courtesy of the royal dressmakers. You’re to change into something suitable for dinner, then I’m to escort you to the Great Hall.”

I glance down at my weather-beaten red muslin. Admittedly, it’s seen better days.

“How long does it take to make yourself pretty?” Jac asks, a teasing lilt to his words. “I’m guessing a while…”

I roll my eyes. “Where’s Penn?”

“Busy.”

“Doing?”

“Princely things, one can only assume.” He looks pointedly at the bags in my grip. “Time is ticking. Queen Vanora is unpleasant even when she’s in a good mood. If we show up tardy to her table, she will not be in a good mood, Ace.”

“Are you to watch me undress or can I have a moment of privacy?”

“I’ll be right outside. Growing older by the second. Do try to hurry.”

I slam the door in his grinning face.

My hair is still damp from my bath. I’ve already made use of the screened area, which houses a porcelain basin for bathing, a simple pull-cord toilet, and a time-warped looking glass that casts distorted reflections. The pipes had groaned in protest as I turned on the tap, but after a few moments of sputtering, warm water had streamed into the tub. It was glorious to scrub all traces of road dust from my skin with lemony soap; a luxury to comb through my hair with a serum that smelled of jasmine. I feel properly clean for the first time in ages.

In the satchel, I discover a neatly folded dress the dull shade of dung, along with a matching pair of satin slippers. With a high neckline and a boxy cut, it is not half as pretty as the blue gossamer gown still tucked in the depths of the saddlebag, but I know better than to even consider wearing the colors of Ll?r while traversing Dyved’s royal palace. I quickly tug it on, tie my damp waves back with a simple ivory ribbon, slip into the toe-pinching slippers, and head for the door.

Jac is leaning back against the stone wall of the stairwell. He whistles when he sees me. “You look nice, Ace.”

“You’re quite dashing yourself.” I tilt my head, examining his fine maroon shirt, dark fitted breeches, and stiff white collar. “You should bathe more often. You’re almost tolerable to stand near.”

“Don’t you go falling in love with me,” he warns, eyes crinkled with amusement as he extends his arm. “ Milady. ”

“Good sir.”

We joke and laugh all the way to the Great Hall, which is already brimming with people. Every seat on the main floor appears full. Jac makes several inappropriate comments as we weave through clusters of tables occupied by soldiers and courtiers, distracting me from the inquisitive stares that follow my every step across the shiny marble.

My stomach flips when I realize we are headed for the raised dais that runs the length of the room. The banquet table that sits atop it is large enough to seat thirty, and already crowded with favored courtiers. The queen’s inner circle. They are even more ridiculously bejeweled than they were in the courtyard this afternoon. Vanora herself is not yet in attendance; the ornate chair at the head of the table sits empty.

We aren’t late.

That is a relief, as is the sight of several high-ranking members of the Ember Guild occupying seats at the opposite end. I see several faces I recognize—Penn among them. He’s seated at the table’s foot, looking astonishingly at ease with a cup of wine clasped in the circle of his hand. The light from the flickering candelabra in front of him plays across his sharp features. His hair is still wet from a bath, and he’s wearing elegantly tailored clothes I’ve never seen before. For the first time since we met, it is not hard to reconcile him with royalty. He looks every inch a crown prince.

He does not even spare me a glance as Jac and I squeeze onto seats next to Uther somewhere near the middle of the table, entirely absorbed in conversation with Cadogan.

I’ve been seated mere seconds when the queen and her entourage sweep in. The entire court clambers to its feet in a show of respect as Vanora makes her way to the head of the table. She settles in a flurry of silk skirts, her ornate crown a golden halo atop her silver hair. I make to sit back down, but Jac stills me with a hand on my wrist before my knees bend more than an inch.

“Wait,” he murmurs.

Evidently, we need queenly permission to sit—something she takes undue time giving, thoroughly examining each of us at the banquet table in turn, her flinty eyes moving down the line. She purses her lips in disapproval at some, nods with faint acceptance at others. Most, she gazes at with practiced apathy. Her brother she ignores outright. But when her eyes land on me, a delighted laugh bursts from her lips.

“My word, in that brown drab I thought she was one of the servants, come to dine with us!”

The courtiers all join her laughter.

Jac and Uther both stiffen beside me.

“Enid, at least, knew how to dress,” Vanora continues, looking positively delighted by the opportunity to publicly humiliate me. “But she was the daughter of a lord. Tell us, girl, where is it you hail from?”

Hundreds of eyes bore into me. The hall is so silent, even the flames in the hearths have ceased crackling.

I cough to clear my throat. “A small kingdom in the Midlands.”

“Which one?”

When I remain silent, the air grows markedly tense. To ignore a direct inquiry from the queen is simply not done. Not in private and most certainly not in the company of the entire royal court.

Not at all.

I look fleetingly at Penn, hoping he might interject. But it seems he, too, wants to hear my answer. His face is set in a stony expression, his mouth pressed in an uncompromising line.

“Are you hard of hearing, girl?” Vanora snaps. “Answer me at once!”

“ Ace ,” Jac prompts lowly, pressing an elbow into my side.

I clench my fists and force my tongue to form a single word. “Seahaven.”

“That little spit of land that sticks out into the Westerly Sea, isn’t it?” Vanora asks her closest adviser. At his nod, she laughs with abandon, prompting a chorus of sycophantic amusement from the rest of her courtiers. “My word! Can one even call such an inconsequential place a kingdom? I doubt that backwater peninsula even has running water or basic roadways.”

My teeth grind together to keep from snapping back.

“No wonder you blend so well with the help.” The spiteful old crone smiles. “Tell us, girl, what kind of upbringing did you have in Seahaven ?”

I look at her, veins sizzling with defiance. I know my eyes must be blazing with it. “I was no lord’s daughter, if that’s what you’re asking. I grew up in a cottage no longer than this table.”

The jewel-draped woman across from me snickers behind her gloved hand.

“Mmm.” Vanora’s eyes flash with gloating triumph. “Are you quite certain she is the Remnant of Air, brother? Perhaps it was not a mark on her chest but a smear of dirt from whatever pigsty you found her in.”

The flames in every taper candle in the hall leap abruptly, a sudden blaze of light. The courtiers’ snickers become shrieks of fright. All laughter dies instantly, replaced with eerie silence. It is broken several moments later by the screech of a chair being dragged back.

Beneath my lashes, I risk a glance at Penn. He’s taken his seat at the foot of the table despite the fact that Vanora has not given him leave to do so. The move sends a subtle yet unmistakable message to the entire court.

Queen or no, he will not bow to her authority.

“Rhya,” he says without looking at me, “take your seat.”

Perhaps I’m imagining things, but I think I feel a pulse of fury through the bond, furling round the invisible thread that ties us together. I stare at the blazing candles on the table. They burn so hotly, wax is flooding down in rivulets. No one in the hall moves, no one even breathes, as I slowly pull back my chair and take my seat.

Vanora’s jaw tightens with displeasure but she says nothing more, thoroughly engaged in a silent battle of wills with her brother across the span of the table. Every particle of air in the Great Hall turns stale with discomfort as the confrontation drags on.

Finally, she relents, lifting her hand to give the command for the rest of the hall to sit. Hundreds of chairs drag back in unison, the sound earsplitting. Everyone is soon distracted by the servants who flood in from the wings, carrying with them dozens of platters and pitchers.

“Those two siblings make the air in the Cimmerians feel warm.” Jac unfolds his cloth napkin with a scowl. “It’s enough to make a man long for a simple campfire cook pot, I tell you…”

Two hours later, I’m inclined to agree with Jac: I’d much rather be eating coal-roasted rabbit under the stars than endure another moment of Vanora’s sumptuous banquet.

I stare down at my gold filigree dinner plate. There is more food on it than I could ever possibly ingest in one sitting. The banquet table is piled with so many platters and serving dishes, it is difficult to see the brocade tablecloth beneath. Roasted tenderloins and stuffed turkeys, braised chops and honey-glazed hams. Baskets of fresh breads, a dozen different shapes and sizes. Steaming piles of husked corn. Boiled potatoes topped with crumbled bits of bacon. Baked carrots and turnips. Seared asparagus sprinkled with cheese shavings. Exotic purple-hued vegetables that do not grow in the Midlands—at least, not anymore. And that is just the food in my immediate sight line.

If this is a regular meal at the palace, what must a true feast look like?

The smaller tables for those who dine on the main floor are less stocked than ours, but not by much. Most of my dinner companions pick absentmindedly at their plates, as though the food is just another decoration in the lavish hall. More for show than actual consumption. It is ostentatious enough to sour the delicacies on my tongue.

So much waste.

Half the families I’d known in Seahaven were starving. The other Midland kingdoms seemed even worse off, from what little I’d seen of them.

“Hanging in there?”

I glance left at Jac’s hushed question. He looks just as uncomfortable as I am, tugging at the stiff doublet at his throat like an animal newly forced into domestication.

“Better than you, from the looks of it,” I say, suppressing a laugh.

“Earlier, you said I looked quite dashing in this fancy getup!”

“Earlier, you weren’t shifting around your seat like your breeches are full of fire ants.”

“She’s right.” Uther leans around me to join our low conversation. “Gods, man, have you spent so long on the range you forgot how to have a proper meal?”

“It’s not the meal so much as the company,” Jac mutters. He lifts his goblet, signaling for one of the circulating servants to refill it with wine. “I’d have more to discuss with a block of ice than half these pompous society types.”

“How long are we expected to stay?”

“Another hour at least,” Uther answers me. “Though if the opportunity arises, I may slip out sooner. Carys is home and I don’t like to leave her alone after so long away. Especially in her condition.”

“Carys?”

“My wife.”

My mouth drops open. “You’re married?”

“I am indeed.” His smile lights his gray eyes from within. “Four years now.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, seeing as I never told you.” He chuckles. “Wasn’t much of an opportunity, between fending off cyntroedi and cutting down Reavers and rescuing you from Acrine and getting you back here in one piece.”

“Don’t let him fool you.” Jac scowls playfully at his friend. “He keeps Carys all to himself on purpose. Selfish, isn’t he? I think he’s afraid she’ll fall in love with me if he lets her get too close.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it.” Uther’s lips twitch. He looks back at me. “You’ll have to come by the house and meet her. We live just beyond the barracks, on High Street. She’s not able to wander very far at the moment.”

“Is she well?”

“Quite well. Quite pregnant. Due in less than a month.”

“Oh, Uther!” I exclaim loudly, grinning so wide it makes my cheeks ache. “Congratulations! That’s fantastic!”

Conversation at the rest of the table hushes for a moment as those dining around us hear my sharp exclamation and strain to listen in. I feel curious eyes on me from both ends of the table. With effort, I keep my gaze on Uther and lower my tone.

“Your first child?”

“Yes.” He smiles happily. “We’re very excited. Most of all since I’ll now be home for the birth. Carys is determined to thank you in person.”

“Me? Whyever would she thank me?”

“We had four more months on our mountain rotation before we were due back here. If we hadn’t run into you and Pendefyre on the range, we’d still be up there.”

“Or worse,” Jac adds, sipping his wine.

We fall quiet. None of us has forgotten the massacre we witnessed on the mountainside. Yet I had not contemplated until this very moment that it was their unit the Reavers killed. Men who’d fought side by side with Uther and Mabon and Jac for nearly a year. They had lost more than fellow soldiers that day. Undoubtedly, they had lost friends.

I suck in a breath. “I never got to tell you how sorry I am about what happened to your unit.”

Jac grunts and takes another swallow of wine.

“It’s not your fault, nor is it Pendefyre’s—though he’s apt to blame himself.” Uther cuts a sliver of roast and forks it into his mouth. Still chewing, he murmurs, “Like Jac said, meeting you may be the only thing that spared us the same fate.”

I set down my own fork. I have lost my appetite. Not that I had much of one to begin with. My stomach has been aflutter with nerves all night. I’ve not risked a glance at Penn since I took my seat. But I can sense his eyes on me more and more often as the night wanes, the fiery heat of his stare making all the fine, feathery hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.

“I don’t think I’ll survive another hour of this torture,” Jac declares. “I have things to do, people to see…”

“Brothels to visit?” Uther guesses. “I’m surprised that wasn’t your first stop this afternoon.”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t?” Jac’s dark blond brows waggle suggestively. “It was a long, lonely winter on the range. Buxom Brenda and her ample charms are worth a second visit.”

“Don’t you worry your fist will get jealous?”

I snort into my wineglass at Uther’s sly remark.

“Careful, old man, or I’ll use my fist for a less self-satisfying endeavor—one which involves your nose.”

The dour-faced woman seated directly across from me makes an affronted noise, looking down her nose at Jac like he’s crawled out from a swamp. She plainly does not approve of our chosen conversation topic. Still, she will not express as much to us. Since the queen’s efforts to humiliate me, I have been summarily ignored by her posse for the duration of the meal. If they think I’m insulted by this, they do not know me very well. I am all too happy to fade into the woodwork.

A sudden strum of strings resounds from the main floor of the hall, drawing everyone’s attention. A minstrel dressed in a voluminous striped tunic begins to pluck out a song.

“Dear gods, not the bloody lute.” Jac groans. “We’ll be here until the summer solstice…”

But Jac’s heavenly pleas go unheeded. We are subjected to three jaunty tunes as the servants sweep away our dirty plates and trade dinner platters—most still heaped with food—for a myriad of desserts. Pies, tarts, cakes. Fruits dipped in chocolate. I stare at the strawberries for a long moment before plucking one from the top. Soren’s voice whispers in my mind as I lift it to my lips.

Mmm. Delicious.

Shivering, I drop it back to my plate untouched.

“Thank you for your patronage, Your Majesty.” The minstrel’s voice booms out during a break between songs. He turns from Vanora to Penn. “And Your Royal Highness. Welcome home. It is my great honor to play for you tonight—and your esteemed guest.”

When his eyes move to me, fixing upon my face with intensity, my mouth parches. He is older than I’d thought at first glance—the years are etched plainly into the wrinkles around his temples and mouth—though he carries it well; his voice is still strong and clear, his fingers still quick on his instrument.

“I wondered if I might play ‘The Song of the Prophecy,’ in tribute to the Remnant of Air being found at long last.” His focus never shifts from me as he speaks. “Her presence brings us all hope. Hope long thought lost in these parts, in the decades since the lady Enid’s soul departed.”

Vanora huffs. “That is not necessary—”

“By all means,” Penn cuts in smoothly. “Play on, sir.”

A hush falls over the hall, all chatter quieting. The minstrel lifts his lute, and this time, when his fingers find the strings, they do not dance merrily over the chords as they had before. The tune he weaves is slower, softer—a melancholy rhythm that spins through the air in such a way, it seems to cast a spell over everyone.

I find myself utterly transfixed as I watch him perform. I am not familiar with the song, yet when he begins to sing, I feel I somehow know the words even before they leave his mouth.

“At the end of times,

The Remnants shall rise.

That which floods,

That which burns.

That which whispers,

That which turns.

Four paths divide,

Four fates entwine…”

His voice is clear, the words crisp and light as they flow in a gorgeous stream of sound. I commit them to memory.

“One alone shall perish,

Scorching flame unchecked.

Two at odds shall falter,

Drowning tide unquenched.

Three in arms shall fragment,

Piercing wind untrained.

Four as one shall triumph,

Shaking earth unrestrained.”

I cannot tear my eyes away. But through the bond, I feel something strong from Penn. It might be grief. It might be worry. It might be something else entirely. I am afraid to examine it too closely.

“Bound in power,

Blessed in light.

The tetrad ascends,

To banish the blight.

When last the final,

Binds the four.

The balance reborn,

To rule evermore.”

The minstrel warbles into silence. He sweeps into a bow, lute held aloft at his side, and absorbs the shock wave of applause that explodes from everyone in the Great Hall. As the clapping reaches a crescendo, I cannot help myself—I turn to glance at Penn. He is watching me, his expression carefully schooled into an apathetic mask. But the feelings I sense from him are anything but indifferent.

I wonder what he senses from me. Panic, most likely. It was one thing to hear about the prophecy secondhand from Soren. It is quite another to have it performed in full, every fateful syllable ringing out, an inescapable declaration of destiny.

Penn lifts his chin, a gesture I do not quite understand but find oddly comforting all the same. Attempting a weak smile, I shrug back at him.

“Do play something less somber,” Queen Vanora calls sharply to the minstrel, cutting short the applause. “We brought you here to entertain, not to put us to sleep.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

With that, the minstrel launches into a bright, happy tune. The moment passes. But the undercurrent of panic remains pulsing through my veins, pricking at the mark on my chest. And though he sings an altogether different song, the words that loop through my mind are of piercing wind and drowning tides, shaking earth and scorching flame.

Penn and I walk back up to the tower together after dinner finally draws to a close. He is quiet as we ascend the stairs, his demeanor so closed off I dare not risk conversation. Only when we reach his chambers does he finally acknowledge my presence.

“I’ll go out on the balcony for a moment,” he says stiffly. “Give you some privacy.”

“You don’t have to—”

My words dry up. He is already halfway across the tower, headed for the floor-to-ceiling glass window. I don’t realize it is, in fact, a door until he pulls it open and steps out into the night air. The balcony is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. But the views of the crater are spectacular. Even from behind Penn’s broad form, I can see how the houses built into the cliffs sparkle like a second constellation of stars, mirroring the dark sky overhead. The teal lake shines brightly, luminous despite the late hour. Even the mist from the falls seems to glow, a candescent haze hanging in the air.

He remains outside as I prepare for bed. After weeks of bathing in streams and squatting behind bushes on the road, real plumbing is a gift from the gods. Refreshed, I strip off the brown gown and slippers, which leaves me barefoot in my thin shift.

Penn is still on the balcony when I return—back to me, hands braced on the railing. The wind reaches into the warm chamber with icy fingers. His posture clearly articulates a need for solitude. I give it to him, climbing up into the spire and crawling beneath the blankets without so much as a murmur of good night.

It seems hours later when I hear the balcony door click closed. I strain my ears, listening to the muffled noises of him kicking off his boots, stripping out of his clothes, running the water tap with a metallic groan of pipes. The creak of his bed frame as he climbs into it. The sound of his breathing, deep and even, as he falls asleep.

It is a long time until I do the same.

My bed in the spire has no frame to speak of—it is little more than a pallet laid upon the creaky wood rafter boards—but it is topped with a plush mattress of down and layered with warm wool blankets to drive off the chill. The distant roar of the falls far below makes for a strange lullaby. As the night ticks on, the wind begins to whip around the turret in a ceaseless wail that mirrors my own screaming emotions.

For hours, I toss and turn, my thoughts caught up in the lavish wastefulness of Vanora’s banquet, in the words of the prophecy, and—undeniably—in the man sleeping one floor below me.

It’s strange. I know more about Penn now than I ever have before. Yet, since arriving in Caeldera, he feels more a stranger than ever. As though he’s dropped a wall, but instead of gaining admittance, I’ve merely found myself confronted with more stone, more mortar. Another wall, twice as thick as the last, and half as likely to yield.

At some point I must nod off, because I awaken with a start, nestled in the spire like a bird in a roost. An absentminded feminine whistle drifts up through the rafters, accompanied by a rustle of skirts. I discover the source as I descend the ladder. Two maids in dull brown uniforms are tidying the room, removing all traces of dust and grime. They both stop when they spot me, bobbing into half curtsies.

“Good morning, miss.” One of the women bustles toward me. Her golden-brown eyes are a shade lighter than the halo of unruly curls escaping her kerchief. “I’m Teagan; this is Keda.” She gestures to the other maid, a tall beauty a few years her junior with dark skin and bright eyes. “We’ve been assigned to sort out the prince’s chambers while he’s in residence, and to see after your needs. Anything you require, just let us know and we’ll do our best to arrange it for you.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything. Really.”

“Nonsense, miss. We’ve hung up your clothing in the spare wardrobe over there.” Keda points across the room. “And we laid out a gown for you to wear. When you’re ready, we’ll help you dress for the day.”

“Where…” I trail off, feeling foolish. “Did Penn…the prince…Did Prince Pendefyre say where he was going?”

“No, miss. I’m afraid not.”

“And did he happen to mention how I’m meant to spend my day?”

“No, miss. But…” The maids trade a worried glance. “We believe it’s his wish that you remain here. There are plenty of books, and we’ve brought up a tray with your breakfast…”

So, I’m to pass my time locked away in this tower?

My lips press into a line of displeasure. But I say not a word as I eat my breakfast. Nor do I utter a single protest as Keda and Teagan help me dress for the day—something, I might add, I’ve been doing perfectly well on my own for twenty years. The gown they’ve selected is a creamy beige. Thick white woolen tights are smoothed over my legs. My hair is brushed until it shines, then arranged in artful braids that drape heavily over one shoulder. As they work, they chat to each other about the unseasonably sunny weather and upcoming Fyremas Festival, which will mark the official start of the spring thaw.

I sip my tea, only partly listening. Most of my focus is fixed inward, floating in a quiet sea at the center of a storm. Homing in on that link that connects me to Penn. At first, I cannot sense him at all. He is too far away. But I wade there, letting my power wash over me, through me. Reaching out with my senses until, at last, I feel a faint ripple from somewhere far below. A fissure of warmth, nearly undetectable. A hint of burning leaves on an autumn wind.

Pendefyre.

I hold fast to the invisible thread between us. I do not let go as the maids finish their work. As I cross to the wardrobe to retrieve my fur-lined cloak. As I shove my feet into boots and walk out the door, ignoring the concerned cries of the two women left behind in the chamber.

The thread strengthens as I follow it down the many stairs, through the empty banquet hall, and out the doors of the keep. No one stops me as I wander across the dark flagstones to the front gates, though the guards stationed there shoot me inquisitive looks as I pass between them onto the bridge. The lake is dazzling in the morning sunshine, its surface peppered with sleek craft. By the shore, several men are fishing—casting weighted round nets out into the shallows, hauling in writhing yellow-scaled perch.

The scent of spices hangs heavy in the air as I meander down a boardwalk lined with vendors. They call out to me and the other shoppers, showing off their wide array of wares. It reminds me a bit of my trips to Bellmere with Eli, when we’d visit the markets to stock up on medicinal supplies and healing herbs—only the produce here isn’t half-rotten.

My head whips around, taking it all in. Fresh vegetables, wheels of cheese, cured meats, salted fish. Vats of mulled cider stirred by women in starched white aprons. In one stall, a man is roasting chestnuts over a rotating spit. He pauses to grin broadly at me. He is missing several teeth.

I grin back, wishing I had some money to exchange. I doubt the bag of Ll?rian coins Soren left me will work here. Even without being able to buy anything, I linger awhile, fascinated by the bustle of activity. Many curious eyes follow me as I move through the crowd, but no one approaches or speaks to me. A few times, people make a strange hand gesture in the air as our paths cross—two fingers moving in the shape of a diamond. Whether they are cursing or blessing me, I do not know.

Eventually, I leave the outdoor marketplace behind, following my invisible tether along the shoreline to a crop of low-slung structures built into the base of a particularly sharp cliff. A massive stable sits alongside an armory and a blacksmith. The forges are ablaze, the masters within hard at work—hammers rhythmically striking anvils, filling the air with the music of meticulous labor.

A string of barracks ring a central courtyard of sparring pits, practice dummies, and archery targets. Soldiers mill about everywhere, hurling spears and shooting bows. Some are in full uniform, heading out on patrol with sword and shield, but most are dressed casually in simple breeches and shirts.

A large cluster of spectators is gathered by the centermost pit. I slip unnoticed through the rapt throng, moving until I am pressed up against a post-and-rope railing. The men inside are circling each other, trading blows with a ferocity that steals my breath. I recognize them even without seeing their faces.

Cadogan and Penn.

They are both shirtless, skin gleaming with sweat from their efforts. As I watch, Cadogan lands an uppercut to Penn’s stomach that makes him reel back with a grunt of pain. His torso twists around, and I get a glimpse of the dark whorls that feather across his pectoral.

His Remnant.

It is a mirror of Soren’s mark—a triangular design that spirals across the right side of his chest like smoke turned flesh. I cannot see the details clearly from this distance, but there is something in the design that dances like living flame, the pointed whorls and furls reminiscent of fire in a hearth. I can’t help thinking that the real thing is infinitely better than the version gouged into the leather cover of the tome stashed under my pillow in the spire.

Penn’s fist flies out, clipping Cadogan across the mouth. A spurt of blood hits the sand floor of the pit.

“Yield?” Penn asks, grinning darkly.

Cadogan shakes his head, wipes his bleeding mouth, and lifts his fists. They continue to prowl around each other for a few moments. I flinch each time another blow lands. The other spectators cheer and heckle, making bets about which man will finally admit defeat. Very few bet against Penn—possibly because he is their prince, but more likely because his skill is apparent to anyone with eyes.

I’m so enraptured, I do not even notice Mabon, Gower, and Jac in their midst until they materialize around me.

“Hello, boys.”

“Ace,” Jac greets, elbowing me lightly in the side. His eyes do not leave the ring. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Was I supposed to sit in my tower like some tragic heroine in a folktale for children?”

“No. But you could’ve at least told someone where you were going.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid.” I touch my cloak pocket, where the sturdy hilt of my dagger presses against my thigh. “I can take care of myself.”

“Be that as it may, your life is too valuable to put in jeopardy. Penn will have our heads if he finds out you’ve been wandering around unprotected. Especially outside the castle grounds.”

Mabon grunts in agreement.

Gower, per usual, glares at me like I am a bug to be squished.

“Fine.” I swallow some of my petulance. “Next time, I’ll let you know before I leave the keep.”

“Much appreciated, Ace.”

We watch the sparring match for a few moments. The way the two men move around the ring is so fluid, they could be waltzing in a ballroom—if not for all the blood.

A faint ruckus sounds from behind us as someone forces their way through the crowd. I turn just as a man with a crop of copper-red hair emerges, carried forward by a set of wooden crutches.

“Farley!” I cry in delight.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss Bullseye herself!”

“How’s your leg?”

“On the mend, thanks to you.” He grins at me. “I’ll be back in action in no time.”

I drop to my knees, gown pooling in the dirt as I examine his splinted bone. What I can see of his leg beneath the bindings looks healthy. I probe the flesh, pleased to find no swelling or crookedness.

“It’s healing well,” I say, rising back to full height. “But you shouldn’t be up and about yet. If you overtax yourself, the bone won’t set properly.”

He rolls his eyes. “I get around well enough on these crutches. I refuse to spend one more day sitting on my ass. The cart ride from Vintare took an age.”

“And he hasn’t stopped complaining about it since,” Jac mutters.

Mabon laughs.

Gower is still too busy glowering at me to express any amusement. His mood is black as the limp hair that falls around his face.

I frown at Farley. “Let’s at least get you out of this throng. If you topple over, there’ll be no getting you up again.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Ace. I’ve got twenty crowns on Cadogan pulling this off.”

“All my hard work in fixing you will go to waste if you’re stomped to a pulp.”

“She’s not going to relent, is she?” Farley whines.

“Nope,” Jac replies, watching Penn sweep Cadogan’s feet out from under him. The crowd pulses with cheers. “There go your crowns. Might as well go with her, mate.” He pauses, eyes shifting to mine. “Just…don’t go far.”

I sigh. “Yes, O devoted nursemaid.”

The crowd of soldiers surges forward as more blood spills in the pit, pinning me against the fence and nearly knocking Farley over. I reach out to steady him.

“Fine, Ace.” He grips his crutches tighter. “I’ll go with you. But fair warning: you’ll be forced to entertain me if I do.”

“Oh? And how, exactly, am I going to do that?”

“Ever hurl an axe?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Toss a javelin?”

“No.”

“Surely you’ve thrown spears, then.”

“No, Farley, I can’t say I have much experience with spears.” My eyes shoot to Jac when he makes a strangled sound. “Don’t say it.”

His mouth snaps closed, cutting off a chuckle. “Say what?”

“Whatever impulsive, inappropriate comment was no doubt brewing in your mind.”

“How do you know it was inappropriate?”

“When do you ever say anything appropriate?”

He merely grins.

“If you two are quite finished,” Farley says, pivoting on his crutches, “I think we’ll save the throwing instruments for when I’m back on both feet. Stick with something we already know you can do.”

“Which is?”

“I saw some open archery targets by the back barracks,” he calls over one shoulder as he disappears into the mob. “Let’s see how good your aim is in the light of day, Ace.”