The Eldritch Heart

Matthew S. Cox

Second Edition

A novel

By Matthew S. Cox

Original release © 2016 – All rights reserved

Second Edition © 2018 - All rights reserved

Cover by Amalia Chitulescu

Interior art by Ricky Gunawan

This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely by coincidence. No portion of this novel may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-949174-06-9 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-949174-07-6 (paperback)

For Gwen

This book would not exist without your inspiration.

―

In too many hearts dwells darkness cloaked as light,

but even the coldest blackness flees from a tiny spark.

Contents

1. Handmaiden

2. Dancing Stones

3. Too Much a Burden

4. Friends

5. The Pond

6. Decorum

7. Allegiance

8. Unworthy

9. Mercy

10. Matters of Warfare

11. Lowborn

12. Night Watch

13. A Simple Life

14. Thief

15. The Grass Not Greener

16. Voices of Earth

17. The Edge

18. More

19. Outcast

20. A Royal Mess

21. Hope

22. Evermoor Bound

23. A Light in Darkness

24. Driftwood

25. A Discourse Most Civil

26. A Land of Monsters

27. Into the Bog

28. The Grotto of a Thousand Teeth

29. Poison

30. Destiny

31. To the River

32. The Timeless Watchers

33. A War of Nothing

34. Nature Spirits

35. Royal Pardon

36. The Foretelling

37. Gods and Peasants

38. The Garden

The Story Continues…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other books by Matthew S. Cox

1

Handmaiden

~ Oona ~

Trapped within the silence of her bedchamber, fear clouded Oona’s mind and kept sleep well at bay. She rolled onto her side, facing the door. With a sigh, she traced her fingers back and forth across the silk in front of her face. The night moon painted the lavender sheets a luminous shade of blue and scattered deep shadows around the room, any one of which might conceal an assassin—or so her father said.

She hated this, the endless solitude, but could think of no excuse to give the king that would allow her closest friend to share the room. Especially considering the girl was also her handmaiden―or at least, Oona wished her thus. Kitlyn had been relegated to a tiny room across the hall. Even that small privilege had left the other servants jealous. None of them had a private room in the princess’ hall.

Princess. Oona traced her finger over the silk sheets. She hated that word―this wall―between her and her dearest friend, who for the past four years had been treated like a servant. She also hated the Foretelling. If the old ones spoke truth, tens of thousands would die by her hand someday. The mere thought of it made all the rich trappings of her life feel hollow. If the gods would see fit not to demand the death of an entire kingdom, she’d happily give it all up to live like a peasant.

Oona rolled flat on her back and stared up at the ceiling. Decorative wells with carved protrusions swam with shadows. As a little girl, she’d often wake from a bad dream and in her fog, mistake them for bats or creatures watching her sleep―and scream. She let off a halfhearted chuckle and thought back to when she’d been too young to worry about war, or what those bloodthirsty cretins in Evermoor wanted to do to her. Alas, she grew up. Her days of running around the garden with her best friend, playing tricks on the groundskeepers, laughing and hiding, were over.

A frown crossed her lips. With years came separation. She, the princess, had duties to attend to while Kitlyn toiled away at whatever task Fauhurst or Elsbeth would give her. Oona’s eyebrows knit together. Father often went to great lengths to appease her wants―everything except for leaving the castle―but when she’d asked to have Kitlyn granted a minor title so she could be a friend and companion ever at her side, he claimed he needed time to consider. When she’d demanded the girl be left alone to attend only to her, he’d dismissed that as well. A pampered ruler is not what Lucernia needs had been his response.

Of course, she hadn’t told him she didn’t want a servant―she’d wanted her friend. Too many people would’ve heard, and, well, a royal simply didn’t make friends among the commoners, especially someone like Kitlyn. Worse than a commoner, she’d been an orphan from an unknown family, a street waif whom Beredwyn, the king’s eldest advisor, had taken pity on. Even allowing the girl to work so close to her had caused a great deal of gasping and hand waving. Much like the royalty, servants had hereditary hierarchies. Scullery maids gave birth to scullery maids, and so on. The royals’ personal attendants came only from the upper echelons of the servant caste. Only rarely, a long hard climb through the castle ranks let a parlor maid ascend to royal attendant… and her friend had swooped in. Somewhat.

Always limits. It wasn’t fair. A few years ago, the two of them happily whiled away the days and weeks together, but now… now she had to be a princess, and Kitlyn had to scrub floors. Oh, and an entire kingdom wanted Oona dead.

Stupid Foretelling.

With a resigned sigh, she gave up on sleep and flung the covers away to sit up, dangling her legs off the side of the bed. The moonlight made her pale bare feet glow where they peeked out from under her long nightgown. Oona slid from the bed, gathering her robe around herself. Dark blue velvet enshrouded her white nightdress. In the midst of summer, the day brought warmth, but a penetrating chill had swept in with the night.

She extended her arm into the moonlight, swishing her fingers about as if she’d thrust them into a pond. A brighter shimmer formed around her hand, growing into a wisp before blooming to the size of her fist. Her magic called and shaped the light, creating a scintillating orb that hovered about her shoulders emitting faint crystalline bell tones. Two tiny lighter spots almost appeared to be eyes, lending it the appearance of a cute little critter. Its energy drew strands of her long blonde hair up with a static charge as it circled around her head.

Oona walked to the door and peered out. The little light orb mimicked the gesture, easing out into the curving hallway above her head. Its pale blue glow chased shadows from a modest area, revealing speckled marble floors and walls of smooth, grey stone.

Her knuckles whitened. To hear her father talk, at least three men would be lurking out there this very moment, waiting for the chance to kill her.

Stupid, stupid people! She scowled. Some old man says King Talomir’s heir will end the war, and everyone wants me dead.

She crept from her room and padded to the right, biting her lip to stifle a gasp at how cold the stone had become in only two short hours of insomnia. In her haste to get out of the stifling bedchamber, she’d forgotten her slippers, but didn’t feel like going back. The little light orb followed her, many times brighter than a candle, stretching shadows from shields and torch holders hung from the rounded columns protruding from the walls at regular intervals.

A few steps brought her to the door of Kitlyn’s quarters.

Half the size of Oona’s smallest closet, the room had barely enough space for a simple bed, a tiny table, one chair, and a shelf of cubbies against the back wall stuffed with threadbare clothes. The girl sprawled over her mattress like a drunkard passed out on the tavern floor, her lone sheet covering her to the waist. One arm hung to the floor, the other twisted up under her copious black hair. Kitlyn wasn’t quite as pale as her, though some of her color surely came from dirt Oona was never allowed to touch.

A glimmer of focused thought froze the light sphere in place out in the hall, and Oona tiptoed in. Her heart swelled, joy and sadness in equal measure. A chance to spend time with her friend felt cruel; the poor girl looked exhausted. She edged over to the bed and lifted Kitlyn’s hand off the floor. Deep-rooted grime outlined every fingernail, a far cry from Oona’s perfect manicure.

She sighed, resting the girl’s arm across her chest before fixing the coarse blanket up to cover her properly. Oona stooped to breathe a quick kiss on Kitlyn’s cheek. For a few seconds, she watched her friend sleep, then backed out into the hallway.

Once she eased the door shut, she straightened her spine. This castle and her birthright as the heir apparent of Lucernia felt more like a prison than ever. For at least the past two years, the ‘prison’ part had been literal. Fearing spies, the king refused to permit her to leave the grounds during the day or the main keep after sunset. Not that she’d made a habit of traipsing around the garden in the dark, or even wanted to, but being forbidden to irked her.

Sleepless nights had become more and more common of late, and experience said, no amount of staring at the ceiling would help. Perhaps, then, some exercise would.

She headed back the way she’d come, walking past her room at a brisk stride, her heavy nightgown dragging on the floor, popping up whenever her toes peeked past the hem. Her pet light wobbled and set off a shower of little sparks, as if distressed by her getting too far away from it. The glowing orb came racing up behind her and resumed a lazy orbit around her head.

The curved hall containing her and Kitlyn’s chambers ended at a straight corridor. Her father’s bedchamber, library, and trophy room lay to the right. She headed left past tapestries and a few empty suits of armor. Old childhood nightmares of those things coming to life and chasing her leapt to the forefront of her mind, but she dismissed them. Ten years ago, she worried about her magic getting away from her and doing all manner of strange, scary things. As of late, she didn’t fear an arcane accident as much as an Evermoor spy.

Oona stopped, fists clenched. Why did Father have to tell me about the assassins?

The last time she’d thrown a fit about the draconian safety measures, King Talomir hit her with the truth: the savages had been after her blood for years. Twenty years ago, King Lanas Volduin of Evermoor, once a dear friend of her father’s despite his heretic nature, had rejected Lucen, denying her father his request to spread the teachings of light across the Churning Deep. Fearing his erstwhile friend would invade, King Lanas invoked the darkest of dark rituals, calling forth beings of pure evil that the Light had long ago banished from Lucernia. It hadn’t taken long for the demons to destroy the mind of her father’s former friend, and now his men attacked Lucernia, mindless and without mercy.

A foretelling claimed King Talomir’s heir would stop the fiends. Knowing the instrument of his doom had been born, the savages sent the first assassin after Oona when she’d been an infant. That story had taken all the wind from her sails. Yes, he’d always been protective, but clearly, his fears had been justified. Not to mention, since her mother, the queen, had died in childbirth, he’d poured his grief into making sure his daughter survived. Could she begrudge him that?

Being cooped up in the castle hadn’t been all bad. She had fond memories of earlier times: tutors, nannies, playing hide and seek with Kitlyn. Even as children, some people had been shocked the king permitted her such a lowborn friend. As they aged, the impropriety of it only grew. Oona sighed, her heart heavy. She loathed everyone for the shaming looks they’d give her whenever she treated Kitlyn as an equal.

I’ll choose my friends as I please, thank you very much.

Voices murmuring startled her mind blank. She pushed the light orb off to her side and let it trail her as she hurried forward to a set of double doors carved with the royal crest of Lucernia, a pair of hands cradling a sun made of a circle surrounded by long wavy triangles. The ‘rays’ reminded her of the wicked daggers used by Evermoor assassins. She looked away from the inscription beneath that beseeched the god Lucen provide wisdom and light to the monarch, and pressed her ear to the wood.

“Unconfirmed, sire,” said Beredwyn, age and worry lending a scratch to his voice.

The sharp strike of boots on stone echoed from someone pacing away to the left. “It concerns me that they’ve been allowed to amass such a force south of Pembrook,” said her father.

“Agreed, sire,” said a younger voice. Fauhurst, a junior advisor. “We are moving forces down from Gwynaben, but it will be at least six days’ march.”

“Have we no one closer?” asked the king.

“Alas,” Fauhurst said. “The force at Imric is larger, but it would be unwise to move them as they repel regular incursions. Bear in mind also that the Gwynaben garrison is well rested.”

“How is it the savages so effortlessly cross the Churning Deep?” asked the king.

“Their rootcallers, my liege,” said Fauhurst. “A handful of them can construct a bridge in minutes, dispersing it when it is no longer needed.”

“We must trust in the Foretelling.” Beredwyn sounded somber. More somber than usual. “Our men are weary, sire. The savages have primal forces at their command. They do not tire as―”

“Have we not the gods?” bellowed the king. “Does not Lucen protect us in the day and Navissa when her shadow takes the land?”

Oona cringed.

“Yes, my liege,” said Beredwyn. “But your daughter is not ready.”

Fauhurst cleared his throat. “She is destined―”

“She is destined,” snapped Beredwyn, “to end the war… but the Foretelling makes no mention of when. If she is to do so when she is a grandmother, I fear we will have run out of time.”

The king, much to Oona’s surprise, chuckled. “Well, I suppose the war would be over then.”

“The plan,” said Fauhurst. “I beg you consider it soon.”

She rushed away from the door, hurrying deeper down the corridor, squeezing and releasing her fists. Lucernia losing the war? Unthinkable! Three turns and two hallways later, she stopped and leaned into a heavy burgundy tapestry to catch her breath. One hand on her chest, she peered at her glowing companion, but the sphere of light offered no answers. It rotated back with a slight leftward tilt, as though the little thing had sentience to give her a worried look.

Scenes of dread flickered in her mind. Oona pictured herself in armor, struggling to lift a sword. Will they send me to war? The Foretelling claimed King Talomir’s heir would bring an end to the conflict between Lucernia and Evermoor, and everyone―on both sides―understood that to mean she would lead a victorious march straight to their capital city of Ivendar, and crush it. Another time she’d attended her father’s war room, they’d let slip the people of Evermoor believed she would wipe them out to the last. No wonder they’d been sending assassins after her since she’d been born. Of course, she hadn’t known about them until twelve.

Oh, why do I listen at that door? I always hear things that chill me to my very bones. But do I learn?

Oona’s hands trembled. Any shadow around her might hold a man with a knife. She glanced back over her shoulder and thought of Kitlyn, her heart growing heavier still. Perhaps the gods find me unworthy of the crown.

Mind awhirl, she paced back and forth, shadows dancing about as the orb zoomed to keep up. “The Foretelling speaks of ‘the heir,’ but that doesn’t mean me… what if Father is to have a son?” She sighed. Of course, he would need to find a new queen… and if we’re already losing, what woman will be eager to drown with him?

Noticing her light dimming, she caressed the glowing orb, adding a little magic to keep it bright. Its ‘eye spots’ grew wide with apparent affection. How am I to conquer our enemies with this?

Her father had been teaching her to wield Lucen’s gift—light magic—though thus far, he had focused solely on defense. Conjuring walls of light would only stop an attacker for a short while. He had to know this; she certainly knew this, but her dread of using her magic as a weapon had kept her tongue still. Yet, as much as she loathed the idea of killing anyone, even the savages, if it meant losing Kitlyn, she would force herself to try.

If I’m to win the war, I’ll need more than sparkling light.

Her little orb projected an indignant mood, puffing itself up as if to say ‘I can fight!’

Eyes narrowed, Oona held her hands out and tried to focus her power into an attack. A minute or two passed of her making strange faces while twisting her fingers. Oh, bother. This isn’t―a thin stream of blinding blue light streaked from her hands with a bang, breaking a small statue set in a recessed alcove. Ozone and the scent of scorched stone brushed her nostrils.

The blast echoed down the hall, followed by the smash of the broken sculpture striking the floor. Oona clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle a startled shriek. Realizing how loud she’d been, she hiked up her nightdress and ran, taking the long way around the castle. At the tromp of guards, she ducked behind another tapestry near the hall between the stairs and the grand throne room until the men passed. When it fell silent, she darted across the hall into a chamber with a high vaulted ceiling. To her right, a pair of ornate double doors―wood inlaid with gold and crystals in a depiction of the god Lucen―led to the throne room. Left, a pair of stairwells stood on either side of a balcony looking down on the first floor.

She ran past the ballroom, the dining hall used for entertaining dignitaries, and guest quarters, heading in a rectangle to a hallway connecting the castle’s east and west sides at the back. Here, the upper tier of servants made their quarters. The lower classes had rooms on the ground floor nearer the kitchen, or for the lowest of the low, in separate outbuildings by the groundskeeper.

A cluster of female whispering ahead startled her for a moment, until she remembered how the king insisted she take to bed early still, like a child.

“It’s not right,” said one. “That girl’s got no status.”

Another sighed. “What’s she got that we don’t?”

“Indeed!” said another. “The little scamp’s got a private room all to ’er self. Wot makes ’er so special? Ey?”

Surprise… the servants having a quiet little meeting about Kitlyn yet again.

Oona edged up to the corner and peeked around at a quartet of servants. Margaret, the head housekeeper, tall and thin, stood between Beatrice, the housekeeper, and Elsbeth, the First Maid. A chambermaid responsible for the king’s quarters, Anna, looked angry enough to melt steel with a stare. Beatrice seemed sad and worried. Margaret’s dour expression centered on Elsbeth, who had been promoted when Kitlyn took over as Oona’s handmaiden. A girl of only seventeen, she so resented losing her place at Oona’s side to a ‘filthy street urchin,’ she’d even once complained directly to the king. Never mind that as First Maid, she’d been given more power than the princess’ handmaiden, though perhaps less prestige.

“It is most unusual.” Margaret narrowed her eyes. “I am not sure I trust that one.”

“Oh, you worry too much, Elsbeth.” Beatrice shook her head. “They grew up together. They was inseparable, they was.”

Anna frowned. “Unseemly. In what other kingdom do royal children pluck ragamuffins from the street as living dolls to play with? The girl’s likely got fleas.”

Elsbeth folded her arms. “She has meals sometimes with the princess, at the same table? Can you believe that? The girl’s not worth two tin crowns, and―”

“That girl”―Oona stepped into view, keeping her voice calm and low―“is my handmaiden.”

The three servants jumped. Margaret’s eyes widened a touch. She coughed, trying to recover some composure. Elsbeth stifled a scream while Beatrice leapt to cling to a white and gold tapestry. The color drained from Anna’s face.

“Your Highness,” whispered Margaret. “Forgive us.”

Oona stalked toward them, her light orb pulsing in time with her heart. Its glow tinted from blue to orange, reflecting her anger. She glared at Elsbeth. “You should be grateful for your position. It’s unheard of for someone of your age to be First Maid.”

Beatrice glanced at Margaret, who had to be well into her forties. The last First Maid had been quite old; the position remained vacant for some months after she’d retired.

Oona jabbed a finger at Elsbeth. “If I hear any of you are mistreating her, I’ll have you sent to the laundry staff.”

Elsbeth bowed her head. “Yes, Highness.”

Margaret’s expression radiated displeasure, but she kept quiet.

“Good.” Oona softened her glare; the light bled back to pale blue. “May Navissa watch over you.”

As all four servants bowed their heads in reverence to the Night Goddess, Oona stormed past them, ready to tear her metaphorical crown from her brow and hurl it into the moat. Every reminder that her rank kept her away from Kitlyn made being princess infinitely worse, even if she hadn’t been expected to slaughter a whole kingdom.

Fatigue caught up with her, draping a cloak of guilt about her shoulders. How could she put her happiness above the needs of her citizens? But then again, if her citizens’ safety demanded the murder of thousands of others, could Lucen truly claim that to be pure and noble?

She bowed her head, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. I’m not ready for this. “Lucen, please guide me. I know not what to do.”

Lost to her longing for simpler times, Oona hurried back to her chambers without a thought spared to assassins. She sat on the edge of her bed, cradling the weakening orb in her hands until its energy ran out and it dissipated in an explosion of blue sparkles that went dancing across the polished marble floor. In the dark, she crawled amid her mass of warm bedclothes, and fell asleep while whispering prayers that the gods would watch over Kitlyn.

2

Dancing Stones

~ Kitlyn ~

Weary from the day before, Kitlyn struggled to drag an overfilled basket of dirty laundry out to a small courtyard behind the castle. As soon as her feet found warm, wet stone slick with moss, she exhaled and let the ponderous burden drop. Wicker clattered on the paving bricks as the basket came to rest beside a round wall of stacked white rocks. About knee high, it enshrouded a fire pit beneath an immense cauldron in which servants washed the royals’ clothing. It astonished her how much laundry Oona could generate in a week. The girl sometimes went through three whole outfits a day.

She glanced down at her simple tan tunic, a zigzag of black cord at the neck holding it closed, and brown breeches. These clothes, she wore every day. The style of her outfit hadn’t changed much since she’d turned twelve, save for varying shades of brown. No longer a child tagging along after the princess, she’d become one of the serving staff. For some months, her shoulder-length hair, tunic, and breeches got her mistaken for a boy. Luckily, she’d filled out a couple years ago, and few made that mistake since.

Beredwyn had always shown a strong, almost grandfatherly, fondness for her, and―much to the chagrin of other servants―tended to look after her. At first, he’d kept her workload laughably light, but gradually, the senior servants had piled on more and more in an ugly, insidious creep.

While she missed her childhood dresses, the sort of workload she shouldered would’ve been hell in such garments. Not to mention, with Guard Lorne teaching them how to handle a blade, her eyes had been opened to the benefit of breeches. The king wanted his daughter trained, and Oona had insisted Kitlyn participate, and so she had. With the constant threat of assassins, it seemed a good idea. Unsurprisingly, Fauhurst didn’t much care for her sharing the lessons, but the king thought it a wonderful idea, since the two girls were often near each other.

Kitlyn let off a sad sigh as she crouched to add more wood to the fire under the laundry pot. ‘Often near each other’ hadn’t been ‘often’ much at all lately, but Oona did need protection. Kitlyn had overheard frightening things while dusting the war room, an invisible nobody in the background while the men discussed the tides of battle. Only two days ago, there again had been an unfavorable turn in the fighting, and the inevitable rumors spreading around the castle had put the whole staff on edge. Evermoor had two or three warriors to each one of Lucernia’s soldiers. At first, better arms and armor tilted things in favor of the king’s army, but the Evermoor savages had learned how to fight opponents in full plate, and lately, the tide turned sour for Lucen’s chosen. It also hurt that something like two in five of the savages had magic, while only one in several hundred Lucernians had the gift. Add to that, their habit of attacking in small raiding parties, darting back and forth across the Churning Deep before Lucernia’s large garrisons could react, and things… well, they seemed not to be going well at all.

Kitlyn tested the water with her hand. Finding it hot enough, she grabbed the first garment and tossed it in. After rolling her sleeves up, she got elbow-deep in her work. Nine straight hours of scrubbing floors yesterday had left her arms and legs sore; bending at such a slight angle over the pot sent a scorching burn up her back. She forced away the discomfort and smiled at a few of the servants as they walked by. Two kitchen maids gave her warm greetings, followed by a hearty wave from the stable master as he left the kitchen after snatching a post-breakfast snack.

The servants who worked outside of the castle proper had always treated her well. Only the ones inside got catty. That suited her fine enough; she much preferred to be outdoors with the stable hands and groundskeepers. Grass under her feet, sun in her face, and wind in her hair—certainly preferable to being down on her hands and knees with a brush in some dim, stuffy hallway.

A few minutes shy of an hour—and about half the clothes—later, sweat ran down her face from hovering over steaming water. She leaned away from the pot to cool herself, enjoying a momentary cool breeze.

Four men in well-appointed clothes exited one of the rear doors and took the shortcut via the courtyard to the stables, following Rorick, the gamekeeper.

“Pleasant morning, milords,” chimed Kitlyn as they passed. “May Lucen bless your hunt.”

Rorick smiled at her. The noblemen with him spared only a second’s disdainful glance her way before going by.

She sighed, but kept on her pleasant face. Showing them how much it bothered her to be thought of as less than a person would only let them win. Oona never cared how poor she was, not when they’d been little kids, and not now. A few tears joined the laundry water before she became too angry to cry.

I hope they fall off their horses. Arrogant, stuffed up―

“Oy, Kit!” shouted a high-pitched child.

Pim, the head cook’s son, raced out the kitchen door. The eight-year-old skidded to a halt at her side, almost falling as his bare feet slid on the moss-covered stones. Years of laundry water kept the cobbles around the fire shroud slick with green. He recovered his balance and offered her a tart, his smiling face framed by a near-spherical mass of dark brown hair.

“Me pa jes’ made ’em.” Grinning, the boy jammed another raspberry tart into his mouth.

Kitlyn shook water off her hands, letting the seventh of Oona’s nightdresses soak a little longer. She accepted the treat, still warm from the oven, and nibbled.

“Pa said he been makin’ treats since he was small as me.” Pim mumbled around sugary jam and pastry. “I fink he’s teasin’.”

“Well, he’s not the head cook because he’s poor at it.” Kitlyn winked.

The boy wiped his hands on his drab brown tunic while grinding his right big toe into the moss. “Kin ya do the fing wif the stones ’gain?”

She sighed at the basket. “I’d love to, Pim, but I’ve got so much to do.”

“Aww.” He hung his head.

“All right, all right.” Kitlyn knelt in place, Pim flopping down beside her, cross-legged.

She put a hand on the ground; a tingle of magic rippled up her arm and washed over her. Her mind reached out to the earth and stone, drawing a chorus of a hundred whispering voices into her thoughts. It took her only a second to sense a handful of small rocks in the grass. At her beckoning, the grape-sized stones bounced free of the soil and came rolling over with a scraping clatter.

“Wow!” whispered Pim, as awestruck as the first time he’d watched her do that.

The stones tumbled across the cobbles and leapt into the air, orbiting Kitlyn’s hands like the beads of a necklace. The boy’s head moved about in a spiral as he attempted to keep his stare locked upon a single stone in the rotating ring. Kitlyn spread her fingers apart and pushed her arms down. As the desire formed in her head, the stones clapped together. A handful formed a man-like shape while the majority gathered in her best approximation of a dragon. Faint green energy swirled around them all, brightest in the gaps between stones.

Pim cheered and clapped as the man and dragon circled, though rather than fight, the man-figure climbed on the dragon’s back and they flew into the air.

“Yer pa mus’ be so happy you kin’ do magic,” said Pim. “Tha’s good as me pa’s cookin’.”

Kitlyn slouched. The stones began to separate, but she willed them back together, creating a rippling series of clicks. “I don’t have a pa, Pim. I’m an orphan.”

He tilted his head. “A what?”

“An orphan is what you call someone who doesn’t have parents.”

Pim blinked. “How’s you not kin ’ave parents? The gods jes’ make yas?”

Kitlyn giggled. “No, silly.” The stone dragon beat its wings in a slow, rhythmic pulse as she made it fly. “I had parents… but something happened to them, or maybe they gave me away.”

He gasped. “You mean like died?”

“Yes. Like died.” The construct fell apart; rocks scattered to the cobblestones. Not that she wished death on her parents, but better that than being thrown away. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You been here f’ever.” Pim licked jam from his fingers.

She gave him an apologetic look, stood, and resumed washing clothes. The momentary break had allowed her arms to cool, making the water painfully hot. “I don’t remember anything. Beredwyn said I’d wandered onto the castle grounds when I was much smaller than you are now. I found the princess, but I was too little to understand who she was, so I walked up to her and we started playing. When they figured out I had no family, the king decided to let me stay.”

“Oh.” Pim held up the next bit of clothing when she added the finished nightdress to the basket of clean-but-wet. “He’s nice.”

“He is.” Kitlyn smiled, attacking the princess’ blue gown in earnest. “You’d best be going back to your papa now, Pim, he’ll be looking to have you aid him again with the delivery, I’ll wager.”

Pim bobbed his head before skittering off in the direction of the kitchens.

“By Orien’s golden beard!” yelled Fauhurst from behind.

Kitlyn started and jumped, gritting her teeth to hold back a shriek.

“It’s almost noon, and you’re still not done with that? You’ve got the linens, yet… and, I don’t know, surely, the hall to clean?”

She leaned her weight on the rim of the washbasin, scowling at the water. “I did the hall yesterday, Master Fauhurst.”

“Well it certainly doesn’t look like it.” He folded his arms. “Tell me, girl, when you cleaned the floor, did you use a brush and soap or merely a rag and wishful thinking?”

Kitlyn closed her eyes, hands kneading the dress under the water. “I’ll go over it again.”

“See that you do. There’s no room here for a layabout.” He lowered his voice and ambled closer. “Your little ploy didn’t quite work out as you envisioned, did it? Expected to laze the days away with the princess?” He clucked his tongue.

“Master Fauhurst.” She glanced at him through a few strands of hair. “I’m quite sure at the ripe old age of three, I hadn’t the faculties to scheme such a grandiose thing.”

He frowned. “Well, nonetheless, Beredwyn’s been soft on you. You’re expected to do as much work as anyone else here.”

She stared into the grey water. “Yes, Master Fauhurst.”

Pleased with himself, Fauhurst strutted back into the castle.

She eyed the ground, tempted to make a rock lean up and trip him, but thought better of it.

Kitlyn rushed the last six pieces of laundry and struggled to lift the basket of wet clothes. She half-carried, half-dragged it around to the side of the castle where a row of two-story-tall bushes cut in tapered columns walled off the royal garden. There, she hurried to arrange the princess’ clothes on a line to dry before running inside with the basket on her back. Her wet, bare feet clapped on the smooth marble floor, echoing down the great hall and attracting the disdainful stares of over a dozen servants and a few guards. A few started to shout, mistaking her for some urchin, but before any managed to utter a complete word, they recognized her.

At the princess’ door, she hesitated. She wanted to see Oona, but with Fauhurst’s tirade fresh in her memory, the princess’ bright blue-eyes on her would feel patronizing no matter how genuine her happiness.

The room sounded quiet, so she rushed in and headed for the empty bed. Not long ago, they’d been inseparable. More and more often (this moment included), she had no clue where Oona was at any given moment. Her lip quivered as tears lined up like soldiers inside her eyes. She’d had a friend, but little by little, they’d taken her away and left her stranded here as a lowly worker. That didn’t bother her so much; she could’ve been happy dredging out the stables, as long as she could spend some time with Oona afterward. But not if Fauhurst had anything to do with it. Certainly, the man had to have better things to do than pester her, but he had such an obsession with status, her mere presence in the castle offended him to no end. Of course, if she sought help, Beredwyn would likely scold him for bothering her, but complaining would only let him win―and set him up for yet another, even less palatable, flare-up.

Kitlyn gathered the linens from the bed into a wad and hugged them in an effort to compress the mass to fit in the basket. Perfume, scented shampoo, and the fragrance of Oona’s presence filled her nostrils. She clutched the bundle for a moment in silence, pretending she hugged Oona, basking in her vicarious presence.

“Come then, girl, the linens won’t wash themselves.” Fauhurst’s voice echoed out in the hall.

She cringed, squeezing the sheets tighter. Careful not to glower, she packed them into the basket and hauled it out into the corridor. He stepped back to let her pass. She made it five steps before he cleared his throat, stopping her.

“I’ve changed my mind about the floor. When you’re finished with the linens, the garden walk is infested with seedpods. It needs the attention of a broom, and perhaps a mop.”

Kitlyn drew a breath to suggest it the groundskeeper’s responsibility, but Fauhurst’s tone had softened somewhat. Had Beredwyn confronted him? Would she regret it? “Y-yes, Master Fauhurst.”

Head bowed, she hurried off with the princess’ bedclothes. She couldn’t figure out how she’d wound up doing the jobs of four different servants. As Oona’s handmaiden, Beredwyn told her she would hover around the princess and attend to whatever needs may arise… not clean floors like a chamber maid, or wash things like a laundry maid, or dust here and there like a house maid. Barely any of her time of late consisted of being the princess’ handmaiden. What few precious moments they did share, often supper and a short while thereafter, resulted in scorn heaped upon them both, though neither of them cared. Or tried not to.

If she had to assign blame, most of the extra work came from Elsbeth; the girl dripped thwarted ambition and jealousy like sweat. Fauhurst as well never missed a chance to throw in a task or two whenever Beredwyn or the king didn’t have him gainfully occupied. Otherwise, the man devoted his every spare minute to hounding her. Kitlyn ground her teeth. Oh, if she could only send them both hurtling into Tenebrea’s arms!

After dumping the linens into the water, she stared at the roiling froth. Lately, it seemed as if even Beredwyn worked to distance them from each other. Her heart sank as her thoughts tumbled to the most probable reason: the war progressed poorly for the Kingdom of Lucernia, and they regarded Kitlyn as a distraction Oona didn’t need in a time of crisis. They may well have been right.

With tears blurring her vision, she washed the linens as fast as she could. The garden had long been a place of joy for them. Oona so loved to go there whenever possible. Perhaps Fauhurst meant to give her a hint? He certainly had sounded much more pleasant with that ‘order.’

When at long last, she finished, Kitlyn wrung out the last of the bedclothes, dropped them in the basket, and hurried to hang them so she could attend to the garden walk.

3

Too Much a Burden

~ Oona ~

Half-dressed, Oona paced a circle about the center of her bedchamber, equal parts annoyed and worried. She held her gown to her chest, still open down the back, with the laces trailing after her. Kitlyn hadn’t answered the summons of her pulling on the rope, which should’ve caused a bell in the hall to ring. Not that she so much demanded the other girl dress her, but most of her gowns required assistance getting into.

Where is she?

Early afternoon sun stretched in long rectangles across the floor, the columns of her balcony splitting it into shadows. She frowned at the wavering treetops outside; they reminded her of a world much larger than a castle. A world she’d not seen in years.

“Tenebrea take whoever started this war.” She stormed over to the thick golden cord again, which resembled a braid of her hair, and tugged at it while holding fabric to her chest with her other hand. The faint jingle of a bell came from beyond the door. Oona fumed for a minute or two before a soft knock sounded upon the wood.

“Princess?” asked Elsbeth. “Are you all right?”

“Where is my handmaiden?”

The door opened enough to allow the First Maid to peer in. Aside from a few stray threads, her mouse-brown hair sat in a neat bun. Her delicate hand sprouted from a white frill at the end of a billowy grey sleeve, grasping the wood above the knob. “Forgive me, Highness. I am unaware of the girl’s whereabouts. I do not know why she would not answer your summons.”

Oona narrowed her eyes. “Yes, indeed. Why would Kitlyn be too busy to attend to me?”

Elsbeth broke eye contact, looking down. “May I be of assistance, Highness?”

“Fine.” Oona turned her back. “Since you’re here.”

An air of smug victory wafted off the slightly older servant girl as she stole up behind Oona and set to the task of lacing the gown.

They’ll all think me spiteful if I send this one to the kitchens without proof. Oona jostled as the girl tightened laces, tied one set, and moved up to the next. The long sapphire-blue velvet gown had fourteen individual ribbons down the back, which Elsbeth worked into elegant bows. Oona glanced sideways at the mirror to watch her, annoyed by the girl’s victorious smile. She didn’t want to attend to Oona out of any sense of loyalty or friendship; she believed it her station by birth. Perhaps if I tell them how I feel about Kit, no one else would want to be so near me. She sighed, worried to the point of sickness at the thought of Kitlyn reacting the same way. In a kingdom created by the God of Purity, girls simply didn’t fall in love with other girls. But Oona had. Did that mean she’d become evil, or had the gods made her that way on purpose?

“All done,” chimed Elsbeth. “And don’t you look radiant, Highness!” She fussed at Oona’s hair. “Your locks are becoming a touch long, Highness.” A finger pressed into her back close to where her bottom started. “It is lovely, but perhaps time to shorten it?”

“It’s fine for now.” Oona looked down past a spread of embroidered flowers on her chest and front, at the tips of her black shoes peeking from beneath the hem. She’d worn the plain ones, unconcerned with opinion. “Thank you Elsbeth, that is all.”

“Do you need―”

“That is all, Elsbeth. Thank you.” Oona cringed inwardly at the imperious tone in her voice, harsher than she had intended. She hated using it, but her father often warned her about seeming too nice. People would not be slow to take advantage. It helped that she didn’t have much fondness for this girl.

“Yes, Highness.” Elsbeth clasped her hands in front, bowed, and walked out.

After taking a few minutes to calm herself, Oona left her bedchamber and stopped at Kitlyn’s room, unsurprisingly empty. She strolled to the garderobe at the end of the curved hall, also empty. A momentary worry seized her mind. She’d once heard a story of assassins climbing up the toilet shaft to gain entry. Her skin crawled. The thought of someone doing that horrified her more than the idea of being killed in her sleep.

Biting her lip, she leaned in and peered down the hole. At least with an unseasonable cool day, the usual stink that hovered around the brackish water had lessened. About fifteen feet of narrow, square tunnel connected to an opening below, which overhung the moat. Someone would have to climb the outer wall, make it across the courtyard unseen, swim the inner moat, and climb almost twenty feet of bare stone before reaching the underside of where the garderobe jutted out from the castle.

She shuddered. Could anyone want her dead that much?

Oona whirled at the scuff of footsteps, but her enthusiasm evaporated at the sight of a pair of young parlor maids in plain grey dresses, black shoes, and white aprons. The girls set buckets down and chattered away while cleaning the floor. She couldn’t place their names, but remembered the sisters were twelve. Their happy chatter stalled as she neared, and they worked in silence save for the scratching of bristles.

“Hello.” Oona smiled. “It’s all right. Don’t be frightened of me.”

“Yes, Highness,” they chorused.

“Have you seen my handmaiden?”

They exchanged a glance before the brown-haired girl looked down while the flaxen-headed one smiled.

“Master Fauhurst sent her out to do something. She was to clean this floor, but he said she’s too busy.”

The brown-haired girl offered a sheepish upward glance. “He did not seem pleased, Highness.” She looked around as if to ensure no one eavesdropped. “I hear Master Beredwyn scolded him.”

Oona grinned. Fauhurst never did much care for Kitlyn. For a man of middling birth, he certainly held a great amount of disdain for anyone beneath him. She found the way he bowed and scraped at her father nauseating. “Thank you.”

The maids smiled and went back to work. Whispers and the occasional giggle echoed from the walls a moment or two after Oona left them to it. Likely, Elsbeth had coached all the staff to be wary of royals, not to speak in their presence and not to make eye contact. According to rumor, her mother had been of the opinion servants should not be heard, nor seen if possible. Exceedingly proper, the former queen wouldn’t even acknowledge servants existed, as if cups refilled themselves and feather dusters floated on magic.

They’re people, too.

Oona huffed, hurrying along the hallway to the stairs before the grand throne room. Two sets of steps led from either side of the balcony railing and curved inward, merging before widening into the first-floor main hall.

Red velvet tapestries hung between shining silver and white displays of plate armor. Swords and lances gleamed from the decorative boards. An enormous painting midway along the left wall depicted the gods: Lucen, the patron of light, dominated the center. His billowing white robe, cinched with a golden sun brooch, left his right shoulder bare. Long white hair lofted around him as he stared straight into the viewer’s soul. Atop his elevated hand balanced a glowing sun.

To his side, the goddess Navissa stood shrouded in a gown seemingly made of the midnight sky, her head bowed in deference to her husband. Inky tendrils from the hem of her dress poured over the stone steps.

Beside her, Orien, their son, the patron god of life and daybreak, raised one arm to the sky. He wore the simple green robe of a woodland ascetic, and a matching crown of leaves. Though not to the degree of his father, he’d been depicted with a powerful body and rippling muscles. He had a young face that suggested early twenties.

Tenebrea, the gods’ daughter, hovered at her father’s side with a sorrowful, distant expression. Her long hair flowed like her mother’s, only a deep charcoal grey that swept to metallic silver toward the ends. The goddess of death and twilight, most Lucernians shied away from even speaking her name. One bare foot protruded from under her dress; her left hand extended toward a crawling skeleton, which reached up for her as if pleading for help.

Oona approached the painting and stared at Tenebrea, a girl depicted around her age or perhaps a year younger. They shun you for what you are. She bit her lip. People are fools.

Servants and castle staff wandering by paused to look at her. A few mumbled to themselves about courting bad luck by standing so close to that goddess. Anyone who didn’t avoid her soon found themselves as shunned and whispered about as the deity herself. After all, only a damaged mind would want to associate with death.

“Please forgive them; they think you chose to be the goddess of death.”

Not that she had any great love of the netherworld, or a rush to go there, but she felt a person could fear death without fearing the entity responsible for governing it. Everything that lived wound up dead eventually. Why vilify the inevitable?

Oona gathered her skirts and strolled the length of the main hall to the front courtyard. A beautiful afternoon breeze rippled her gown and lifted her hair to the side. She smiled into the wind, basking in the summer warmth. In another few weeks, trees would shed their leaves and the air would grow frigid. She peered to the east, or where she guessed east to be, and wondered how the trees of Evermoor remained green and verdant year-round.

Of course, not all trees in Lucernia became skeletal and bleak. The pine forests, those remained full―but all of Evermoor teemed with life. Pity its citizenry was so brutal. Stories danced through her thoughts as she made her way to the stable. Most of the denizens of the moor dwelled in hovels deep in the woods, practicing black magic and calling upon the demonic forces that Lucen had banished from this land. Many sharpened their teeth to fangs and ate the flesh of their dead, as well as any unfortunate trespassers. The tutors had warned her that such a death kept a spirit away from Tenebrea, and condemned it to eternal torment as a wandering wretch, or cast it into the Pit.

Oona shivered.

Whole groups of Lucernian soldiers had disappeared, another thing she regretted hearing in the war room. A battle lost, a few men escaped to bring reinforcements… but when they returned, they found the field bare. The Evermoor warriors had taken everything―probably for food.

She braced a hand on her stomach to keep from being sick right there in the courtyard.

Rorick and a few noblemen gathered by the corner of the stables; their ruffled clothing suggested they’d only moments ago returned from a hunt. They each gave her a bow, a smile, and a pleasant greeting. Despite the nobles being old enough to have fathered her, all three looked at her as if considering her for a wife.

Oona put on a bland face, thinking back to the cannibals of Evermoor to calm her stomach. “Rorick, where is Halorne?”

“Inside, Highness.” The gamekeeper nodded toward the stable before scratching at his tousled hair.

“Thank you.” She nodded to him and scurried through the stable doors. “Halorne?”

“Yes?” called a deep voice. A second or two later, a tall, thin man with salt and pepper beard and curly hair stood into view within one of the stalls. His green doublet and leather breeches looked well-worn and far more comfortable than her ponderous garb. “Oh, Highness…” He hurried out into the hay-covered walkway. “What are you doing in here? You’ll ruin your dress.”

Oona stopped, perhaps five paces in from the door. “Have someone prepare my carriage. I wish to spend the day in Cimril proper.”

Halorne fidgeted at his pockets, not looking at her. “Uhh… Beg pardon, Highness. The king has instructed me that you’re not to leave the grounds.” He cringed. “For your protection.”

“Bother that. I’m no nursling anymore. I will be quite fine for a few hours at the shops. My father rather overstates the danger.”

Halorne removed his soft brown cap and kneaded it at his chest. “Forgive me, Highness, but I would incur your father’s wrath for… Well, it is a direct order, ma’am.”

She sucked in a breath to launch a tirade of discontent, but bit her tongue. This man’s livelihood could crumble at her tantrum. She could not in good conscience be the cause of his misfortune for want of her leisure. Nor could she blame him for her father’s decision. “I shall have to speak with the king.”

Halorne almost melted into a puddle when she made to storm off. Relief dripped from him as he fixed his hat back in place. “Damn this war.”

Oona stomped back across the courtyard, past the eight armored guards on the steps. Her gown rustled with rapid strides, most of her legs below the knees visible as she kept her skirt hiked up. A few servants and some of the soldiers seemed to fight not to smile at her. Their reaction only made her angrier. How was it everyone practically soiled themselves when her father appeared simply ‘unimpressed,’ never mind showing actual ire, yet at seeing her livid, they found it funny?

By the time she ascended the curving dual stair to the throne room, she itched to lash out at someone. She shoved the doors wide with a loud, echoing slam that made the king and four advisors stop mid-conversation. The advisors, all in heavy robes of cream and loam, froze in place, their tall, cylindrical hats tilting as they swiveled to regard her. With her father seated in the center in white, the five of them could’ve been another grand painting.

Beredwyn, the oldest of the lot, offered a concerned expression. His curly white beard hung to the top of his belt, streaked here and there with the yellow of age, his tabard gold, rather than the eggshell hue of the other advisors, a sign of his station. Fauhurst, barely five years her senior, glared as though she were a misbehaving, petulant child, while the other two, Yelem and Lanon, both men in their thirties, kept expressions of practiced neutrality.

King Talomir raised an eyebrow.

Oona stormed straight up to the dais and stopped within arm’s reach of her father’s knee. “You told Halorne I’m not to leave the castle, Father?”

“I did,” said the king.

“I wish to visit the shops today. The weather is beautiful and I cannot tolerate being stuck inside this place any longer.”

The king’s thick, chestnut eyebrows tilted up with concern. If his hair had been white instead of dark brown, and his clothes a little different, he’d have resembled the god Lucen from the painting. “Daughter, you must understand…” He reached a hand up.

Oona walked closer and he threaded his arm around the small of her back. “I do, Father. But, it is the middle of the day. Lucen watches over us. What competence do you expect from our guards that you think our enemies have spies in our castle city?”

Yelem and Lanon exchanged a glance that suggested the issue had been raised already.

“You know full well,” said Fauhurst, “the savages cavort with dark powers. They are quite different from us, young princess. Among our kind, magic is a rare gift. To them, their dark masters toss it about like crumbs to pigeons.”

“Indeed,” whispered Lanon. “Their spies can appear to be anyone from a small child to an enormous bladesman. How can our soldiers identify them?”

“I am not one of your simple soldiers,” yelled Oona. “I would not be fooled by their magic.”

“Oh?” The king smiled, indulgent. “Is that so?”

She raised her hand, summoning a brilliant orb above her palm, beseeching Lucen to bear truth. In the near-blinding glow, advisor Yelem faded transparent, revealing a shorter, stockier man standing within a ghost. The king’s look of gratified fatherly pride melted to wide-eyed surprise.

Fauhurst gurgled and pointed.

The King yanked Oona around, shoving her behind him. “Spy!”

Yelem, or whoever he was, let out a wild cry. He whirled and pounded a fist into the two-foot-tall hat upon Lanon’s head, driving it down over his eyes to blind him before shoving the man into the nearest guard.

Oona gasped as the spy sprinted to the wall, a mass of shouting soldiers at his heels. He looked up at a window fifteen feet off the ground. The king raised his arm. Less than a second before an army of hands grasped the spy, he vanished and reappeared standing on the ledge. A subsequent flare went off amid the soldiers where the infiltrator had been, blinding them all. In the moment it took the false advisor to flash a snide grin down at the crowd of armored men tripping all over each other, Oona thrust her arm forward.

Intent formed in her mind and shaped the light at her command. A bolt flew from her fingertips, pure and bright blue. The spy had started to peer outside, presumably to repeat his vanishing act, but Oona’s magic clipped him in the back of the thigh.

The impact shoved his leg out from under him, though didn’t appear to break skin. Screaming, the man fell out of sight. Seconds later, a splash came from the moat.

“After him,” shouted the king, pointing at the door.

Guards scrambled to pursue.

“Search the castle.” Beredwyn made a sharp gesture at the door. “Find the real Yelem.”

“If there ever was one,” muttered Fauhurst.

King Talomir turned to face Oona and held her by the shoulders. “You see, my daughter.” Pain shimmered in his eyes. “I am sorry. They would think nothing of killing you to defeat us.”

“The Foretelling,” said Fauhurst. “They know you will purge their ungodly heathen ways, as Lucen cleansed our kingdom.”

Beredwyn’s lips twitched as if hiding a smile. “Yes, well, our princess has quite a ways to go before her magic is a threat to more than one man.”

Shouts arose outside from the guards pursuing the spy.

“Fauhurst.” Oona stared at him. “If Evermoor is so adamant about killing me, why did that man not strike me down? He was close enough. Father as well; he could have slain either of us with ease.”

“He likely didn’t want to die.” Fauhurst’s tone questioned her intelligence for even asking.

She scowled at him. “You keep telling me how dark and bloodthirsty these people are. If he believed killing me would spare his entire kingdom from destruction, would you not say a man of that fervor would think nothing of giving his life?”

The king smiled at Fauhurst as if to say, ‘she has a point.’

Beredwyn glanced away to hide his expression.

Lanon still stared at the window, not having much moved since the false Yelem ran off, his crumpled hat tilted askew.

“I will be fine,” said Oona. “Please instruct Halorne to ready a coach. I do not mind if you send guards.”

The king sighed. “Mere seconds ago, you discovered a spy close enough to take either of our lives, and you still do not appreciate the danger. They want to harm you, child. I cannot risk it.”

Oona stared down at her shoes. “I know… but… I feel like a prisoner. Sometimes, I think I’d have more freedom if Evermoor captured me.”

Fauhurst gasped. “Do not say such things, Princess. They would certainly never ‘capture’ you. If those savages found you, they’d kill you without a second’s hesitation.”

“Please understand.” The king took her hand in both of his, squeezing it gently. “I think only of your life. My daughter will end this war, and then you will have all the freedom you want.”

Oona furrowed her eyebrows. “The Foretelling doesn’t say when I’m supposed to end it. I could be an old maid by then.” She made little lights dance around her arms. “It’s painfully evident I’m not ready to go to war, so it can’t be soon.”

Beredwyn chuckled.

“How do you think I will feel when I receive news of your death?” The king brushed a hand across her cheek.

“That is unfair.” She frowned. “But effective.”

Oona hung her head and trudged off down the gold-hued runner connecting the throne dais to the doors. Two younger men in leather armor sprinted in, offered hasty greetings, and scurried over to the king.

“My liege, the spy was caught just beyond the wall.”

“Excellent,” said the king. “Prepare him for interrogation.”

Oona reached for the knob, but an attendant pulled the door open for her. She paused, listening.

“Apologies, sire. The man did not survive.” Papers rustled. “We found these on him.”

The remaining advisors murmured.

“Sketches of our engagement diagrams,” wheezed Fauhurst. “They would have known where all of our men are stationed.”

“How long was this man in my castle?” bellowed the king.

The door attendant quirked an eyebrow at Oona, but kept silent.

Oona rushed out the door as shocked gasps and grumbles came from the king and the surviving advisors.

Tears leaking from her eyes, she stood with her hands over her face for a few minutes trying to collect herself. It wouldn’t do for someone to catch her crying. The heir foretold to end the war couldn’t be seen as weak. Oh, why couldn’t the king have had a son? No one would doubt a prince could protect himself. No one would think a prince ‘weak’ for showing emotion.

Snarling, Oona turned on her heel and headed out to the one still accessible place that harkened back to the happier times. She rustled her way across the ground floor, ducking into the corridor containing the lower servants’ quarters―the fastest path to the rear courtyard.

Some of the kitchen staff smiled at her, which lifted her mood enough to return their good cheer. One dark-haired kitchen maid of about fifteen regarded her with a guilty smile. Oona wondered if the girl pitied her for bearing such an awful burden at her age.

She exited the other side of the kitchen. The smell of fresh baked bread and turkey filled the narrow, dim hallway that wrapped around the back end of the keep. Past riding tack and cloaks, she pushed open a dark wooden door with a pointed arch and emerged onto the garden walk.

Overhang from the second story connected to evenly spaced columns, creating a covered passage about forty yards long to another door leading back into the keep. A waist-high wall ran under the columns, dotted with moss and weeds. Beyond the arch, the royal garden stretched into the distance, thick with trees, bushes, and magnificent blooms, all shifting in the gentle afternoon breeze.

Her shoes crunched on long, brown seedpods strewn about the stone floor while her gown dragged a clear path to the shallow wall, where she climbed up and sat, her back against a column.

Oona gazed left into the topiary maze, her right leg dangling off the wall, her other foot flat upon it. This place held her only true fond memories, a place she could forget all about royalty, warfare, assassins, or having to conquer a nation. Lucen, please let my father find a new queen and give him a son. I fear I will never be good enough. I am too afraid. I lack the courage to even tell the one I love how I feel. The calming hiss of the wind in the trees served as her only answer. Wistful memories of years ago, how happy and innocent this place had been for her, weighed on her heart.

She gathered her hands in her lap and fought the urge to weep.

4

Friends

~ Kitlyn ~

Evor, the groundskeeper’s son, gave Kitlyn a confused look as she collected a wide outdoor broom from the stack of tools leaning against the wall. The boy, a year or so younger, tilted his head at her. He too wore a beige tunic and brown pants to go with his knee-high boots. Kitlyn grumbled. The other servants didn’t ‘misplace’ his shoes constantly. Except for Beredwyn and Oona, it felt as though the entire keep conspired to make her so miserable she’d want to run away. They didn’t need to know the earth underfoot seemed to charge her with energy; it certainly helped with her tasks. After ‘losing’ three pairs of shoes in one week when she’d been twelve, she stopped bothering to ask for more. It wasn’t worth being scolded. At least they’d left her winter boots be. They evidently desired to be nasty, not malicious.

“Oi,” said Evor. “What ya doin’ ’ere?”

“I’m to clear the garden path of seeds,” she muttered.

“Isn’t you the princess’ handmaiden?” He grinned.

A man in the back of the shed laughed. “Not dressed like that she’s not.”

Kitlyn held up the broom and sighed. “Aye, but only Oo―the princess thinks so.”

Both of his eyebrows flared. Most of the upper servants would’ve been appalled at her slip with the name. “I donnae know why ’ey all treat ya like ’is. I fink they jealous.”

She laughed. “Jealous? Of me? I’m not even on the social ladder. I’m flat on the ground and the ladder’s on my back.”

“I fink they jealous o’ your eyes.” He stepped closer. “They gleam like em’ralds. You’re beautiful, yanno. ’Neath alla dirt, an’ them ol’ rags.”

Kitlyn looked away. “Thanks.” Well, this is unexpected. Usually the male servants either sneered at her with the same disdain as everyone else or ignored her. Only the lower ones who worked outside treated her as a person. Of course, the groundskeeper’s son didn’t stand all that high up the ladder himself; few would’ve batted an eyelash at the idea of the two of them together. Yet, having him look at her like that, seeing the woman under her boys’ clothes, made her feel fidgety and squirmy, and closed the breath in her throat. “I… uhh, need to go before I get in trouble.”

“Awright.” He smiled and moved out of her way. “If’n ye ’ave time later, p’raps we kin go for a stroll by the lake?”

She swallowed. Evor’d always been friendly, but she couldn’t think of him like that. Still, friendly people here were in short supply, so she forced a smile. “Thanks. I’ll, umm… consider it. I’ve an age of tasks to attend.”

He nodded. “‘Ere, use this one.” He picked up a different broom. “Ye’ll be done faster. That one ye got’s bout ta break.”

Glancing down, she gave the broom a slight shake; the head wobbled. Sure enough, it did appear ready to fall apart. Kitlyn offered it back to him and took the one he held out to her. “Thanks.”

His fingers brushed hers for a second, a deliberate gesture. Her gut clenched, though she kept smiling at him. “Thank you, but I’m going to be scolded if I don’t hurry.”

“Let me know if’n ya need ’elp.”

After a brief nod, she raced off down a narrow strip of walkway between two farm plots where the boy’s father grew rare vegetables, herbs, and spices for the cook staff. She ducked a lumbering bee at the end of the planted row and headed for the corner of the main keep. Grass tickled her toes; the sun warmed her from above like Lucen himself smiled down on her.

The inner moat afforded about thirty yards of ground between it and the building, except for the eastern face, where it touched the castle wall. The palace gardens sat inside the moat along the rear (north) edge of the keep, inside a two-story stone wall covered in centuries of thick ivy. Most everyone had to go through the castle to reach the garden, else they would have to swim the moat and scale the wall.

Kitlyn ran to the edge of the brackish water, stopping in a tuft of grass that concealed her legs up to the calf. She reached down as if trying to grasp something, and a puff of green-amber light burst from her outstretched hand. A series of head-sized stones floated up out of the water and the nearby earth, coming together to form a narrow bridge. Threads of the same light swam between the rocks, linking them much the same way as she’d done with the tiny stones to amuse little Pim.

She crossed, her hair fluffing as the energy tingled into her feet. Once she stepped on solid ground, the rocks dispersed, falling again into the water with a collective plunk. At the wall, she beckoned an upwelling of stone, which protruded out in the form of a ledge scarcely large enough for both her feet. After standing on it, she willed it to carry her upward. At the top, she stepped onto the wall and coaxed the stony protrusion to melt back in and grow out from the inner face. She hopped on again and rode it to the ground before releasing her magical grip.

The broom over her shoulder, she whistled, walking along a cramped passageway with castle wall on her left and massive thorn bushes on her right. Rose and hyacinth scented the air, though here, out of the sun, the wind held a chill. The narrow channel soon opened out to the garden, near the covered walkway Fauhurst had commanded her to sweep. As soon as she emerged in view of the keep’s rear wall, she spotted Oona perched in one of the eight arches, her back against a column.

An upwelling of joy burst within her, but she bit it back. She had to finish her chore or she would get in trouble. Bad enough the princess wore one of her more complicated gowns. Not being there to lace it up lit a flame of worry that she’d let her friend down. Oona glanced over at the first scratch of broom bristle on stone, and her gloomy, sorrowful face gave way to a broad smile. Kitlyn grinned back at her, but kept working despite how little interest she had in doing so.

The rest of the servants here worked for pay. No one had yet even mentioned any kind of coin to her, so she wondered how exactly Fauhurst would ‘discipline’ her if she quit breaking her back. Could he technically dismiss her if she wasn’t being paid? Would he simply scream at her or might he resort to more corporal forms of punishment? She’d never thought much about working here before; they fed her, gave her a warm bed and a room of her own, and provided her clothing―even if only plain tunics, common breeches, and a few cotton nightdresses.

The arrangement had always felt somewhat like she’d been adopted and did chores around the home. Or so it used to. Now, with her increasing workload, well, she barely had any time left to herself, so what would she do with money even if she were paid?

Might be worth asking Beredwyn, if only to get Oona off my back. She’s more bothered than I about it.

A few times, she stepped on a seedpod and winced. They had no sharp edges or thorns, but the finger-sized things, as hard as walnuts, hurt underfoot. Kitlyn worked the broom about, gathering the pods in small piles, and those piles into yet larger piles. I can’t believe how many there are under the roof… it’s like faeries or goblins gathered them here to play a joke.

“Kit,” said Oona, once she’d progressed halfway along the terrace.

She lifted her head and grinned. The princess hadn’t moved, still sitting with her left leg dangled over the wall, foot swaying back and forth a fair distance from the floor. “The new dress, and I missed it.” She shook the broom. “You must have called. I… who helped you?”

Oona frowned. “Elsbeth.”

Kitlyn pushed the broom out to arms’ length and stepped left to do it again. The bristles’ width required five side-by-side passes to span the garden walk. “Oh. She doesn’t like me, that one.”

“She doesn’t.” Oona sighed. “I don’t care what she thinks. Why do they have you running about doing all manner of”―she waved a hand about as if searching for a word―“drudgery? You’re supposed to be my handmaiden. I’d rather lady-in-waiting. Oh, I hate seeing you work so much.”

Kitlyn stared at her feet, broom motionless. It felt so strange that she had not the least bit of hesitation addressing Oona as an equal, yet even the middling servants filled her with dread as if she had no right to breathe the same air. “I’m sorry, princess… it’s not my place to question―”

“Will you stop?” Oona hopped down from the wall and walked over. “You know I hate it when you talk to me like that.”

“Yes.” Kitlyn peered up through her disheveled hair. Oona looked so beautiful in the tree-dappled sunlight that made her blonde hair almost glow. Far prettier than an abandoned jet-haired waif in boys’ clothes. “We’re not children any longer. I’ll be disciplined if they hear.”

Oona scowled. “These people forget their station. I am telling you I don’t wish you to talk to me like that, so don’t talk to me like that. If they have a problem with it, they can wash dishes.”

Kitlyn giggled and leaned her weight on the broom handle. “I don’t know. Every time I finish one thing, someone gives me another.” She hesitated, unable to keep eye contact. “I… think they want me to go away.”

“No!” Oona put a hand on her shoulder. “I will let Beredwyn know I am most displeased.”

Kitlyn grinned and resumed sweeping. “So, you are displeased then?”

“Yes, quite.” Oona fell in step beside her. “I’ll not tolerate my handmaiden being unavailable when I need her. All this filthy work…” She blinked, raising a finger. “That’s it. I’ll pester my father ceaselessly until he agrees to change your title to lady-in-waiting. Perhaps then, they’ll understand you’re to spend the day at my side.”

“Oh, yes.” Kitlyn laughed. “They can barely tolerate me setting foot in your bedchamber to change your linens. I’ve no peerage. I think half of them would leap into Tenebrea’s arms if you tried to declare me thus.”

Oona laughed, a light melodic sound that carried off into the trees. Kitlyn couldn’t help but join her. The idea of spending all day with her, not having to work herself sore, felt like a branch extended to lift her out of a mire, a branch she’d never be allowed to grasp.

“Can you picture Fauhurst?” Oona clutched her chest, pantomiming the man having a fatal seizure. She collapsed to the floor, twitching like a beached fish for a few seconds before she cracked up giggling while lying on the stone.

Kitlyn covered her mouth in a poor attempt to mute her laugher and reached to help her up. The princess clasped her hand, setting off a sensation like a mass of exuberant fireflies swarmed around her arm and settled in the pit of her stomach. Be it magic or something else, she couldn’t tell… but she looked away, afraid Oona might catch something in her stare that would forever ruin their friendship.

“Uhh, I should finish.” Kitlyn picked up the broom.

“What are you doing?” called Elsbeth from the west door. “Princess…”

The First Maid rushed over, followed by the ever-dour Margaret who turned her disapproving glare on Oona. Elsbeth stared at the two of them, clearly horrified, but dared not to speak.

“It’s unbecoming of a lady of your station, Highness,” said Elsbeth.

Oona’s bright smile fell to a wrathful glower. “I have had about enough of this.” She snatched the broom from Kitlyn’s grasp and hurled it at Elsbeth. “There are seedpods over half the garden walk still. See that they are cleaned up.”

Elsbeth gaped in silence.

Kitlyn wanted to crawl into a small place and hide. Caught between two senior servants and the princess, no matter what happened here, she’d somehow wind up bearing all the blame.

Oona took her hand. “Come with me.”

“But, Highness, this chore is hers.” Elsbeth stammered. “It’s… it’s ben―”

“Beneath you?” Oona whirled on her. “And sweeping the garden walk is not beneath my handmaiden? Explain to me how that is so?”

Elsbeth opened and closed her mouth a few times.

“Remember your station, Highness,” said Margaret, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I do.” The princess shifted her glower to the older woman for a second, before hurling it back at Elsbeth. “I’m well aware of my station, of assassins crawling out of every shadow, of everyone treating me like some brittle thing… well, I am the Princess of Lucernia, and the pair of you are servants. I’ll not tell you again.” Oona pointed at the garden walk, her posture shifting regal. “You’re to clear this place of seedpods, and maybe I will not have you reduced to a scullery maid.”

Margaret gasped.

Elsbeth seemed ready to cry.

“Oona,” said Kitlyn. “It’s all right. I’ll finish.”

Elsbeth held the broom out.

“Touch that broom, and she’ll spend the rest of her time here washing dishes,” Oona hissed. “Everyone is quite so fond of reminding me of my station; it is high time they reminded themselves of yours.”

Kitlyn froze, feeling helpless.

Elsbeth held her nose up, her eyes red.

Margaret’s frown receded to an expression of worry. “Now, Highness, you―”

“I what?” snapped Oona, folding her arms. “Need a new stable girl?”

Margaret blanched. Despite Elsbeth’s pleading stare, the older woman bowed her head and retreated to the door in silence. But Oona wouldn’t make a girl tend to the stables… would she?

The princess grasped Kitlyn by the hand and pulled her out into the grass between the garden and keep, heading for the mouth in the hedgerow where the dirt path led deeper into their childhood retreat. In the midst of the sea of green, she plopped to sit.

“I… Thank you, but.” Kitlyn sprawled beside her. “They’ll only be worse to me now.”

Oona twisted to look at the porch. A few seconds later, the scratch, scratch of the broom broke the stillness. “Not if they understand what’s good for them. You’ve cleared most of it already anyway. The girl can handle five minutes of work.” She gave Kitlyn an up-and-down glance. “By Orien’s glow, you’re filthy.”

Kitlyn shrugged, mortified.

“Remember when we were nine?” Oona laughed. “We went exploring that overgrown trail by the Berrybriar?”

“Yes!” Kitlyn giggled. “And we fell in the dried-up pond…”

“Not so dried-up.” Oona laughed. “We had mud everywhere… Beredwyn wouldn’t let us in until we’d bathed.”

Kitlyn’s giggling grew to full on laughter. “They had to change the water twice!”

Oona’s laugh turned into a snort, and she covered her face with her hands, blushing.

“Or the sleeping ghost?” Kitlyn winked. “Mrs. Paul had us convinced a ghost had gotten into the garden, and you wanted to go looking for it.”

“Yes!” Oona dropped her hands, laughing so hard she seemed barely able to breathe. “That wasn’t too long after the mud… You were so frightened. That little boar…” She doubled over and fell seated on the grass, wiping tears from her eyes.

Kitlyn frowned, folding her arms. “I remember that, and you were every bit as frightened. That little boar scared us both to shrieking. It chased us around the garden for hours, the two of us thinking it the ghost.”

Oona sat up, laughter subsiding for the span of a few deep breaths. “Yes, yes. Oh, we were screaming so loud.”

“Yes. Funny now, less so at the time.” Kitlyn turned at the sense of malice burning into her from behind.

Elsbeth pushed the broom, glaring at her. As expected, the First Maid blamed her. For months, the girl hadn’t had to do any cleaning herself, rather managing all the other maidservants. If any of them saw her with the broom, she’d not hear the end of it.

She probably thinks I’m laughing at her.

The east door opened. Beredwyn emerged, gave the cringing First Maid a curious glance, and headed out to where Oona sprawled in the grass.

Kitlyn sprang to her feet and tensed. Oona, still unable to stop giggling, looked up at her, confused, until she noticed the senior advisor.

“It is good to see you in high spirits, Highness.” The old man turned his smile toward Kitlyn. The dark loam-colored velvet of his ridiculous hat covered all of his head, save his face and beard. A thin gold Lucen symbol on the front glinted in the sunlight. “It’s quite all right, child. Calm yourself. What has brought our dear Elsbeth to the lowly task of sweeping the garden walk?”

Oona didn’t bother to stand. “Beredwyn, I must insist that others cease their demands on Kitlyn. She is my handmaiden, and I want her available whenever I need her.”

Elsbeth slowed the broom and leaned through one of the arches.

Kitlyn glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. The girl looked like she wanted to scream, ‘but she’s an impoverished wretch!’ Shame wrapped Kitlyn like a blanket, and she bowed her head.

“I wouldn’t worry, Highness.” Beredwyn’s smile lingered a few seconds before smoothing out. “With the situation as it is, we thought it perhaps best to create some distance between the two of you. In the event…” He sighed.

“What?” Oona blinked. “In the event… I’m killed?”

Kitlyn shrank in on herself. They didn’t want us growing too close, but if she’s killed… She stared at him. “Begging your pardon, Master Beredwyn, but I don’t understand. Why would you be concerned how I would feel if anything were to happen to the princess?”

“Oh, it’s nothing of the sort.” He pursed his lips, glancing off to the side. “An assassin would not simply rush in. He’d observe for a few days. If he sensed you had a strong friendship, whoever he reports to might use that as a weapon. We thought it best to present the air of aloofness… to protect everyone.”

After a sigh, Oona grumbled into her lap, “I hate this war.”

“Well, the Foretelling says you shall end it.” Beredwyn’s grey-caterpillar eyebrows rose.

“I rather hate the delusional ramblings of old men as well. And everyone believing it, at that.” Oona crossed her arms, her eyes reddening with unshed tears. A second later, she looked up at Kitlyn and pointed at the grass beside her. “Sit here?”

Kitlyn glanced at Beredwyn, too nervous to move.

Oona’s lip quivered. “Please.”

Kitlyn did. The instant her rear end hit grass, Oona wrapped her arms around her and dissolved into sobs. Kitlyn glanced up at the advisor.

Beredwyn’s posture took on a grandfatherly slouch. “Do not fear honoring whatever the princess asks of you, child.”

She held Oona, rocking her side to side as the elder advisor walked back to the door, his robes trailing after. Elsbeth finished off the sweeping and shoved a massive pile of seedpods out onto the grass. After a contemptuous glare at Kitlyn, she scurried inside.

Moments later, Oona regained her composure. “I wish we could be little again.”

“What?” Kitlyn gazed into the princess’ deep blue eyes. If only she could hold her until all the fear and worry of the war faded to distant memories.

After a few moments, Oona tugged at her tunic. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen how you look in proper clothes. Perhaps we can spend the evening trying on dresses together.”

Warmth spread across her cheeks. “Together? Like… in the same room?”

Oona laughed. “Of course! You’re blushing?”

“I… umm.”

“Oh, come now.” The princess gave her a playful shove. “You attend to my baths. I will have no one else wash my hair.”

Kitlyn let out a nervous giggle and tried to think of anything other than Oona in the bath, but couldn’t get the idea out of her mind. They had shared a tub often enough before, but it had been innocent back then. In that instant, the enticing idea of sharing a bath, only water separating their skin, brought heat to her cheeks. When had that changed?

The door opened again, admitting Beredwyn. He walked over with an ill-concealed tone of amusement to his face. As he neared, he glanced about as if in the midst of some great clandestine matter. “I almost let it slip my mind.” He removed his hand from his sleeve and offered out a large ivenberry to Oona. “Something found its way into the castle.”

Oona squealed with glee. “Oh, Beredwyn…”

“That’s…” Kitlyn blinked. “Expensive.”

Beredwyn dusted small seeds from his hands after Oona seized the fruit from him. She held the red, pointy berry up to her face, wide-eyed at the treat almost as big as Pim’s head. After marveling at it for a few seconds, she grasped the tuft of green at the top and twisted it back and forth until it came loose.

“Master Beredwyn,” said Oona. “Do you have a knife?”

He drew a dagger from his belt and wiped it back and forth across his robe before handing it over. “Of course.”

After flicking the coating of fingernail-sized seeds from the outside, Oona held the knife over the ivenberry.

“You take the bigger piece.” Kitlyn grinned. “You adore those things far more than I.”

“Don’t you like them?” Oona blinked.

Kitlyn winked. “I do. But you adore them. Everyone in the castle knows it.”

“Well, you’ll get the larger piece. You’ve been overworked.” Oona glanced up at Beredwyn. “Where did you find one of these? Merchants haven’t traded with Evermoor since before I was born.”

“Oh, they sneak across the border here and there.” Beredwyn waved dismissively at her as though discussing a triviality.

“Smuggled,” muttered Kitlyn. “They only grow near Ivendar. Almost a silver crescent per berry.” Or maybe this was taken from a dead soldier. She’d never say that to Oona though. So few things made her happy these days and if anything under Lucen’s green earth could make the girl tell a fib, obtaining an ivenberry would be it.

Oona bit her tongue and pushed the dagger down through the fruit, seeming to take extreme care to ensure both halves came out even. She handed the knife back to Beredwyn, and half of the berry to Kitlyn.

“Thank you, Master Beredwyn.” Oona beamed, raising the fruit to her mouth as if to indulge a monstrous bite, but thought better of it and took a mannerly nibble from the tip.

Kitlyn huddled around her half, trying to keep anyone from seeing her with it. Most of the castle servants would’ve reacted to her having an ivenberry with shock appropriate to catching someone feeding the king’s steak to one of the huntsman’s hounds. The sweet flesh of the fruit practically melted on her tongue and blotted out her worries for a while. Likely a day or two from being over-ripe, it had a tenuous grip on the perfect balance between soft and firm.

Beredwyn left them once more, humming to himself as he hurried back to the castle. They nibbled in silence for a while, exchanging earnest looks while trying not to get juice everywhere.

“I wish…” The princess’ smile fell to a flat line; she stared at her half-eaten ration of ivenberry. “I wish we could be as friends again, without everyone constantly scowling and muttering their discontent at the shadows, thinking I cannot hear them… I wish we could be free of care again, as we once were. Without all of this.”

“All of this?” Kitlyn looked up.

“This.” Oona gestured at the castle. “Catty servants. The war. The Foretelling.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know.” Oona flicked at the grass by her foot and took another large bite. “Do you think my father would like Lady Harrington?”

Kitlyn pictured the slender raven-haired noble from the southwestern city of Torlach. Last she could recall, the woman was in her mid-twenties, still single, but terrified of her own shadow. Quite beautiful, but difficult to coax out of her manor house. “If they could ever get her to leave her bedroom closet.”

Oona laughed, spraying red juice between her fingers.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I’m just thinking.” Oona finished off her fruit and leaned back, bracing her hands in the grass behind her while staring up at the clouds. “The Foretelling does not specify which heir will end the war, only that an heir will.”

“So you’re trying to arrange a marriage?” Kitlyn laughed.

“Why not?” Oona swished her feet side to side. “If he has a son, everyone will assume that’s the heir who’ll destroy Evermoor.”

“Yes, but then the assassins will be going after a baby,” Kitlyn said barely above a whisper.

Oona lowered her gaze from the clouds. “My father makes me feel quite guilty enough. Thank you for that.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re right. This is my burden. I cannot shirk it off, much less on a defenseless infant.” Her gloom lasted only a second more. “For now, though, we’re alive, and Kit! Do I have an idea. Let’s do something we haven’t done in ages.”

“Rearrange all the books in the library out of order?”

Oona cackled. “Oh, that! What were we, eight?”

“Seven.” Kitlyn squirmed. “My bum still burns from that. They paddled your share onto me.”

“I’m sorry.” Oona took her hand. “I had to watch you scream and cry… that hurt more.”

Kitlyn gave her a flat look. “I doubt that. I couldn’t sit proper for two days.”

Oona folded her arms. “Well, did I suggest we do anything so devilish again?”

“No.”

“So there.” Oona gestured at her. “I couldn’t bear to see them hurt you again.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t because of what the king said?”

“What? What did he say?”

“You don’t know?” Kitlyn raised a brow.

“No!” Oona grabbed her arm, genuine confusion in her eyes. “Tell me!”

“I overheard him berating Miss Harper for giving me double. She dared not strike the princess, but the king ordered her to punish us both in equal measure next time or whatever she did to me, he’d revisit on her in triplicate.”

Oona gasped.

“I thought you were afraid she’d paddle you.” Kitlyn grinned. “The woman was a witch.”

“Oh, she wasn’t that bad, and no… I had no idea.” Oona squeezed her hand. “I really didn’t want you to get punished again.”

“Not that bad? Well… I suppose to you.” Kitlyn fidgeted. “At me, she always yelled, threatened to take away my meals, reminded me all the time how I was such a nobody.”

Oona pulled her into another hug. “I’m sorry. But Kit, why didn’t you ever say anything?!”

Kitlyn clung tighter than she felt proper doing, caught herself, and let go. “She was right. I am a nobody. No parents, no family, no possessions to my name.”

Oona pushed her out to arms’ length and put a finger under her chin, forcing Kitlyn to make eye contact. “You’re my friend.”

Kitlyn stared into her eyes again, her heart picking up speed. “So, what was that idea, again?”

The princess pulled her dress up off her legs, exposing a mass of frills. “Help me get this bothersome mess off.”

5

The Pond

~ Oona ~

Oona grinned at the face Kitlyn made. “What?”

“Umm.”

“Remember how we used to run through the garden?”

Kitlyn’s blush faded to an innocent giggle. “Yeah.”

“Before I had to wear these stupid gowns and all the damnable mess underneath?” Oona fidgeted at what felt like fifty pounds of fabric wrapped around her. “That’s it! I want to feel the grass in my toes for a little while again.”

Kitlyn laughed and helped her remove a few layers of underclothing plus stockings and shoes.

“Oh, by the gods!” Oona fell flat on her back, savoring the sudden chill. “I thought it had been a bit warm today, but it’s rather not. Oh, how can you wear pants?”

“I put my legs in them and pull them up.”

Oona made a raspberry at her. “They look so uncomfortable.”

“They’re not… and it’s much better for training with Guard Lorne. These dresses, they aren’t really made for moving… or scrubbing floors.”

Oona sat up, lifting and dropping her gown to fan air over her legs. “Oh this is divine. I think when I am queen, I shall outlaw those.” She gestured at the pile of leggings, stockings, underskirts, and frills.

“You’re like a peasant girl in a simple dress.” Kitlyn winked.

“Then I shall be a peasant for the rest of the day.” Oona leapt to her feet and danced about in a twirl. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d run barefoot in the garden; it had to be at least four years ago. “Perhaps I shall even try pants.”

“Oh, no!” Kitlyn gasped. “Elsbeth and Margaret would drop dead.”

“Come on!” She stooped to grab her friend’s hand and hauled her to the path, squealing with glee at the touch of cool, damp dirt at her soles.

Kitlyn’s laughter echoed behind her. Oona led the way around the twisting trail past stone benches covered in ivy and among walls of hedgerows two stories tall. Flowers of violet, white, and yellow clung to creeping vines spanning the shrubs and dangling from trees. Willow strands glided on what little breeze made it past the canopy of branches. Here and there, she stepped on soft moss that felt like walking on her bed, but the occasional rock made her stumble.

Oona paused to lift her left foot, examining the underside. Amid a scattering of soil, a small red mark gave away where the offending stone bit her. “Oh, I suppose I’m out of practice.”

Kitlyn started to look worried, so she laughed again and pulled her along. At the central tree, she ran around the narrow stone path that circled it three times before coming to a halt by a limestone bench. Bas-reliefs of all four gods decorated the sides, also covered in creeping green moss.

“Shall we try and climb it again?” asked Oona, a pang of fear at the thought of being so high off the ground tightening her gut. As frightened as she was of heights, it offered an escape from worries of war and foretellings.

“Everyone thought that was my idea.” Kitlyn frowned. “Are you sure? You were terrified.”

Her mind leapt back a few years. They’d been about eleven, and she’d gotten it in her head to climb the tree. Kitlyn wanted nothing to do with it, but joined in once Oona had gotten halfway up. Fun lasted only as long as it took her to glance down, at which point she’d clamped onto the branch and screamed for help. Not even Kitlyn could talk her into letting go.

“At least they only yelled at me that time.”

Oona looked over at her. Back then, her friend’s silky black hair had been down to her bum, the way hers was now. She couldn’t decide if she liked it better shoulder length or wanted her to grow it out again. Perhaps in her new life, the life of a servant, such long hair would be a burden. She decided that her lady-in-waiting should have long hair again, assuming Kitlyn wanted to. “I don’t think I’m afraid of heights anymore.”

“I don’t believe you.” Kitlyn smirked.

“I sense a challenge.” Oona reached for the branches.

“Well… I suppose this time I did push you into doing it.” Kitlyn followed. “Do you think they’ll paddle me?”

Oona found herself warm in the chest and cheeks. “I… no. You’re not a child anymore. It wouldn’t be proper. Besides… I’ll tell them it was my idea.”

She stood on the bench, set a foot against the trunk, and pulled herself up into the boughs. The tree swayed, and an errant branch snagged her dress.

“Be careful,” said Kitlyn from underneath. “We’re not as small as we were, and the tree will rip that lovely fabric.”

Oona leaned her weight to one side and peered down. Kitlyn had braced herself against the tree as if to climb, but looked off to the side.

“What is it?” asked Oona.

“Pardon?”

“Why are you staring over there?” Oona tried to follow her gaze, but nothing of interest caught her eye.

“I’m merely not looking up,” said Kitlyn.

Oona pulled herself a little higher. “What? Why not? How are you going to climb?”

“Because, umm… I will see your smallclothes. You’re wearing a dress. You’ve removed all your underpinnings, and I can see straight up to that little scrap of fabric.” Kitlyn’s cheeks turned scarlet.

“Oh.” Blood rushed to Oona’s head. “I… hadn’t thought of that.” She eased herself back down. Kitlyn held on to her by the hips and guided her to alight on the bench. “Maybe we should save the tree for the day I commit the most grievous crime known to society.”

“Doubting the gods?”

“No, silly.” Oona swatted playfully at her. “A princess wearing pants.”

Kitlyn laughed. “The kingdom would break off into the sea that very day.”

Oona grinned at the sight of her friend so happy, and with sudden inspiration, let herself fall from the bench. Kitlyn caught her in a supporting embrace, which soon became a hug.

“Suppose I’m still a little clumsy.” Oona bit her lip with an impish smile.

They leaned back, looking into each other’s eyes. Alas, Kitlyn eased her back to her feet too soon.

“Remember when we tried to find faeries out here?” Oona took a step back into a spiraling twirl. “We kept trying to sneak up on them.”

Kitlyn giggled. “Sorry.”

Oona narrowed her eyes, remembering the doll dangling from twine four days into the hunt. She still didn’t know what Kitlyn had traded to the stable boy to get him to hide in the weeds and make it dance, but she’d been convinced they’d found a real faerie… until the twine broke. Then she thought they’d witnessed one die. “I cried for an hour.”

“I was waving the doll in your face and you kept screaming and trying to run away from the ‘dead thing.’”

Oona blushed, but got the giggles and couldn’t stop. She wanted so much to go back to being a child. Without warning, she grabbed a handful of old leaves, dirt, and fallen acorns, and hurled them into Kitlyn’s hair before running off, laughing.

Kitlyn emitted a playful growl and chased.

Oona weaved through the garden paths for a little while before a patch of moss unseated from the stonework under her foot and took her to the ground. Kitlyn pounced, and they rolled together for a few tumbles before coming to rest with Oona on her back. Kitlyn grabbed handful after handful of mulch and dropped it on Oona’s head.

She squealed, raising her arms in a poor attempt to defend herself. Soon, they collapsed and laughed, out of breath.

“That cloud looks like a frog.” Oona pointed up.

“All I see are leaves.”

“There’s a little hole in the canopy. Scoot closer.”

Kitlyn crawled over, almost ear-to-ear, to peer at the gap. “Oh. You’re right!”

Oona’s mouth dried out. She tilted her head to the left, touching cheeks with Kitlyn. On contact, the girl grew tense and awkward.

Distant trickling water caught Oona’s attention. “Let’s go to the pond.”

“All right.” Kitlyn rolled to her feet and pulled her upright. “We’re almost there anyway.”

Oona tugged her along to the northwest end of the castle grounds. The great keep wall, some twenty-five feet tall, framed a manmade pond in the corner beneath the ivy-covered stone. The bank where the water met grass curved, giving it the overall shape of a fan. A tiny rowboat sat in the same spot so long that it too had become enshrouded with ivy. Oona questioned the point of a boat in a pond so small it would take less than thirty seconds to row from the bank to the innermost corner, but maybe they needed it to repair the wall. Or something.

“It’s so peaceful here,” whispered Kitlyn.

Oona pulled her over to the bank and tested the water with a toe. Cold, but not intolerable. With her free hand, she gathered her gown up to keep it dry and stepped in, ankle-deep. Dense mud oozed between her toes, and she laughed at how alive it made her feel.

Kitlyn squeaked as she followed. “It’s freezing.”

“A little.” Oona tugged her to the right toward a mossy stone bench a short distance into the water. “You’re right… it is peaceful.”

Oona took a seat and tucked her dress about beneath her legs so she didn’t have to hold it to keep it dry. She swished her feet back and forth for a little while, and tried to pick a polished stone from the muck with her big toe, but couldn’t get it dislodged.

The afternoon sun had glided far enough to the west beyond the wall to shadow the pond. Honeysuckle and the scent of water, earth, and moss swirled in a breeze that hissed among the treetops. Only the occasional chirp of a bird or rapid scampering of a squirrel broke the calm. Tiny fish nipped at her feet, making her grin and squirm.

“Peaceful,” repeated Kitlyn wistfully.

“Yes.” Oona looked to her left, realizing she hadn’t let go of Kitlyn’s hand.

She didn’t let go either. As their eyes met, a hundred different moments replayed in her memory: happier times frolicking in the garden or playing pranks on the adults, less happy times―more as of late―worrying about responsibility and politics. Sad times, like when Kitlyn had been paddled twice and wouldn’t even talk to her for a few days. I thought she hated me after that. Oona squeezed her friend’s hand tighter.

Kitlyn bit her lip.

Something felt different. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. She didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want the world outside the corner pond to exist anymore. They’d been best friends their whole lives despite the vast difference in station. Best friends… those words didn’t quite measure up to the task of what bubbled up inside her. Dizziness made the garden spin a little, and she looked away.

I’m imagining this. Kit’s my friend. I couldn’t tell her what I’m feeling… what if she’s disgusted? The mere thought of Kitlyn making a face of horror stabbed her like an icicle in the heart. She traced her thumb side to side over the back of Kitlyn’s hand. The black-haired girl didn’t pull away, staring into the water while moving her feet back and forth. She sat straighter, tense, worried.

A lump welled thick in Oona’s throat. Everything she wanted to say jumbled up like a bunch of soldiers trying to cram themselves through a narrow doorway all at once. Her metaphoric army dropped their swords and collapsed in an ungainly heap.

“Peaceful,” she croaked.

Kitlyn glanced at their entwined hands. A bit of blush tinged her pale cheeks. Oona smiled; no matter how much sun either of them got, they both looked like they’d been locked in a dungeon for years. Her gaze followed the delicate line of Kitlyn’s nose, a sharp chiseled tip like a brittle porcelain figurine, upturned a little, giving her an impish look like that of a faerie or elf.

I have to tell her. Oona clutched a fistful of skirt in her right hand. I can’t. She’ll hate me. Even if she says it doesn’t bother her, everything will change. She let all the air out of her lungs and closed her eyes. It already has.

“Kitlyn…”

“Hmm?”

She looked to her left. Kitlyn sat rigid, no longer moving her feet. The awkwardness between them had become so palpable, Oona had to fight to keep from screaming and throwing herself into the pond to break the tension.

“I…” Oona let out a long, slow breath. “Umm. I mean―”

“There you are!” bellowed Fauhurst.

Ivy rustled behind them.

Oona slumped in on herself; she started to cry, but shed only three or four tears before rage kicked sorrow aside.

Fauhurst stumbled out of the dense growth, swatting vines still clinging to his billowy robe. “Half the palace guards are beside themselves trying to find you. We discovered a pile of… Umm…” He blushed and coughed. “Abandoned garments, and feared those Evermoor savages had done the unspeakable.”

Oona’s face burned with anger and shame. “I’m fine. Go away. It was quite warm and I had overdressed.”

“Princess.” Fauhurst’s tone dipped as if scolding a child. “You’re not a little girl anymore. You can’t go running about like a ragamuffin among the weeds. Especially without telling anyone where you are going.”

Oona leapt to her feet, clinging to her skirt to keep it above water. She whirled to face him, standing in front of Kitlyn and still clutching her hand. “I’m still in the castle! I don’t have to tell you where I’m going to be every moment of the day. How dare you speak to me like this!”

Fauhurst leaned back, but then his eyes narrowed. “Princess… why are you so blushed? Is something amiss?”

Oh, by the gods, please no… She let go of Kitlyn’s hand as if it burned her. “I’m… I’m… furious that you keep hounding me. All I wanted was a few moments away.” She stomped out of the pond to dry land and let her skirt drape. “Every day I’m warned how they’re trying to kill me… don’t do this. Don’t do that. Don’t look up; don’t look down. I’m tired. By Tenebrea, why can’t you leave me alone for one afternoon! Are you to follow me into the garderobe next?”

Fauhurst flinched. “Your highness, you shouldn’t invoke her name on a whim, and you shouldn’t be traipsing about half-dressed.”

Oona glanced down at her ankle-length velvet dress with sleeves down to her forearms. “This is half-dressed?”

“Young lady, you should―”

I’ll show him half-dressed. She grabbed her gown as if to fling it up and give him a good look at her smallclothes and bare stomach. Fauhurst, seeming to sense it coming, recoiled away as if she’d erupted with a swarm of carrion beetles eating her from the inside out.

“Princess Oona! What has come over you!” yelled Fauhurst into the trees. “You are spending far too much time in the presence of this uncultured commoner that―”

“Be quiet!” roared Oona.

He risked a hesitant peek over his shoulder; seeing her still covered, he faced her. “You must understand that you are no longer a child. You have responsibilities and face very real dangers. It will do no one any good for you to be perceived as wild, flighty, or inclined to be common. You need to carry yourself with the decorum of the royal you are!”

“Perhaps I would if you treated my handmaiden properly!”

“Princess!” roared Fauhurst.

Kitlyn gasped behind her.

“If you insist on running about with this lowborn girl and behaving in the manner of a small child, I shall address you as such. Go to the castle this instant and make yourself presentable. Your father demands your presence!” Fauhurst pointed at the keep. “By Lucen’s Light, you are filthy!”

Oona, her hair loose and loaded with leaf bits, her dress dusted with grass and moss, and her legs muddy up to the shin, stared at him until her anger boiled over to the point she could no longer cope. She burst into tears and sprinted for the shelter of her bedchamber. How dare he talk to her like that! How dare he ruin her peaceful place! Branches, ivy, and willow strands blurred by, some touching her hair as she rushed out of the garden. She nearly tripped over the pile of seedpods by the garden path and stumbled, tear-blind, through the kitchen to the servants’ hall.

“Princess?” asked a man.

“Lady Oona?” asked a woman five steps later.

A guard stepped away from the wall as she approached. “What’s the matter, Highness?”

Oona, still sobbing, ran by them all without slowing. She raced up the curved stairway past the doors to the throne room and headed right. Her feet clapped on the marble hall, startling one of the twelve-year-old servant girls who’d been on all fours, scrubbing. Oona tripped over the poor waif and landed flat on her chest, sliding.

The young maid screamed in horror and rushed over, a stream of desperate apologies flying out of her.

“My fault.” Oona collected herself enough to pat the girl on the shoulder. “I didn’t see you.”

She dragged herself upright before the cluster of guards and servants following after could catch up, and ran the last thirty feet to her bedchamber door―slamming it after ducking inside.

Oona dove face-first into her bed, wrapped her arms around the nearest pillow, and sobbed.

6

Decorum

~ Kitlyn ~

Kitlyn eased herself standing while the princess shrieked at Fauhurst. Again, she found herself wanting to fall into the Earth to hide. Maybe if I hold still and keep quiet, he won’t remember I’m here.

Seconds after the sound of Oona’s teary flight faded once more to the chirp of birds, Fauhurst came about in a slow turn, glaring at her. His stare accused her of making the princess into a grimy little beggar girl, like everyone thought Kitlyn to be.

“What happened here?” asked Fauhurst.

Kitlyn looked down at her feet. “Princess Oona can’t sleep because she’s so worried about assassins. All of you keep telling her to be cautious, and it’s too much. She only wanted a few minutes of freedom from having to think about being murdered or destroying an entire kingdom. We used to play in here when we were little. It calms her.”

“You’re not little any longer.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why they permitted you two to spend so much time together. You’re not even the whelp of a commoner.”

She cringed. A bit of defiance flickered deep inside, but she lacked the nerve to give it voice.

“I cannot understand how Beredwyn and the king are so tolerant of you.” He scrunched his face in thought. “It made sense when you were younger, but now… now you’re both too old for this nonsense. The princess does not need a playmate any longer, and you don’t even belong on the castle grounds, much less across the hallway from her.” He waved about at random. “You should be somewhere off in the streets of Cimril, begging or waiting tables.”

Cold pressure crushed at Kitlyn’s heart. Tears gathered behind her eyes, but she held them in. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“You are too old to ignore decorum any longer.” He pointed at her. “Don’t forget your place here, young lady. You are to conduct yourself properly in the presence of the princess and everyone else who is above your station… which includes everyone here, even the stable boy.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t look at me like that, girl. It won’t take but a few reports of this sort of insubordination before both Beredwyn and the king realize what a mistake they’ve made letting you be here. They should’ve sent you on your way years ago. I’ll be watching you, and believe me, every misstep will find the king’s ear. We simply cannot allow the princess to comport herself with anything less than perfect royal poise. Do I make myself clear?”

She wanted so much to slug him square in the throat, but held back. “Yes, Master Fauhurst.”

“You’re still looking me in the eye, girl. You’ve grown too informal with such casual contact with the princess. I’ll be sure to inform the king of this. Now go attend to the rest of your laundry. The lines are still billowing.”

Oona wants me at her side. She took a hesitant step, pondering his threat. How much sway does he have with the king? If she defied him to follow Oona’s decree, could he get rid of her? A vision of guards hauling her bodily off the castle grounds and throwing her in the dirt road made her bow her head. Her declaring me a lady-in-waiting doesn’t mean anything unless the king says it. She’ll have to get him to give an order.

“Yes, Master Fauhurst.” Head down, she trudged into the garden.

“By all means, girl, take your time. You’ve only got all day to get the laundry in.”

Kitlyn seethed, but picked up her pace to a light jog. She threaded the maze of pathways around the tree and exited the garden. Elsbeth lurked in the east door of the stone walk near where the broom leaned against the wall. Her smile of victory burned more than any of Fauhurst’s words. She’d obviously sent him straight to them. Before she could even think about doing it, her magic roared to life.

A barely visible smear of green light raced into the wall near Elsbeth; the stone around the bolts liquefied, and the heavy oaken door collapsed inward, dragging the First Maid to the ground screaming. A great crash and clatter of pots and pans followed. The door wobbled, but Elsbeth seemed too weak to move it off herself.

“Help!” screamed Elsbeth.

Kitlyn paused a second. “I’m sorry; I’ve no time to spare. Master Fauhurst made it quite clear the laundry could not wait even a second more.”

She hurried off, tuning out Elsbeth’s screaming. Her emotions wild, Kitlyn didn’t trust herself to magic her way over the wall at that moment, too angry and out of sorts to focus on it. She entered the west door, which led to the hallway past the quarters where the royal guard roomed. They seldom spent time there when not sleeping. Only snoring from the night watch greeted her for the length of the hall. A side door about fifty yards deep led to the outer courtyard over a smaller drawbridge spanning the inner moat.

The four sentries posted at the entrance paid her no mind. Even if she had been of a mood to say hello, none would’ve replied. They never did. She stormed around to the clotheslines where she’d hung Oona’s garments and linens, and set to the task of collecting the dry laundry.

By the sixth piece of clothing, tears ran down her cheeks. She hated seeing her friend upset, and for something so out of her control. All Oona wanted was a little while to be happy, and Fauhurst reacted as if she’d done some unforgivable thing. Kitlyn fantasized about telling him off, if doing so wouldn’t get her slapped, locked up, or permanently evicted from the castle.

Kitlyn bundled a sheet to her chest, tucked it under her chin to hold it, and folded it up into a neat bundle. How did I get here? Who were my parents? She dropped the folded sheet into the basket and pulled down another, which she flicked into the wind, letting it billow. Did they die or did they abandon me?

Another daydream played in her mind as she worked folding clothes. Perhaps her father was one of the gentry who had made enemies and needed to hide her. She imagined a man on a tall, black horse riding through the gates to claim her as his daughter, then basking in the horrified look on Fauhurst’s face when he realized she had more station than he did.

Her sudden laugh from total silence spooked a few chickens and got a strange look from one of the passing groundskeepers. Dresses, underskirts, smallclothes, hose, and bonnets went one after the next into the basket. The scent of beef or something like it passed by on the wind, making her stomach growl. The cooks would be starting supper by now, and she looked forward to the hour or so she could spend with Oona again. Finally smiling, she struggled to lift the overfilled basket and staggered with it to the nearest door.

No one, not servant or guard, so much as glanced at her as she dragged the basket down hall after hall and up the rear servant’s stairs. She had to turn it lengthwise to get it to fit, and wound up standing under it and pushing up from the bottom so it didn’t spill. By the time she reached the third floor, and their bedchambers, she’d worked up a sweat and a lightheaded spell.

Kitlyn rested for a few minutes before pushing the basket out into the hallway, as the servants’ stair landing wasn’t wide enough to let her arms fit around it. She picked it up and lugged the laundry down the long corridor that led to the royals’ solar, and the curved offshoot containing the princess’ bedchamber. Beatrice and two of the younger maids who didn’t look much past twelve met her halfway.

“Hold a moment, Kitlyn.” Beatrice offered an apologetic smile. “Mary and Laura will take that. You’re to go to the front gate and help with something there.” She hesitated. “Master Fauhurst wanted me to tell you the princess has an obligation to dine with her father tonight.”

Kitlyn’s heart grew heavy, as though she’d been told of a death in the family. Well, perhaps a death of a tangential relative she didn’t know well. She let go of the basket, which nearly took the little maids off their feet. “Sorry!” She grabbed it to help them balance.

They offered forced smiles, clearly as thrilled with inheriting her job as she was at Fauhurst giving her another day of drudgery. She wondered if Oona was in her room behind the door less than ten paces ahead.

“Obligation?” asked Kitlyn.

Beatrice offered a warm frown and patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. There’s a visiting dignitary and the princess is required to take her evening meal with them. You… umm.”

“Aren’t invited. Yes, I gathered.” Kitlyn looked down.

The small girls exchanged a glance as if wondering why Kitlyn would even think of having a meal near the princess, much less with her.

Kitlyn turned away. “Thank you for the message.”

A slow trudge brought her back down the servants’ stairs and through the main hall on the ground floor to the front gate. A four-horse wagon sat off to the side beyond the drawbridge spanning the inner moat. Much to the dismay of the guards, a shift in the wind lofted the stench of ‘things floating in the water’ straight past the portcullis.

Kitlyn held her breath as she walked out and looked around, feeling lost and clueless.

One of the pages, a boy about her age, came tromping in with an armload of folded linens. “You that servant girl Fauhurst mentioned?”

“Yes.”

He nodded back to the wagon. “Grab an armload. The parlor maids are too little to carry these. They’re to go to the closet across from the kitchen.”

“All right.”

Kitlyn headed to the back of the wagon where a giant of a man stood among dozens of similar twine-tied bundles. From the look of it, the castle had purchased all new table dressings. Before she could say a word, he grabbed a bundle and tossed it to her. The heavy cube of fabric hit her square in the chest and knocked her off her feet.

She stared at the sky, seeing stars in broad daylight.

“You awright, lad?” asked the man in the wagon.

Kitlyn coughed, trying to get her chest to work again and let in air. “I…” She coughed. “Aye. Wasn’t expecting the weight is all.”

“Oh, pardon, lass.”

She struggled to her feet with the ponderous bundle. It took her about six minutes to navigate the secondary corridors the servants used to stay out of sight of the royals and bring the linens to the designated room. Inside, a group of four or five servant girls ranging in age from ten to thirteen cut the twine from other bundles, disassembling them and stacking the individual linens in neat piles on long tables. Kitlyn dropped her burden from standing height with a heavy thud that made the lot of them jump and yelp. A few glared at her for startling them, but no one said a word.

Kitlyn felt a little less bad about being sent here to do this. None of those girls looked like they’d be able to even lift a full bundle. She didn’t recognize any of them, likely all housemaids or daughters thereof―apprentices.

Not bothering to say anything, she trudged back outside where the next bundle knocked her back a few steps, but didn’t put her on her butt. She coughed to recover from the impact and lugged it inside. When she returned from that trip, she noticed the wagon didn’t seem much emptier than it had been before. The big man tossed her another bundle, which she caught without giving ground.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Wot everyone else?” asked the man in the wagon.

“When I came out here, there’d been five or six pageboys carrying as well.”

“Oh.” The man scratched at a beard that looked like moss on a boulder, his face had such roundness. “That official in the tall hat sent them to do other things.”

Kitlyn scowled. She stared at another fourteen bundles waiting in the wagon. The part of her that wanted to cry and give up got into a fistfight with the other half, which demanded she shove Fauhurst into the moat. So, this was how he meant to punish her. Perhaps he intended such an arduous task as a warning, or maybe he simply liked being miserable to her.

“Right… I’ll be back in a moment then.” She groaned under the weight, never imagining table linens could be so heavy.

Seven bundles later, her arms and legs felt like jelly. She stumbled over the drawbridge and wrapped her arms around the next, which the man left at the edge. After number five took her off her feet again, he’d apparently felt bad for her and started putting them on the end for her to pick up rather than throwing them at her.

She took a few breaths and grunted to lift the cube. Her head spun with fatigue and she moved with a drunken stagger, wheezing to draw air down a cottony throat. Kitlyn hesitated after almost walking straight off the drawbridge with her sway, and contemplated collapsing in place and resting no matter who saw her ‘being lazy.’ A gleam of white to the left caught her eye, a bright spot that hadn’t been there before during her previous back-and-forth trips. She looked toward it. Woozy, about to faint, and wobbling on her feet, she locked eyes with the king.

He stood between Berewdyn and a younger man whom she didn’t recognize in strange military-looking attire of deep royal blue with gold trim, unlike anything she’d ever seen in Lucernia before. Not that she took in much else about him, the weight of the king’s stare slapped reason straight out of her brain. His eyebrows drew together and his cheeks reddened. The glare he sent her way could’ve shattered glass.

We’ll not tolerate layabouts, shouted Fauhurst in her memory.

Kitlyn ducked away and scurried into the castle close to tears, whispering prayers to Lucen and Navissa that he hadn’t recognized her in her state, maybe mistaking her for a pageboy. Fear brought new life to her weary muscles, and she hurried the bundle to the closet where the younger maids continued to work feverishly to unbundle and stack everything on shelves.

One put a hand on her arm as she turned to leave. “Oi, Miss, you should ’ave some water. You don’t look well.”

Kitlyn leaned against the doorjamb, panting and gasping for a few seconds. “Yes… you’re right. I…” The room spun around once. “Yes. Water.”

She crossed the hall to the kitchen and availed herself of a nearby ewer, filling a wooden cup before wearing as much water as she got in her throat while trying to drink. She emptied it and refilled it, taking her time with the second cup, spilling only a little.

Worry built as she returned to the gate, dreading the angry king might be waiting to scold her for a perceived wrongdoing. He certainly had looked furious enough. She tiptoed up to the door and peered out. A handful of older pageboys as well as Evor carried the last of the bundles in a procession toward her. She jumped out the door, holding it open for them. Evor gave her an incredulous look while the rest offered nods of appreciation. The large man stepped over the front end of the wagon and took a seat on the driver’s bench. Soon after, he urged the horses into motion and drove out toward the gatehouse spanning the outer moat.

The king, Beredwyn, and the odd man in blue were nowhere to be seen.

“How strange…” She sighed before trudging back into the castle, questions dancing around in her head.

Margaret, the head housekeeper, intercepted her as soon as she reached the third floor. “Oh, there you are… by Orien’s beard, what happened to you?”

“Carrying linens, Ma’am.” Kitlyn still couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Wagon of them.”

“Oh. Odd.” The tall, dour woman paused a moment, baffled. “Eleanor is not well today, I’m afraid. Make yourself useful and dust the study and library. Since you’re already accustomed to close contact with the princess, you won’t prod the gossiping hens being near the kings’ quarters.”

Kitlyn deflated. “Yes, Miss.”

She stared longingly at the curved hallway before turning on her heel and going the other way toward the king’s study.

“Forgetting something, girl?” asked Margaret.

“Sorry, Ma’am?” She looked back.

“Planning to dust with your bare hands?” The woman suppressed a smile.

“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry.” Awash with defeat, Kitlyn plodded down the stairs to the storage room to retrieve a duster.

7

Allegiance

~ Oona ~

Oona peeled her face away from the pillow and sniffled. She’d stopped weeping a while earlier but lacked the urge to move. Oh, how she hated this place and everyone in it… except for her father, Kitlyn, and Beredwyn. With a grunt, she pushed herself over to lie on her back. She’d almost gotten it out before that bastard Fauhurst barged into her sanctuary. The next time I see her, I won’t wait. Oona raised a hand to her mouth and bit her knuckle. But, what if she doesn’t feel the same way?

She stared at her feet, still dirty from her walk, and sighed. Whatever boring function her father wanted her to attend could go on without her. Eyes closed, she daydreamed about sprouting wings and flying away to a place where no one would know her. They’d have to be big, strong wings, so I could carry Kit… if she wanted to go with me.

A sigh slid around her teeth. That question haunted her. Surely, the girl must hate it here too. Lucernia’s society had too much pageantry. Too much emphasis on station. When people weren’t worrying about what they thought the gods wanted, they worried about who stood an inch or two higher on the social ladder. Of course, the people who cared about that only made up about a third of the population. Most villagers and peasants didn’t give one whit about who had their nose a little higher than the person next to them, but villagers and peasants didn’t live in the castle, or the city around it.

Could I be happy as a peasant? She swished her hands back and forth across her fine silk bedding and caught a whiff of the floral shampoo in her hair. The idea did sound romantic, running off with Kitlyn to live in the woods or in a little village where no one could ever find them. Yet, she wasn’t so naïve to as to think wealth didn’t have its benefits. It had drawbacks too.

Like assassins.

Like war.

Like being unable to spend time with Kitlyn.

A knock came from the door.

“Highness,” said Beatrice. “Forgive me, but your father is asking for you.”

“Tell him I’m ill. I’m not going.”

“He said you would say that, and I’m to tell you there is no choice tonight. He will send the guards to bring you if he has to.” Unease wavered in Beatrice’s voice.

“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner.”

A minute passed in silence.

“Oh, fine… but I want my handmaiden to help me.”

“Highness?” asked Beatrice.

“Unless my father wishes me to storm in to dinner bare as a babe, I will have my handmaiden to help me. Fetch Kitlyn. If anyone dares impede you, they will be moved to the scullery or dismissed.”

Beatrice gasped. “Right away, Highness.”

The door closed with a soft thump.

She grumbled and sat up. The junior housekeeper slipped away without a sound, or perhaps still hovered in the hall. Oona reached around behind her back to tug at the laced-up bows. She got a few loose and wound up rolling back and forth on the bed while contorting herself.

“Argh!” she screamed. “I feel like one of those nutters they confine in… in…” She huffed, the sharp breath tossing a drape of her hair off her face. “Straightjackets.” Grunting, she pulled, and another bow came loose. “When I am queen, I shall outlaw any garment one cannot put on or take off themselves!”

Wriggling and squirming, she eventually shed the blue velvet gown, feeling much like a serpent molting. The battle had such vigor, her freedom came at the price of slipping off the bed and landing on her backside in her undercorset and smallclothes. She spent a moment fanning herself before another knock came from the door.

“Highness,” said a younger girl. “We’ve got water for your bath.”

“Yes, yes… come in.”

A procession of maids ranging from thirteen or so up to their early twenties carried buckets in, which they brought through an archway to her en suite bathroom. It occupied the corner at the outer walls, and held a magnificent bathtub of bronze sculpted in the shape of a massive, and quite round, swan set in a square marble base. One of the finest bathing vessels in the kingdom, it even had a drain to a pipe, which could release the water out the castle wall into the moat. The base contained a hollow for firewood, though she hadn’t needed that in a few months.

Oona ignored the curious looks from the maids, who likely wondered why she sat sprawled on the floor. She stood and followed them into the bath chamber. One by one, they upended their buckets into the wide bowl-shaped basin between the decorative wings and the long, curved swan neck, then left. She spent a few seconds perusing a glass shelf of small crystal bottles of varying color before selecting a violet oil and dribbling some into the water.

She approached the tub and held her hands out over the surface. Magic surrounded her fingers with tingling, and soon her bath glowed with pure light. More and more energy poured from her, and she closed her eyes when it became too intense to look at. Once hot steam blew past her outstretched arms and the aroma of lavender filled the room, she relaxed her concentration.

The glow within the water faded, but the bath remained warm. After testing the temperature with a hand to make sure she hadn’t overdone it like last time, she shed her undergarments and slipped into the water.

“Oh…” She moaned and slid down so the water lapped at her neck. “This is wonderful.”

Leaf bits floated away from her hair and moved in whorls across the surface. The circular basin had enough space that she could’ve fit flat underwater and not touched opposite sides unless she raised her arms up over her head. As the heat seeped into her bones, she came close to falling asleep. Minutes passed in beautiful silent splendor.

“Hello?” Kitlyn’s timid voice floated in from the outer bedchamber.

“I’m in here,” said Oona.

Kitlyn padded up behind her and hesitated at the arch. “You summoned me?”

Oona sighed. “Please stop talking to me like you’re inferior. I really hate it.” After a moment of no reply, she sat up to look behind her. Kitlyn hovered in the archway, head bowed, hands clasped in front. “What’s wrong?”

“I… nothing. I’m tired.” Kitlyn stared for a long second at Oona’s bare breasts before going scarlet in the face and looking down. “I had to carry castle linens in from a wagon.”

Oona blinked as a wave of rage rose and subsided. “What?” She sat up. “Fauhurst.”

Kitlyn stole a look at her again. “Yes, I think so.”

The awkwardness of the pond flooded back. This girl had helped her bathe for years, and neither of them had spared a second thought to it. Castle life, except for the royalty, didn’t offer much in the way of privacy; most of the servants bathed in groups, and used a common garderobe with six to ten holes on a bench. Kitlyn had the air of someone who’d stumbled into somewhere she didn’t belong.

“Please hand me the soap?”

Kitlyn looked up, made eye contact for a half-second, and hurried to the shelves. “Which should I use for your hair?”

“Hyacinth.” Oona shifted around to put her back to the tub’s edge. “You’re too tired from that awful man’s pettiness. I’ll manage myself this time. I really think you should rest.”

“Here.” Kitlyn knelt behind her and handed the soap over her shoulder. “We aren’t given much time together. I don’t mind.”

As Oona got to washing herself, Kitlyn undid the last of her braids before pouring bowl after bowl over Oona’s head. The princess leaned forward a little, emitting a moan of contentment as Kitlyn’s fingers massaged her scalp. Minutes passed in silence save for the soft swishing of water or the occasional drips falling from their hands. Once the last of the shampoo rinsed from her hair in a cascade of falling water, Oona stood and worked the soap over her lower half. She peered back at Kitlyn, who remained seated behind the tub, staring at the floor with the face of a child waiting to be scolded, still holding the empty bowl in her lap.

“Why are you like that?” asked Oona.

“Like what?”

“You look… frightened.”

“I’m not.” Kitlyn lifted her head and froze, eye-level with Oona’s nether regions; redness spread across her face. “I… umm.”

“We used to bathe together.” Oona faced away and sat on the edge to wash her feet.

Kitlyn got up and skimmed the bathwater with her fingers, collecting twig fragments that would foul the drainpipe. She kept her gaze on where her hand met the surface. “It’s… different now.”

“I don’t care at all that I’m a princess and you’re not.” She leaned to the side, trying to catch Kitlyn’s eye. The girl seemed intent on not looking at her.

“It’s not that.” Kitlyn paused, a wad of mulch gathered in her hand. “We’re not little anymore. Things aren’t the same and… I, umm.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Oona looked down. “You’ve always helped…”

“I’m not uncomfortable.”

Oona flashed a coy smile, holding the soap up on her palm. “Wash my back?”

Kitlyn walked to the window and tossed the mulch out before she circled around to kneel again behind her. When Kitlyn grasped the offered soap, Oona didn’t let go right away, caressing her fingers as the pale violet bar slid between their hands. Kitlyn made eye contact.

Is that hope or fear?

Oona shifted and pulled her hair around, gathering it in a bundle at her chest. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Before she could speak, the soap alighted on her shoulder and slid across her back in a slow figure eight. Every so often, the faint scratch of a fingernail sent shivers down her spine. She’s being so careful and gentle. Oona bit her lip. Dare she say something? The way Kitlyn looked at her… could she possibly feel it too?

The girl’s hands glided around her back, ever downward, working in a side-to-side pattern. Oona’s breath slowed to tiny sips of air whenever the soapy hand circled around her sides. Is it my imagination or is she taking her time? As Kitlyn brushed the foaming mass across the upper portion of her buttocks, Oona suppressed a shiver of excitement. Kitlyn seemed to freeze at realizing where her hand stopped, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Oona let out a soft sigh of contentment.

Kitlyn dipped a washcloth in the water and rubbed the cloth in a slow spiral motion. Oona reached up and grasped Kitlyn’s other hand, which rested upon her shoulder. She didn’t dare speak, despite wanting to ask so much. A faint tremor in Kitlyn’s hand could’ve been fear or perhaps simple fatigue from having to work so hard before.

Oona closed her eyes and basked in the feeling of having Kitlyn so close. A few short words could change everything, and not necessarily in a good way. She curled her toes in frustration. Many Lucernians looked dimly upon such unions: men with men, ladies with ladies; it happened, but never with a royal. At least, never that anyone had admitted. Gods only knew what went on in secret.

The washcloth glided across her backside and circled around and up to her shoulder. Oona opened her eyes and peered around at Kitlyn. The girl’s face had the color of a fresh-picked ivenberry, but that had to be hope in her eyes. She might be terrified Oona would say what she so desperately wanted to say, and run away. What if Kitlyn suspected how things had changed? Is that what she meant? Did she notice? She’s so uncomfortable… I shouldn’t make it worse.

She stared into Kitlyn’s deep emerald eyes for a long few minutes, trying to divine what might be going on inside her friend’s mind. Kitlyn trembled, opened her mouth as if to speak, and closed it―twice―before looking down. Oona’s temptation to suggest Kitlyn join her in the bath dissipated as fast as it appeared. The girl already looked embarrassed beyond reason. Proposing something like that wouldn’t be proper, and likely cruel.

“Thank you. Would you mind laying out my things? A white gown.”

“Of course.” Kitlyn stood. “Shall I fetch a towel?”

Oona grinned. “I’ve worked out a new trick.”

She slipped under once more to rinse the soap away before rolling over and putting her feet down. With each inch Oona rose from the water to stand, Kitlyn backed away another half step, until she pressed into the wall, staring at her like a mouse cornered by a cat. She remained frozen as Oona extended one leg over the tub edge. A breeze from the windows, simple narrow holes in the stone wall, wrapped her in a frigid embrace, bringing a chatter to her teeth. In no hurry, Oona eased her weight onto her foot and gradually drew her second leg from the water. Kitlyn seemed to want to stare at her and run away in equal measure.

Oona raised her arms to the sides, calling her magic to surround her in a curtain of pale blue light. As she had heated the water, the energy warmed the chamber around her. She drew air past clenched teeth a few times in sharp gasps when it became a little too hot in places, but within a moment, her skin had dried and her hair had gone from soaked to somewhat damp. Even the puddle around her feet had vanished.

“There.” She held her arms to the sides, showing off her dryness.

Kitlyn blinked. “That’s amazing. Better than making pebbles dance about to amuse Pim.”

“Who’s Pim?” Oona leaned sidelong over the tub toward the swan’s head. Lifting it to point straight up would open the valve to drain. She stretched strategically, reaching out and giving Kitlyn a nice view.

The momentary awe at the magic display fled from Kitlyn’s expression. She flashed red in a second, but… didn’t look away. Oona lifted the sculpted head, which emitted a faint squeak. The gurgle of a pipe sputtering came in from the window, and soon, the patter of bathwater joining the moat. She’s watching me.

Oona leaned back to stand straight. “Would you tend my hair?” She sashayed past her friend into the bedchamber.

“Uhh…” Kitlyn followed, meek and staring down. “Aren’t you going to dress?”

“Of course.” Oona smiled back over her shoulder. “I could wait until after if you like.”

Kitlyn’s face practically glowed.

“I’m teasing.” Oona bit her lip as soon as she looked away.

Her friend remained silent behind her while Oona donned her endless series of undergarments, smallclothes, bra, undercorset, and hose. She hadn’t even gotten the gown on yet and wanted to pass out. Kitlyn took great care guiding a brush through Oona’s hair once she perched upon a cushioned bench near the balcony. The odd discomfort in the air between them had lessened, though Kitlyn continued avoiding eye contact.

“Highness,” said Beatrice along with a knock. “The king requests your presence.”

“I’m not finished preparing.” She sent a mournful stare out past her balcony at the sun receding into the trees. The wind had a habit of blowing crossways along the north face of the castle, which prevented any air from moving in her bedchamber. Kitlyn’s attentions calmed her soul far more than the peaceful sunset over the Mistral Wood. “I shall not be long.”

“I will tell him you will arrive shortly,” said Beatrice.

Oona sat in silence while Kitlyn added a thin band of braids as a circlet. After, she stood like a mannequin, arms limp, as her friend tugged and jerked at the cords to tie up the back of her gown.

Yes. I will definitely outlaw these once I am queen.

“There.” Kitlyn patted her shoulders and smoothed her sleeves. “You’re radiant.”

Oona spun about with a smile. “I simply must see you in a dress.” She flashed a coy smile. “Perhaps I shall wash your hair later tonight.”

Kitlyn covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. “Highness… that’s so…”

“Don’t.” Oona grabbed a fistful of Kitlyn’s tunic and pulled her nose to nose. She scowled with her eyebrows, but grinned. “Talk to me like that.”

Kitlyn broke into giggles. “But you’re the princess… If anyone catches…”

Oona headed for the door, tossing a dismissive wave at the ceiling. “I do not care what title I carry, you are my dearest friend. Oh, Lucen let me be done with this dreadful affair! I shall return as soon as I am able.”

* * *

The footman, Charles, opened the door to the small private dining hall used for the royal family and, on occasion, important guests. King Talomir reserved the main hall for meals with twenty or more people in attendance. Oona stepped in and crossed her gloved hands in front of herself. Margaret had caught her halfway to the door ten minutes prior and chased her back upstairs to ‘finish getting dressed.’ She’d committed the atrocity of forgetting gloves and jewelry.

“Princess Oona Talomir,” called Charles.

Even expecting it, Oona still jumped.

Across the hall, her father occupied the head of a long table. To his left in the last chair on the side, sat a young stranger. His regal blue jacket and trousers gave him the bearing of a military officer, but not one from Lucernia. She figured his age to be close to hers, perhaps one or two years older. He leapt to his feet as soon as Charles announced her.

A place setting waited for her opposite him at the other corner. She navigated the near end of the table, which remained permanently set as if her deceased mother would attend. Oona walked the length of the room to take her seat. Six seats on either side. No center. If my mother remained alive, I’d have spent half my childhood agonizing over who I should appear to favor by sitting nearer, and the other half soothing the offended party. Another footman pulled out her chair as she neared, and tucked it in once she sat.

“Father,” said Oona.

The king regarded her with a hint of a smile, which soon melted to a serious and somewhat resigned stare into the polished wood grain. A few years from forty, he looked well past it. Streaks of silver ran through his dark brown hair over his ears and accented his moustache and goatee. Everything about him looked as perfect as if he’d been a master craftsman’s statue brought to life. He wore the ‘everyday’ crown, a thin gold band adorned with engraved semicircles, each underlining a Lucen’s sun glyph.

She folded her hands in her lap and gazed across the table at the newcomer. He had a deep tan, almost brown skin, and striking ice-blue eyes. His clean-shaven face would’ve made him boyish if not for the set of his chin, the hint of a muscular chest, and the subtle air of authority. Like most of the soldiers she’d seen, he kept his hair, a lighter shade of chestnut than the king’s, short and neat. She didn’t care much for the way he looked at her―and her father didn’t―feeling a bit like a horse for purchase.

“Am I to be married off then?” asked Oona.

The king coughed while the young man glanced to the left. If he’d been embarrassed by her bluntness, he hid it well.

“Darling, your sense of humor.” The king forced a smile, but it didn’t last a full second. “Now, I am sure you are well aware of the state of the conflict with Evermoor.”

“I am.” She bowed her head. Having to deal with Fauhurst rolling his eyes whenever she spoke made the war meetings even worse. As if a girl lacked the intelligence to comment on matters of strategy. It rather galled him whenever the king agreed with her. That alone made it worth paying attention so she could outthink him and watch him squirm. “The war is against us at present. The savages are striking at our towns and villages, ever a step or two ahead of our soldiers.”

“This is Prince Tristan Lanwick, of Ondar.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Prince Lanwick.” Oona forced as much of a smile as her dread allowed. “I fear my father seeks to burden your people with this untenable conflict as well.”

The king leaned back in his chair as the servants brought out three plates with small roast game hens. “Ondar is a powerful kingdom with a strong army. The war may end simply by our becoming allies. The Foretelling holds that you will end the war; it does not specify how.”

She eyed the food with little interest. “The people of Evermoor seem quite convinced I’m to destroy their kingdom entirely.”

“Of course they do.” The king tucked a napkin into his collar. “They cavort with dark forces the great Lucen long ago banished from our land. Those creatures feed their fears and whip them into a fervor. Lies.” He stabbed his game hen with a fork and excised one of the legs.

Prince Tristan made no move to touch his food, as Oona had not yet started to eat. “Your father’s writings of your beauty do not do you justice.”

Oona looked to the side. “You are too kind. I’m sure he has embellished much.”

“With Ondar as our ally, the savages will cease their relentless campaign,” said the king.

“If they are lost to darkness, they will not fathom the simple reason of numbers.” Oona glanced at the door, eager to leave. “They will hurl themselves headlong into Ondari spears until nothing remains of either side.”

“What could possess them to commit to such violence?” asked Tristan, continuing to wait for her to touch her food. A weak gurgle came from his stomach in the subsequent silence.

Oona let out a silent sigh and picked up her utensils. A moment after she cut a piece of meat, he started on his meal as well.

“The demons, I would think.” Her father’s lips twisted. “Whenever men are devoid of reason, especially when they become so willing to abandon their lives, it is often the work of darkness.”

“It is not merely men, Father. Three out of five of their warriors are women.” Oona nibbled on a bit of bird. “They’ve been fighting us since before I was born. My whole life, there’s been war. It has to end, but I do not think any alliance will help. It will make everything worse. More will die. For what?”

“For our continued existence,” said the king. “The demons that drive those savages cannot stand to see a kingdom devoid of their eldritch ways. If not for the Churning Deep, their dark-sent magic would long ago have taken us to the last. Lucen himself sundered the firmament to keep us safe.”

Oona took tiny bites of green beans and white pearl onions, thinking about the great chasm that split the earth between the kingdoms. It ran from the Southern Sea straight past Lucernia and Ondar, into the mountains and the untamed lands beyond. Crossing between Lucernia and Evermoor could happen only at three old bridges, unless one could climb down a cliff, swim across a violent river, and climb up another sheer stone wall. Well, that or fly. Or grow roots wherever one wished.

“I…” The king sighed. “Will you at least entertain Prince Lanwick tomorrow afternoon?”

She stabbed a tiny onion with her fork. “Oh, yes. Of course. At his pleasure.”

Tristan sent an apologetic grin across the table. “Your daughter’s beauty is surpassed only by her mind. I would regret not this journey even if I am only fortunate enough to dine with her once.”

Oona couldn’t look at him. She stared into her food, diligently sawing at the little bird with the knife. “You are too kind, Prince Lanwick.”

The king stopped eating; the weight of his regard burdened her shoulders. As for Tristan, he seemed far more graceful at handling her tepidness than her father. Of course, only a fool would have expected instant enthusiasm from her… even if she wasn’t… unnatural.

She cringed even thinking the word. Her old governess had used it to refer to a pair of performers, two men, who had made no secret of their love for each other. Oona hadn’t thought much of it at the time―she’d been nine―but as soon as she’d noticed Kitlyn, the woman’s words haunted her. She couldn’t remember her father’s reaction to the acrobats, nor anyone else’s, at that. Thankfully, the woman had been dismissed soon after Oona turned fourteen.

“It is a lot to ask of her,” said Tristan. “Perhaps we can discuss the matter as time allows. I am in no great hurry to return north.”

“Yes, that sounds agreeable,” murmured Oona, not looking up.

The king shifted his weight. He gave her a look she assumed to mean he wished to say much, but not in front of their guest. Once they had privacy, would he command her to wed him? Still, his air of helpless disappointment got her insides twisting around. Royals often wed for political reasons―then carried on not-so-clandestine affairs. Did it matter if priests called her married to this man if she didn’t have to touch him?

He’d want at least one heir. She squirmed; what little appetite she’d nurtured dropped dead.

“Are you all right, Princess Oona?”

“We found an Evermoor spy earlier this morning. The man got close enough to have harmed her. By Lucen’s grace alone, he didn’t.” The king bowed his head in a second of reverence.

“The man was a spy, not an assassin.” Oona stabbed another bit of meat with her fork. “If he’d been here to harm anyone, he had all the opportunity to do so.”

Tristan bowed his head. “I’m so sorry. Perhaps you would do well with rest?”

“Yes.” Oona lifted her napkin from her lap and set it on the table before standing. “May I?”

“Please!” Tristan bounced to his feet. “May the Steelfather protect you, fair lady.”

A regal eyebrow raised, the king let off a resigned sigh and gestured, a faint flick with the four fingers of his left hand. To some, it could’ve meant ‘begone,’ but she took it as ‘go if you must.’

She curtsied at Tristan, then her father, and strode out of the dining hall, the two men falling into a discussion about theology in her wake. Ondar followed a different pantheon of gods headed by an entity they referred to as the Steelfather, revered for the knowledge of mining and forging steel. Their conversation cut off as the door closed behind her, and Oona headed upstairs as fast as she could without running.

Much to her disappointment, she found her chambers empty. She sat on the edge of her bed, scowling at the rug. Once again, she’d wound up trapped in a gown she couldn’t remove without help. The weight of her supposed destiny to destroy an entire kingdom had made her life bad enough, but now her father expected her to marry this prince. He may not force her to, but she knew him. He’d mention it every so often, then more often still, and pile on the guilt until she capitulated.

She fell backward onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“So, what date shall I be affianced to Tristan by, if only out of sheer guilt?” Oona closed her eyes. “There must be another way. Must I suffer the burden of Ondari blood on top of that already shed by our people? Oh Tenebrea, I beg thee grant me your courage. I will do what I must to end this war, but let Kitlyn be at my side.”

8

Unworthy

~ Kitlyn ~

Every time her fork scraped across the tin plate, Kitlyn cringed. She stared into the mess of meat porridge and bread, pushing it around rather than lifting it to her mouth. Despite being famished, her weary arms protested even that small motion. The kitchen staff toiled away, oblivious to her presence at the servants’ table. Most of the lower servants took their meals here whenever time allowed, ladling whatever sat in the giant iron pot near the fire onto a plate.

Upper servants had a dining hall toward the west wing, and she could picture Elsbeth lording over them like a little queen looking down upon her subjects. She frowned and took a bite. The hot meaty-mushroomy-carroty goop tasted far better than it looked. Pleasantly surprised, she dug in.

“What’s she doing here?” said a willowy blonde kitchen maid, about her age.

“Who?” asked a younger brunette, perhaps fourteen.

The blonde nodded over her shoulder at the table. “Her. Little miss chosen one.”

“Chosen one?” The way the dark-haired girl looked at Kitlyn left little doubt she knew exactly what the older girl meant, but for whatever reason played dumb.

A middle-aged woman, elbow deep in pots, chuckled. “Miss Oona’s little pet. Finks she’s bettern’ us lot, she does.”

Kitlyn looked up. She almost said, ‘I don’t,’ but decided against giving them the satisfaction.

The blonde heaved a belabored sigh and got to work washing plates. “How’s a peasant girl wind up handmaiden to the princess, eh?”

“Well, she is the princess, right?” asked the brunette. “She can have whatever she asks for.”

“Why’d she ask for someone like ’er then?” muttered the blonde. “She still even dresses like a grubby peasant farmer. How can the princess tolerate that? It’s improper.”

Kitlyn sighed, trying to eat faster. No sense saying their stealing her shoes didn’t affect her; they’d only find some other torment, likely one she’d not be able to ignore so easily. Fauhurst seldom bothered her after dark, so she rushed more out of hunger and the want to distance herself from scorn than fear of being chased off to task. If she couldn’t spend time with Oona, she’d hide in her little room and stay away from everyone.

A metallic clatter rang out.

“Navissa’s nethers,” muttered the older woman.

Both younger kitchen maids gasped. Only the lowest of lowborn used such a crude phrase. The only epithet worse than that involved the breasts of the Goddess of Death.

“Dropped the gods-forsaken carving knife.” The heavyset older woman glanced at the willowy scullery maid. “Catherine, g’won under the sink an’ grab it. Yer much smaller ’an me.”

The blonde girl winced. “It’s on the floor, and my dress is clean from the laundry this morning. Have her do it.” Catherine pointed at Kitlyn. “That one’s already filthy.”

“I’ll get it,” said the dark-haired scullery maid. “I’m smaller.”

“Be still, Piper,” said Catherine. “Don’t get your dress dirty.”

“Well?” The older woman set her fists on her hips and spun to face Kitlyn.

The kitchen staff, aside from the cook, lived fairly low on the ladder and never missed a chance to feel superior to whomever they could. Typically, the stable boys or pages earned their petty wrath, but she didn’t even have their meager status.

Kitlyn didn’t raise her head, glaring past her eyebrows at the pair of them, weighing how much trouble she’d get into for telling the older woman off. Piper locked stares with her and went wide-eyed. For a second, the girl seemed frightened, but her expression shifted to one of confusion before she collected herself back to a neutral expression.

“Fetch the knife, girl,” barked the older woman.

“Please?” added Piper, earning a glower from Catherine.

Kitlyn leaned up off her seat enough to see the huge cooking knife beneath the metal stand holding up the cauldron full of hot dishwater. She reached out and projected a little magic into the floor, calling a rippling wave that carried the knife out into the open before the stone returned to its former flat and quite motionless state.

All three of the kitchen workers gasped.

“There you go.” Kitlyn climbed off the bench and helped herself to another ladle of food.

The girls kept quiet as she resumed her seat. They still dislike me, but now they’re afraid of me. She emitted a soft snarl while gnawing on bread.

She thought back to sitting at the pond with Oona… holding her hand. She did look at me like that, didn’t she? Did that really happen? Or do I just want it to?

Kitlyn daydreamed about Oona’s smile while sopping up some of the gravy with bread.

Moments later, her anger faded. The princess might have had something to do with that. For some months as of late, the need to be with her had grown strong, and changed somehow. It nagged at her how awkward it had been when Evor showed interest. Not that any boy had done so before, but it didn’t feel anything like she’d expected it would.

Yet in the bath chamber… the way Oona looked at her. And at the pond, the way her gut fluttered while holding hands… that’s the way she’d always imagined it would be when she found the right boy, but Oona was most certainly not a boy, and far too above her station to even consider. Kitlyn stared at her tunic and breeches. Maybe she’d sensed these feelings before in the back of her mind. Did she dress like this to remain invisible to boys? No, Fauhurst had given her breeches and tunics to further emphasize her lowly station, but she’d taken a liking to the mobility as well as the comfort. Oona’s suggestion of trying on gowns had triggered a nostalgic sadness. Long-ago days spent playing dress up with her friend, when they’d been two children, not princess and servant. She’d once been fond of being pretty, but had no time left for such things.

No matter how she thought it over, her mind circled back to the same conclusion: she loved Oona. But how would the princess react? Their people often took the doctrine of Lucen at face value. Light equaled purity, and purity somehow turned into regarding girls who loved girls (or men who loved men) as a crime against the gods. Some said a love like that couldn’t produce children, hence had to be wrong. Other’s simply claimed Lucen forbade it because… he forbade it.

She scowled. Love shouldn’t be wrong.

It didn’t matter what any of these people thought of her. It wasn’t as if they could hate her any more than they already did. Some of the little ones, the junior maids who hadn’t yet gotten old enough to care about the social strata, didn’t mistreat her. Alas, they would likely regard her with the same contempt eventually. Innocence only lasted so long after all. No, what she dreaded, what would utterly slice her heart to shreds, would be for Oona to reject her.

Could she have been misreading the signs? The princess might think of them more like sisters. They’d practically grown up together… with the exception of a few months here or a few weeks there, when the king took the princess away on visits of state. Lately though, with the war picking up, even the king refused to travel away from Cimril.

Kitlyn carried her empty plate past Catherine’s icy glare. She went straight to the sink and washed her own dish rather than add it to the pile, which got a surprised and somewhat less hostile look. The dark-haired girl, a mere step away, stared at her as though seeing a ghost.

“What?” asked Kitlyn.

“N-nothing.” Piper failed to force a smile. “Y-your eyes… they kind of look familiar.”

The older woman grabbed Kitlyn’s chin and pulled her head around, an appraising frown twisting her lips. “Hmmf. Don’t see it. Who’s she remind ya of?”

“Ah, I’m imagining things. Pay me no mind.” Piper went back to washing her dishes.

Kitlyn yanked her head away from the old one’s hand and glared.

The woman cocked an eyebrow; her disdain faded a few notches to nascent worry. “Nah.”

“I don’t think I’m above anyone,” said Kitlyn, a hair over a whisper.

Piper glanced at her, something akin to pity in her eyes.

Kitlyn left the kitchen at a brisk stride and made her way up to the third floor, heading straight for her little bedroom about twelve paces past the princess’ bedchamber. Whatever the king had in mind that night sounded important and would likely keep Oona late. She ducked inside her room, closed the door, and peeled off her clothes before slipping into a plain cotton nightdress that went down to her knees.

Kitlyn crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling. As happened around this time every night, Oona again took over her mind. The way she giggled when they played in the garden. Oona by the pond. Oona stretched over the bathtub. It would’ve taken less effort to walk around and twist the swan head. Could she have done that to test her?

With the princess’ slender body teasing her thoughts, her blood pumped faster. She squirmed as a wave of heat spread across her chest and settled below. When she’d washed Oona’s hair, the princess had turned to look at her. Their noses had almost touched. Had Oona been close to kissing her, or did she want her to so badly, her imagination stepped in?

Kitlyn curled up on her side in a ball, wide awake. I have to tell her. But I can’t tell. But I can’t not.

Tears swelled at the corners of her eyes from a rejection yet to take place.

“Kitlyn,” said Beredwyn a second before he knocked twice.

“Mmm,” she said, unwilling to speak lest her whirling emotion take voice.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you after you’ve retired, but would you be so kind as to attend to a small matter?”

Kitlyn yawned. As soon as someone wanted her to work, she felt too tired to move. Ugh. Now Beredwyn too plagues me with tasks? “One moment. I need to dress.”

“Of course.”

She pushed herself upright, grumbling, removed her nightdress, and hurled it at the shelf. Kitlyn fanned herself to let the red fade from her face and cool her runaway thoughts. After putting her tunic and breeches back on, she flung the door open and stared at the old man, her eyebrows a flat line of discontent.

Beredwyn offered a grandfatherly smile. “Oh, please forgive me for the bother. It’s important and it won’t take but a few moments.” He held up a bucket and a scrub brush. “I’ve already fetched this for you.”

“Which floor?” She frowned.

“Merely a small spill on a rug. It will take but a moment. This way.” He walked off down the curved hall.

Couldn’t someone else do this? Why is Beredwyn giving me odd tasks? He’s never done so before. Only for regarding the elder advisor as the closest thing to a father she’d known did she resist the urge to protest. Had he been Fauhurst, she might’ve even dumped the bucket over his head for interrupting her daydreams of Oona, regardless of how much trouble she’d have gotten into.

Beredwyn led her into the west side of the third floor, by the guest rooms. He knocked at the second door on the left. “Beg your pardon; the girl is here to attend to the spill.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said a young-sounding man.

“Go on,” whispered Beredwyn.

Kitlyn opened the door and walked into a bedchamber about eight times the size of hers, half that of Oona’s. The young man she’d seen earlier with the king stood at the foot of the bed, in a plain white shirt and blue pants. His matching jacket draped over the back of a chair by a writing desk on the other side of the room. Four well-weathered trunks in a pile near the right corner suggested he traveled often.

“Pardon the bother, sir.” Kitlyn searched around for a spill, but the floor looked clean.

“There, on the rug,” said the man, who looked about eighteen. Piercing blue eyes above a chiseled jaw bored into her despite a charming smile.

She averted her gaze to find a dark red spot marking one of the burgundy throw rugs. Wine. Oh, that’ll never come out. Maybe I can at least weaken it so it blends in. She dropped to all fours and grabbed the brush―dropping it again in an instant, as it sat in water hot enough to make tea. “Aah!”

“Are you all right, there?” asked the man.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said in a rush. “The water is hot… milord.”

Ready for it, she grasped the brush by the wood and got to work.

The stranger stepped closer. “What is your name?”

“Beg your pardon, milord?”

He leaned against the bedpost. “I’m curious what your name is.”

“Kitlyn, milord. I’m no one you’d care to waste breath on.” She tilted the bucket to spill water onto the stain, and leaned away from the rising steam.

“How long have you worked at the castle?”

She froze. Servants ought not to make eye contact with their betters; someone who’d been put in this room must at least be genteel. Speaking to them? Only the briefest conversations necessary to accomplish their work, nothing more. “All my life, milord.”

“All of it?” He chuckled.

Kitlyn ground the brush into the rug. Beredwyn must’ve added something to the water, as pinkish-red foam rose around the bristles. Maybe he knows an herbal concoction that clears wine stains?

“Please, humor me.”

“I was three when I wound up here, milord.”

He pushed off the bedpost and walked around to the other side to tower over her. As if she didn’t feel low enough already. “Wound up here? An odd phrasing. How did that come to pass?”

“I don’t know, milord. I’ve never met my parents. I do not know why I was abandoned here, or if I was abandoned.” My parents could be dead, or maybe they also thought I’m worthless.

He squatted, arms crossed over his knees. “May I have the pleasure of seeing your face?”

She looked up. “I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to converse with guests.”

“It’s all right, Kitlyn. Hospitality demands the acceptable whims of a guest be honored, and I am quite willing to have you converse.”

“I don’t recognize your uniform, milord.” She dribbled more water into the stain and scrubbed at it. Oh, come now, bothersome thing. Disappear so I can go to bed.

“You would not. I am from Ondar.”

“In the north.” She sat back on her heels. “Have you come to aid us against Evermoor?”

“The matter is in discussion.” He smiled.

A knock at the door preceded a woman’s voice. “Prince Lanwick, your tea is ready.”

Prince! Kitlyn coughed and huddled over the brush. If anyone saw her daring to talk to a foreign prince… Whether he told her to or not, she’d be disciplined―somehow.

The young man answered the door and returned with a large cup of tea, which suffused the air with the fragrance of bergamot. “Forgive my evasiveness. I had feared you would react exactly as you have. I am Prince Tristan Lanwick of Ondar, second heir to the throne, and captain of the Paladins Azure, keepers of the Steelfather’s edge.”

Kitlyn clamped both hands over her mouth to hold her dinner in. Why is he speaking to me? Mute, she resumed scrubbing at the stain. Her hands picked up speed; every motion of the brush brought her seconds closer to being able to flee.

He took a knee at her side and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

She froze. “I… It’s not my place to speak in your presence. Forgive me.”

“Please, do not fret. No one shall condemn you for any perceived indiscretions.” His smile had enough boy in it to ease her nerves and enough military commander to dim her ever-present fear of assassins.

“W-why would a prince want to talk to me?”

“In Ondar, no one’s life means so little. Even my father, the king, will speak freely with any from our castle steward to the youngest stable boy. Not all can be born to wealth and privilege, and those who must work to earn a living are no less deserving of respect than those entrusted to govern or protect.”

She swallowed. That he didn’t give her the same look Evor did calmed her further. No trace of any romantic intent radiated from him, merely pleasantry. “That… that’s nice. I fear it would be unusual to our people. Everyone who has status here is quite proud of it.”

“And are you happy?”

“I…” She thought of Oona. “Not as much as I once was, but yes… I would not wish to be elsewhere.”

The prince stood and retrieved his tea, taking a sip. “What troubles you?”

She stared down at the brush. “Nothing worthy of wasting your time, milord.”

Thump.

Kitlyn whirled to stare at the door.

“Who’s there?” demanded the prince.

“Oh, forgive me,” said an older, beloved voice.

Prince Lanwick chuckled. “No bother, Beredwyn.”

The eldest advisor poked his head in. “Are you nearly done, my dear?”

“I’m sorry!” said Kitlyn. “I… I…”

Beredwyn raised a hand. “It’s quite all right. Do not worry. How is the rug?”

Kitlyn looked down between her knees. The stain had faded enough to where it might only appear in strong, direct sunlight―an impossibility in this interior bedchamber. “Largely gone.”

“Excellent work, girl.” Beredwyn waved at her to follow.

She leapt up, gathering the bucket and sponge before curtseying to the prince. “Pardon the bother, milord.”

He raised his tea as if in toast. “Good night, Kitlyn.”

Kitlyn scurried out into the hall as fast as she could move without throwing water everywhere. Beredwyn eased the door shut and walked at her side.

Two rooms away, she looked up. “Why were you listening at the door?”

He stroked his long, curly beard, gazing at the ceiling. “Oh, I wondered if he’d mention anything about the princess.”

“Oona? Why?”

“What did you think of the boy?”

She shrugged. “He’s got an impressive title.”

“Handsome?”

“I suppose.”

Beredwyn gave her a coy smile. “Did you find him pleasant?”

“He is friendly.” Kitlyn frowned. “I was uncomfortable speaking to someone of his station. He insisted.”

“Yet you converse with the princess without even the hint of formality required of hers.”

They turned left at the corner and headed past the stairs and throne room doors.

“That’s different.” Kitlyn dragged her feet. “We grew up together… more or less. When she wasn’t away.”

“Hmm. I see.” He clasped his hands behind him. “Do you think he would make a good husband for the princess?”

Kitlyn dropped the bucket. Still-hot water splashed up all over her legs. Fortunately, it had cooled enough not to burn. “Umm.”

“Child, are you all right?” He stooped to test the water with a finger. “Oh, it’s no longer so hot.”

“Marry Oona?” Kitlyn fidgeted. “I don’t know. He’s a bit too tall, and his chest is too big, and he doesn’t have a beard, and his eyes are too blue, and his hair is too short, and his title’s far, far too long. She’d never remember it.”

Beredwyn chuckled. “That’s all rather superficial, isn’t it?”

“I… Uhh…” She picked up the bucket. “Don’t think she’d like him.”

“What makes you say that?” Beredwyn raised an eyebrow.

Because he’s a man. “Umm.” I hope. She closed her eyes. “I… merely a feeling. He’s… so military.”

Beredwyn stopped. At first, she couldn’t figure out why until she’d taken three steps past her bedroom door. She backtracked and stood there sheepishly staring into the bucket. The old man put a hand on her shoulder, waited a moment, and slid it to her cheek, brushing it with his thumb. She looked into the face of one of the few people other than the lowest group of servants she’d dare make eye contact with.

The breath seemed to hang in her lungs for an eternity as he gazed at her. Kindly wrinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes.

“Well”―he brushed his thumb over her cheek again before patting her shoulder―“I suspect you may be right. Oona didn’t appear to be impressed with him at all.”

Does he know? Her mouth slipped open a little. He knows. He’s… smiling?

“Sleep, girl.” Beredwyn took the bucket. “I’ll take care of this. You look exhausted.”

“Good night, Master Beredwyn.”

He opened the door for her and shut it in her wake. Kitlyn blinked, and the next thing she knew, she lay in bed having changed into her nightdress, but couldn’t recall doing so. What just happened? What’s he up to? Why did I spend an hour in a room with a foreign prince?

“He knows,” she whispered. “How could he know?”

Because you stammered like a lovesick idiot when he suggested Oona marry that prince. She closed her eyes and cringed. I can’t be so obvious. Dread hit her like cold water. Is that why everyone’s so mean to me? Does everyone know? She sat up with a scowl. Had Beredwyn waved the impossibly handsome visiting prince at her as some kind of test? She slouched after a few seconds of thought. No, that didn’t feel right. Not with the way he’d smiled at her. And why would anyone care about a servant girl’s affections?

So, what was that all about?

A knock rapped twice on her door.

“Kitlyn?” whispered Prince Lanwick. “Might I request a moment of your time?”

Tenebrea take me. She sighed, stood, and pulled the door open two inches, peering through the gap. “Yes, milord?”

“I regret making you so uncomfortable earlier. I could not in good conscience sleep without unburdening myself of this, so I took the liberty of following you two to your bedchamber.”

Kitlyn stared at him. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Your being a prince made me uncomfortable.” Wow. Where did that come from? She winced. “Forgive me, milord.”

He chuckled. “You’ve been here for many years.”

“Yes.”

“Do you find it odd that Beredwyn fellow would ask me to gauge if you are trustworthy?”

Her brain jammed to a halt. “What?”

“The wine spill. He said there was a servant girl he wanted me to speak with. I’ve a bit of a reputation at feeling people out. One of my duties as a Paladin of the Azure is to search out spies and traitors.”

She gaped. “Why would Beredwyn…? He’s known me since I was three!”

Prince Lanwick shook his head. He started to say something, but closed his mouth. A second later, he smiled. “Good night.”

“What? Prince Lanwick… what were you going to say?” She pulled the door open all the way, and damn her being in only a nightdress before a royal.

“I didn’t get the feeling he distrusted you. On the contrary, I believe he cares a great deal, as if for a daughter. I…” He scratched at his eyebrow. “No, he wanted us to meet. Any question of your trustworthiness was merely a pretext. Which I can understand. You seem like a lovely girl.”

“Thank you.”

“Your country is beautiful, but your customs baffle me. Everyone is so concerned with appearance and propriety, all manner of nonsense. I get the feeling you are not so wound up in pageantry as the rest. A pity you are not a noble.”

“Yes, well, I’m not, so don’t strain yourself.” Her breath snagged in her throat as her brain caught up to her mouth. What is wrong with me?!

Prince Lanwick laughed for a second before stifling it. “I didn’t mean it in that way, Kitlyn. I’m so tired of how the eligible ladies fall all over each other to catch my notice… and yet here, Princess Oona couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”

“She has a lot to worry about.” Kitlyn looked down.

“I’m told you are quite dear friends.”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Well, the king is courting an alliance between Lucernia and Ondar, which he means to seal with an offer of marriage. If Oona should choose to accept it, I want you to know you will be most welcome to accompany us back to Ondar. It would pain me greatly to separate the two of you from what I hear.”

“That’s…” Her heart sank into her gut. “Very kind of you.”

“Good night, Kitlyn.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I promise you shall have a much more fitting bedchamber.”

He executed a sharp, military pivot and walked off.

She pushed the door closed, locked it, and crawled into bed. She’s not going to say yes. She can’t say yes. Kitlyn hugged her pillow to her chest like a doll. She couldn’t.

9

Mercy

~ Oona ~

Oona lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping an idea came to her. She didn’t ask the gods for anything too important, merely how to fulfill the prophecy without butchering thousands or having to barter herself to Tristan.

At least an hour had passed since breakfast, and no one had yet pestered her with any demands for the day, or even come to collect the tray from her bedside table. She fumed for a time at how the servants treated Kitlyn. Eventually, thoughts of prophecy and war slipped away in favor of working out some new lines with respect to saving Kitlyn from Fauhurst’s ill attention. Perhaps if she could hit the right nerve, her father would stop stalling. There had to be something she could say, do, or threaten that would convince him to bestow enough social status upon her to keep the vultures at bay.

“Ooh, by Lucen, the way they treat her!” Oona balled her hands in fists. “It isn’t right.”

She propped herself up on her elbows and gazed around at her room, easily twenty times the size of the tiny closet Kitlyn had for a bedchamber. Her mind filled with daydreams of the impossible: she, standing there, in all seriousness, wedding Kitlyn. That would elevate the girl’s status straight to the top. A few minutes of smiling came to a withering end. Oona curled up and wrapped her arms around her legs, somehow managing to hold back the tears that wanted to soak the knees of her nightgown. She couldn’t dare suggest such a thing in Lucernia, a kingdom devoted to the god of purity. And what if her feelings went unrequited? Kitlyn, her dearest friend, might herself recoil in horror if she learned Oona’s true feelings. Love.

“No, I shall dare not risk losing her.” Oona wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, trying to weather the crushing sorrow that filled the emptiness left behind by a waking nightmare of Kitlyn thinking her a monster. Shuddering, she forced sadness into anger.

Her gaze settled on the white bureau against the wall past the foot of the bed. Jewelry boxes and such littered it, including the small chests in which she kept her allowance: money she had not been able to do anything with for years. Oona rolled her eyes. Assassins… always, they talk of assassins. To hear Father speak, half the servants are out for my blood! She hadn’t been outside in ages, safe and coddled within the castle while her people suffered under twenty years of nonstop war.

“Damnable savages… why can they not be content with their overgrown wilderness? Why must they bring their corruption to Lucen’s land?” She slid from the bed to stand. “Our people fight while I sit here behind the castle walls like some lame dove too delicate to bear the light of day or the sun’s touch upon her wings.”

Oona paced for a while, frustrated by her situation. She’d fallen in love―that she knew for an absolute fact―with someone she could never have. The Foretelling. It all came back to the words of some old men who all but guaranteed she would destroy a kingdom. She looked at the ceiling. “Oh, Lucen, please give me a sign. Please do not let me be responsible for so much death. I cannot bear the thought of it. Savages they may be, but… oh, their women and children…” Her breath hitched in her throat. What would become of them during her glorious invasion?

Children… Oona blinked at her bureau. Of course! I haven’t snuck out of the castle in over a year.

She rushed to the braided golden cord hanging from the wall and gave it a tug. After, she paced in a tight back-and-forth, alternating between sorrow (at her expectation Kitlyn would not answer the summons), hope (that she might), and anger (at whoever would be responsible if she didn’t). Within a minute, a soft knock came from her door.

“Highness?”

Oona shook her fists in silent cheer. “Kit! Come in.”

The door brushed open. Kitlyn’s head, and her shoulder-length black hair, poked in. After a second of staring, she walked all the way in and eased the door closed behind her. “Yes? I rather don’t like that look in your eye. The last time you got had that look, we wound up paddled.”

“Oh, Kit. That was years ago.” Oona grabbed her hand. “However, you are correct. I am about to disobey my father.”

“Which is a terrible idea.” Kitlyn halfheartedly tried to resist as Oona dragged her across the room to one of the closets. “As you well know. You mustn’t.”

“Oh, I must.” Oona winked. “’Tis for a good reason. Help me with this?”

She shrugged off her nightgown and draped it over Kitlyn’s arms, leaving the poor girl standing there stunned while she removed her smallclothes and changed into a clean set. Oona glanced back over her shoulder, feeling a twinge of hope at her friend not turning away. She picked out her second plainest dress, a white one with a crushed blue velvet bodice that required another pair of hands to lace up the back. Among royals or even upper nobility, she’d get tsked at for wearing it, but her plan didn’t involve attending a high-society function. Best she appeared to be of the merchant class to a casual observer.

“What are you doing?” Kitlyn folded the nightgown and set it on a table before returning to knot up the blue silk laces.

“We are off to Cimril for a little while.” Oona tugged at the sleeves. Multi-layered frills bloomed like flowers around her elbows, leaving her forearms bare.

Kitlyn snugged the laces, making Oona gasp. “Don’t be foolish. You’d already asked…”

“Which is where the disobedience comes in.” She grinned. “In all seriousness, Kit, it’s early in the day. And I’ll have you with me.”

“What?” Kitlyn darted around in front of her. “You want me to go with you? Do you have any idea the kind of trouble I’ll get in if―”

Oona raised a hand. “There are going to be some changes. I’ve been too lax with your situation, not wanting to make a fuss. Once we return, I shall remind Father that you’re not to be made to work at all anymore. And if Fauhurst refuses to leave you alone… I’ll… I’ll…” Her gaze darted about. “I’ll threaten to fling myself from the tower.”

“You will not!” Kitlyn gasped and grabbed her shoulders. “Stop being silly. Please don’t speak of such things.”

“Go fetch your shoes.” Oona glided over to the bureau, picked up a pouch, and collected coins into it, mostly gold, with some silver.

“I’ve naught but my winter boots.”

Oona turned. “Again?!”

“Yes. I haven’t bothered to ask for another pair. Fauhurst will only pounce on me for being careless.”

“That is nonsense.” Oona huffed.

“It’s nothing to fret about. You know I don’t get cold. At least my magic comes in useful for things other than entertaining Pim.” Kitlyn lifted and lowered her toes. “This energy in the earth, it warms me.”

Oona attached the purse to her belt. “Still. I don’t like you being dressed like a peasant.”

“But… I am a peasant.” Kitlyn’s tone bore no shame, nor did her expression.

“Nonsense. You are my dearest, best… only friend.” Oona took her hands. “I’m sorry they’ve been so horrible to you for these past few years. I should’ve done more, but I’ve―”

“Been beside yourself with worry over the war.” Kitlyn stared into her eyes. “It’s all right. They only win if I let them bother me, and I don’t. Their pettiness only proves they are small.”

Oona bit her lip. Her nose hovered mere inches from Kitlyn’s. Dare she risk admitting her feelings or even kissing her? Her thoughts ran away with Kitlyn screaming, wiping her face, spitting. She looked away and down. “Yes, well…” She took two steps toward the door. “I still won’t tolerate them being awful to you any longer. All of that will end now. They think me a spoiled brat already; they’ve seen nothing!”

Kitlyn giggled.

The princess gave her a wide-eyed earnest stare. “Please come with me?”

Kitlyn shifted her weight from leg to leg, eyes downcast. “Oona?”

“Hmm?”

“Forgive me for asking such an impertinent thing, but… do you fancy Prince Tristan?”

The unmistakable weight of dread burdened Kitlyn’s voice. Is she jealous? Oh, please Lucen, let that be the reason she sounds so sad. “He is handsome, I suppose.”

“Aye.” Kitlyn ground her toe into the floor. “He is.”

“I do not wish to marry him.” Oona folded her arms. “Even for alliance’s sake. Do you think me selfish?”

“No.” Kitlyn’s head snapped up; the beginning of a broad grin settled down to a blank look. “I… do not think it fair to ask such a thing of anyone. You or Tristan.”

Hope danced in Oona’s heart.

“You speak truth?” asked Kitlyn. “You do not plan to wed the prince of Ondar?”

“No,” said Oona, oddly meek. “I do not.” She trailed to the side a few steps, gazing down. I cannot start a war to kill so many, nor could I lose Kitlyn.

“There must be another way. Oh, damn prophecies and their vagary! ‘End the war’ could mean a thousand different things.” Kitlyn hurried up alongside her and put a hand on her arm. “Lucen will guide you. If it feels wrong, then it is wrong.”

Oona’s heart swelled and she grinned back. Refusing the marriage wouldn’t be selfish if she could do something else for her people. “Come with me into the city.”

Kitlyn sighed. She looked frustrated, and the blushing tint to her cheeks hadn’t gone away. “This is unwise.”

“But it is just.” Oona flashed an impish smile, and walked to the door.

* * *

After a quick stop at the library to collect a storybook, Oona led Kitlyn by the hand across the courtyard outside the keep. Lucen’s luck had been with them, and she only had to shoo away Elsbeth, who’d come looking for Kitlyn. Her friend would not be scrubbing floors in the main hall today.

She walked past the garden without entering, which got a wistful sigh from Kitlyn, and kept going around to the front half of the castle grounds. Far to the right away from the stables sat a small opening in the wall, defended by one iron gate and a single guard. The servants’ entrance connected via a tunnel in the wall to an alley. Those who worked in the castle but lived elsewhere in town came and went out of view of anyone of importance. Guardsmen’s laughter rumbled from behind an oaken door to the left.

Kitlyn set her heels. “Stop. They’ll lock you in your room if you get caught and I’ll likely wind up in the dungeon. Fauhurst will say I’m trying to get you killed.”

“Oh, he will not. If he so much as makes a squeak, my father’s ears shall have no peace until the man is dismissed.”

“Fine, but how do you expect to get past that… umm, armored man?” whispered Kitlyn.

Oona put on her ‘fairytale princess face.’ “I’m going to ask him to let us out.”

Kitlyn gawked at her.

“Hello, Iorath.” Oona walked over to the guard. “How does Lucen find you this day?”

“Aye, well, milady.” The guardsman bowed his head in greeting, his chainmail rustling.

“I need to slip out for a short time,” whispered Oona.

“Ach, milady, you know I cannae let that ’appen. Yer father’s been right strict ’bout your safety.”

Kitlyn tugged on her arm. “Come, let us go seek peace in the garden instead. We haven’t gotten in trouble yet.”

“Iorath, this damnable war has been going on since before I was born. I want to do something to help those who’ve suffered for it. I refuse to simply hide in the castle while others fight and die. My father means well, but I fear he is overly cautious. Surely, those savages cannot sneak right into the capital city of Lucen’s great kingdom?”

Iorath slouched. He seemed sympathetic, though worry widened his eyes. Saying ‘no’ to a royal, even when one had the authority to do so, often ended poorly. “Princess, you must―”

“I wish to visit the temple sanctuary and do what I can to ease the suffering of the widows and orphans there, families of soldiers killed in this war. ’Tis only a short ways off, and I’ll not be gone long. No assassins… no one will know.”

Kitlyn squeezed tight to Oona’s back.

“All right, all right, but you’ll not be foolish about it. A moment, Highness.” The guard walked to the oak door and went inside.

“I don’t believe it,” said Kitlyn. “He’s going to send men with us.”

Oona shrugged. “Let him. We’re going right where I said we were, even if he thinks I’m sneaking out to shop.” She sighed, head bowed. “I’m no little girl anymore. I still haven’t the first idea how I am to put an end to this war, and I’m terrified it means the worst, or I won’t be strong enough.”

“I won’t let them kill you.” Kitlyn squeezed her hand.

“My death wouldn’t be as bad as me failing to save our people, or having to slaughter the whole of Evermoor.” Oona lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to. It doesn’t feel right.”

“The savages have been killing our citizens for longer than we’ve been alive.” Kitlyn’s expression inherited the guilt radiating from Oona. She lowered her voice, sounding hopeful. “Maybe they will surrender before too many more die, on either side of the border?”

With a clap, the oak door swung open into the wall. Guard Iorath and two other men, both his juniors, emerged, one with brown hair, one black. Each wore a longsword on their belt and carried a smaller arming sword in a scabbard, which they presented on approach to the girls. Kitlyn took hers and put the belt on without hesitation. Oona stared at the real sword in her hand, and her arm went stiff.

“Highness?” asked the black-haired man who’d given it to her.

She looked up at him.

“Is it not adequate?”

“Oh…” Oona pulled the belt around her waist and buckled it. The weight of a metal blade on her hip frightened and reassured her at the same time. “No, ’tis fine.”

Still not done, Iorath handed them each a plain grey hooded cloak. “These two will go with you. We’re all trustin’ ya ta keep yerself out o’ sight and no one will be the wiser ya defyin’ the king.”

Oona nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

With that, Iorath opened the gate. The brown-haired guard went first down the narrow passage, about twelve feet deep through the outer castle wall. Oona followed with Kitlyn behind her, and the other young guard at the end. Iorath closed and locked the gate once the man went by.

“Keep yerself safe now, Highness. And give ’em poor young’uns somethin’ to hope for!”

It had been over a year since Oona last visited those for whom the Temple of Lucen opened its doors. Most of the orphans came from families where both mother and father had been soldiers, though a heartbreaking number had been brought in from villages near the border, survivors of the savages’ attacks on her people. Widows who’d lost everything and had no family left to turn to for help also wound up in the care of the temple.

Oona led the way to the end of the alley, where she turned right and walked out into a crowded thoroughfare. Hood down to cover her face, she kept her gaze on the cobblestones and navigated by memory.

The Temple of Lucen occupied more land than even the castle, and had a connecting corridor. Though, had she attempted to take that route, the guards would have sent word to her father, and that would have resulted in one of two outcomes: either he’d have forbidden her to leave the keep, or her visit would have become a great ordeal with dozens of guards, priests, and attendants. He’d have made it a show for the masses rather than an act of kindness to those who had given everything.

Across a small street from the main temple, a more modest building of white stone served as a hospice for those who received the priests’ healing magic, as well as the orphanage. Kitlyn hovered close by her side the entire trip, refusing to let go of her hand until they’d reached the door. Oona didn’t mind.

A woman in a plain, white dress answered her knock. “Lucen’s grace to you, miss. May I help you?”

Oona looked up and pulled her hood back. “Lucen’s grace to you as well.”

The woman gasped, stared dumbfounded for a few seconds, and fell into a deep curtsey. “By Navissa! Princess Oona!”

“Please, good woman, be quiet. It is a matter of security that my presence here not be made widely known. Our enemies may seek to exploit it. I have come in hopes of bringing some light into the lives of those who have suffered from this awful war.”

“Of course, Highness.” The woman backed away, holding the door for them. “Please, come in. I am Brianne.”

Oona, Kitlyn, and the two guardsmen entered a modest foyer at the head of a long, wide corridor rife with the echoes of playing children and moans of the sick. The fragrance of candlewax and vegetable soup struggled to overpower a wisp of disease in the air. About every twenty feet, plain iron wall sconces held fat candles, each burning with a fluttering white flame that made shadows cavort along their path.

Brianne pushed the door closed. “Right this way, Highness.”

They followed her past three wards full of beds, where the sick or wounded lay recovering. Orien’s healing magic worked wonders much faster than poultices or bandages could hope to, but grievous wounds still took days or weeks to mend. Oona hadn’t learned much of the healing arts since she wielded the magic of Lucen, based on light, truth, and purity, but she’d heard tell that some of the priests could mend mortal wounds if they attended to the person fast enough. Simple cuts, broken fingers, or other less severe injuries cleared up in a day or two under the care of an Orien priest. Anything worse required time. And luck.

“In here.” Brianne pushed open a door that led to a chamber that could’ve been a grand hall by size, if not décor.

The plain stone walls had only four tall windows, all at the far end of the room. Rows of wooden candelabra hung overhead, each bedecked with twenty or so blessed tapers (Lucen-touched, they burned for months with pure white light). On the near right side, common beds had been set up close together like barracks for orphans. To the left and deeper in, the caretakers had arranged individual areas where the widows with children slept: beds, small tables, some shelves, and a trunk or two that created the illusion of tiny homes.

Around thirty children ranging from toddlers to tweens congregated on the right, some playing with dolls, some with wooden toys, others sitting quiet and watchful. A few matrons tended babies in cribs at the middle of the far wall between the two center windows. The bereaved wives of soldiers sewed, cooked, cared for orphans, and helped with general upkeep in exchange for food and a roof over their heads. The room held the weight of sorrow and resignation, but Lucen’s light kept away desperation.

At the thud of the door closing, all but the littlest children looked up. Everyone froze, staring at Oona. A man in the blinding white robes of a Lucen priest moved away from where he’d been counseling a pair of widows and came to a halt nearby, his expression a mixture of pleased surprise and grave concern.

She bowed her head in respect. “Lucen’s grace be upon you, lightbearer.”

“And on you, my child.” The priest made a gesture of blessing over her, then Kitlyn. “What may his humble servant do for you this fine day?”

“I’ve come to visit with those in your care and hope to offer them some light to escape the darkness of these awful times.”

He bowed his head. “In mercy there is purity.”

“Oh,” muttered Oona. She took the pouch of coins from her belt. “I’ve brought this to help as well. Please, take these and use them to provide for our people.”

“May Lucen bless you, child.” The priest began to bow in a practiced manner, but when his hand closed around the pouch, he stopped, blinking in surprise. He glanced down at the bag, squeezed it twice, and shifted his gaze back to her. “Highness, are you certain? This is…”

She leaned close to him and whispered, “I am. It is but a quarter of what I’ve been given over the years, and have little else to do with since I am confined to the castle for my protection. These people would benefit from it far more than I.”

He bowed. “You are most generous, Highness. Truly your father’s child.”

“May Lucen guide you.” Oona returned the bow.

Children swarmed over as the initial shock of seeing the princess wore off. Oona pulled the storybook out from under her arm and walked with the crowd past the orphans’ beds to the nearest area set up like a commoner’s home. She took a seat on a cushioned footrest and set the book in her lap. Kitlyn settled cross-legged on the floor beside her. Over by the door, the priest resumed his conversation with the widows.

“Hello, everyone.” Oona smiled.

The kids replied in a disharmonic cascade of greetings. A few of the almost-teens answered with grim stares rather than words, more than old enough to understand what had happened to their parents. Oona made herself comfortable and talked with them a while, asking how they were, their names, what sort of food they liked most, and so on. A few broke her heart with questions about why Lucen wanted their fathers and mothers to go to him already, or why there had to be war, or (worst of all) why Oona hadn’t stopped it yet.

Every moment she had ever bemoaned being the princess fell like a leaden stone in her gut. She tried to cling to the sort of things her father would say, that Lucen rewarded their parents for protecting the kingdom. Before long, she cracked, tears spilling, stark and silent.

“Tenebrea take those savages,” whispered Kitlyn. “Do they not see the misery they cause? Why must they attack us so?”

Oona bowed her head. “I wish this war would never have happened. I wish it would stop.”

“Is it true?” asked Beryl, a little girl of about six with dark brown hair and rounded cheeks. At least she seemed to be healthy. “Are you to save us all?”

“That is what the prophecy says.” Oona pushed the book up to her knees and opened it.

“What’re you goin’ ta do?” asked Rafe, a tow-haired boy of about ten. His father, a soldier, died in his bed when the enemies raided their camp in the middle of the night. “Burn them out like Lucen did the demons?”

Guilt stabbed Oona in the gut. Fair bet she’d be uninterested in the mid-day meal. Perhaps her appetite would not return for supper as well. Being the Princess of Lucernia, its shining hope, had ceased being wonderful about two years ago, when it struck her that she would lead her soldiers to victory, straight to the gates of Ivendar. Nightmares of her staring down at blood all over her hands still sometimes crawled out of the dark. “I haven’t quite worked that out yet. Funny thing about prophecies, even the people in them don’t really know how things will play out until they do.”

“Lucen will guide her,” said Kitlyn. “She wants this war to stop as much as everyone. More so because we are all looking to her.”

Oona managed a weak smile at her. Maybe I can do it… as long as you’re with me. She closed her eyes. No. I cannot kill so many people. “All right, how about I read you a story? I used to love stories from this book when I was your age.”

Most of the children cheered. The sullen ones watched her with a semblance of interest.

She spent the better part of the next hour sharing with them the happiest story in the book. Kitlyn leaned into her so she could see the pages and took over the speaking parts in character voices as best she could, leaving Oona to be the narrator.

The tale told of a young boy who sought Orien’s help for his older sister, who had gotten sick. He went on a quest that also helped his tiny village. Everyone who lived there had become consumed by the drudgery of their daily lives and grown miserable and mean to each other. The boy’s journey into the woods to seek the light of Orien gave them hope once again, and the story ended with everyone in the town smiling and treating each other like family.

Having Kitlyn close, and not off being forced to work while Oona sat around idle, lifted her spirits. The kids picked up on her joy, their mood improving as well. By the time she finished the story, even the most depressed-looking boy had a hint of a smile.

The two guards who had accompanied them appeared in the doorway, both sending urgent stares her way.

“Soon.” Oona closed the book. “I’d like to visit the soldiers who’ve been hurt. ’Tis the least I can do. We all owe them our lives.”

Both of her escorts nodded without protest.

Kitlyn remained sitting among the kids with the book, as they pressed for a little more story time. Oona came close to giving her a kiss on the cheek, but held herself back. She stood and made the rounds among widows, offering her condolences for the deaths of their husbands. Again and again, the women asked her what she planned to do to stop this war. She couldn’t come up with a good answer beyond babbling about prophecies being inexact things, and she trusted in Lucen to guide her.

After the widows, she went down the hall and visited somewhere between fifty and seventy injured soldiers, about a third of them women. The majority would have died if not for the priests’ intervention. All told stories of fellow soldiers, many dear friends, who hadn’t survived long enough to be brought before a healer. Oona cried with them, held their hands, and whispered apologies for not having stopped the atrocities already.

By the time she trudged out of the last ward, her confidence that she could do anything had been smashed. She felt like a helpless sixteen-year-old with oodles of money and no ability to do anything but smile and wave. Fauhurst often called her a spoiled brat, and at that moment, she thought him correct.

All those dead… so much suffering. Why does Lucen allow this to continue? What am I supposed to do?

She spent a few minutes kneeling before a statue of Lucen at a small chapel, waiting for something to happen, some epiphany or message. By the time her brown-haired escort came looking for her, nothing had. Oona’s heart ached with uselessness. She still had no idea what to do, nor any belief that she’d be able to slow the war, much less end it.

“Should be goin’ back now, Highness,” said the guard. “Lest ye be missed.”

“All right. Thank you.” Oona stood and made her way to the orphans’ ward.

Kitlyn still sat among the children, amusing them by making clusters of stones and pebbles move about and form the shapes of small animals. Every so often, wisps of green magical light swirled among her fingers into the rocks. All the children had crept up close, many with their mouths hanging open. Even a few adults watched with expressions of wonder.

It took Kitlyn a few minutes to disengage from the children and bid them farewell. Oona walked over and hugged them all one by one. Many thanked her for the money, especially the widows. Evidently, secret donations didn’t stay secret for long. The initial contempt and distance some had shown her had become gratitude and respect.

A bit more than two and a half hours after arriving, Oona pulled up her hood and headed into the street, hoping her luck at being undetected would hold.

Kitlyn tugged on her hand soon after. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing… merely a war not of our making.” Oona kicked at a small rock. “I don’t think it’s right to destroy them all. I beg of Lucen that the Foretelling is a lie.”

“They’re savages. They’ll kill us without thinking twice.” Kitlyn shifted to walk sideways for a few paces, her arm thrust out to indicate the temple. “Look at all this suffering they’ve caused. They’ve been warring with us for twenty years. For what?” She stared down, sighing. “They’ll not stop until you do whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

Oona clutched the book tight to her side, squeezing it to burn off frustrated energy. “I know! And yet… I’d cause the same misery as that, only over there instead of here. Is that better?”

Kitlyn grabbed her in a sudden hug. “The gods must’ve chosen you for a reason. You’re so sweet and kind. Perhaps killing them isn’t the answer?”

“Oh, yes,” Oona drawled, “and all the seers and scholars are wrong.”

“They might be.”

The seriousness in Kitlyn’s voice made Oona stare at her. Eye to eye, nose to nose, they stopped walking. Time seemed to slow down. Her heart pounded. Her breathing roared like the crash of ocean waves on a seaside cliff. They stood so close, the taste of Kitlyn’s breath found her tongue.

Kitlyn’s warm, thoughtful eyes gleamed with hope and admiration… could that also be love? Their emerald depths offered so much potential, but could also destroy her.

A little lean… I could kiss her. Oona’s mouth opened a touch. Her eyelids grew heavy. She started to lean closer. I’m in the middle of the street. All these people could see us. Oona kept leaning forward.

“Oona?” asked Kitlyn.

What if she hates me? Oona recoiled into the safety of stiffness. “Yes?”

Kitlyn’s cheeks had tinted red. “Are you all right? You looked about to faint.”

She’s blushing. Does she suspect? Oona bit her lip, suppressing a whine. “I’m worried about you.”

Kitlyn blinked. “Me? Why in the world?”

The black-haired guard cleared his throat.

Damn my nerves. Oona resumed walking and whispered, “You should be careful. It may not be wise to use your magic around people who’ve been hurt by the war.”

“Why?” asked Kitlyn. “The children loved my stone creatures.”

“Precisely because you’re using stone. That’s their magic, Kit. The savages’.”

Kitlyn gasped, shivering. “The savages are rootcallers. They make plants come to life. That’s how they get over the chasm.”

Being responsible for the hurt on her friend’s face made Oona look away. “I realize that. But they don’t know you. You came out of nowhere.”

“I’m not one of them.” Kitlyn hung her head.

“I realize that. But none of the gods have dominion over stone. Stone, earth, it’s their powers. People might get the wrong idea.” Oona stopped walking again to hug her. “Please. I’m merely asking that you be careful.”

“All right,” whispered Kitlyn.

Oona held her hand again and followed the guards past a few streets to the servants’ tunnel. She ducked in before either guard could get in front of her, pulling Kitlyn along. At the end, she leaned her face up to the barred gate. Kitlyn pressed into her from behind.

Guard Iorath appeared overjoyed at their return. His face dripped with sweat. He hurried over and fumbled with the keys. “By Lucen, Highness. I’d been worried.”

“My apologies for taking so long. It had been some time since I visited, and…” Her voice quieted with regret. “I had not expected there to be so many people.”

The gate pulled open with a sharp screech.

Oona scurried into the courtyard. She offered her escorts a grateful nod as they passed by, heading for the barracks. “Thank you, Iorath.”

“Aye. Yer doin’ Lucen’s work, so I’d trusted he’d keep an eye on ya… but don’t make a habit of it. The king is wise ta keep you inside the walls. ’Tis not safe.”

“I understand.” Oona removed the grey cloak as well as the sword and handed them back. “I… had to do something.”

Kitlyn surrendered her sword and cloak as well, then took Oona by the hand. “Come, Highness, you should get back inside. Pray you’ve not been missed.”

“Stop.” Oona poked her in the side. “You, of all people, don’t have to call me ‘highness.’”

“Of course I do.” Kitlyn lowered her voice to a whisper. “If the wrong person hears, I’ll be mucking stables.”

“By Tenebrea’s teacups, you shall not.” Oona raised her head with royal poise, and marched toward the castle. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

10

Matters of Warfare

~ Kitlyn ~

It struck Kitlyn as quite unlikely anyone in the castle would listen if the princess made yet another fuss over how everyone treated her.

I wish she’d stop. The more she complains, the more they think it bothers me, and the worse they become. She sighed, holding Oona’s hand while following her across the grounds to a side entrance. It made little sense to her how, with the exception of the king and Beredwyn, everyone else bowed to Oona’s every whim as though she had the power to slay them with a glare. Yet, when it came to Kitlyn, they obeyed only so long as the princess remained in sight. For years, ever since the smallest of the chores began, Oona had complained. The advisors dismissed it as her refusing to grow up and wanting to stay a lazy little girl with a perpetual playmate. Kitlyn knew better. It hurt Oona to watch her treated like a veritable slave.

They snuck in a servants’ door and crept along a dark hallway past the kitchens toward the main hall. Kitlyn looked down at her hand, the one not clutching Oona’s, and thought about her dancing stones. Is that why they treat me so poorly? Do the advisors think I’m from Evermoor? She scowled. No… Fauhurst is merely a wretch. A middle-born, self-important wretch who’d roll in the muck for a scrap from the king’s table. “He’s jealous.”

“What?” Oona looked over.

“Fauhurst,” whispered Kitlyn. “He’s jealous.”

“Well, it’s no secret my father and Beredwyn are partial to you.” Oona tossed her head back to fling her hair over her shoulder. “That you’ve no status to speak of has got to be infesting his smallclothes like a legion of demonic fleas.”

Kitlyn covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

They stepped through an arch to the main hall, but halfway to the stairwell, Margaret, the head housekeeper, flew like a wraith from the shadows and fell upon Oona.

“There you are!” Margaret set her hands on her hips, her black shawl and dress lending a most spectral presence to the thin, older woman. “Where have you been? Your father requires your attendance.”

Oona gave Kitlyn an apologetic stare before sighing. “I’m rather not―”

“He’ll not have any of that, Highness. You are to attend him at once.” Margaret pointed. “After you dress properly.”

“What?” Oona grasped the skirt of her dress in both hands, holding it up a little. She knew full well the outfit would not do for an audience with her father, but didn’t care. “There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“It’s common,” snapped Margaret.

Oona leaned toward the woman, eyes narrowing. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s not befitting a princess holding audience. Go and attire yourself properly.” Margaret grabbed Kitlyn by the shoulder with a firm hand, pushed her closer to Oona, and pointed at the stairs. “You, go and help her prepare, and be quick.”

What? Kitlyn blinked at Oona. She’s not sending me off to scrub floors? This is new.

The order appeared to stun the princess as well, for no petulant retort followed. She took Kitlyn’s hand in a gentle grasp before tugging her the rest of the way to the stairwell and down the hall to her bedchamber. The urgency in Margaret’s command and the shock of a woman they’d always perceived as cold and brusque encouraging them to be together―even in the capacity of princess and servant―kept them mute.

In the privacy of the princess’ bedchamber, Oona changed. Kitlyn grunted and tugged on fabric as Oona wriggled into a more formal gown of alabaster and sky blue. It took longer to assemble all the underpinnings than don the gown itself. As she worked up the laces along Oona’s back, impatient knocking rattled the door.

“Margaret, is that you? I am almost ready.” said Oona. “She’s doing my laces now.”

The dour-faced woman peeked in, observed them, and nodded, before backing out.

“She’s waiting by the door,” whispered Kitlyn. “I can see her shadow.”

“Of course.” Oona gazed at the ceiling and sighed.

Kitlyn finished the lacing and made a nice bow before tugging and fidgeting at the gown for a moment. Satisfied, she spent another few minutes fussing with the princess’ long blonde hair, infused with a mild floral scent from her soap. “You look beautiful, Highness.”

“Stop.” Oona whirled, grabbed a fistful of Kitlyn’s tunic, and pulled her close by it. Her eyebrows flattened into a scowl, but she fought a grin. “I don’t like it when you call me that.” Her expression sobered. “It makes me feel like I’m being cruel to you.”

“You’re not,” said Kitlyn. “You’re a princess. I’m a serving girl. It’s no more insulting than if I were to refer to the sky as blue. It simply is.”

Oona released her tunic and hugged her, whispering at her ear, “I do not think you my lesser. I never have.”

A faint tremble ran down Kitlyn’s body. Had she imagined the look in her eye out on the street not long ago? Could the princess have really been about to kiss her? Certainly not in front of the guards, never mind all those citizens. What chance could there be her feelings were shared? “I…”

“Princess,” said Margaret in a commanding tone. “Your father is waiting.”

Oona backed up, again sighing. “Yes, yes… my father is always waiting.” She drifted toward the door, letting her hand slide down Kitlyn’s arm, hesitating at a hold of her fingers that pulled away a second later. “I shall return as soon as I am able.”

Kitlyn followed her into the hall.

“You don’t have to leave now.” Oona gestured at the door. “Go back in, get some rest.”

I’ll get in trouble for loitering there alone. Kitlyn glanced from the giant bedchamber to her meager closet. At seeing her door ajar, she tilted her head and got worried. “Oh, what now…”

“Kit?” asked Oona.

“Princess!” said Margaret. “You are dawdling.”

Kitlyn rushed to her door and pulled it the rest of the way open. Someone had thrown all the clothes from her shelf about, flipped her bed over, and spilled red wine on the floor. At least her room lacked any form of rug. Cleaning the bare stone floor wouldn’t be a bother. The frustration lie in that she’d have to wash the majority of her clothes all over again.

“What has happened?” Oona scooted up behind her and gasped at the sight. “Margaret! Look at this!”

The head housekeeper approached, her ever-dour expression growing more severe.

“Who did this?” Oona swooped down and picked up a pair of Kitlyn’s pants, plus a tunic. “I want whoever did this to wear these for a week, or I shall have them dismissed! And they shall not be permitted to wear shoes either for the duration. They adore stealing hers, so they shall see what it’s like.” She stuffed the wine-stained garments into Margaret’s grasp. “Even if it’s Elsbeth herself!”

Margaret looked down at the pathetic clothing. “I shall do what I can to locate the perpetrator, but I do not expect a confession.”

Oona narrowed her eyes in anger. “Nor I. If you are unable to find a shred of honesty among our staff, then I shall do so. Lucen will reveal their lies to me, and once I am finished with them, they can answer to him for their deceit as well as their cruelty.”

“Oona, it’s all right.” Kitlyn squatted and started picking up her clothes. “This is a simple annoyance. Probably one of the younger girls doing it to impress the others.”

“You are far too forgiving for what they do to you.” Oona fumed. “And… and don’t say if you complain, they’ll only be worse to you. I’m tired of watching you treated so poorly!”

Kitlyn stood, finding herself more upset that what happened brought Oona to the verge of tears than the act itself. “I don’t mind. Besides, it won’t take me long to wash these… and I’ll need something to do while you’re attending to your father.”

Oona’s lip quivered. She trembled, staring into Kitlyn’s eyes with such intensity, it seemed a great and deadly revelation teetered at the brink of collapse. Her heart slugged, slow and heavy, laboring against her breastbone. Could the gods have heard her? Might Oona accept her if she spoke her true feelings? Kitlyn rushed forward in a sudden daydream and kissed Oona, confessing that she’d fallen for her, far more than a simple friendship.

The moment faded with a sickening weight in her gut. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t kissed anyone. She hadn’t spoken the truth. Did Lucen consider silence the same as falsehood? Would the king of the gods be angrier over deception than a woman in love with a woman? Love had to be the purest thing in creation. Did the gods care who a person directed it towards?

Oona’s eyes fluttered. “I… Umm.” Her cheeks tinted with blush. “My father’s waiting.”

“Yes, of course.” Kitlyn looked down.

She crouched again as the princess walked off with Margaret, grumbling to herself for being a chicken. Don’t be foolish. I’ve a lot to fear. The daughter of the High Priest of Lucen. Some courtiers would drop dead where they stood at the sheer affront. Kitlyn shifted from crouching to kneeling and wept into a bundle of cheap linen. Dare she risk her heart? More, dare she risk Oona’s claim to the throne? Frustration and longing grew too heavy to bear with a straight face. Her situation crushed her with the untenable weight of worry and guilt. Telling Oona the truth scared her as much as keeping silent hurt, but what if she only imagined hints where she wanted them to be? If Oona rejected her, never wanted to see that creature again, she’d want to die.

Kitlyn bent forward, hiding her face in coarse fabric, trying to stifle her tears. Eventually, great, heaving sobs gave way to a soft, simmering sorrow and an utter lack of desire to move. If she could curl up on her floor and stop existing, she might have done it.

“Miss?” asked a timid, childlike voice behind her.

Kitlyn struggled for composure and lowered the crumpled up tunic from her face. “Yes?”

A faint creak came from the door. “Are you all right?”

She twisted to look back. A slight, pale girl of about twelve with long, red hair and a maidservant’s grey dress stood at the threshold. Hands clasped in front of her, the child clutched the pair of basic soft shoes someone had pilfered from the room months ago. The tiny maid’s eyes widened when she got a good look at Kitlyn’s face. With a soft gasp, the girl bowed her head. “It’s awful they made you cry. I’ve found these. They’re yours.”

Kitlyn pushed herself up to stand. “Thank you.”

The small maidservant handed her the shoes, still not looking up. “I’m sorry the others are mean. We don’t all feel that way.” She fidgeted at her dress. “I don’t know who did this to your room or took these. No one saw me find your shoes.”

“I won’t tell anyone you returned them. They’ll be nasty to you.” Kitlyn patted the girl’s shoulder before righting her bed and lifting the thin mattress back in place. “It’s still summer. I don’t need them right away. If anyone asks, I’ll say they’re a new pair.” She stuffed the shoes under the mattress to hide them.

The girl nodded, took one step back, but spent a moment longer staring up at her with an expression verging on awe.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, miss.” The girl bowed her head. “I must be back to my duties.”

“Of course.”

The young maid hurried off down the hall. Kitlyn gathered and folded her breeches and tunics. A few that had escaped red stains went back on the cubby shelf against the innermost wall. The others, she piled on the floor next to the bed. She’d wash them after she attended to the wine spill. They’ll accuse me of stealing it and getting drunk, no doubt.

She stepped out into the hall and closed her door, intending to fetch a bucket and brush, but stopped short at the sight of Margaret. With the sun behind her in the hallway, the woman looked like a raven stretched up into a person. Hand on her chest, Kitlyn took a step backward, barely managing not to scream in surprise.

Margaret offered her a feather duster. “Your presence is required in the king’s master study.”

“Yes, right away, ma’am.” Kitlyn bowed her head. Princess Oona could get away with protesting her being made to work, but she dare not try. Also, this woman had never been surly to her―strict, but by no means cruel.

Margaret offered a curt nod and walked off, speaking without looking back. “See that you hurry.”

The wine can wait… please Lucen don’t let anyone find the mess. She raced down the hall to the large door where the king held meetings of import. It seemed that she’d dusted the tables and shelves in there four times a week. Why do they always insist it be me? And at such inopportune moments?

Kitlyn stopped at the huge doors. Men’s voices murmured within, discussing the positioning of soldiers along the Churning Deep. She hesitated only a few seconds before tapping a meek knock. The discussion ceased. One door popped free, enough for a guardsman to give her a raised eyebrow.

“Pardon.” She bowed her head. “I’ve been summoned.”

“Ahh, yes,” said Beredwyn from deep inside the room. “It’s all right.”

Kitlyn stepped in as the door opened wider. King Talomir, Oona, Beredwyn, Fauhurst, and Advisor Lanon huddled around a table covered with a huge map. Tiny wooden figures denoted the positions of soldiers. Oona’s expression of boredom shifted to a smile. Kitlyn gave her a brief wave and grin before heading to the corner to begin purging the bookshelves of dust. The great door closed with a thud, and the debate resumed.

A whimsical memory put a smile on her face as she worked, thinking back to when she and Oona had been about eight years old and invaded this room. They’d mistaken all the little wooden men for toys and played while crawling about the table, thoroughly ruining the king’s strategy. It had taken the advisors almost a week to sort things back to rights.

If only we could be so small again. We barely got in trouble for that. The king thought us cute.

“Don’t be foolish,” said Fauhurst. “The Arch of the Ancients permits them to move thousands of troops with ease. They are getting desperate, my liege. A major offensive is coming, and soon. We must bolster the garrison at the Arch.”

“But wouldn’t that leave the rest of the border vulnerable?” asked Oona.

“Exactly my point.” Advisor Lanon banged a fist on the table, making two soldier figurines topple. “There are three bridges over the Churning Deep. The Arch is merely the largest. For that reason, I think it is their least likely route. They’d expect us to expect it! We should gather our forces in three groups, favoring the north and south crossings. Eastmarch and Pembrook should get three thousand soldiers each, with two at the Arch.”

Fauhurst scoffed. “And when they swarm over the Arch, they come right down the road to Cimril before the other garrisons can react. Is that what you want? The road leads straight from Ivendar to our doorstep. We’d be inviting them in, as it used to be when we traded.”

Kitlyn grinned. Watching Fauhurst turn red in the face was worth any amount of dusting.

“A long time, hasn’t it been?” Beredwyn let out a somber sigh. “It almost does not seem possible, like a faded dream.”

“Indeed,” said the king in a clipped tone. “The savages have fallen under the sway of the demons, rejecting Lucen’s light.” He glanced at Oona. “What is your opinion?”

Fauhurst scoffed. “Sire, you know she cares not for her station despite how you indulge her so. Her every wish, you grant without hesitation. She desires to be elsewhere even now, lacking the patience for a discussion of our peoples’ lives. Yet, it is her opinion you value in matters of such importance?”

“He does not give me everything I want.” Oona glanced at Kitlyn for an instant before stabbing Fauhurst with a glare that could kill. “How dare you insult me to my face, speaking as though I am not right here!”

Advisor Lanon gasped. Beredwyn’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

Kitlyn continued waving the duster about the shelves, but watched the crowd at the table rather than where her hand went. A small statuette fell over with a clonk. She peeled her attention away only long enough to put it back upright.

King Talomir rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you are correct in that I have been overly indulgent toward her. She has spent her entire life under the threat of assassination. Any day may be her last, and by Lucen’s grace, she remains with us. However, as you are so fond of pointing out among your lessers, I shall not brook your rising above your station. How I treat my daughter is of no concern to you.”

Fauhurst emitted a strangled squeal, fingers clenched. He bowed his head. “Yes, my liege.”

“Well?” King Talomir faced Oona.

She stared at the wooden figures for a long few minutes, biting at her lip, twisting her hair around her fingers. “It does seem possible they could march straight across the Arch and come to Cimril, but I think it is foolish to place all our forces in one location. If the savages used the north or south crossings, they could do a lot of harm to the people of Eastmarch or Pembrook before the garrison could move to defend them.”

“Hmm.” The king rubbed his beard.

Advisor Lanon smiled at Oona and stood a bit taller.

“Sire,” said Fauhurst, flustered. “The loss of life is regrettable, but this is war. Attacks on outlying cities would not be as deleterious to the kingdom as the loss of Cimril. We must put up a show of force at the Arch, and send a clear message to the savages that Cimril will not be taken.”

The king’s gaze flicked about the map.

Kitlyn looked away, disappointed Fauhurst hadn’t gotten more of a skewering. He’d called Oona a brat to her face, but the king had barely glared. She’d expected a far worse show of anger, something akin to how he’d reacted to seeing her slack off while carrying linens. She dusted her way down the shelf to the corner while the men mumbled and made noises of deep thought.

“Be reasonable, sire. The princess does not have a tactical mind. You couldn’t possibly wish to dilute our forces?” asked Fauhurst, sounding almost timid.

“Yes, Fauhurst. Thank you. You have made your position clear. Kitlyn?” The king twisted to peer at her.

Oona stifled a gasp.

Kitlyn fumbled the duster and dropped it, taking down a candlestick and two books as well. She spun, back pressed against the shelves, wide-eyed like a mouse staring up at a diving hawk. “Y-yes, sire?”

The king raised his arm. “Come here, child.”

Fauhurst turned purple.

Beredwyn’s beard stretched with a broad grin. He gave her a nod of approval.

Oona stared at her, mouth open. She glanced at her father, at Kitlyn, at Fauhurst, and turned away to cover a giggle. The junior advisor looked ready to explode.

Kitlyn clasped her hands in front of herself and shuffled over to the table with tiny steps, head bowed. “Yes, sire?”

The king put an arm around her, grasping her shoulder. “Tell us, then. What do you think?”

She froze, staring down at her bare feet, dingy breeches, and common tunic. She looked like a stable hand caught sneaking into a room full of nobles. That sense of not belonging in here choked off her voice.

“Well?” King Talomir patted her back and again rested his hand on her shoulder.

Fauhurst blinked. “Sire… you can’t poss―”

The king silenced him with a raised hand.

“But she’s a servant!”

“I daresay she’s attended more of these sessions than you have.” Beredwyn winked. “Quite a lot of dust builds up in here, don’t you think?”

Kitlyn clamped her jaw shut to hold back a giggle.

“Do not keep us all in suspense.” The senior advisor leaned forward with an honest expression of interest and an encouraging smile.

She looked up at the king, who gave her a warm nod. It seemed odd that among all the people in the castle with station―Oona aside―she felt the least trepidation when faced with the king himself. After taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she examined the map. Of course, it helped that she’d been listening in on their discussions for weeks.

Fauhurst rolled his eyes and grumbled, “We oughtn’t be wasting time on a serving girl while the savages are at our doorstep.”

No one reacted to him.

“You have been discussing two plans.” Kitlyn pointed at the giant bridge. “Master Fauhurst wishes to place all eight thousand soldiers at the Arch of the ancients. Master Lanon has suggested only two thousand there, and three thousand both at the north and south crossings.”

Lanon nodded at her. Fauhurst glared, scratching at his chin. Did that glimmer in his eyes show hope? Dare he expect the servant girl he so tormented to take his side in front of the king? Could the man be so vain that he’d accept validation from anyone to save face, even her? Kitlyn thought about all she had overheard while cleaning in here during war meetings, stared again at the map, and shook her head.

“I wouldn’t use either of those plans.”

Oona gave her a worried ‘what are you doing?’ stare.

The king raised an eyebrow.

Fauhurst’s growing hope crashed into a scowl of derision.

Advisor Lanon tilted his head in curiosity.

Beredwyn smiled. “I suspect you have another idea?”

“Oh, please,” muttered Fauhurst. “Next you’ll be having the cooks training our archers.”

Oona glared at him.

“Actually, they’re rather skilled at sticking their knives into the dead centers of potatoes,” said Beredwyn with an airy tone. “Who knows? Perhaps they might have something to teach.”

Oona stifled a snicker.

“The Churning Deep runs from the Titan Peaks in the north all the way to the sea.” Kitlyn pointed at the map, indicating the entire length of the chasm separating Lucernia from Evermoor. “There are only three crossings, but they don’t matter to the savages. Their root magic lets them traverse the canyon wherever they choose, in small numbers. In twenty years of fighting, they have not once sent over a force greater than fifty, and they have never even used the bridges.”

King Talomir nodded.

“Rather than concentrating so many forces in so few places, I would split the eight thousand soldiers up into many smaller detachments, and garrison them evenly up and down the Deep.” She tapped the table by the canyon to indicate positions. “We do not need two thousand soldiers to repel fifty attackers. Our enemies cross wherever we are not paying attention. For every incursion we stop, four more slip in uncontested, and sow chaos. If we set up camps of two or three hundred soldiers each and spread them out along the border, we can more effectively spot and stop them.”

“That’s preposterous,” blurted Fauhurst. “If they attack with a large force, we’ll be crushed.”

Kitlyn braced her weight on her hands, leaning against the table while fixing him with a stern look. “Each camp should have a few fast riders ready to go to the adjacent camps. If a force too large to deal with ever attempts to cross, the defenders can delay them long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the more closely-spaced camps. And those camps can call for help from yet more distant camps. You know they send men a few at a time across a narrow span of roots. Defenders can hold out against that easily, even if they are outnumbered ten to one. And, need I remind you, Master Fauhurst, that in twenty years of warfare, the savages have never attacked with a large, organized force.” She stared at the map. “It’s… almost like they don’t even want to destroy Lucernia, but are trying to sneak in to do something else. What could they want?”

“Me,” said Oona.

Kitlyn turned toward her, fighting the urge to hug her in front of the king. “More than that. If they merely wanted to kill you, they wouldn’t send raiding parties of fifty. They―”

“It’s about time someone in this room said something of sense.” The king smiled, and spent a few minutes planting a row of carved wooden tents along the edge of the Churning Deep. “Beredwyn, see that the fresh garrison is divided into thirty camps, arranged thus.”

Fauhurst scowled at Kitlyn, shaking with impotent rage. The man likely would not have handled the king choosing Advisor Lanon’s plan over his too well, but being upstaged by a worthless servant girl had rendered him a deep shade of crimson.

“On which note,” said Oona, “may Kitlyn spend the rest of the day attending to me? Her counsel should prove invaluable. And I would like her to dine at our table this evening.”

Advisor Lanon’s eyebrows rose in shock, but he said nothing. Fauhurst gurgled and squirmed as if strangled by invisible hands.

Beredwyn’s grandfatherly smile chased away Kitlyn’s nerves.

“All right,” said the King.

Oona grinned at Kitlyn.

She stood at Oona’s side, shivering with excitement. Today might be a good day after all.

11

Lowborn

~ Oona ~

Oona squinted at the glare over the eastern forest beneath a cloudless sky. The wind blowing in over the treetops carried a morning chill the sun had yet to chase away. She hadn’t slept well, the threat of an arranged marriage still heavy on her mind. Could Tristan see reason and keep their marriage political? That might let her hide a potential relationship with Kitlyn, avoiding the scorn and ridicule she expected would sweep over the kingdom if it got out that their darling princess loved a girl.

Shivering, she looked down past her white short-heeled boots at the grass forcing its way up between the square paving stones; she could blame the cold in the air if anyone asked why she trembled. More than ever, she wanted to wish herself away from this life. No war, no obligation to marry someone. Would Tristan be the type to carry on an affair? It struck her as cruel to demand that of him, but would her discomfort be worth countless Lucernian lives? Surely, her father had been exaggerating. The war had been going on for twenty years, and the savages from Evermoor had yet to get too far into the kingdom.

Except for their assassins and spies.

But those sorts of men were no threat to the common citizen. She looked up at the ivy-covered walls of a square yard. Murmurs of several castle guardsmen filled the space behind her amid the clatter of wooden swords and shields. Racks of weapons, some wooden, some iron and blunt, and some sharpened steel, stood on three sides. She’d worn her most basic dress, pure white, which resembled the grey things the maids wore, only with decorative brocade, puffy shoulders, and softer materials. This one didn’t lace up the back, but the hem hung to her ankles. She’d skipped the usual plethora of extra skirts, hose, and whatnot to retain at least a little mobility.

Where is Kit?

Guard Lorne broke away from the group of men and walked over, extending a wooden longsword to her, handle first. “Good morning, Highness.”

Oona grasped the weapon in two hands, not quite struggling with its weight, but she’d never be able to fight with it using only one arm. This one was heavier than the real sword she’d carried the other day, though it also had an additional six inches of ‘blade.’ “Morning. Where is Kitlyn?”

“I wouldn’t know, Highness.”

“I swear if Fauhurst has given her―”

The left pair of doors on the south wall of the courtyard flew open, and Kitlyn scrambled into the courtyard, still not all the way into her clothes. The sharp clap of her bare feet on the stone rang off the walls. She tugged her tunic down and fluffed her hair out from the collar as she hurried to a halt by Oona’s side. The legs of her breeches came to a tattered end halfway up her shins.

Why does father refuse to raise her to a lady-in-waiting? She looks so wretched in those rags.

Oona fought back the urge to hug her, hoping to avoid another lecture on decorum. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry, Highness.” Kitlyn tried to catch her breath. “I did not wake with the rooster. Meredith said I didn’t answer her knock either.”

“That girl is ever so polite.” Oona pictured the younger girl, granddaughter of one of the chambermaids, always smiling no matter what happened. “She should’ve gone in and shaken you.”

“I’m sorry.” Kitlyn looked down.

“Oh, it’s quite all right.” Oona winked. “Perhaps you needed the rest.”

“Aye.”

Guard Lorne strolled off to the weapons rack, selected another wooden longsword, and handed it to Kitlyn with a warm smile. A few of the other guards shook their heads. Some thought it pointless to teach a girl who wasn’t a soldier how to fight; most thought it even more absurd to include Kitlyn. The king, however, disagreed. Even Fauhurst couldn’t ruin this time they had together.

Oona held her sword in both hands and raised it out in front of her. Lorne walked in a circle around the two of them, also holding a wooden blade. He demonstrated a few more strikes and defense techniques with one of the guards, his motions slow and deliberate. After, he had them mimic while swinging at empty air. All the while, he commented on their posture, grasping their shoulders, elbows, or wrists to make corrections. Oona did her best to match the form over several repetitions before he faced them one after the next, touching swords in another slow-motion rehearsal.

“If your life is threatened, you will not have time to think about which defensive maneuver to use, or which choreographed strike to employ. The first thought of an untrained warrior is ‘hit it hard.’” Lorne mimicked someone swinging, wild and furious. “The exact motions and swings are not as important as resisting the instinct to surrender to panic. You must train your mind and body to react as a reflex, without thinking.”

Oona squeezed the handle of her blade, staring at Lorne. He attacked, still painfully slow, and she swung her stick sideways, clacking wood together, but his still touched her shoulder.

“Defend like you’re trying to cut their weapon in half. You’re not putting enough muscle into it. That would’ve still drawn blood. Again.”

This time, Oona swatted his sword aside, but the force of her motion pulled her to the right. She whirled with it and swung out of a spin. Her blade struck Lorne’s with a loud crack a few inches from his face. His sword didn’t move.

“That’s good.” He smiled. “I can tell you weren’t ready for it to pull you off balance, but you recovered and used it.”

She breathed hard for a few seconds. “It’s heavy.”

“It gets lighter the more you practice.” He waved a few times in an upward motion. “Come, come. Again.”

He guided her through several repetitions of strikes and defenses before moving to Kitlyn and repeating the entire process. Oona leaned on her sword to rest her arms, and smiled while watching her friend move. Friend… she sighed in her head. The intensity in Kitlyn’s eyes as she swung, parried, and dodged lit a fire in her chest. Friend… The word is inadequate.

Kitlyn also two-handed the longsword, though a few times, she thrust with one arm while using her left for balance. The sudden change caught Lorne off guard, but his surprise manifested as little more than a raised eyebrow. He continued smiling, evidently pleased with her progress. The time he spent working with her on the new techniques felt much shorter than what he’d spent with Oona. She wondered if the ‘peasant girl’ didn’t deserve as much attention or if she put more effort into it. Oona felt lazy. Truth be told, she remained terrified of assassins and didn’t expect she’d have much of a chance against a grown man trying to kill her. An assassin would likely go after her in bed or sneak up behind her in a hallway. She couldn’t exactly carry a longsword around all day like a guard, so this seemed pointless.

“All right.” Lorne stood between them. “The two of you spar now. Don’t swing to take each other’s heads off, but give it a little more energy than we’ve been using.”

Oona glanced at Kitlyn, who returned an uneasy expression. They reluctantly faced each other and crossed their swords. She disliked this exercise the most, the least tolerable part of their instruction.

“Any time now,” said Lorne, with a sigh. “This again? ’Tis only training.”

Kitlyn gave her a ‘you start’ look.

Oona adjusted her stance and took a slow-motion swing, which Kitlyn knocked aside. No counterattack followed. They traded lackadaisical strikes and parries for a few minutes before stopping and staring at each other.

Some of the guards laughed at the ‘girls playing with swords.’

Kitlyn scowled, but her expression became hesitant again when her eyes met Oona’s.

“Come on then, Highness. This is your life we’re protecting.” Lorne leaned the tip of his sword on the ground, hand atop the pommel.

“I… I don’t want to hit her.” Oona hung her head.

“I can’t hit her.” Kitlyn glanced off to the ivy-covered wall. “She’s the princess.”

“Oh, Lucen guide me. I should expect this by now.” Lorne chuckled. “All right. Morrow, Beck… front and center.”

Two young guards hurried over and stood at attention. Neither looked eighteen yet. The blond stood a full head over the other man, but had a scrawny frame with a bulging Adam’s apple. A mild cross to his eyes lent an air of whimsy to his appearance. The other man’s build reminded her of Prince Tristan, though he wasn’t as handsome.

“Beck, spar with the princess. Morrow, you…” Lorne gestured at Kitlyn.

Beck, the tall, skinny one, looked at Lorne with ‘must I?’ written across his face. The guard captain took the men’s real weapons and handed them each a wooden practice sword.

Morrow sauntered up to Kitlyn with a cocky smile. “Tell me when you’ve had enough, and I’ll stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Beck locked eyes with Oona. He seemed frightened of her, but raised his wavering sword until the tip crept into her field of view. “Apologies, Highness. At your speed then?”

Oona hefted her weapon. She waited a second before lunging with a somewhat-controlled overhead swing, which Beck parried while emitting a startled yelp. The shock of sword-to-sword contact jolted her fingers, and she tightened her grip, chiding herself for not holding it right.

Beck leaned under her second swing and returned a limp counterattack, which she deflected hard enough to make him sidestep. She grunted while bringing her sword around, but took too long, and he recovered a defense. Their blades stalled against each other for a few seconds, her staring over the wooden X into his eyes. Beck gave a shove, which knocked her on her seat. She blinked up at him, not expecting such strength from the thin guard.

“Oh, Highness!” He reached for her with his empty left hand. “Forgive me.”

“Quite all right,” huffed Oona. “We’re sparring, are we not?”

She stood without accepting his hand and dusted herself off. The clack, clack, clack of Kitlyn’s blade crossing Morrow’s became alarmingly loud. The two of them went after each other like wildcats. Kitlyn had a look on her face as though she really wanted to draw blood. The occasional mutter or whisper coming from him seemed only to infuriate her.

Oona flung herself into a series of rapid strikes. Beck ducked or parried all but one, and she beaned him straight over the forehead. She hadn’t put enough into it to knock him senseless; he showed little reaction at all other than to take a step back and bow.

“Excellent strike, Highness.” He reset to a neutral distance and attacked with an overly telegraphed thrust, which she turned with ease.

He’s a human sword dummy. He’s not even trying to hit me.

She raised her blade over her head in an idiot’s berserker charge, but despite ample time to poke her in the chest, Beck waited and parried her amateurish chop before throwing her an easy sideward swing.

“Oh, come now, Highness,” said Lorne. “You’re fighting like a first day recruit. Have I failed as your instructor?”

Somewhat winded, her voice took on a hint of rasp. “I did that on purpose. He’s not even trying to hit back.”

Crack! The hollow sound of a wooden blade striking something hard echoed off the courtyard walls.

Oona jumped and spun to her left. Kitlyn slid on her back, blood trailing from her lip. The princess gasped, about to run to her friend’s side, but the girl tumbled back to her feet, looking livid.

“Had enough, little girl?” asked Morrow.

Kitlyn growled at him, wiping her mouth. “Oh, that’s how you’re going to play it?” She adjusted her grip on the sword. “Come on, little boy. Are you even old enough to shave yet?”

Morrow snarled.

Beck started to swing at Oona, but halted. “Ready, Highness?”

Oona couldn’t look away as Kitlyn let off a war cry and charged. Morrow knocked her initial strike aside and drew his arm back for a powerful swing as if to take her head clean off, but she recovered faster than he expected and forced him to abort his attack to defend his midsection. She feigned a slash at his face, which raised his guard, then dropped and tried to kick his feet out from under him.

Morrow stumbled, but kept his balance, growing visibly angrier.

Oona’s heart raced. He’s going to hurt her.

“Lowborn wretch,” grumbled Morrow. He drove a sideward strike into Kitlyn’s defense; though she blocked, the force knocked her off her feet again.

He ran up on her, but she rolled away from a downward stroke that clacked off the stone, then kicked around, spinning on her back, and tangled his legs with hers, taking him down. Kitlyn sat up and hacked at his face, but he got his blade in the way. For several long seconds, they struggled, her on top trying to push his sword down, him trying without success to fling her off.

Morrow shifted to the right and slammed his knee into her side, sending her into a roll.

Oona gasped. She raised her sword to go after Morrow out of pure rage, but Beck swatted it. She glared at him, and he backed up.

“Sorry, Highness. I thought you were ready.”

“Oy, Morrow,” cried a seasoned guard by the wall. “You goin’ to take that from a li’l servant?”

Kitlyn sprang to her feet, favoring her side. More blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth. They circled, both staring at each other as if they wished for genuine steel in their hands. After a moment of wary looks and tentative strikes, Oona relaxed enough to reengage Beck. He continued babying her, or at least it felt like he did. She considered trying Kitlyn’s move, but she had no way to sweep his legs while wearing a gown.

I am going to wear breeches next time, and Tenebrea take whoever tries to stop me.

Oona traded strikes and parries with Beck. It felt like he put all his effort into defense and took only the most halfhearted of attempts at swings back. Annoyed at being coddled, she added more and more muscle to her wooden sword. Still, the man kept her at bay, though she got close to crowning him twice.

“Miserable wretch!” roared Morrow, a second before a dull crack echoed over the courtyard.

Oona glanced to her left, where a wooden sword clattered to the stones. Kitlyn careened over sideways, bleeding from the ear. She looked out of it as she collapsed to all fours.

Before Oona could scream, Beck whacked her in the breast.

His expression after realizing he’d made contact would’ve been appropriate for hearing her demand his head cut off. “Oh… Highness… forgive me.”

“Kit!” Oona yelled. Beck could wait.

“Remember your place.” Morrow sneered. “Had enough yet, kitten?”

Kitlyn grumbled and shook her head as if to clear it. She crawled forward and put her hand on the sword, but Morrow stepped on the blade.

“If you need another hint that it’s over…” He raised his weapon in a threatening pose.

Growling, Kitlyn flung herself into a handstand and drove both feet into his chest, knocking him back into a stumble. She rolled upright, holding her blade, and smashed it across the top of his head before he could recover his balance. He staggered and returned a drunken swing, which she ducked with ease before walloping him in the chest.

Even Lorne cringed at the whap of wood on armor.

Morrow rasped a hiss and faded back with a hand over where she’d hit him. Kitlyn darted in, swinging low, but he swatted her aside with enough force to send her staggering to the right. He followed with a heavy swing at her lower back, his blade passing inches away from her diving somersault. She scooted into a crawl to get some distance before jumping to her feet and bringing her blade to bear, springing aside as Morrow charged.

His legs blurred like he’d walked onto an ice patch; he cried out in surprise as his lunging strike became a clumsy flailing wave. Kitlyn roared and plowed her sword into his gut with another whump that resounded from the walls. The hit dropped Morrow to his knees, and she brought the wooden blade down on the back of his head.

Morrow collapsed face-first on the ground. Kitlyn growled, and raised her blade again.

“Enough,” said Lorne.

Kitlyn froze, her sword straight up in two hands. She gasped for breath, blood trickling out of her mouth and ear. Her rage ebbed, replaced with a look of horror that lasted a few seconds before Morrow moaned, and she glared again.

“I might be lowborn, but I’m still a person.” She let her arms fall slack.

Lorne failed to hide a smirk. “Well, Morrow. Looks like that ‘little girl’ just won.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, captain…” Beck’s voice cracked. “Am I supposed to be as… uhh… spirited with the princess?”

Oona ran to Kitlyn. “Are you hurt?”

“Everything’s spinning, but I’m okay.”

“You’re bleeding.” Oona fussed over her, checking her wounds. Other than her bleeding ear and lip, she had a line of bruise along her midsection. “There’s no excuse for what he did. I’ll have―”

“It’s all right.” Kitlyn put a hand on Oona’s shoulder. “I got angry first, and slugged him a little too hard.”

Morrow moaned and pushed himself up. He stared at a patch of paving stones, confusion twisting his eyebrows. A second or two later, he rubbed the ground with his hand and his confusion deepened. Two other guards helped him up and walked him out of the courtyard.

“Come on, mate,” said one of the men helping him. “We’ll ’ave a priest check ya out.”

Oona pulled Kitlyn close, almost touching foreheads. “You’re bleeding.”

“You already said that.” She dropped her practice sword and wiped her mouth with both hands. “I’ll be okay. Finish training.”

“But you…”

Kitlyn gazed into her eyes, weary, worried. “Please? If someone tries to hurt you, you need to be able to survive.”

Kiss me. If only she had the courage to do it—but the crowd of guards kept her paralyzed.

“I’m fine.” Kitlyn walked her back over to where Beck seemed to await his execution.

She sighed. “At least sit… and you’re not to toil today.” Oona looked at a footman hovering by the door, and pointed at him. “You. Find Master Fauhurst and tell him that Kitlyn is not to be harassed today. She’s hurt, and anyone who troubles her will answer directly to me. Once you’ve done that, relay the same to Elsbeth.”

“Yes, Highness.” The footman ducked through the door and ran off.

Kitlyn smiled and wobbled over to a bench between two weapon racks. Lorne followed and also appeared to examine her for injury while discussing the sparring match that had essentially become a real fight. He complimented her improvisation and refusal to give up, but cautioned that Morrow would’ve hurt her had he not tripped on the weeds growing up between the stones.

Oona grasped her wooden sword and squared off with Beck again. “While I would appreciate you not drawing blood from my face, the entire point of this is going to be lost if you keep coddling me.”

Beck’s massive Adam’s apple undulated with a gulp. “Yes, Highness.” He sent a baleful look at Lorne, likely for giving him the worst assignment of his short life, and sighed.

I have to take this seriously. She stared at Beck for a little while, trying to think of him as an assassin sent to kill her. Unlike Kitlyn, who’d let anger and pent-up frustration explode in a flurry of rage, Oona tried to stay analytical.

As fear and hesitation melted out of her expression, Beck’s grew more worried. She startled him with a battle shout and opened with a quick swing that brought her blade up from the lower right in a rising slash before looping around in a crossing downstroke. He clumsily parried the initial move, but the downward swing thudded into his shoulder.

“Dead,” said Lorne. “Come on, Beck. You’ve got at least four months more training than that skinny little princess. That’s a week-one technique you allowed to ‘kill’ you.”

Oona glared at her trainer.

Lorne, passing behind Beck, winked at Oona.

“Sorry, sir.”

They reset, and Beck moved faster than she expected. She parried twice, having to give up much ground to do so. His third swing came from an unexpected angle. She twisted and plunged her blade down and to the right; his wooden edge cracked her in the knuckles.

“Tenebrea’s teacups!” Oona’s hand sprang open as a reflex, dropping the blade. She clutched her fist to her chest, gasping from the pain.

The guards relaxed all at once at her softened invective. Usually, that epithet invoked the death goddess’ bosom rather than her tableware… and did not belong coming out of a princess’ mouth.

Once she stopped cringing, Lorne handed her weapon back. “If that was a real sword―”

“I would’ve lost most of my fingers, yes.” She opened and closed her hand.

“I think”―Lorne eyed Kitlyn―“your handmaiden would’ve opted to dive away from that one rather than move her weapon from such a disadvantaged posture.”

Oona looked down at her white dress. “I cannot roll around on the ground in this. Next time, I shall wear something I can move in.”

“Yes, but, Highness…” Lorne sighed. “The savages will not wait for you to be dressed to fight. Work on distance. You’ve got a longsword. Use its reach to keep yourself at blade length so you do not have to fling yourself to the ground to avoid an attack.”

She nodded. “Alright. Again.”

Beck gulped. “Yes, Highness.”

Oona gazed up at the sky. This is going to be a long day. She pointed her wooden sword at Beck. “But a necessary one.”

“What?” he asked.

She faked a swing, which startled a yelp out of him. “Ready?”

“Apparently not,” said Lorne.

Oona peered back at Kitlyn, who sat on the bench holding her head. The girl offered a weary smile, but seemed okay. Beck rolled his head around to crack his neck, and nodded.

Lucen protect me… May I never have to do this for real.

Princess Oona brought her weapon up, and attacked.

12

Night Watch

~ Kitlyn ~

Eyes closed, Kitlyn lay in bed. Every part of her body ached, except her stomach. She slid her hands up under her nightdress and rubbed her overfull belly. She’d enjoyed a lovely roast beef dinner with Oona despite the strange look she’d gotten from the blonde kitchen maid who had served them. The last time she’d seen the girl, derision wafted off her, but earlier that night, the maid appeared positively frightened of her.

Matter of fact, most of the staff had been staring at her all day. Not the usual way they glared, either; today, she felt studied more than scorned. After a nap, and the ministrations of an Orien priest to speed her recovery from her fight with Guard Morrow, she’d spent the day with Oona in the garden. They’d lunched outside and observed Prince Tristan join some of the local nobles heading off on a pheasant hunt. Oona hadn’t shown any sign of interest in him, and downplayed his handsome build, and his thus far noble character. She also seemed rather preoccupied with the idea of royals having affairs, wasting a good hour or more talking about all the ones she’d heard rumors of.

Later, they’d whiled away the lazy weekend afternoon lying in the grass together. Oona had held her hand, though as much as Kitlyn wanted it to mean what she hoped it meant, she feared reading too much into the gesture.

Sore muscles soon relaxed their vigil keeping her awake, and the beginnings of dreams tortured her with everyone from the king to Pim ridiculing her after admitting she loved Oona. She tossed and turned, startling awake after guards threw her into the muddy road leading away from the castle, Elsbeth hovering over her with that smug, victorious smile.

Though she hadn’t been exiled but in her dreams, she sat up, wrapped her arms around her legs, and wept.

A break in the light by her door scared her emotion away. The knob shifted as though someone second-guessed the intent to open it and let go. Kitlyn leapt out of bed as whoever stood outside walked away.

She hurried to the door and eased it open, peering out into the hall. For a second, she caught sight of the king before he glided around the corner. Her eyebrows crept together. She stared, confused and mute, at the moonlit hall. Chill air blew in over her toes, carrying the smoky aroma of extinguished torches and the servants’ stew.

Why would King Talomir be at my door? She closed and locked her room, standing for a few seconds in confused silence before crawling back into bed. The prince said they wanted him to ‘test’ me. Do they really think I’m a spy? They know I have magic…

A grin spread over her face as she thought back to the fight with that idiot guard. Off balance and facing a shot that would’ve hurt her badly, she liquefied the stones under his feet. It bought her the opening she needed, even if most would’ve called it cheating.

Kitlyn scowled. There’s no cheating in fights. He was going to hurt me.

A scuff outside stalled the breath in her throat. She listened to intense silence for a few seconds before a strange scraping came from the hallway. Kitlyn snuck out of bed yet again and tiptoed to her door. She leaned her weight on the handle, easing it down to prevent any sound and opened it enough to peer out into the hall.

A maidservant crouched by Oona’s door, in the full grey uniform dress of the castle staff plus bonnet. The woman fiddled at the lock with small pins. The instant Kitlyn noticed an unusual amount of hair on ‘her’ wrist, the lock clicked open. The maid slipped inside.

Kitlyn flung her door open and sprinted across the hallway before barging into Oona’s room. A step or two shy of halfway across, the maid crept toward the sleeping princess while drawing a wavy-bladed dagger from under the dress.

“Guards!” yelled Kitlyn. “Assassin!”

The intruder whipped around to glare back for a mere instant, then bounded toward the bed.

“Oona!” screamed Kitlyn, hurling magic at the floor to create a ripple in the marble tiles that made him stumble. Still shouting, she leapt onto him from behind and wrapped her arms around his neck. They spun about twice before the man grabbed hold of her left arm by the elbow and yanked, flinging her up and over his head before slamming her flat on her back.

Kitlyn wheezed, stunned, all the air driven from her lungs. The assassin dropped, his knee on her chest, and raised his dagger.

A sudden flash of blue in front of his face made him dive away with a shout, and left Kitlyn seeing spots. She woozily sat up in time to catch a boot to the face, which knocked her flat on her chest, sending her sliding across the room on a throw rug like a toboggan. She crashed into the marble mantelpiece, legs in the air.

Oona’s scream faded to grunts of exertion.

Pain and bleariness evaporated. Kitlyn sat up and pulled her feet under her. The false maid had climbed onto the bed. Oona had both hands around his right wrist, trying to stop the ten-inch dagger from piercing her heart. He covered her mouth and nose with his other hand, either trying to quiet or suffocate her.

Kitlyn jumped up to stand, bumping the iron pail full of fireplace tools. Sudden inspiration took her, and she grabbed the poker before running at the bed. “Get away from her, now!”

He shot a look over his shoulder at her and seemed to dismiss her until she swung the poker like a sword, striking empty mattress as he rolled off the far side of the bed, leaving Oona gasping.

The man popped up into a lunge at Kitlyn. She sidestepped and swatted his arm aside before whipping the poker in a raking strike for his face. He ducked, but yielded ground. Her improvised weapon weighed far less than the wooden blade, making one-handed fighting easy, yet strange.

“Hmph.” The assassin stifled a chuckle as he glanced at her pitiful armament.

As angry as she’d been at Morrow, this man wanted to kill Oona. She itched to take his head off, even if she had to use a fire poker to do it. Again she roared, faking an overhead strike, which she gracefully switched to an underhand upswing aimed for his groin. He moved enough to prevent a crippling blow, but the iron claw drew blood on his thigh.

“Oona! Run, get the guards!” yelled Kitlyn.

The princess had crawled as far away from the fight as she could on the bed, huddled against the wall, the blanket up to her eyes, staring at the assassin like one of her childhood terrors had come to life. Kitlyn hurled herself to the side to avoid the man’s dagger, grunting with the strength she poured into a backhanded swing for his face. He ducked with ease, sliding around to the left. Her overpowered swing left her teetering on one leg when it hit nothing.

“Oona!” shouted Kitlyn. “Could use some help here…”

The princess blinked rapidly and gasped before scrambling out of bed. The man went toward her, but Kitlyn thrust the fire poker in his side, keeping his attention. Oona raised her hand, a nimbus of light forming between her fingers. She edged around them, looking for an opening.

Growling, the assassin sliced at Kitlyn’s face. She raised her guard, but he twisted away and leapt onto the bed, running over the mattress to Oona, who released a blast of light in his face. He howled in pain, but didn’t stop. The princess leapt back, scrambling over the bed as he flipped his dagger around to an icepick grip and hammered it down. Oona rolled to the side, avoiding the blade that plunged into the mattress, then planted a two-legged kick into his chest and shoved. He flew back to his feet, staggering, but tripped on the dress tangled about his legs and landed flat on his back.

Kitlyn rushed over, swinging down. The poker hit the floor with a clank as he spun away, but she managed to whip it across the small of his back as soon as he got to his feet, drawing a cry.

“Guards!” shouted Oona. She shot a bolt of light out her window that exploded outside with a resonating boom that rolled over the castle grounds like thunder.

So loud! “Hit him with that one!” shouted Kitlyn.

“It’s only light and sound,” rasped Oona.

The assassin slashed at Kitlyn; she parried. She swung; he ducked. He lunged in, and she sidestepped, circling around. Back and forth they went for a few seconds that felt like an hour. Every so often, a streak of blue light hit him in the chest or side, but appeared to have no greater impact than a man’s fist, slowing, but not bringing him down. Kitlyn’s heart pounded in her head. Whenever his dagger clanked against the poker, her heart slammed into her breastbone. This couldn’t have been farther from her fight with Morrow. Fear kept her from surrendering to anger, she tried to stay calculating like Lorne said… if she allowed fear to take over, they would die.

He lunged at her in an effort to grab hold. She spun away, his half-grip tearing her nightdress open at the shoulder. Kitlyn stomped her bare foot onto his leather boot, but he refused to let go of her nightdress. Another flash of blue light sent him stumbling to the side, blinking. Mistaking her weapon for a deadly implement, Kitlyn stabbed him in the kidney, but the dull point didn’t penetrate deep enough to do much more than make him curse her.

The assassin whirled to his left with a backhanded strike, but she ducked. His motion continued in a spin as he brought the dagger up, aiming for her gut. She leapt to the side, flinging her butt out to keep her stomach away from the edge, and smashed the poker down as hard as she could on his wrist, earning a satisfying crunch of bone. His grip faltered and the knife clanked against marble.

A glowing, blue bolt flew in from the side, striking him in the face and drawing a spurt of blood from his nose. He stumbled to his left, dazed.

Snarling, Kitlyn raked her weapon at his face again. He leaned away, backpedaling. Oona scurried over, swiped the dagger up from the floor and took a position at Kitlyn’s side. He backed away, right hand dangling limp. Brown eyes burned with anger and shock.

“Oona?” whispered Kitlyn.

“I’m fine. Don’t kill him. There’s too many things we need to ask him.” Oona raised her head, adopting an imperious stance despite her disheveled nightgown.

The assassin ran to the window and jumped.

A sense of the castle stone flooded Kitlyn’s mind through the marble beneath her feet. She envisioned a flat slab of rock growing out of the wall near the ground, but before she could give him something less pleasant to land on than a moat, a splash broke the silence.

She sighed.

Oona ran to the window and leaned out, yelling, “Assassin in the moat!” setting off answering shouts.

Kitlyn dropped the poker and hurried to her side. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Are you?”

“Bruises.” Kitlyn put a hand over her chest, trying to get her heart to slow down.

Oona grabbed her arms, her eyes catching the moonlight with a long, plaintive stare.

“You’re trembling.” Kitlyn pulled her into a hug.

“I… shouldn’t have cowered under my blanket like a child. I panicked. I thought all that talk of assassins had been my father’s fear taken too far. Never did I expect a… a killer in my bedchamber.” Oona squeezed her, sniffling into the crook of her neck. “You saved me.”

“You saved me too, with that flash.” Kitlyn rubbed her side. “Trained soldiers can freeze the first time they face a real battle, and we’re not trained soldiers. It’s all right. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

“You matter too.” Oona shivered. “If you weren’t here… I only came to my senses when I saw you in danger.”

Kitlyn leaned back to resume eye contact. Oona’s fear melted away to something… else. Her eyelids drooped. Kitlyn stared at her delicate lips, still with a hint of pink gloss. They held each other’s arms, grasping elbows, nose to nose. I… I can’t be imagining this. She closed her eyes and leaned closer.

The instant their lips met, the door crashed open.

Oona shrieked and jumped back. Kitlyn whirled about.

“What’s going on here?” bellowed a guard.

Kitlyn wanted to evaporate into tiny particles. Her muscles locked, freezing her in place.

“An assassin tried to kill me!” roared Oona. She pointed at the window. “He leapt out after Kitlyn broke his hand.”

Another guard rushed in, followed by Beredwyn and the king himself. The first guard headed to the window.

He didn’t see us… Kitlyn started to faint from relief, but Oona held her up.

“Oh, poor girl, she’s had a fright.” Beredwyn rushed to her side and fanned her.

“A fright?” yelled Oona. “A man just tried to kill me! ‘Having a fright’ is a nightmare. And what took everyone so long? We’ve been screaming for hours.”

Beredwyn pursed his lips. “The guards nearest this hall are asleep at their posts, and would not wake. Drugged, most likely.”

Oona shivered from what could’ve been fear or anger.

“Are you all right?” Kitlyn squeezed her hand. Oona squeezed back.

King Talomir, looking more worried than Kitlyn had ever seen him, strode up and pulled both of them into a silent embrace.

Kitlyn, her cheek smushed into his breast, stared across the fabric of his night robe at Oona, who shrugged with her eyebrows. He held them for several minutes as guardsmen collected the dagger, and a search began.

“Praise Lucen,” whispered the king. He relaxed his grip and regarded them both. “What happened?”

Oona explained, her voice raspy and breathless. All the while she talked, her father kept his attention on Kitlyn, the heroine of Oona’s tale. Near to panting from the fight, she stood paralyzed under the weight of his deep green gaze. The king is staring at me.

“Kitlyn?” asked the king, in a quiet, comforting tone. “Please tell me what happened.”

“I wasn’t sleeping well, and heard something out in the hall. Someone walking away, maybe.”

The king’s eyebrow climbed a fraction of an inch. He seemed to be fighting a smile.

She relayed the rest as she’d experienced it, but omitted Oona’s brief lapse hiding under a blanket.

The king remained silent for a while, looking sad, older, and guilty. He shook it off with a sigh. “I have not been honest with you.”

Beredwyn raised both eyebrows and opened his mouth, but held his tongue.

“Your mother did not die in childbirth as I told you.” He looked down for a few seconds before lifting his gaze to Oona. “She was murdered by those damnable savages, as you almost were tonight.”

Oona gasped, covering her mouth. “H-how long ago?”

“You were too young to remember. Barely a year of age. No one knew you existed. With the Foretelling, we tried to keep you a secret.”

Kitlyn guided Oona to sit on the end of the bed and held her while she wept for her mother. Beredwyn gave the king an odd look, but continued to hold his tongue.

“Lorne,” said the king.

“Yes, my liege?” the captain entered from the hallway.

“Place a guard by each of their doors. At all hours. I want alert soldiers. Short shifts, no more than four hours per guard. Also, none of them are to eat or drink anything that has not been blessed by a priest. If you cannot locate one, I shall do it myself.”

“As you command.” Lorne bowed.

“What of the assassin?” asked the king.

“The archers got him, sire. He had some difficulty riding with one hand and couldn’t scale the wall.”

King Talomir bowed his head. “Damn. Endeavor to determine how he managed to get inside.” Ice clung to his words, but didn’t seem directed at the captain.

“Of course, sire.” Lorne pointed at two men. “You, on this door. You… Kitlyn’s room.”

“Sir,” said the men at the same time. One hurried out to the hall, while the other took a position at Oona’s door.

Kitlyn jumped at the touch of fingers on her bare shoulder. She glanced down at Oona’s hand, caressing where her gown had ripped.

“Your nightdress is ruined. And this reminds me!” Oona turned to glare at Beredwyn. “I cannot tolerate this lunacy any longer. Not tonight, of all nights, not when Kitlyn saved my life. I demand she be treated as befits my handmaiden, if”―she glowered at the king― “she cannot be my lady-in-waiting. Why are my torn clothes better than her whole? Why are anyone’s, down to the lowest scullery maid? Does she not earn a wage?”

“She does, but it is held in trust.” Beredwyn smiled. “She has but to ask for what she needs. Always has.”

“In trust?” Oona blinked.

Kitlyn quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Umm, well, you’d never so much as inquired after a wage.” Beredwyn fidgeted at his robes.

Kitlyn fought to keep the garment from falling off as Oona, grumbling about their excuses, pushed her standing and dragged her to the wardrobe. She took a fine, embroidered nightdress out, shoved it into her arms, and ushered her into the bathing alcove for some privacy. “You’ll wear that tonight.”

“But it’s silk. It is yours.” Her voice echoed in the dark room, amplified by the empty tub.

“Do not make me come in there!”

Kitlyn switched garments. The silk flowed over her skin like cream, smooth and airy. After a moment or two of running her hands over the fabric to admire the feel of it, she emerged from the bath chamber and trudged back to where everyone waited. When the king gave Oona a hug, kissed her on the cheek, and bade good night, the sudden gloom of wondering what it would be like to have a father came over her. That the king had included her in his initial embrace flummoxed her still. Perhaps he’d been so overwhelmed with joy that his daughter lived, he found it faster to hug the pair of them rather than try and pull Oona away.

“Goodnight, princess.” Kitlyn started for the door, but Oona grabbed her from behind.

“Kit.”

She turned. Oona looked like a frightened little girl again.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Beredwyn found the wall hangings fascinating. He examined one for a few seconds before exiting, hands clasped behind his back.

“Won’t I get in trouble?” asked Kitlyn.

Oona shook her head, making her long blonde hair dance about. Her sapphire eyes radiated worry. “No. I’m frightened.”

“So am I.”

Kitlyn let Oona lead her by the hand to the bed, and they climbed under the blankets. The men took their leave, save for the guards flanking the door, one for each girl.

Soon, she lay on her side facing Oona. Having so much silk around her felt beyond peculiar, as if she’d fallen into a cloud, a world apart from her thin mattress with the coarse linen sheets. Oona reached over and took her hand.

“My heart’s still racing,” whispered Kitlyn.

“Do you think there’s another one?” Oona blinked. “Another assassin?”

Kitlyn tried to slow her breathing. “Probably, but not in the castle.”

“I hate this war,” whispered Oona.

“Me too.”

They lay in silence for some time; eventually Oona ceased trembling.

Kitlyn squeezed her hand. Was she going to kiss me, or did I just want her to?

“Do you think I should marry Tristan?” asked Oona.

No! “Who?”

“Prince Tristan Lanwick.” Oona thrust her arm straight up, waving her hand about. “Captain of some such order, second heir to the throne of Ondar, and a litany of other titles.”

Kitlyn chuckled. “I can’t imagine spending your whole life with someone you don’t love.”

The princess’ eyes lit up. “I can’t either.”

Oona let her arm drop to the mattress.

“Do you want to?” Kitlyn swished one foot back and forth over the silk. “You obviously don’t love him.”

“I’ve only known of him for two days. Well, in more than a purely ‘yes, he exists’ sort of fashion.” Oona sighed with a roll of her eyes. “My father thinks an alliance with Ondar will end the war. He said their soldiers are so well trained that the mere creation of an alliance will scare Evermoor into surrender.”

“I don’t think so.” Kitlyn fidgeted. “Aren’t we being taught Evermoor’s dark masters want to take back the land that Lucen cleansed?”

“Yes. That is what the teachings say. Who else but servants of demons would try to kill me as an infant?” Oona sighed, continuing in a tiny whisper. “I don’t want to conquer them, but Father thinks innocent people will die if I don’t.”

Kitlyn stared across the pillow at her, both silent, lost in their thoughts. Together, but not together enough. Worried the princess might see something in her expression she hadn’t prepared herself to admit, she stared up at the ceiling instead. Dare she admit she’d fallen in love? It seemed too good to be true that Oona could possibly feel the same way. Would it be better to live at her side for years and years, never admitting her heart, or open her mouth and become hated?

“Oona?” She braced herself. A good time for such a discussion would never arrive, but this seemed as good a moment as she’d ever likely find. “Were you about to… kiss me?”

Silence.

Kitlyn looked over.

Oona had fallen asleep.

Kitlyn slipped her free hand out from under the blanket, kissed her fingertip, and gently pressed it to Oona’s lip.

For now, this would do.

13

A Simple Life

~ Oona ~

The next day passed in quiet awkwardness. Everywhere Oona went, two guards shadowed. Two, as Kitlyn remained at her side the entire day.

She’d traded her stable boy clothing for a shoulder-baring gown of emerald velvet with seafoam green trim around the top, sleeves, and hem as well as a borrowed pair of matching shoes. The two of them running about the castle in dresses harkened back to simpler days, a reprieve from the madness of war. They spent much of their time in the library, as the king confined them to the keep. It also rained, which made the idea of sneaking out to the garden less appealing. Then again, ‘sneaking’ to the garden would’ve required eluding the guards, and one day after someone tried to kill her in the night, she wasn’t ready to do that.

A few times, Fauhurst or Elsbeth came looking for Kitlyn, but Oona had chased them off with everything from simple ‘go aways’ to threats of an escalating series of awful demotions. Each time he returned, the young advisor had looked increasingly flustered. Fortunately, the spy had not harmed any of the maids to take her place, merely stolen the largest grey dress in the servants’ laundry.

Dinner that day had been nothing at all like before. Something had charged the air, though she couldn’t tell if the odd tension existed between her and Tristan, or Kitlyn and the king. No one seemed to be capable of making eye contact with anyone. Forks and knives scratched at plates in the deadly silence of the private dining hall. Red wood paneling covered in paintings and tapestries surrounded a heavy table. As always, the queen’s unused place setting remained. Perhaps her ghost still occupied the chair.

Kitlyn sat at Oona’s left, fidgeting. Some of the lower servants had stared in awe at her in a dress; one or two had even scurried away, curiously pale. Oona drank in the sight of the girl’s ink-black hair cascading down over her milky shoulders. She longed to hold her, a deep ache in her heart throbbed in time with each beat.

“Oona?” asked Kitlyn, her eyebrow doing something that asked, ‘why are you staring at me?’

“It’s nice to see you cleaned up. The dress is quite becoming.”

It wound up being Oona’s favorite on her as it matched her eyes, something they’d settled on after two hours of trial and error. Kitlyn had seemed hesitant to change in front of her until Oona brought up how many times she had helped her in the bath, and she caved in, albeit with a face the color of ivenberries.

She hoped that reaction confirmed her hopes. Many times over the past few months, she’d caught Kitlyn peeking at her or giving her looks a touch more intense than befitted a mere friendship. She’d come close to addressing this on nine separate occasions that day, but each time, she thought of her father and his position as High Priest of the Temple of Lucen. He lived to embody purity. Waking nightmares of the advisors all blaming his impure heir for their ill fortune kept her mute. That, and having two guards ever in arms’ reach of them.

How can love be impure?

Oona bit her lip. Kitlyn glanced at her. She wanted to hold hands, but dared not do it in front of Tristan. Kitlyn had told her about the ‘interrogation,’ and she feared if the young prince could read people as well as he claimed, he’d see straight through her.

For his part, Tristan kept quiet. Aside from a startled reaction to the sight of Kitlyn in a gown, and a quick look between her and the king, he confined his conversation to politics and religion in soft murmurs.

As Oona already knew―and her father’s none-too-subtle matchmaking attempts reminded her―Ondar’s pantheon placed the most reverence upon the Steelfather, he who elevated humanity from of its primitive origins by bestowing the knowledge of metalworking and steel. Much of Ondar’s economy subsisted on mining and trade in metals. A natural complement, jewels and gems also held a prominent place. Its sovereign, King Harl Lanwick, also took direct control of the kingdom’s army, and had a reputation for riding into battle with his men. Of course, so far, Ondar’s soldiers had only fought in defense of their kingdom against barbarian tribes to the northwest, tribes that had no access to Lucernia due to harsh conditions in the Dawnspire Mountains.

Having little interest in a refresher course on their Steelfather’s numerous undergods representing strength, courage, intelligence, and speed, Oona tuned them out. How could these people not revere Lucen, Navissa, Orien, and Tenebrea, anyway? They were gods, for gods’ sake. It’s not as though their power ended at the borders of one kingdom. This Steelfather was probably a talented blacksmith who became the talk of legends and the people eventually mistook him for a deity.

Of course, far be it for her to start a debate on theology that could turn heated, even if it freed her from the whole arranged marriage business.

She ate turkey, potatoes, carrots, and peas in tiny bites. Her stomach still hadn’t quite settled from having a man barge into her room and try to kill her, but taking in such small mouthfuls helped fool her worry. At least, now that she’d turned sixteen, father let her have wine with dinner. Two glasses had done much to assuage her nerves. Kitlyn had water and didn’t ask for wine. She kept her head bowed, refusing to look at Tristan or the king.

Oona slid a hand under the tablecloth and gave the girl’s knee a squeeze. When her friend looked up, the knot in her belly tightened. It troubled her to see Kitlyn so ill at ease. It couldn’t be the king; she’d dined with them innumerable times before, if not quite of late. Was it the prince?

Kitlyn forced a smile in return, tense like a catapult cord about to snap. Careful not to heap more unwanted attention onto her, Oona looked away, catching the prince’s eye again, which made him glance sidelong at the king before he grabbed a napkin to stifle a cough.

“All right, there, young man?” asked the king, every inch a jovial host.

Tristan coughed once more, raising the fingers of his napkin hand in a universal, ‘I’m fine’ gesture. “Yes. Quite so.” He cast a pitying look at Oona.

What’s that for?

The prince seemed to pick up on the girls’ disinterest in conversation and kept the king occupied with a discussion of the war effort. Oona knew from the previous day’s conference over the map that Kitlyn’s suggestion had been implemented. The number of raiding parties being reported had more than quadrupled. Not that anyone thought the savages attacked more often, but the wider coverage allowed the Lucernian army to intercept far more of them.

“Your redistribution of forces has afforded your people greater security, but for how long?” The prince finished off his first wine goblet. “I expect Evermoor knows of my presence by now.”

“Indeed.” The king rubbed a hand back and forth over his mouth.

“What remains to be seen, however, is how they take this in relation to the Foretelling.” Prince Lanwick studied Oona for two seconds and Kitlyn for five. “Your heir is destined, according to this seer’s writings, to bring about an end to the war… though the method of said end is not specified. Perhaps her role in a potential alliance would satisfy that?”

The king nodded. “That could very well be.”

Piper, the young dark-haired kitchen maid, entered with a ewer full of wine. She froze two steps inside the door, staring at Kitlyn. The color drained from her face, the large pitcher in her hands clasped as if it might save her from a ravening fiend. Kitlyn looked back at her with confusion, then gave Oona a ‘what?’ look.

“No idea,” mouthed Oona. “Perhaps she’s horrified you’re wearing my gown.”

“Yeah.” Kitlyn frowned at her lap.

The girl marched over and refilled the prince’s goblet. The king held his out as well.

“Do not be ashamed,” whispered Oona. “I forbid it.” She glanced to her father and raised her voice to a normal level. “The Foretelling also does not specify which heir. You are not so wizened that another queen is beyond possibility. Do you think this war could go on another twenty years?”

“By Lucen’s grace, I hope not.” The king set his refilled goblet down. “You do not see it here in Cimril, but with each month, we amass more and more dead. Families without fathers, mothers without sons. It cannot go on that long.”

Piper edged around to Kitlyn, wearing an expression part way between sympathy and worry. She started to pour, but realized the goblet held water and caught herself before tainting it. With a mute cringe of apology, she slipped past Oona’s chair and refilled her cup from the left.

Oona shrank in on herself. From now until the war ended, she’d stare at every shadow expecting an assassin. Dare she have any room for love, for self-pity, with things being as they were? Yet, for herself, dare she not? And after all, destined she might be to end the war. But how… Oh, the how of it could still be her choice. By the time she’d finished her third cup of wine, the room closed in on her. She broke out in a sweat.

“Are you unwell, Princess?” asked her almost-fiancé.

“I…” She stood. “I’m overly warm. If you’ll excuse me….”

Kitlyn stood as well.

The king raised his arm, beckoning. “Kitlyn, might you stay? I have been meaning to speak with you.”

“Me?” she whispered, staring downcast.

Oona stopped at the door. I cannot suffer this anymore. I must leave here at once. She stared at Kitlyn, trying to will the words ‘follow me’ into her brain.

King Talomir clasped his hands at the table edge, fingers laced. “Oona tells me you have not been treated well. I wish to hear the full extent of it.”

Kitlyn grimaced at Oona, helplessness writ stark on her face.

It won’t matter soon. “Yes, father. Do ask her to tell you everything.” Oona fumbled at the door handle, the confining room and her corset conspiring to squeeze the breath from her lungs. The spinning in her head from the wine didn’t help. “I… must go lie down.”

“Yes, Highness.” Kitlyn sank back into her seat. “I… I shall be in to assist you presently.”

Oona ran out, nearly knocking over the dark-haired young maid in the hall, who managed to save the ewer without spilling any. The princess hiked up her gown and hurried around the hall, past the throne room doors, down the curved corridor, and into her bedchamber. A few arduous minutes of acrobatics later, she loosed her back ties enough to wriggle out of the white formal gown. After, she stripped down to her smallclothes before selecting a simple goldenrod dress with a hem halfway down her shins.

She hurried to her writing desk, pulled out a scrap of paper, dipped a quill in a bottle of ink, and wrote, “Meet at Duskdawn Lake.”

Leaving it to dry, she stepped sockless into her slippers (she would’ve preferred her low-heeled boots, but worried about the noise they’d make on the floor). From her bureau, she gathered a pouch and a heavy handful of coins from her allowance: gold radians embossed with Lucen’s sun and silver crescents bearing Navissa’s moon. After stuffing the pouch, she tied it to her belt. No jewelry, no. Too recognizable. Too rich. She couldn’t risk trying to sell any of the pieces, and if she ever came back, it would still be here for her. For now, well… what need had she of jewelry out in the woods? After a few deep breaths to summon courage, she peeked into the hall. The guards had realized she’d come upstairs and had again taken posts by her door.

Damn. If they find the note, they’ll come after me.

She grabbed Kitlyn’s tunic and breeches from the floor, folded them neatly, and hid the note inside. With any luck, the guards wouldn’t notice or care that she had a pouch on her belt, or had dressed in such a simple way. This dress had no fluff in the skirt and contoured her body.

Oona opened the door and stepped into the hall, carrying the pageboy clothing. “Kitlyn left this in here; I’m taking it to her room.”

The guards offered a pair of barely-interested nods.

She crossed to Kitlyn’s little room and slipped inside. After setting the clothes on the end of the bed, she lifted the mattress, exposing a pair of soft shoes. Oona blinked. Surprise gave way to annoyance. She’ll not need to hide them any longer. She tucked the note into one shoe and lowered the mattress back. Kitlyn will find it. She has to! An idea hit her. She headed back to her bedchamber and shut the door.

On another piece of paper, she wrote, “Grengwylf.” That name belonged to a faerie tale monster they’d both been petrified of as children. A monster that lived under beds. She’ll see this and check under her mattress. Oh, please, Tenebrea, let her find my note.

Oona folded the paper and left it on her bed. She expected Kitlyn would come here as soon as she escaped the dinner. It hurt to leave her there, but the stifling claustrophobia of circumstance refused to wait. She had to get out of here, now! Tristan’s pitying look could have only meant he knew her father would command her to marry. The dining hall had become stifling. Perhaps the wine had given her the courage to flee the castle, but it seemed her only choice.

No assassins, no servants, no people trying to kill me in my sleep. Just the two of us. Surely, it has to be possible.

She stepped out of her bedchamber again. “I’m going to the library.”

The guard at her door grumbled and followed her around the hallway, back past the private dining room. Conversation continued inside. She slowed, staring at the door, half-tempted to drag Kitlyn out of there and make a run for it, but dressed like this, she wouldn’t get far before the questions started. Questions she didn’t want to answer.

She beelined to the library, vast and dark. Tall shelves held scores upon scores of books. A few, she’d read, some more than once when her father had brought along on those months-long visits to their other castles in Gwynaben, Torlach, and once to Ondar when she’d been about twelve. She didn’t remember seeing Tristan then, and wondered if that trip had been a failed attempt to create an alliance years ago.

She remembered mostly spending the entire time in a dejected mood over having to leave her best friend behind. After a month or so haunting Castle Ondar like some forlorn wraith going through the lifeless motions of being a young princess, they returned home. Three weeks to get there, a month and a week there, and three weeks back… probably wasted. Guilt warred with indignation in her breast. She wasn’t a chattel to be bartered. Perhaps her father had been more distant lately because she’d been refusing to see reason. Her happiness did not outweigh the lives of everyone in her kingdom, but as much as she expected the thought to bring guilt, at that moment, her need to be with Kitlyn, free of the burdens of her crown and the Foretelling, swallowed wisdom.

Her bodyguard peered in, raising an eyebrow. “Awful dark in there, Highness.”

Oona smiled, and called her floating light orb. “No it isn’t.”

He blinked, dumbfounded. “Alright then.”

As he settled into position outside the door, she wandered among the shelves. After six minutes of acting as though she perused titles, the anxiety got the best of her. Oona weaved around a table full of giant tomes and headed toward the smaller narrow shelves at the rear of the library. It took her a little while to find the fat red book with four gold bars on the binding. When she tugged at it, the adjacent shelf clicked open like a door.

They’d found that passage quite by accident as children. She couldn’t remember if it had been her hand or Kitlyn’s foot that triggered it while they climbed the shelves, but they couldn’t resist playing explorers. It became far less fun after the door closed and trapped them in total darkness.

Oona grinned at the memory of clinging to Kitlyn while they both bawled their eyes out, feeling along the wall until they found a stairway down and a passage leading to the kitchen. Once they could see again, they went from crying to giggling in an instant. At that age, she hadn’t known she possessed the magic to make light.

She eyed her little glowing companion. Tonight, there’d be no tears.

The shelf moved aside with a faint squeak. She didn’t pause to wonder if the guard heard her, and ducked through before pushing it closed. Air thick with the smell of damp and moss wrapped her in a clammy embrace. The secret corridor didn’t have much room; it had seemed far larger to a six-year-old. Ten years later, she felt like a slice of ham wedged between pieces of bread. If she faced the direction of the passage, both shoulders touched the walls. She walked sideways under the scintillating light. At least in the narrow confines, her somewhat wobbly stride from the wine didn’t affect her.

Stains and smears of moss darkened the stone at random. A few times, she stepped on something other than smooth rock, and hoped Kitlyn would not leave her shoes under her bed when she followed.

In moments, she reached a four-way intersection where a slightly wider hallway to the right led to a rickety wooden stairway. No telling how long the two of them roamed around in here years ago. Having light made finding her way out easy. When she crouched at the top, a lump hitched in her throat at the sight of little bare footprints in the dust on the stairs. No one had been here since they’d gone exploring as little kids.

Loath to disturb the memory, she stepped astride the footprints they’d made ten years ago and made her way down two stories of switchback stairs to the ground floor. Light from the kitchen leaned in from far to the left, a good fifty yards or so. A few little prints continued off in that direction, spaced wider, as they had run full tilt to the exit as soon as they could see it. Oona looked again to the stairs, at where they continued down beneath the ground.

The whole point of these tunnels is to allow escape. Or perhaps only to let the servants move about unseen. Hopefully, it’s an escape. I can’t go out through the kitchen; they’ll see me.

Oona descended the second portion of stairs into a rough-hewn catacomb, stopping at the last step and frowning at a few inches of greenish water. Wind moved along the tunnel, suggesting access to the outside. Sudden fear pushed aside her wine-courage. Evermoor’s assassins would never imagine the princess could leave alone, in such a simple garment without guards or attendants. It’s not as if these killers knew her personally. They came after ‘the heir.’ Some probably expected a prince.

Grasping the handrail for balance, she stooped to remove her slippers. No sense being stuck in soaked footwear. Plus, whatever awfulness lurked in that water would get into the fabric and stay there. The air stank, thick with plant matter and mustiness. At least it didn’t reek like the moat. After gathering her dress up away from the water, she extended one foot into the frigid water.

Oona bit her forearm to stifle a scream at the muck oozing between her toes as she set her weight down. “Oh, of course. Simply being cold isn’t bad enough,” she whispered. “There simply must be slime, too.” She envisioned walking on chilled raw egg. However distasteful the sensation underfoot, it still bothered her less than the thought of a forced marriage.

Her first instinct, to turn right, proved wrong. Luckily, she discovered her error in only a few minutes when the passage ended at a barred door, like one might see in a jail. Stairs beyond it led downward, and a few baleful moans echoed from the depths. Water ran in a fall down the steps, collecting in a deeper canal below. Giving it no further thought, she went the other way.

She walked for some time in the ankle-deep water, grimacing at the texture squishing under each step. Between the slipperiness and a bit of tipsy, she frequently grabbed the walls to keep from falling. After a while, the water became so shallow it amounted to little more than a coating of wet moss on the stone. Her heart thumped at her breast at the glimmer of her light reflecting from something metal up ahead. She almost gave in to the temptation to run, but the fear of slipping kept her creeping forward.

The passage ended at a stone door covered in partially rusted gearworks and slats. One lever stuck out from the wall at her left, bearing a healthy decoration of cobwebs and dust. A thriving population of spiders scurried away at her approach, disappearing into cracks in the walls and ceiling. Oona cringed and grasped the bar with two fingers. As that proved insufficient, she added a finger at a time, a slow disgusted whine rumbling in her throat as she eventually clamped her entire hand around the cobweb-encrusted iron.

A determined tug later, the rust broke. The lever came down in a blast of dust, which sent her scooting backward, coughing. Old gears whirred into motion, extracting four sliding slats as thick as broadswords from the walls. The ratcheting, clanking contraption made so much noise she would’ve had to scream to be heard over it. When it fell quiet, she pushed against the door. Nothing moved. With a sigh of exasperation, she held her slippers in her teeth and leaned into it with both hands and all her weight.

The door heaved open in an arduous, slow creep. Dirt and grass clods rained on her from above as the stone slab swung out into a verdant field near the Mistral Wood. With a creaking groan, the door’s weight pulled it open the rest of the way, until it halted with a heavy thud.

She stared at the outside world, a world she hadn’t set foot in for years. No guards, no one to protect her, and no Kitlyn. She bit her lip and looked back.

“Gods, I beg of thee Kitlyn finds my note. Please guide us together and protect her. Please help us stop this war. I can’t kill so many thousands of people. There must be another way. Please.”

Oona stood for a moment with her fists touched together in front of her heart, a gesture of reverence to the gods. With one last, longing look back into the catacomb, she hauled the door closed, locking herself out. The slab blended back into the greenery, making it difficult to find even if one knew it existed. After a final, longing stare at the castle, she set off into the forest. Her feet felt sticky, so she carried her slippers until she could find a stream to rinse off.

“Well… Here I am.” She stared up at the castle spires and dimmed her little orb to nothingness, lest they see it. “If he wants an alliance with Ondar, Father can marry Tristan.” A slow sigh leaked from her lips. “If the gods wish me to ‘end the war,’ I shall do so, but on my terms.”

Head down, she trudged into the Mistral Wood, still praying the gods would listen.

14

Thief

~ Kitlyn ~

Kitlyn emitted a soft moan as consciousness returned. She stretched out in the fabulous silken bed, spread-eagled under the blanket… and realized she occupied it alone. Her eyes popped open and she sat up. She’d lingered waiting for Oona to return from wherever she’d gone, and must’ve fallen asleep.

“Oona?”

The word echoed back to her twice in the princess’ otherwise empty bedchamber.

“Why didn’t she return?”

She hugged her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. Talking to the king started off more awkward than having to attend to Oona’s bath as of late, but as intimidating as the man could be, he’d radiated gentle concern. Soon, she’d found herself chatting with him as casually as she spoke with Oona. She hadn’t whined, she thought, or, at the least, tried her best not to. Much to her surprise, she’d learned his fury the other day had been directed at Fauhurst for making her carry the linens, not at her for being lazy. Whether or not the king would do anything permanent about her situation, she didn’t know―and at the moment, cared little.

Only one thought had any traction in her brain: Oona appeared to be missing.

Kitlyn leapt to the worry that assassins took her in the night, but quashed it realizing assassins wouldn’t ‘take’ her anywhere. They’d leave a body behind.

She leaned to get out of bed, but froze, surprised by a crinkle of paper under her elbow. Kitlyn plucked a folded letter from the bedclothes that she had evidently slept on, turned it about, and opened it.

Oona’s florid handwriting spelled one word: Grengwylf.

“What?” Kitlyn scrunched her eyebrows together. “What does…?”

She draped herself off the bed upside down and peered under it. Nothing there.

“What’s she on about?”

Kitlyn looked back and forth, her hair sweeping across the floor, but still found nothing of interest. Bracing her weight on her hands, she slithered off the bed to stand. Of course, now what should she do? She couldn’t exactly walk into the king’s meal chamber and have breakfast with him without Oona there. The king had been warm to her last night, but such pleasantries were both fleeting and meaningless. She also didn’t feel proper helping herself to any of Oona’s clothes or even remaining in her borrowed dress.

Yawning, she went out into the hallway, stopped by her room long enough to take a clean tunic and breeches, and carried them to the exceedingly cold garderobe. She removed the dress, relieved herself, and changed into her usual clothes before carrying the green dress and shoes back to Oona’s chambers. She returned to her little bedroom on sudden inspiration, and peered under her humble cot, but the floor held nothing.

“Grengwylf?” What did Oona mean? Kitlyn scratched her head. “Maybe she’s placed another note in that book. Oh, bother.”

Kitlyn left her room, hurried down the curving hallway to the west side of the castle, and approached the library. Her guard followed a few paces behind, making her feel awkward all over again. She shoved open the library door and squinted at a room filled with sunlight and dust. Tall windows set with thick crystal cut glass (one of the few in the castle to have glass rather than open holes in the wall) created a dazzling display of light.

Four parlor maids, two older than her and two barely past twelve if that, hummed merrily amongst themselves as they polished, dusted, and neatened. Watching a young maid, the same little redhead who’d returned her shoes, pick a book off the floor made her feel awkward. At that age, neither Kitlyn nor Oona had to worry about anything but playing or learning. These girls had not been taught to read as she had. No, I merely sat beside Oona while they taught her. She’d spent years at Oona’s side while her teachers schooled us in all sorts of subjects. Some even acted like they cared if Kitlyn paid attention.

“Excuse me,” said Kitlyn. “Have any of you seen Princess Oona?”

The redhead blinked at her. “No. Why would we?”

A dark-haired maid, perhaps twenty, shook her head. “I’ve not seen her at all this day.”

Kitlyn mumbled, “Maybe I should check that book.”

“You can read?” asked the other young girl. She had her light brown hair in pigtails that made her look even younger than her likely age of about thirteen. “How’d you manage that?”

Naïve as she had been, she hadn’t thought it unusual for kids to be taught things.

“Tutor,” said Kitlyn meekly.

“Oh.” The little redhead’s eyes widened. “Pardon.” She turned away as if taken with a sudden fear.

“It’s all right.” She patted the girl’s shoulder, offering a smile of thanks.

Kitlyn wandered between the shelves for a little while, scratching at her neck and fussing with her hair as a nervous habit. Perhaps the tickle running down her back came from worry rather than an errant strand.

Her stomach growled by the time she managed to locate an old tome with the title Grengwylf engraved in gold leaf. A small, round painting on the front showed a greenish creature comprised of leaves and forest debris emerging from under the bed of a small boy. Of course, that bed had somehow wound up in the middle of a lush forest…

Sifting through the book twice revealed no mysterious notes.

“Okay… the creature hides under the bed. Oona’s telling me under the bed… but what?” She blinked. “Maybe it’s something small, like a key.”

She replaced the book on the shelf and strode out, earning curious looks from the four maids who continued cleaning the library. The guard lumbered along after her, keeping up with her run. She rounded the corner into the curved hallway and skidded to a stop at the sight of Fauhurst glaring at her.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

She stood tall. “Where is Oona?”

“The Princess to you.” Fauhurst folded his arms. “She is occupied with royal things that you have no business even inquiring about. Getting terribly comfortable living above your station, aren’t you? You really should not allow yourself to forget where you came from, which is to say, nothing.”

Kitlyn bristled, yet stifled a retort, since, while cruel, he hadn’t said anything untrue.

“The princess is otherwise occupied, and will be for some time. So, it’s back to work for you. Pretend play is over now, child.”

“I’m not suppose―”

Fauhurst pointed at her. “You’d better get used to it, girl. The princess will soon be journeying to Ondar for another ceremony there. It’s quite likely you’ll not even see her again.”

Kitlyn shivered. No…. She couldn’t have. “But… Prince Tristan said―”

“Of course he did. He’s a prince. You should know by now royals and barristers have one thing in common. They both say whatever they think people want to hear.” He snapped his fingers at her. “Now, before I consider you a worthless layabout, this hallway is filthy.”

She balled her hands into fists, wetness gathering in the backs of her eyes. Her guard kept himself quiet and leaned on the wall.

“Oh, come now. You think the prince had any interest in you?”

“Of course not. He merely said―”

Fauhurst laughed. “Truly you are as stupid as you look. Now get to work. I’d better not return and find you lounging about.” He looked at the guard. “You, nothing better to do either?”

“I’m to protect the girl.”

Fauhurst sputtered and waved him off. “A servant has no need of a bodyguard. Go and do something productive.”

“All due respect, Master Fauhurst, I’d need an order from Captain Lorne or the king himself to abandon my post here.”

She grinned.

“We’ll see about that, then.” Fauhurst threw his nose in the air and whisked off out of sight.

Kitlyn sank to her knees, arms wrapped around herself, sniffling. She thought of Oona sitting with Tristan in some fancy blue-velvet-padded coach on the three-week trip north to Ondar. Did she agree to marry him to save Lucernia? Had she rushed away from dinner while the king kept her talking on purpose? Yet, what could she have done? Why the deception? Clearly, her conversation with the king meant nothing given Fauhurst’s order.

Oh, Oona… Did you think I would try to stop you, or did you just not want to see me cry?

She forced herself upright and trudged to the storage room on the first floor. With bucket and brush, Kitlyn dragged herself back to the princess’ hallway and collapsed on all fours to scrub. Oona was gone. She’d been left here alone and forgotten, an orphaned servant girl. I should’ve told her how I feel. Now I’ve lost her. Not quite five minutes after she started scrubbing, Kitlyn cried in earnest, her tears falling to the floor. I’m so stupid.

She continued scratching the hand brush back and forth across the marble, dipping it in the soapy water, and creeping a little farther along. The tears refused to stop, summoned by her desperation. This pain was what she’d feared would happen if she told the truth: Oona gone, never to be seen again.

No, she has to feel the same way… she almost kissed me.

Kitlyn paused, too overcome to move for a moment. The guard shadowing her seemed pained, but didn’t do anything other than give her sympathetic looks. She wiped her nose on her arm and forced herself to buck up and keep working. He thinks I’m upset over being yelled at.

Almost an hour later, her tears dried up to an occasional sniffle and a burdensome hollow absence in her chest. She’d made it about halfway down the hall, within sight of Oona’s door. She refused to look at it. One could only take so much.

At the scuff and clonk of footsteps approaching, she sat back on her heels and looked up.

Beredwyn and two castle guards walked over.

She rose, staring wide-eyed at the man she considered her protector. “May I… what’s going on? Where is Oona? Aren’t I still her handmaiden?”

He looked somber, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Come with me, Kitlyn.”

Wordless, he guided her closer to her bedchamber, but held her back from entering. She looked from him to the door to the guards, and back to him.

“Master Beredwyn?” asked Kitlyn.

“Search it,” said Beredwyn, in a tone as if he’d ordered her death.

The two guards filed in past her, looking around. One shrugged after four seconds, her furnishings so sparse, he might as well have looked from the doorway. The second lifted the mattress up from her cot, exposing a pair of gold chalices studded with emeralds, several necklaces, and a handful of expensive-looking rings… as well as her shoes. He picked at one, and removed a folded piece of paper.

Everyone gasped.

Kitlyn trembled. “What? I… I’ve never! I didn’t—I didn’t even sleep here last night!”

The guard propped the mattress up against the wall and studied the note. “Meet at Duskdawn Lake.” He glanced at Beredwyn. “Whoever she’s working with is waiting for her.”

Fauhurst swooped in, mouth open, but whatever he had been about to say stalled as soon as he got a look at the treasure. A smile of sanctimonious victory spread across his lips.

“By Lucen’s Light, I swear I have no idea how those things got there.” Kitlyn couldn’t stop shaking.

“Ungrateful little whelp,” Fauhurst sneered at her. “This is what the king gets for trusting such a lowborn wretch.”

Elsbeth! It had to be Elsbeth! She wants me gone.

“Master Beredwyn, please, you have to believe me. Why would I ever steal from the castle? I’m happy here!”

“Oh, balderdash,” yelled Fauhurst. “You loathe every waking minute of every day.”

She glared at him. “Only because you take great delight in making me miserable! Why don’t you accost the other servants as you do me? Why am I so specially deserving of your attention?”

“You see?” Fauhurst gestured at her. “The little, lying wretch is trying to blame me since she’s been caught.”

“I wasn’t.” Kitlyn looked down at her feet. The brush fell from her hand and hit the floor with a clack. “I… I didn’t.”

Beredwyn squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry, child. I’ve known you long enough I’m inclined to believe you”―Fauhurst scoffed―“however, there will need to be an investigation.”

One of the guards who had arrived with Beredwyn unhooked a pair of manacles from his belt.

She stared at him, trembling harder.

Beredwyn raised his hand. “That won’t be necessary.” He looked at her. “Will it?”

“What’s going to happen to me?” asked Kitlyn in a small voice.

“Well, you have had a guard with you for the past few days who I’m sure will say he did not see you abscond with any of these treasures.”

“How can you be so sure what this man will say?” snapped Fauhurst.

“Well.” Beredwyn smiled at him and winked at the guard. “If he admits to seeing her take any of these items, he would be an accomplice to the theft. If he posits she may have slipped away from him long enough to obtain any of them, he admits to dereliction of his duty. Also, I do not believe she is the responsible party, as damning as this evidence appears.”

Kitlyn clung to the old advisor’s arm. “Yes, Master Beredwyn, please. I did not steal these things.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I have no proof, but it may be Elsbeth. Oona made her sweep the garden walk, and she was furious. She’s trying to get rid of me.”

“Masters?” Her bodyguard spoke up, nodding at both advisors. “This morning was the first the girl had been to this room in two days. She slept in the princess’ bedchamber last night.”

“Like a little mongrel pining for its lost master,” muttered Fauhurst.

Kitlyn looked up at Beredwyn. “How much more trouble will I get in if I hit him?”

Fauhurst recoiled. “And threatening an advisor to the king?!”

“She didn’t threaten you; she asked an honest question.” Beredwyn rolled a few strands of his beard between his fingers. “To answer said question, more than it would be worth. Well, we have some investigating to do, but I am afraid you must be detained. In this matter, it is not possible to offer any special treatment.”

“I understand.” She bowed her head.

The guard rehung the manacles on his belt. He grasped her left arm above the elbow, while the other one grabbed her right arm. Her bodyguard appeared thoroughly confused, but decided to follow. She managed to keep her emotions in check as they led her downstairs, through the ground floor, and to the catacomb beneath the castle. As soon as she found herself underground, her trembling resumed. Would they shackle her to a wall? Put her in a cage? Lock her in some torturous contraption?

A heavy double door, at least a foot-thick wood with iron bands, hung open at the mouth of a wide, drippy corridor with a curved roof. More doors, reinforced with metal straps, stood at regular intervals on both sides. Moans and wheezes echoed like the cries of the restless dead. She instinctively recoiled at the mouth of the hallway, but the guards forced her forward.

They stopped at the second door on the left, pulled it open, and let go of her arms. Her throat tightened again at the sight of a room about the same size as her bedchamber, only instead of a cot, it had a plain stone slab jutting from the wall, and a scattering of wet hay on the ground. A small metal grate near the innermost wall allowed the sound of running water in, and green corrosion suggested frequent use as a prisoner’s toilet.

The guard on the left put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m inclined to believe you as well, girl.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” said the other guard. “If Master Beredwyn believes you, you’re in good hands…”

Faking composure, Kitlyn stepped into the cell, and promptly jumped at the thud of the door closing behind her, before cringing at the click of the lock. A foul urine-like smell assaulted her nose within seconds. She tiptoed around the damp hay, sat on the edge of the stone slab, and pulled her feet up.

“They can’t believe I’d steal…”

Kitlyn curled up on her side, crying off and on for what could’ve been hours. As much as she detested being forced to work so much, the shame of becoming a prisoner bothered her more, even if she could lay idle.

Distant male voices gargled or moaned, sometimes wailed. The occasional rattle of chains made her shiver. Her cell had two rings in the wall on each side, one holding a set of open manacles. She hid her hands in her armpits as if the chains would leap off the wall and try to seize her.

“Oi.” Her bodyguard’s voice echoed outside. “You find Captain Lorne and ask him to send the next shift down here? I’m past my time.”

“Right,” yelled another man.

The constant trickle emanating from the grate bored into her mind. She stared at it, trying not to think about flowing water, trying not to think about the growing pressure in her bladder. Even with no one able to see her here, the idea of using a hole in the floor made her blush.

She jumped at a metal snap from the hall. A moment later, it happened again. Footsteps approached. Kitlyn sat up on the bench, heels hooked on the side, and stared at her door. The third snap rang out as a tiny hatch at the bottom of the door flipped outward. A wooden tray with a fist-sized loaf of bread and two cups of water slid in, and the hatch clanked closed.

“Some kind of mess that is,” muttered a man outside.

“Yeah,” said a second man. “I would not want to be near the king now.”

The first guard laughed. “You got that right.”

Kitlyn leapt to her feet and ran to the door.

“You think they got her?” asked the second guard.

“Who, the savages?”

“Yeah.”

“Not sure. If they did, they’d have found her body by now like they found that advisor.”

The second guard huffed. “I don’t see why them savages would want to kidnap the princess. They’ve been tryin’ to kill her for years.”

“What happened?” Kitlyn banged her hands on the door. “Please! Someone tell me!”

“Yanno, I used to hate this detail.” A hatch snapped open farther down the hall. “Now I’m glad to be down here, well away from the king.” The scuff of a tray on stone preceded a sharp clank.

“Let me out! I didn’t do anything!” She battered at the door, succeeding only in making her hands sore. It didn’t even have a handle on the inside. “Where’s Oona? What happened?”

The guards grew too distant to understand.

She stood on her toes to put her face as close to the tiny, barred window as she could. “Please let me out! Tell Master Beredwyn I need to talk to him!”

Kitlyn waited a minute, but when no response came, she melted to her knees. “Oona didn’t go with the prince. Fauhurst lied to hurt me. Something’s happened.”

Trapped in a little cell beneath Castle Cimril, she buried her face in her knees and trembled with worry, barely managing to hold back the urge to throw up.

15

The Grass Not Greener

~ Oona ~

Hours of navigating the Mistral Wood only made Oona’s already stiff legs ache more. Sleeping huddled up against a tree hadn’t been at all as romantic as she’d fantasized about. With morning, the bravery the wine afforded had vanished, leaving behind regret and a mild headache. Of course, she’d already run off in the night. The consequences of going back to the castle frightened her more than continuing.

The mulch of leaves and underbrush, while much softer than rock, left quite a lot to be desired. She walked with care, as she still carried her slippers. Whatever she’d traipsed through in the catacomb had coated her feet in a sticky residue that picked up so much dirt and forest detritus, someone from a distance would mistake her for wearing shoes.

She paused, leaning against a tree to catch her breath. The allure of the forest faded fast compared to when she’d started. Not quite six hours into her great trek and she hated the bugs, the painful rocks she kept stepping on, the random odd smells, and those green stringy vines that clung to her dress.

Eventually, she pushed away from her resting tree and walked on for a little while more until the wonderful burble of a nearby stream got her attention. She hurried toward the sound and soon discovered a little creek weaving among a scattering of smooth white stones that varied from tiny marbles to four-foot boulders. Holding her arms out to the sides, she stepped from rock to rock to reach one big enough to sit on, and let her feet hang in the current. Dirt, leaf bits, and some acorn fragments trailed off. She leaned forward to rub her hand over her soles, chasing away the last of the sticky awfulness.

She debated hopping the stones to shore, but had visions of losing her balance and spilling face-first into the creek. Oona pulled her dress up to her thighs and slid from her perch into the water, which came up to her knees. Her slippers tucked under her arm, she drank a few handfuls before wobbling to the bank and darting into the grass. Exhausted, she lay back, fingers laced behind her head, and stared up past the trees at the clouds.

A pair of blue insects cruised by, long like knitting needles with three pairs of wings and glowing green eyes. Birds sang above, and unseen small critters scampered about. Despite the tranquility of her pastoral surroundings, her mind kept going back to Kitlyn. I shouldn’t have just run off like that… I should’ve brought her with me. Out here in the quiet forest, she imagined the dining hall without the claustrophobic pressure it had possessed last night. I shouldn’t have panicked!

Oona sat up and pulled her slippers on, grateful to have something between her and the rough ground. Arms looped around her legs, she stared down at the grass, unable to summon enough of an urge to stand. If the kingdom really did need the Ondari military to survive, perhaps she owed it to the people to marry Tristan. She teased a blade of grass with her finger, twirling it around while daydreaming of a life in Castle Ondar. Perhaps she would barely see the prince and spend all her time with Kitlyn, an official lady-in-waiting.

That is what a princess is expected to do. She thought of the orphans and widows, all looking to her to end the war. How could she ignore them?

I can live with a political marriage, but I shall demand Kitlyn stays with me… The Foretelling came about from multiple seers, some of whom lived in Evermoor years ago. She picked up a twig and twirled it. Could her role in ending the war be as simple as agreeing to a wedding?

All those seers are convinced I’m going to destroy Evermoor. Ungodly savages they may be, but it isn’t right to kill them all. I only want to stop them from killing us.

“I hate being a princess. What if I don’t go back at all? What would the seers say of that?” She sighed and threw the twig into the grass. “Now I’m being selfish.”

Well, it’s not so bad out here. We could go to a village or something. Raise chickens. Have people to talk to and real beds. She shivered again. Would the peasants welcome two women in love? The castle servants hadn’t been the most forgiving lot, and she dreaded how they’d react to that news. Bad enough how they treated Kitlyn for being lowborn. Her love tried valiantly to ignore it, but Oona knew better. She’d begged her father multiple times to grant Kitlyn some kind of title, but he’d never given any definitive answer. If he’d declared her a member of the minor aristocracy, given her even a few square feet of land or some such nonsense, she could’ve been a companion rather than a servant.

Why does he refuse to address that?

Oona stood and gathered her hair behind her shoulders. She turned about until she got her bearings―it had been more than a few years since she’d been to the lake―and set out again. Hope that Kitlyn found her notes, and understood them, added a spring to her step. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, reminding her how silly she’d been to think that carrying a coinpurse would be all she needed. As if random inns and taverns dotted the woods.

She hadn’t the first clue which of the odd-shaped growths hanging off the various trees she could eat, which would make her sick, or which might kill her. She didn’t trust the spiky blue spheres at all. Several orange and yellow oblongs looked like delectable fruits, but she refrained. The surroundings grew more and more familiar as she walked, heading west and south from the castle. Perhaps an hour and change after her break, she emerged from the trees on a wide dirt road, rutted with the passage of wagons. This path, she recognized. It would take her within sight of Duskdawn Lake―and straight to Torlach if she kept on walking for days.

To the southwest, she continued, faster on the soft dirt, and caught herself humming. Despite her worry about Kitlyn, a momentary sense of having escaped let her smile. If only it could be so easy to walk away from everything and leave it to someone else to worry about.

I’m thinking like a five-year-old.

Oona frowned.

“Ello, luv,” said a man’s voice.

She whirled around.

A twentyish man with dark, tanned skin and messy shoulder-length brown hair stood on the road three or so paces behind her. His rogue’s grin sat inside a scruffy goatee, and one bushy eyebrow arched high. He wore the sleeves of a loose poet’s shirt rolled up to the elbows; a dark leather doublet with several sword gouges covered his chest. A handful of daggers sat in sheaths around his belt, and an arming sword in his hand pointed at her.

“Who are you? What do you want?” She took a step back.

Five more men emerged from the shrubs around the path. The two youngest, who looked a year or so younger than her, lowered shortbows they’d been aiming. While her heart raced, she felt a little better that they seemed uninterested in shooting her.

“My name is unimportant.” The charming one pointed at her belt. “What is important is that nice little pouch you’ve got.”

“Bandits?” She blinked. “You’re bandits? In Mistral Wood, within a half day’s walk from Cimril? You’re either foolish or desperate.”

“Plenty of merchants coming through ’ere on the way to the big city.” He winked. “Usually, we provide a valuable public service.”

She pressed her fists into her hips, glaring at him. “Oh? What sort of service? Are you a skald or a fool?”

He waved the tip of his sword about. “We assist the poor travelers along this road by lightening their burdens.”

“Bandits.” She folded her arms.

“Come now, lass,” gurgled a voice to her left. A pudgy fellow gestured at her. “We ain’ mean ya no harm. Hand over the coin and be on yer way.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but the only burden I’m carrying is not anything you can steal. You’d be welcome to it if I could find a way to give it to you.”

The charmer laughed and sidled closer. “Perhaps we could negotiate a fee for helping the lost, lonely girl arrive safely at her destination?”

She smirked. “I’m quite fine on my own.”

One of the younger thieves snickered. “You’s losin’ yer touch. She ain’t even givin’ you the eyes yet.”

The charismatic bandit leaned closer, pulled his hair behind his ear, and flashed a rogue’s grin. “Allow me to escort you, and I can show you some magnificent sights.”

Oona glanced at his crotch. “Somehow I’ve a feeling I’ll not be impressed.”

The other five bandits winced.

Red tinged the charmer’s face. “All right, fine. Hand over the pouch and be gone. There’s no need for this to get unpleasant.”

“You’re so sure it hasn’t already?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, this one’s cold, lad.” The fat guy laughed.

Charmer grabbed for the pouch, but she caught his hand. He reversed in a second and clamped a grip around her wrist like a manacle. She tugged but barely moved him. He put the tip of his sword under her purse strings.

“Release me at once!” she yelled, tugging futilely.

He sighed.

A burst of blinding blue light emanated from her hand, right in front of his nose.

Charmer yowled, dropped his sword, and scrambled backward with both hands over his face. Oona condensed the light into a tiny point, closed her eyes, and made it flare out as bright as could be. The remaining bandits all yelled in surprise. She jumped into a half-roll, grabbing the dropped blade, and came to her feet with it pointed at the man.

“I said, release me, cur!” Damn, Beck, you shouldn’t have gone so easy on me.

“Drop it, lady,” yelled one of the boys, raising his bow.

Oona glared at him and thrust her left hand out. A shaft of light connected her fingertips to his bow, which burst into flames. The string snapped in under a second, whipping a cat scratch into his cheek. Charmer pulled a knife and ran in. She gripped the sword in both hands, surprising him with a deft parry that sent him stumbling back with a look of shock, still trying to blink the flash from his eyes.

Before the other archer could do anything, she lit his bow aflame with a second bolt. The teen with the cut on his face backed off, wide-eyed and looking frightened. Charmer came at her again with his knife. At the same time, the fat man and two others rushed her from behind and both sides.

Oona spun in a rapid spiral, slashing at the air in a random flurry, trying to keep them away while drawing her magic inward. The men leaned back as her sword sailed past, but before they could lunge to grab her, she summoned a shimmering column of white light around herself, sweat trickling down her face from the effort. The men crossed their arms over their faces, squinting at the radiance. Her arms trembled, but she kept pouring more energy in. Bandits’ leather armor smoked; shirts caught fire in a few places.

They scurried back, slapping at themselves.

“Blimey,” yelled the fat man. “That’s…”

“The princess!” yelled the former archer with the cut on his cheek.

“Oh, hell,” said a deep voiced man to her right. “They’ll toss us in the pit and never let us out for robbin’ the bloody princess.”

Even Charmer looked taken by sudden, pure terror. The men scattered into the brush heading in six different directions. Oona stood as still as a statue until the last traces of rustling in the forest faded to silence. She lifted the sword and stared at a sliver of her reflected face, bright against the dull brown road behind it. A night in the woods had disheveled her hair and left some dirt on her cheeks, enough perhaps for someone who’d never met her in person not to recognize her right away. Princesses, after all, never got dirty.

Grumbling, Oona lowered her arm and resumed her trek toward the lake. After a few steps, she swung the sword around in slow motion, sometimes stepping through complex forms. I probably got lucky there… and he was half-blind.

“I wonder… How many village women need to learn how to fight?”

She walked, swinging and practicing on shadow bandits for a little while, before the exertion of using her magic caught up with her. Oona sat on a fallen tree by the side of the road, a short distance away from an overturned, decaying wagon. Something about the darkened wood reminded her of the table she’d sat at during the lavish birthday celebration the king had thrown for her only two months ago.

It shocked her how little she had to insist on his allowing Kitlyn to sit at her side for the party. In fact, he seemed pleased she’d asked. She snarled. Of course, almost everyone else except for Beredwyn had done little to hide their displeasure. The gentry and nobles major and minor had attended, and every single one of them uttered some form of, ‘what is she doing here?’ If the castle servants had said anything to Kitlyn after the party, she’d never mentioned it, but Oona had no doubt there had been animosity.

“Oh, Father…. Why couldn’t you make her a lady or something?” She stared at the road, too angry to cry and too sad to shout. “I’d better get to the lake.”

Oona got up and walked on, deeper into the woods, farther from home. She didn’t bother swishing the sword around, but carried it at the ready. This close to the castle city, she thought it unlikely any serious threat, bandit or creature, would present itself. Then again, with most of the army in the east attending to the war, the once well-patrolled roads had been neglected. When soldiers did patrol them, the groups tended to be made of older men unfit for front line combat, people her age learning to be soldiers, or village volunteers hoping to avoid being sent to the border.

By late afternoon, the growling in her belly had grown loud enough to have a conversation with, not that she could understand a word. Eventually, Duskdawn Lake came into view. From where she stood on the road, it stretched to the horizon, flanked by trees. As placid as a patch of cobalt ice, the surface broke here and there with birds hunting for fish. A white marble structure stood upon an island at the approximate center, a temple dedicated to Orien and Tenebrea. She remembered from her tutoring that the lake had a shape similar to a sweet potato, and the road she followed passed by one of the narrow ends. That fit with the water stretching on for-seeming-ever. Still, the lake extended quite a ways to both sides and hosted at least four villages around its shores.

Twice a year, at each equinox, people from far and wide came here to celebrate either Orien or Tenebrea… For one day, the citizenry of Lucernia decided not to be afraid of death personified. On that day, they ignored that aspect of her, calling her the Goddess of Dusk.

Oona left the dirt, navigating waist-high grass for about two hundred yards to the lakeshore. Something tickled her leg, and she looked down at a scattering of black bugs the size of hens’ eggs. Amid a flurry of squealing, she swatted them aside. A blast of enchanted light lurked in the back of her mind; if anything sprouted wings and came at her, it would burn.

Fortunately, the gargantuan creepers remained content to wander among the shallow scrub grass at the edge of the lakeshore, and none zoomed toward her face. Dozens of goats milled around, likely the cause of the growth being so short nearer the banks. A few ambled over to check out the newcomer, but none got close enough to unnerve her.

She sat on the sand a few feet away from the water’s edge, staring at the temple. A handful of rowboats tied to a tiny pier bobbed in shallow waves lapping at the bank. No one appeared to live here, so they must be intended for temple visitors, as the building had to be over a mile offshore.

“Tenebrea, if you’re listening… What should I do?” She traced lines in the sand with one finger. “Everyone avoids you because of who you are. I fear living like that. Is that wrong? Should I be true to myself?” Long minutes passed with no response. “Am I supposed to destroy Evermoor? Am I a coward for not wanting to?”

Oona stared at the distant temple for a while, not sure what she expected. Would Tenebrea appear in person and walk across the lake to have a chat? Would the sky turn black or a raven land nearby? According to her father, the gods communicated in strange ways. They’d cause things to happen that most people wouldn’t even notice, or people like those in Ondar would call pure coincidence. The Ondari never petitioned their Steelfather to do anything. They simply revered him for what he had given them, like one might a dead relative at their tomb.

Of course, she’d seen priests do things. Magic, but not quite like hers. People of Lucernia that had the gift tended to wield powers of light, cold, or healing. Followers of Lucen summoned bright white light or brilliant orange flames. Priests of Navissa often called darkness and cold. Followers of Orien could heal the sick, and… well… the few faithful of Tenebrea could, according to rumor, kill with a whisper or even summon the dead.

She looked around, but found no sign of Kitlyn.

I’ll wait here a day. If she doesn’t find me, I’ll go back. Oona glanced to the temple. This will be a sign.

16

Voices of Earth

~ Kitlyn ~

The tray of crumbs with two empty cups slid out the hatch. Kitlyn sat up at the metallic clank of the little flap closing. She hopped off the ‘bed’ and rushed over, banging on the door.

“Please, tell me what happened to Oona.”

Boots clonked on stone, growing distant.

She growled while pacing back and forth, no longer caring what manner of foulness had soaked into the damp hay she stepped on. Elsbeth would surely be laughing at her now. She had to hope Beredwyn figured out who put all those valuables in her room. He must understand it made no sense for her to take those things. If she’d been of a mind to be a thief, wouldn’t she have done it years ago when the ill treatment started? Not to mention, what kind of idiot would hide stolen goods under her mattress?

“Those jewels weren’t put there to hide them; they were put there to be found.”

“Mmm,” said a voice so deep it vibrated in the floor.

She froze and spun in a circle. Her tiny six-by-eight-foot cell still held nothing but her, the butt-breaking slab bed, and the disgusting grating. I’ve been in here a day and I’m already going crazy. Has it been a day? Or just hours?

“Hey!” she yelled. “Someone please tell Beredwyn I need to see him.”

A distant wheezy man laughed.

She grabbed at the door, trying to get her fingers into the gap between it and the stone. It refused to move. Growling, she pounded on it until her hands ached, and resumed pacing.

“This isn’t fair. I didn’t do anything…”

A moment later, the “Mmm” reverberated in the cell again.

Minutes passed of her walking around in circles. The room seemed to shrink. She’d once heard a guard say they left a man down in one of the cells, alone, until he’d gone stark raving mad. That she’d not been locked in here for long at all and already had some strange voice humming at her didn’t bode well.

“I have to get out of here… Something’s happened to Oona.”

“Mmm.”

“Exactly.” She attacked the door again, getting nowhere. “Someone, please… at least talk to me.” The guards who put me in here didn’t think I did it, so why are they ignoring me?

Falling to pieces and bawling like a little girl wouldn’t help. She’d already done that, and the guards didn’t care. With the initial shock of being put in the dungeon behind her, she plotted to free herself.

“If I’m innocent, but I escape, would that be against the law?”

“Mmmn.”

The heavy voice resonated in her bones, but she paid her hallucination no mind.

“Of course, in order to escape, I’d actually have to be a thief, which I’m not.” She squatted by the door and peered into the keyhole. Bare stone wall on the other side flickered with light from an unseen torch.

“Yyyyoooouuu,” said the impossibly deep voice.

Kitlyn held her hands to her ears. “I’m losing my mind.”

Worry about what could’ve happened to Oona churned the bread and water in her gut… or was that hunger? Even the servants ate like kings compared to the pitiful offerings brought to her. With a bright red face, she made reluctant use of the horrible grate and returned to the slab. Her feet didn’t reach the floor while sitting on it, so she swung them back and forth, wondering how long it would take Beredwyn to set her free.

Last night I slept in silk. Tonight, stone. What did I do to deserve such scorn? Why does everyone hate me?

Soft footsteps scuffed to a halt at the door. Someone rattled at the hatch.

Kitlyn stalked off the stone bed like a cat, creeping to the door. She’d grab the hand bringing her dinner… had it really been hours since he’d taken the tray? If she got a hold of him, she’d trap his arm and demand someone speak to her.

The door opened with a squeal of rust. Another tray slid in, this one with a large turkey leg on it, pushed by a pale child’s hand.

Kitlyn seized the delicate wrist and held on. “Hey.”

“Eeep,” whispered a girl. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Who is it?”

“Rowan.”

She tried to put a face to the name… The little redhead. “You’re the one who gave me my shoes back.”

“Yes. Please let me go.”

Kitlyn’s mouth watered at the smell of the turkey under her nose. “What happened to Oona? No one will talk to me.”

“If you let go of me, I promise I’ll talk. You’re scaring me.”

She sighed, but released her. “Lucen detests liars.”

“I know,” whispered Rowan. “The princess has disappeared. Nobody knows what happened.”

“Can you find Master Beredwyn and tell him I need him?”

“I can’t speak to him,” whispered Rowan, a quiver in her voice. “It’s not proper.”

“Who sent you down here?”

“Miss Margaret.”

Kitlyn blinked. She couldn’t fathom the severe woman being ‘nice’ to anyone, least of all her. “I find that difficult to believe.”

Rowan flattened herself on the ground and peered in the hole. “She doesn’t think you stealed. Everyone’s all quiet and afraid.”

“Why?”

“I’m not s’posed to say.”

“Why not?” Kitlyn grabbed her hair in frustration.

“’Cause it’s a rumor and spreadin’ rumors is how lies become truth.”

“What is the rumor?” Unable to resist the alluring smell, Kitlyn swiped the turkey up from the tray and chomped into it.

Rowan bit her lip. “I’ll get in trouble.” She tapped her cheek under her eye. “Everyone’s talkin’ about it. If they let you out, you should ask Margaret.”

Kitlyn coughed. “If they let me out?”

“I mean when.” The girl grimaced. “The king’s got the guards searching the castle. Everyone’s saying there’s spies here. All the servants are scared to their wits. I should go before I get caught here.”

“Rowan.” Kitlyn lowered her face to the hole in the door. “I didn’t steal those things. I need to find Oona. I can’t cope with being shut in here. Please… please ask Miss Margaret to talk to Beredwyn.”

“I’ll try.” The child pushed herself up and hurried off.

Kitlyn sat up and sighed. Little footsteps returned, and the hatch door shut with a clank.

“Sorry,” said Rowan. “I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

She devoured the turkey in huge bites, barely chewing or tasting it, worried someone might catch her and take it away. Once the bone offered nothing worth gnawing on, she tossed it down the foul grating. The way everyone treated her, she wouldn’t leave any evidence if she could help it.

Cross-legged on the floor, she grabbed her head in her hands and rocked, feeling helpless.

“I have to get out of here.”

“Earth,” said the slow, deep voice.

“You’re a figment of my mind.” She closed her eyes.

“I am Earth,” said the voice, slow and drawn like a groggy giant.

Kitlyn looked up. Either she had quite lost her sack of marbles, or the entire cell rumbled that time. “Where are you?”

“All,” said the voice. Faint greenish light glided across the wall, following an accompanying tingle in her chest.

“I felt that.” She clambered upright. “How are you talking?”

“Your magic has beckoned me,” said the voice, somewhat faster.

The sound felt stronger toward the back of the cell, so she edged to the rear wall and put her hand on stone, which surprised her at being warm. “What’s happening?”

“You have brought me forth.” The voice reached a normal tempo, though had a pitch far deeper than possible for any mortal.

“Do you have a name?”

“I am that which is.”

She blinked. “Right. Can you help me?”

“You are strong in the ways of the eldritch magic, human.”

“Eldritch?” She cringed. “But I’m not from Evermoor.”

Her cell shuddered with inhuman laugher, slow and plodding. A distant prisoner screamed in terror and wailed about demons approaching.

“You are not, but your magic is.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” She leaned forward on tiptoe to peer down through the toilet grate. Flowing water beneath didn’t look stagnant, and the stink in the air seemed to come from the corrosion in the metal more than the channel below. Luminous blue-green lichen coated the uneven wall, making it an obvious natural passage rather than anything man carved away.

“You have allowed those around you to convince you of your worthlessness.”

She hung her head. “But I am nobody.”

“Wealth. Titles.” The voice scoffed. “To the earth, they mean nothing.”

“Well, that’s good. I don’t have either.” She frowned.

“Feeeeeeeelllll,” said the voice.

Kitlyn put her hand on the wall again. Tingles seeped up from the stone, warming something deep inside her. “Power.”

“I am your magic. You touched the stone and desired me.”

She glanced down at her feet. “I… I didn’t?”

“Want.” Again, the cell vibrated. “You ache not to be caged.”

“That’s true.” Kitlyn sniffled. “My”―her voice dropped to a timid whisper―“love is in danger.”

“You do not wish to remain caged.”

“I don’t.”

The voice chuckled, making a distant prisoner scream again. “So, do not.”

She growled. “Oh, if it was that easy―” I’m a fool.

Kitlyn stared at her hand against the wall. She looked at the water in the grate, back to her hand, and thought of the little platform she made to cross over the embankment. “My magic can affect stone. This cell is nothing but stone.”

“Unnnnderstaaaanding.”

The energy in the walls dissipated, and with it, that eerie sense of not being alone despite being alone.

I can do this. Her heart fluttered. I’m coming, Oona.

She held her hands out, palms flat against the wall, feet apart. In her mind, the world fell away as if she looked down on herself from above. An image of the castle appeared in the blackness, individual cells as hollows where no stone existed. Beyond the wall, a water-filled catacomb stretched far to the left. The water shimmered with natural energy, much dimmer than the castle or cavern, but still visible as an ethereal peach-colored fog. She honed in on her cell, joined her thoughts with the essence of the stone she touched, and commanded.

Blocks ground against each other, unfolding like a mechanical toybox, pivoting one after the next away from a central point until a hole opened large enough for her to pass. Her heart leapt with joy at the promise of freedom. Kitlyn jumped through the gap and landed in water up to her stomach, so cold it felt like the jabbing of thousands of icy needles. She managed to hold back the shriek long enough to bite her forearm and muffle it.

In a few seconds, she adjusted to the temperature and looked up at the hole a good ten feet or more above her head. She touched the cave wall, her hand squishing into clammy lichen. A moment’s concentration returned the stones to how they’d been. No one entering the cell could tell anything had happened.

With only the soft glow of lichen along the walls to see by, and water sloshing around her hips, she crept forward, her hands braced on the walls. Her magical seeing revealed the passageway to the left extended longer and went away from the castle, while to the right it ended at a flat wall. Her heart beat faster with the worry of getting in even more trouble for running. Guilty people ran… but guilty people also didn’t come home after finding their friend.

Could the assassins have taken Oona like the guards thought? That didn’t make sense. As much as she hated to think it, they would’ve killed her, not abducted her. Perhaps a noble family had conspired with Evermoor to unseat the king and had kidnapped his daughter for leverage?

She stepped on a slick patch of ooze and her foot shot out from under her, dumping her under in a sitting posture. Kitlyn clamped her mouth shut, knowing all the prisoners would be relieving themselves in this flow. Sick to her stomach, she sputtered after surfacing. The belly-deep water made walking arduous, but she fought to move as fast as she could, wearing herself out to the point of stopping for a breather in only a few minutes.

“I’m being stupid again.”

Once she caught her breath, she dove forward and swam past glowing patches of blue and green on either side. She eyed the gratings overhead, dreading a prisoner might add to the water, but with as much of a current as she swam with, anything already released would be long gone.

The note! A scrap of hope dared rear itself in her thoughts. Grengwylf! She wanted me to look under the bed, but I looked under the whole bed, not the mattress. Kitlyn stopped swimming and drifted. Did she know about the trinkets? No, those things couldn’t have been there when she gave me the note, Oona would’ve been furious. That was her handwriting. The lake!

Kitlyn hurled herself forward, swimming like a fleet of venomous watergliders chased her. She hasn’t been abducted; she’s running away!

Joy and relief got her heart racing. The water-filled cave bent to the right, and eventually came to a stop where someone had cut stairs into the rock in front of a door of bars. Kitlyn paddled to slow herself and put her feet down. She stood waist-deep for a second or forty to catch her breath. Her teeth chattered, she shivered, and felt quite certain her lips had turned blue.

Stiff legs carried her up eight slimy steps with water cascading down, and she grabbed the bars. The door rattled, but didn’t open. Locked. “No!” She sucked in a breath and held it, staring at the warped image of her feet below the surface. “I need to stop being so stupid. Like Guard Lorne said: don’t get angry. Acknowledge fear, but don’t let it turn to terror… panic or anger both could kill me in a fight.”

Clinging to the bars, Kitlyn sent her magic into the walls, commanding the stone to let go of the spikes holding the barricade in place. Soon, the door and the entire barred wall that held it collapsed, pulling her forward. A tremendous crash echoed down the tunnel, a jangle of metal and rock.

She cringed, deafened for a few seconds. Damn, they’re going to hear that.

After scrambling out of the water into a dry, manmade hallway, she turned around and tried to lift the bars. A few seconds of grunting and straining later, she accepted her arms were not up to the task.

Oh, no. I can’t leave this open… what if a spy finds this passage?

Taking inspiration from her shortcut into the garden, she commanded spurs of stone to grow out from the walls. They caught on the upper edge of the framed bars and lifted, ripples moving up along the cavern stone like liquid. With the rock spurs supporting the barrier, she pushed the fallen spikes back into place as easily as mashing nails into a hunk of bread dough. After seating each one, she released her hold on the magic, allowing the wall to solidify. Once she’d secured all four spikes, she tugged and pushed at the bars to test.

Confident the gate would hold, she took two steps back and squatted to wash her hands. Hope that Oona may not be in danger waned. Perhaps she did choose to run away rather than suffer a kidnapping, but that also left her out in the world with nothing between her and assassins.

“I have to tell her how I feel before she does something stupid.” Kitlyn grumbled. “Well, more stupid than running off on her own.”

Kitlyn kept her hand on the wall and walked into deepening blackness, not caring where it led, only trusting the corridor would take her somewhere better than a dungeon. In less than half a minute, she could no longer see by the glow of the lichen in the flooded tunnel. The air tasted of dust and ancient wood, but soon the fragrance of onions and some form of meat reached her. A short walk later, light appeared in the distance, illuminating a plain, grey-walled corridor.

“Oh, wow. It connects to the secret passage we found…”

She crept up to the offshoot. The kitchen waited at the end of a short section of corridor, on the other side of a concealed entrance. Light leaked in under the door as well as from both sides. As memory served, it opened into the larder where one of the shelves pulled away. Running through the kitchen would almost guarantee being spotted. If Rowan was right, the staff didn’t believe she’d stolen, but would they still raise a clamor?

Ahead, the corridor led to the unknown.

At her wondering, an odd tingle washed over the soles of her feet. The strange sense resolved to a feeling of a tiny person walking barefoot up her back. Kitlyn stared at the darkness, focusing on the oddity of whatever her magic did. When she pictured Oona, the pixie footsteps pattered up her back again. She looked to the kitchen, and the gossamer touch faded. As soon as she faced forward, it returned.

What is this?

She thought of Elsbeth and the feeling stopped.

Kitlyn again thought of Oona. The little footsteps walked up her back.

Oona went that way. The stone is talking. She held her arms out to the side, tracing her fingers along both walls, and advanced with careful steps. Minutes stretched out to an eternity as she crept ever forward.

Bonk.

… and into something hard.

“Ow.” She stumbled back, holding her face. A blind reach put her fingers on rusting metal: gear teeth, support struts, and more gear teeth. “How strange.” She eventually gripped a cold metal slat, which she traced to the wall and a hole in the stone. The sense that the cave ended here suggested she stood by a heavy door. “So, how do open this?”

She spent a while feeling around the gears and locking slats. The twitter of birds on the other side made her impatient. The door had to lead to the outside and freedom, but had no handle, knob, or even a peephole.

Kitlyn stared at the door she couldn’t see, fuming. So close, yet so far from free. She reined in her temper and closed her useless eyes. The layout of stone appeared in her mind within a few seconds. Channels in the wall held irregular lumps of rock at varying heights on the left. Counterweights? A small rectangular opening three feet in from the end of the tunnel at shoulder height looked promising. She grabbed blindly toward it and whacked her knuckles on a metal bar.

“Tenebrea’s ti―” She bit off the curse and cradled her hand to her gut, grumbling. “Ow!”

Once feeling returned to her left hand, she extended her right arm out slow and easy until she gripped a rod about as big around as her wrist, which protruded from the wall at an upward angle. Something tickled her hands as she examined it. Wisps of material brushed her cheeks and caressed around the right side of her neck, making her shiver.

“This is a lever.”

She grabbed it and pulled down.

Metal grinding accompanied the clatter of chain and scrape of rock in the walls. In a few seconds, everything ground down to silence. A slow tickle migrated from her right shoulder to her left shoulder under her tunic.

“And that’s a bug.” She tensed. “Probably a spider.”

Something ticked like a clock in the silent darkness.

“It’s going to re-lock itself soon.”

Kitlyn groped for the door and shoved against it. It swung out more easily than she expected, and she basked in a blast of clear late-afternoon air. Her smile lasted only two seconds before she gawked in horror at an army of tiny spiders all over her arms and chest, a racing waterfall of peppercorns with legs.

She whipped her tunic off and snapped it at the grass, somehow managing not to scream. Dropping it, she brushed crawling arachnids from her arms and fluttered her hair while shaking her head and sputtering. A breeze wafting across her bare chest with the caress of phantom spider legs set off another wave of frantic acrobatics. Tickles and brushes surrounded her, imaginary spiders or real, she couldn’t tell. Desperate, she flung her breeches off and spun in circles, swatting and swiping at herself.

Eventually, the feeling of being coated in moving things faded enough to allow her mind to seize upon her standing outside naked. She grabbed her damp tunic and flapped it vigorously a few more times, turned it inside out, and shook it more. After a thorough inspection for spiders, she wriggled into it and, at long last, resumed breathing. Her breeches got the same treatment. The cold fabric made her gasp when she pulled them on.

A short distance away across a grassy meadow, the Mistral Wood waited.

“Duskdawn Lake.” Kitlyn looked up at the sky. “I can make it before dark… Orien, please let her be there.”

And I promise I will tell her how I feel.

17

The Edge

~ Oona ~

Oona hid her face against her knees, feeling stupid and useless. She’d been crying for at least an hour near the banks of Duskdawn Lake, hungry, lonely, frightened, and thoroughly ashamed of herself. A few boats glided across the far waters, likely fishermen from around the lakeshore. Nothing moved at the temple island, no signs from the gods fell out of the sky, and she still couldn’t make up her mind.

Doing what her father wanted and marrying Tristan was impossible because:

She loved Kitlyn.

She couldn’t love Tristan.

He didn’t seem the type to accept their marriage as political only, and share affections with a woman other than his wife. From what she’d seen of him, she expected he’d honor her disinterest, but refuse to ‘betray’ her with an affair. The man is too honorable for his own good.

He’d want children, and denying him that struck her as cruel.

She couldn’t know that the alliance would help.

And, well, she didn’t want to be told who to marry.

She should marry Tristan because:

The alliance might end the war outright from simple intimidation.

The increased might of both kingdoms would crush Evermoor.

Add to the shouldn’t list:

She’d crush Evermoor. Or at least be responsible for its crushage.

Oona sighed. Having a child didn’t feel like an altogether awful idea, except for having to lie with a man. Maybe she and Kitlyn could instead take in a few of the war orphans. Who cares if the baby popped out of her body? More, since her failure to end the war had orphaned them, it would be her duty as princess to give them a home. Still, the thought of being responsible for a child or children scared her.

I’m barely done being a child myself! She grumbled. No I’m not… I am still a child. I’m sixteen. I’m too immature. I can’t even tell Kitlyn the truth. Look at me, sitting out here by a lake. One little attempt on my life, and I run away to hide. Some royal I am. The people are counting on me. A spike of longing for Kitlyn pierced her heart. She could think of only one way forward, regardless of what her crown required she do afterward.

Admit the truth.

A man in one of the distant boats stood, balancing in the wobbly vessel, and cast a fishing line with a fluid motion that made his arm look like a silk ribbon. Others joined him, and Oona found herself mesmerized by the rhythmic pattern of about twenty villagers casting and pulling, casting and pulling. The formation of boats and lines made her daydream an enormous crab lying on its back, waving its legs. One or two reeled in a catch, tossed them into baskets, and recast their lines.

Fish.

Her stomach again voiced protest at missing three meals. She’d never before skipped more than one, and usually only when feverish. Fate had been kind to her in that regard. True sickness had only gotten its claws in her once. She’d been small… five or six, and the fever lasted a few days before her father had sent in a priest of Orien. He’d chanted and pressed his hand to her sweaty forehead; within an hour, she’d resumed ‘bouncing off the walls’ as Beredwyn had put it.

A horse galloped by on the road. She tensed, worried that a guard might’ve followed the footprints she’d left in the dirt. The rider, too far away to see on the other side of waist-high grass, kept going without slowing down. She exhaled, and her stomach rumbled.

I wonder what thoughts plague my father now? Certainly, someone has noticed me gone. She looked back over her shoulder at the road. Nothing. Kit had to find the note… if anyone else discovered it, there’d be forty soldiers tromping over to collect me already.

She sulked, staring into the water. Eight-inch needleflies zoomed among the reeds, one diving in for an instant before laboring skyward with a tiny fish in its mandibles. She stared, mesmerized by the droning, buzzing creature carrying its feast off into the wavering reeds.

Okay. Now I know I’m hungry. I watched a bug carry a fish away and it made me jealous.

The nearest village along the northern lakeshore, as best she could remember, would be about a two-hour walk. She could offer someone there a few coins for food. Doubtful they had any kind of inn or tavern, but some family would accept her money. What she had in her purse could buy enough provisions for a villager to last a long time. She thought about the years she’d been pining to spend her allowance on clothes, sweet treats, or other fanciness, and a wash of shame fell over her like a cloak. So shallow of me… the war raging and all I could think to be upset about was not being able to waste my money.

She frowned. Her father wanted to protect her, but in three years of being kept a veritable prisoner, only one assassin had come after her… and all the good it did to keep her inside. The man walked right into my room. Had the guards ever been able to stop anything? She’d always dismissed the assassins as paranoia, but for all she knew, a thousand of them could have tried to come after her and only one made it inside. Could she be so foolish as to think only one bothered and had no trouble at all getting in? Could her father have been right?

Snap.

Oona jumped as a twig broke in the tall grass behind her. She leapt up, sword at the ready, and considered yelling, ‘who’s there’ or something of the sort, but decided against giving herself away. Figuring it dumb to stand tall, she crouched, clutching her weapon in both hands. If one of the bandits returned, she’d blind him and… then what. Could she kill a person? Someone crunched closer; a spot of dark―black hair―navigated the shifting green.

“Oona? Are you here?”

“Kit!” She dropped the sword in the sand and shot upright.

Kitlyn’s hands emerged from the grass, pushed it aside―and then the whole of her stepped out onto the shore, swatting giant beetles from her tunic.

They stared at each other for a second that seemed to stretch into frozen time. Around them, the world stilled. Birds hung suspended, needleflies crept through the air, sunlight gleaming along transparent wings. Out on the lake, the ballet of fishing lines ceased.

She found me!

Oona darted up the beach. As soon as she moved, Kitlyn broke into a sprint. They collided in a spinning embrace at the point where scrub grass met sand. Around and around they whirled until Oona lost her balance and dragged them both to the ground. Goats continued munching at the edges of the tall grass, oblivious to her joyous tears. A distant fisherman cheered. At first, she thought he’d seen them, but he whooped and hollered about the size of his catch.

“You found my note…”

Kitlyn crawled over and squeezed her hard enough to make breathing difficult, sniffling into the crook of her neck. It took her a little while to regain the ability to speak. “What are you doing?”

“I’m… uhh.”

“I mean why are you out here?” Kitlyn gazed around. “What if they find you?”

Oona looked her up and down. “Why are you so filthy? Did you crawl through Cimren’s sewers?”

“I essentially did.” Kitlyn sighed hard, blowing hair up off her eyes.

“You don’t smell like you did. What happened?” Oona stood, pulled her to her feet, and moved closer to the water.

“That’s a sword.” Kitlyn picked it up. “Where’d you get this? It’s too small to be a guard’s blade.”

Oona sat on the sand and examined her fingernails. “I had to teach a few highwaymen the error of their ways.”

Kitlyn raised an eyebrow as she plopped down, cross-legged. “You did what?”

“I, uhh.” Oona giggled. “Might’ve gotten lucky.”

“Lucky?”

Oona shrugged, somehow finding humor in the situation (mostly about how the ‘ladies’ man’ had been so frustrated with her), and nattered about her adventure.

“Oh, no!” Kitlyn gasped. “Are you hurt?”

She held up her arm. “Small bruise from where he grabbed me. I blinded him, got his sword away, and… well I made a little light and they, umm, recognized me.”

“Ran off, did they?” Kitlyn grinned. “It’s good to be the princess.”

Oona fake-preened. “Your turn. You still haven’t told me why you’ve got more dirt on you than a beggar.”

The look that spread over Kitlyn’s face almost broke her heart. “I, umm…”

And her tale… no, it didn’t sound remotely as funny as hers.

She growled. “Someone’s going to pay for that. You, in the dungeon? How dare they! I didn’t go with Tristan!” Oona fumed. “Don’t believe Fauhurst.”

Kitlyn blinked at her. “Of course not. You’re right here.”

“Yes. Right.” She nodded. “Sorry. I’m angry.” Warmth spread over her cheeks.

“Oona, I’m a peasant girl. No one but you thinks it’s improper.” Kitlyn sighed. “And for some reason, all the maids are afraid of me now.”

Oona tilted her head, her hair spilling off her shoulder. “What? Why?” She brushed dirt off Kitlyn’s breeches, muttering about how filthy she’d gotten. “When we find out who put those things in your room, I am going to… going to…” She pointed at the sky. “Going to…”―she snapped her arm down like a sword stroke―“do something mean to them.”

“Oh, that reminds me. The little red-haired maid, Rowan, she tapped her cheek when I asked why everyone’s suddenly treating me like I could strike them down with Tenebrea’s power. She said she couldn’t tell me because she didn’t want to get into trouble.” Kitlyn poked a finger into her cheek right below her eye. “Do you know what that gesture means?”

“No, I’ve never seen it before.”

Kitlyn laughed. For a little while, they gazed into each other’s eyes.

Here Kitlyn sat, and Oona was still a coward. She looked away first, ashamed of herself.

“I think it might be another spy. Or Elsbeth. Remember how mad she was when you made her sweep? But maybe it’s because I helped stop the assassin.” Kitlyn grabbed a fistful of Oona’s dress at the neck and pulled her close. “And that makes it incredibly stupid for you to have run off alone. What were you thinking?”

Oona offered no protest to being throttled, her gaze boring holes into the sand by Kitlyn’s feet. Sweat ran in trickles down her back. Her mind swam with visions of ‘get away from me’ stares, everyone in the castle looking at her as though she were some horrible monster from the deepest pits where Lucen banished the demons. Her lip quivered. Since she’d run away, she couldn’t stop thinking about Kitlyn. An assassin had almost killed her. Kitlyn had been put in jail. Do I have the luxury to care about people’s opinions? She teetered on the edge of what could be the best moment of her life, or a three-second utterance that would ruin it forever.

Well, if that happened, nothing else would matter. If Kitlyn thought her an abomination, she would let fate sweep her off wherever it cared to, like a hunk of wood in a river. Marrying Tristan, crushing Ondar, falling to an assassin’s blade…

“Oona? Why are you crying?” Kitlyn took her hand and squeezed it. “Is… is it Tristan?”

She lifted her gaze to meet Kitlyn’s deep green eyes. The girl looked so worried, so concerned. “He…” Heat flooded her cheeks. If she hates me… “Yes. He’s not…” Her throat closed off with a lump.

“He’s not what?” Kitlyn rubbed the back of her hand. “You’re so upset… what’s wrong? He’s not rich enough? Ondar is too far away? He’s too young?”

“No.” Oona choked, rubbing her throat. The longer she waited, the more difficult it became to climb the growing wall of fear. Like every other time she’d attempted to confess her love, she feared Kitlyn would hate her, would think her horrible, unnatural, repugnant. Evermoor wants to kill me. Father wants to send me away. I can’t lose her. She trembled. “He’s not…”

Kitlyn’s confusion shifted to worry; after a few seconds of silent staring, she pulled her into a hug. “It’s okay… Calm down. Breathe. Tell me.”

She held Kitlyn tight for what could be the last time the girl would allow her so close. Come on. Tell her before you lose everything. She closed her eyes, forcing out two mammoth tears.

“What’s wrong? He’s not what?” Kitlyn rubbed a hand up and down Oona’s back.

Oona’s voice came as but a faint whisper of breath at Kitlyn’s ear. “He’s not you.”

18

More

~ Kitlyn ~

What?

Kitlyn’s head spun. Oona shook in her arms. Warm, rapid breaths puffed at her ear. The princess grew tense and rigid, bracing as if expecting a slap. For months, being around her had been torture. Leading looks, half-asked questions, subtle gestures… a hand lingering on a shoulder, a needless stretch over a bathtub. All this time she’d thought it a skew of perception, her innermost hope twisting her perception. Could she really have heard that?

“I… I’m sorry… I…” Oona sniffled.

Kitlyn leaned back. The princess seemed reluctant to let go, looking away and down like a child who’d done something terrible and been caught in the act. She brushed her fingers across Oona’s cheek, tucking some unruly strands of hair behind her ear. The princess snuck a quick peek and looked away again.

“You’re blushing.”

Kitlyn’s cheeks got warmer still. “I am.”

Oona gulped. “You’re not calling me names.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not,” whispered Oona. She lifted her gaze from the grass as though it weighed more than a castle.

Kitlyn stared into her beautiful sapphire eyes. “It’s been a bit different, hasn’t it?”

“What’s different?” asked Oona, her voice tiny.

“Us… the pond in the garden. You felt it too. It was so awkward, and I thought it was me.” Kitlyn let silence hang between them for a few seconds as the dawn of realization seeped into Oona’s expression. “I thought we were dearest friends, but… it’s more.”

“You don’t find me repulsive?” Oona gathered her hand at her chest.

“No!” Kitlyn leaned in. “I’ve wanted to tell you, but I thought you’d cast me away. Hate me.”

Their noses came close enough for her to feel the princess’ warmth.

“Why would I hate you?” asked Oona, barely any strength in her voice.

“Because I’ve fallen in love with you,” whispered Kitlyn.

Kitlyn closed her eyes as their lips made contact. Oona made a soft whimper of surprise, which became a moan of relief as all the tension in her muscles released. She circled her arms around Kitlyn. They kissed as if the whole of Lucernia burned around them, and the flames closed in. Heart racing, Kitlyn gasped for air, inhaling Oona’s scent with every breath. Their entwined tongues became salty with tears of joy.

“Mmmmm.” Kitlyn’s voice drowned in Oona’s mouth. The storm of emotion raging within left her lightheaded. I’m not imagining this… Too many nights had she dreamed of holding Oona, kissing her, having her love returned. Too many nights had she cried with nightmares of the worst possible reaction to her bared soul. Relief sapped the strength from her. A passionate embrace became clinging to Oona so she didn’t collapse to the ground.

Eventually, Kitlyn pulled back a few inches. “I was so afraid I’d been seeing things in the way you’d looked at me… I’ve kept my feelings buried for so long, and I wasn’t brave enough… No, I promised the gods I’d confess if I escaped.” She reached up and placed her hands on Oona’s cheeks. “Princess Oona Talomir, I love you.”

Oona’s joyful expression flashed serious. “I told you not to talk to me like that.” She pounced, knocking Kitlyn over backwards. “Kitlyn… without a last name, or title, or anything to her name but a set of boy’s clothes… I love you.”

They rolled over each other a few times, giggling. Kitlyn came to rest on her back with Oona on top of her. A waterfall of blonde hung around her, blocking out everything but the lovely face hovering over her and the sounds of distant ducks on the lake.

“What’ll we do now?” whispered Kitlyn.

Oona lowered herself into a long series of kisses before sliding off to the left and cuddling at her side. “I don’t care what happens now as long as we’re together.”

Kitlyn put a hand atop Oona’s, on her stomach. “Your father is going to be furious. Fauhurst is going to drop dead.”

The princess giggled. “I don’t think anyone would miss him.”

“Oona!” Kitlyn gasped. “How can you say that?”

She poked her in the side. “After the way he’s been to you?”

“I thought everyone in the whole castle knew, except you.” Kitlyn stroked Oona’s hair while staring up at the clouds. “The way the other servants treated me, I worried…”

Oona rolled closer, laughing into Kitlyn’s tunic. “I don’t know! Perhaps they did. But they’re more worried about their station.” She crawled up and touched noses.

Kitlyn tilted her head up for a quick kiss. “It doesn’t matter. I’m so happy right now, I wouldn’t care if Fauhurst came out of that tall grass and told me to sweep the lakeshore. I’d probably toss him in the water.”

Oona fell on top of her, laughing. Kitlyn giggled as well until the mood turned somber.

“I don’t want to keep us a secret,” said Oona. “You’ll no longer be my handmaiden.”

“Your father is the steward of the temple of Lucen.” Kitlyn shivered. That’s not going to end well. “They may declare us impure.”

Oona looked down. “He’s going to demand I marry Tristan. If he has any hope of that happening, he’ll say no such thing about us.”

“Margaret wouldn’t mind us.” Kitlyn sat up. “She seems a bit nicer on the inside than she looks.”

“Perhaps.” Oona giggled. “You know, I’m certain she’s the one who got Miss Harper dismissed two years early. Those two never did get along.”

“Oh, what did Rowan mean with that…” What about my eyes? “Do you see something strange in my eyes?”

Oona hovered close for a few seconds, leaning side to side. “No. What am I looking for?”

“I haven’t the faintest.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll ask when we get back.”

“Back?” Oona cringed. “What if I don’t want to return to the castle now that you’re here?”

“But, you have to…” Kitlyn’s mouth hung open. “You’re the princess.”

“I know, but… I wish I wasn’t. Yes, it’s immature of me, but I’d give anything to be happy again, like we used to be.”

Kitlyn kissed her again, holding on tight. After a while, she leaned back and gave her a sad look.

“Oh, you’re right. I can’t leave the whole kingdom to suffer, but…” Oona took her by the hands, leapt upright, and pulled her standing. “Can’t we have some time first? Come with me into the forest, and we can forget about the war, and princes, and bickering servants for a few days.”

Kitlyn glanced in the direction of Cimril. “We cannot simply run away from everything like that…” A brief daydream of sharing a small village house with Oona flickered in her head. “It’s a nice thought, but…”

“You escaped from the dungeon.” Oona picked up the sword.

“I had to!” Kitlyn gestured both hands out to the sides. “I thought you’d been kidnapped.”

“Yes. Right. Then we’d best not stay here.” Oona headed along the bank, tugging her by the hand. “What if Fauhurst did it? Your disappearance won’t look good.”

“But… I was worried about you. I don’t have anything to hide. They’ll see that when I go back.” She shivered. What if she’s right? Fauhurst detests me. Even if he knows I didn’t do it, he’d adore keeping me locked up for the rest of my life.

“I’m still frightened of assassins.”

Kitlyn smiled. “You don’t sound afraid.”

“I’m trying to sound confident.” Her beloved looked back at her with an impish wink. “I bet there are fewer assassins in this forest than there are in the castle right now.”

“Oh, yes.” Kitlyn ran two quick steps forward and hugged Oona from behind, lifting her off her feet. “Because they’re not looking for you out here.”

Oona squealed into giggles, kicking at the air. “Put me down!”

“Maybe I should toss you in the lake to freeze some sense into you.”

“No!” Oona screamed and struggled, still laughing. She twisted out of Kitlyn’s grip and whirled about to face her. “You wouldn’t dream of throwing me in the water.”

Heat spread over Kitlyn’s face, melting down her neck to her chest. “Not with that lovely dress on.” Oona blushed. “I wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

“Dare we?” Oona’s eyebrows climbed. “We’re far enough away… no one will see us.”

Temptation grew, but before Kitlyn could grab her tunic to pull it off, worry got the better of her. “The guards may come here looking for me if they remember the note.” She poked Oona in the shoulder. “And Grengwylf lived under the bed, not under the mattress.”

“Oh, stop splitting hairs.”

Kitlyn stared at her, trying to act angry.

Oona laughed. “Come on then.” She peered back. “Oh, why were your shoes hidden?”

“Well, Rowan…” Kitlyn explained the girl bringing them back, terrified of causing trouble. “I didn’t want them to be stolen again.”

“When we return, you’ll wear proper clothing. Dresses, if you care to. I so miss seeing you in gowns.” She pointed at Kitlyn. “And if anyone steals your shoes again, the entire staff will be dressing like barefoot pageboys for a month!”

Kitlyn laughed. “I do kind of miss the dresses.”

“What of your hair? Would you like it long again?”

“I don’t much care, but I think you’d prefer it.”

Oona whistled innocently.

“All right. Assuming we’re not cast into the Pit, I’ll grow it out.”

“Oh, stop. Father will listen to reason.”

Oona followed the shoreline around to the southwest and led the way deeper into the woods, putting the lake between them and the castle city. Leaves and twigs snapped and crunched underfoot as they moved for a while without talking. Kitlyn’s thoughts bounced around in a lightheaded flurry. Oona; Oona had fallen in love with her too. Why didn’t I tell her years ago? The exact moment when things changed eluded her memory. Attending to the princess’ bath had been awkward for at least two years, more so lately. Could she have been in love with her that long? She pictured Oona smiling at her through the years. What does it matter? She beamed. Nothing any of the castle servants could say to her would matter anymore.

Of course, some would claim the gods despised them. Others wouldn’t want to be in their presence. The chance existed that the more zealous adherents might try to hurt them. Perhaps Oona’s right. It might be better for us to disappear. Then again, we took on an assassin. We can handle sour-minded fools.

Yet, how would the king react if he learned his daughter had fallen in love with a girl? Now that could truly be a disaster. He might order Kitlyn beheaded or imprisoned, perhaps even burned. Oona might wind up forced into marriage and remolded into ‘being pure.’ Kitlyn snarled.

“What?” Oona paused and looked back.

Kitlyn stared at the underbrush that swallowed her legs to the knees. “I’m working myself up into a panic. Do you think your father will order me killed?”

Oona gasped. “No.” She bit her lip. “I don’t think so. He seems to like you.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “If he likes me, why didn’t he grant your request to make me a lady-in-waiting?”

“I don’t know.”

Kitlyn moved closer, chest to chest, basking in Oona’s presence. What little sun made it past the tree canopy glowed in her hair and made her eyes gleam. As frightened as she looked, she radiated more happiness than she had in months. “All right. Let’s go live in the woods until duty drags us back.”

Oona grinned. “Forget the war.” She kissed Kitlyn again, clutching her in a powerful hug.

“Forget the war,” said Kitlyn.

“And forget what they think of us.”

Kitlyn let off a nervous chuckle. “Not as easy, but I’ll try.” She exhaled. “I can’t believe I finally told you.”

“I can’t believe I finally told you.”

She put a hand on Oona’s cheek. Oona put a hand on hers.

“Thank you for trusting me,” whispered Kitlyn.

“I couldn’t risk losing you.” Oona looked down.

“Hey, now. None of that.” Kitlyn kissed her again, a brief peck. “We―”

A weak peal of thunder passed overhead.

“―should find somewhere to shelter.”

Oona nodded.

They walked at a brisk pace among the trees of Mistral Wood, the occasional rumble overhead. An hour or so passed with no sign of anything to take shelter in or under. The sun dimmed and the smell of imminent storm brought a chill to the air. Upturned leaves swayed and bloomed like masses of birds in flight as the wind picked up strength. The hiss of rain followed not long after, but did not make it to the ground except as intermittent drops.

Splattering to the right got her attention a few minutes later, where a hole in the tree cover collected rain in a sluice. A sharp crack of thunder made Oona jump. Kitlyn picked up her step and walked at her side instead of following. The rain gained strength, and more and more drops penetrated the leafy umbrella of the forest.

“There!” Oona pointed at another, much smaller, lake at the bottom of a sharp downhill grade. Close to the top, only a little farther down from where they stood, a rocky mass jutted out of the ground with what appeared to be a narrow cavern opening. “We can get out of this mess.”

“If there’s no bear living in it,” said Kitlyn.

“Not every cave has bears.” Oona rolled her eyes. “You’ve been reading too many storybooks.”

She followed Oona down a short hill, over a scattering of running vines as big as her arm covered in bright violet pods, and onto a flattish bit of ground in front of the rocks. The ‘cave’ turned out to be a triangular crack in the stone face, large enough to fit through if crawling. At least, no bears lived inside, if only because the space made the dungeon cell seem extravagant.

Oona got down on her hands and knees and squeezed in, tucking against the inner wall after rolling into a half-reclining position. Kitlyn wriggled in and wound up on Oona’s lap, curled in a tight ball.

“Oh, this isn’t going to work,” muttered Kitlyn.

Boom. The air slammed in the little grotto.

Kitlyn yelped at the massive thunderclap, as did Oona.

Oona blinked. “I don’t think going back outside would be prudent.”

“No.” Kitlyn grunted while shifting her weight so Oona’s knee didn’t jab her in the backside. “I wonder…”

She put her hands against the walls and called upon her magic. In seconds, a sense of the stone around them bloomed in a dazzling display of greenish light in her mind.

“Wow,” whispered Oona. “That’s beautiful.”

The glowing swirls weren’t in her mind at all. The tiny cave glimmered with the energy she focused into the rock. Kitlyn pushed, and the chamber expanded. The opening grew taller and rounder―like a proper cave that ought to have a bear or two living in it. She created a dome-shaped hollow with a gentle curve to the bottom. Satisfied, she lay down next to Oona and huddled close for warmth.

Outside, a downpour raged. Such thick rain pounded the earth that seeing more than a short distance outside proved impossible. Oona put an arm around Kitlyn’s shoulders and pulled her close.

“This would be quite romantic if I wasn’t freezing.”

Kitlyn laughed. “It’s smaller than the dungeon, but I’m much happier here.” She rested her head on Oona’s shoulder and the princess combed her hair with her fingers. The soothing scratch of fingernails at her head lulled her into near sleep.

“Are you frightened?” whispered Oona.

“A little.”

Oona kissed the top of her head and nuzzled close, her breath warm. “Do you think the storm is the gods being angry with us?”

“Why would the gods be angry? Lucen is the embodiment of daylight. Navissa represents the moon and darkness. Orien is daybreak and life, and Tenebrea is the Mistress of Dusk. Why would any of them care that we love each other instead of a man?”

“I…” Oona kept skritching Kitlyn’s head as if she were a large lap cat. “Hmm. They say Lucen considers us impure.”

Kitlyn raspberried. “What’s more pure than love?” She looked up. “I’d walk to the farthest reaches of Evermoor for you.”

Oona smiled, teary-eyed. “I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

“More than with Cloud?”

“Hmm.” Oona tapped a finger to her lip. “Well, he was a rather beautiful horse, wasn’t he… and we were nine.” She sighed. “I haven’t gone riding since I’d been trapped inside. I wonder if he remembers me. But yes… Much happier than that.”

They lay in silence for a little while, holding each other, squeezing and snuggling.

“Maybe Orien would be upset.”

“How?” Kitlyn shivered at a powerful gust of wind outside. It didn’t come in, but the mere sound of it made her colder.

“Orien is the God of Life. He might be unhappy that we couldn’t bear children.”

Kitlyn rolled her eyes. “Children are so much work.”

“Only when they’re small.” Oona let out a wistful sigh. “And I’ve seen how your eyes light up when you amuse them with your dancing stones.”

“You’d make a wonderful mum.”

Oona tickled Kitlyn’s ribs. “You too.”

Minutes passed, but no matter how tight Kitlyn clung, her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. Oona sat up with a gasp and raised her hand as if to catch a raindrop. After a few seconds, a sphere of dark blue light appeared, radiating heat. She eased it up as if teaching a fledgling bird to fly, and the small will-o-wisp hovered near the center of the chamber. In short order, their little shelter turned cozy.

Kitlyn grinned ear to ear.

“What?” Oona tilted her head.

“I have a different idea.” She tugged the arm Oona had put around her neck down like a blanket and snuggled into her. “What if the gods sent this storm because they wanted us to be closer for a little while?”

“That’s a lovely idea.” Oona kissed her.

Kitlyn played with Oona’s hair, smiling dazedly. All her pent-up worry over the stolen jewels, and the dread that something had happened to the woman she loved while she’d been trapped in the dungeon faded. Coupled with the warmth of Oona at her side, she let it carry her off to sleep.

19

Outcast

~ Oona ~

Oona awoke to the growl of her stomach and the jostle of a shivering Kitlyn at her side. The little magic heat source had run out, though a bit of sunlight leaked in the cave opening. Her mouth felt as though she’d eaten pillow stuffing, and her hunger had taken on the form of a ball of spikes. She cringed. Despite the curve in the chamber bottom, sleeping on it had left her back stiff. She smiled to spite it; a night spent in Kitlyn’s arms was well worth the price of sore muscles.

Taking care not to wake her love, Oona extricated herself from their embrace and crept outside. A short distance from their temporary home, she relieved herself. The promise of a drink from the smaller lake down the hill appealed more than sleep, so she hurried back to wake Kitlyn.

“Mmm. What? Where?” Kitlyn sat up and squinted at her. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

“You need a heavy dress, or at least a cloak and some boots. I’m absolutely parched. Come, let’s go to the lake.” Oona’s stomach roared again.

Kitlyn yawned and crawled to her feet. “I need a moment.”

“Alright.” Oona got started toward the lake while Kitlyn ran off to water the bushes. She traipsed along in no great hurry until Kitlyn emerged from the weeds and caught up. Navigating the somewhat steep hill studded with hard root gnarls made her curse her thin slippers, but that problem she could remedy as soon as they found a village of any decent size. She’d brought enough money to live respectably (as commoners) for quite a few years; it ought to be more than enough for the four or five days she expected to enjoy before she surrendered to her obligations and returned to the castle. With fear at losing Kitlyn gone, a rush of confidence filled her. Woe be to any who dared mistreat her love.

The ground levelled off for the width of a footpath before plunging down at an even sharper angle, full of bright green vines riddled with thorns. Oona hesitated. The vines looked furry, and some of the little white hairs had droplets on them. Is that dew or some kind of venom?

Kitlyn hugged her from behind. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not shivering anymore.”

“I’m not cold anymore.”

“Why not?” Oona looked back.

“I didn’t want to be.”

“What?”

Kitlyn grinned. “My magic. I think I’m taking energy from the earth and keeping myself warm.” She raised a hand and closed her eyes. The dangerous looking vines came alive like snakes and curled apart enough to create a walkway. Rocks swelled up from the soil, forming steps.

That’s… root magic. Oona trembled.

“What’s wrong?” Kitlyn tilted her head.

She whirled to face her. “T-that’s… Oh, no.”

“What?” Kitlyn’s happy expression crashed to one of apprehension.

“You’re using rootshaper magic.” Oona lowered her voice to a whisper. “Like the savages.”

Kitlyn glanced left and right. “I don’t feel like a demon. You don’t know that only people from Evermoor can do that.”

“I… we don’t know where you came from. They found you wandering the castle when you were three years old. What if your parents were Evermoor spies and they got killed? And… and…”

“Would it matter?” Kitlyn grabbed her by the shoulders. “I’ve grown up here in Lucernia. Even if I am from there, which I can’t believe, would it matter to us?”

Oona stared into her dark emerald eyes for a long minute. All the stories of the savages she’d heard, eating people, burning corpses in dark sacrifices to their abominable gods… the mere thought that Kitlyn could be somehow related to that horrified her, yet that same horror… wasn’t that how she’d so dreaded Kitlyn would react to the truth of her feelings?

Kitlyn looked down, seeming ready to cry.

“No!” Oona pulled her into a kiss. “It doesn’t matter. You’re right. You’re not one of them.”

Her smile returned, though a nagging bit of worry remained on her face. “I swear I will never do anything to harm you or your kingdom.”

“I still do not think myself worthy of calling it my kingdom.” Oona sighed. “Do you have any idea how it feels to grow up being told over and over again that you’re supposed to destroy one country to save another? Everyone’s so convinced… Fauhurst thinks I’m a spoiled brat, but Kit, it’s the killing that horrifies me.” I can’t do this. I can’t! She sank to her knees, weeping into her hands.

Kitlyn fell to kneel at her side, arm around her back. “Hey… it’s all right. No matter what happens, I’ll be right there with you.”

Oona’s crying burst into giggles. “Listen to me. I sound like a spoiled child.”

“A little.” She leaned her head against Oona’s. “The king has been rather indulgent.”

“Oh!” Oona shoved her. “You’re not supposed to agree with me!”

Kitlyn grinned. “I can’t imagine what it was like. What it is like.” She rubbed Oona’s back. “Oh… By Lucen’s light! What if…”

“What?”

“A rather silly thought leapt into my head.”

“Out with it, woman!” Oona raised her finger imperiously.

“What if I’m some lost royal from Evermoor and because we fell in love, the war ends?” She flashed a cheesy smile. “Beredwyn once told me foretellings have a strange way of making themselves come true.”

Oona stared at her, gaping-mouthed for a few seconds. “That’s so ridiculous, you might be right… and what do you mean by strange ways?”

“He said that the way the seers write things leaves enough open to interpretation that they almost always come true.”

“So?” Oona stood. “Maybe it’s all a lie? The seers write something so vague that something totally random happens and everyone thinks the prophecy came true.”

Kitlyn got up and descended the narrow stone staircase she’d made. “I don’t think I’m from Evermoor. I don’t have horns.”

“If you did, they’d be cute little horns.”

“Hah.” Kitlyn snickered.

Oona held her arms up as she tiptoed down the precarious steps. “They have horns?”

“Your father thinks they’re demons.”

“The assassin didn’t have horns.” Oona jumped off the last stair into wonderful, soft grass.

Kitlyn folded her arms, her face scrunched up in thought. “Do rootshapers affect stone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so… only plants. It stands to reason…”

“Right. So maybe I got this magic at the whim of the gods?” Kitlyn took a knee by the water and scooped a few handfuls to her mouth.

Oona forgot about conversation―decorum as well―and dropped on her hands and knees, face in the water. She gulped down mouthful after mouthful until her lungs demanded air, and sat back gasping for breath with icy water dribbling down her face onto her chest.

“Thirsty?” asked Kitlyn, eyebrows up.

“Yes!” Oona took a few heavy breaths and stuck her head in the water again. When she sat up, she let gravity pull her flat on her back and held her stomach. “Oh… I think I drank too much.”

“Where does our magic come from?” Kitlyn reclined next to her.

“The gods, of course. We’re born with it. Except for the priests who can sometimes do it after years of study. But magical gifts among our people is quite rare.”

“I know that… I mean nothing with stone or plants?” asked Kitlyn in a somber tone.

“If it’s happened, it’s not been recorded.” Oona sat up. “I imagine people would assume them touched by the demons of Evermoor.”

Kitlyn wrapped her arms around her legs, looking glum. “So, they’ll hate me twice over.”

“Well, I’m only guessing. Magic is so rare outside the temples, I don’t think anyone will notice. Besides.” Oona touched a finger to her chin and raised an eyebrow. “You are far too beautiful to have come from Evermoor.”

Kitlyn laughed, blushing bright. “You’re quite comely yourself, Highness.”

Oona threw a clump of grass, which Kitlyn ducked. “I told you not to address me like that!” Giggling, she launched herself into a tackle. Pinning Kitlyn’s hands to the ground on either side of her head, she kissed her. After a few minutes, she released her grip and let Kitlyn roll over on top of her. Hands slid up her side, squeezing her hips, sliding up to her breasts, threading around her back. A fire stirred deep inside her. She leaned her body into Kitlyn’s and squirmed about. Kisses trailed away from her mouth to the side of her neck. Kitlyn nibbled at her earlobe, sending waves of ecstasy racing from her burning cheeks down to her toes.

“What are you doing?” rasped Oona. Don’t stop.

“I… have no idea.” Kitlyn broke into giggles. “I’ve never done this before.”

Oona blushed seven shades of crimson. “Nor I.”

Snap.

Her body went rigid; her heart slammed against her breastbone. Oh, no. Someone’s seen us. She shot bolt upright, twisting around to face west along the lakeshore. A small girl in a dirty cotton dress, barefoot, with long blonde hair, stepped out from the bushes. She looked confused and curious, but surprisingly, not disgusted. Her wide blue eyes radiated curiosity and innocence.

“Hello,” said the little one.

Kitlyn recovered her composure faster. “Good morning, child.”

Oona looked at the little girl’s feet, unable to bear eye contact. “Greetings, girl.”

The tiny waif walked closer. “Are you lost?”

“We can’t be lost.” Kitlyn chuckled. “We’re not trying to go anywhere in particular. What’s your name, girl?”

“I’m Evie. Are you in love with her?”

Oona’s face burned.

“Yes,” said Kitlyn, without hesitation. “Very much.”

“That’s nice,” said the girl.

Oona looked up at the most genuine smile she’d ever seen. Evie couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, and had a slight, almost elven build. “Do you live nearby? Are you lost?”

Evie grinned. “I live wi’ my momma, o’er there.” She pointed across the lake at a small village. “In Llanoen. My papa went to war, and he’s wi’ the gods now.”

“Oh, sweetie… I’m so sorry.” Kitlyn reached out and patted Evie’s arm.

Guilt cinched in Oona’s gut, which growled.

“Are you hungry? We’ve got food. You look like you’re hungry.” Evie swished side to side, making her dress flare.

“Yes.” Oona stood and pulled Kitlyn to her feet. “I’ve got some coin I can give your mother. We don’t need charity, but food would be lovely.”

“This way,” Evie singsonged. She swung her arms out while spinning on her toes like a dancer, then skipped off along the edge of the lake, hair and dress bouncing.

“Oona?” asked Kitlyn in a hushed tone.

“What?”

“That girl looks a lot like you.” Kitlyn paused. “Younger.”

Oona resisted the temptation to skip, and followed Evie. “She’s blonde and thin. I’m blonde and not so thin.”

“Aside from these”―Kitlyn squeezed her left breast―“you’re thin.”

Oona blushed again and tried to return the grope, but Kitlyn grabbed her wrist. They wrestled, grunting and snickering for a few seconds.

“Are you coming?” yelled Evie from some distance.

“Look at her when we catch up,” whispered Kitlyn. “I mean it.”

Oona shook her head. They held hands and followed the bouncing sprite around the lake, a few hundred yards until it narrowed into a small river that passed under a wooden footbridge to the village of Llanoen. About forty huts of various sizes dotted the land, as well as nine picturesque farms and one building made of stacked stone she assumed to be the local meeting hall.

Evie waved at a few people who offered curious, neutral looks to Oona and Kitlyn. Eventually, the child’s destination became clear, as only one hut near the southernmost point in the village remained in front of her. She darted to the door past a flotilla of chickens and a few bored-looking goats. A lone milk cow gave them the most unimpressed of looks from beyond a rickety wooden fence to the left of the little farmhouse. The beautiful fragrance of stew filled the air.

“Mama,” said Evie. “There’s some ladies who need somethin’ ta eat. I tol’ ’em to come ’ere.”

“Why did―” The woman’s annoyed voice cut off as Oona pushed the door wider.

Evie cringed as if expecting to be screamed at; her innocent joy gone in an instant to an imminent explosion of tears.

Oona stepped in, ready to yell at the kind of mother who’d berate such a happy, friendly child for showing kindness, and stopped cold. The haggard-looking woman on the far side of a large table looked to be in her mid-thirties, with medium length blonde hair, blue eyes, and a face that could’ve been Oona in twenty years.

“I saw them by the lake, Mama,” said Evie in a tiny voice. “They haven’t eaten in a day. They’re lost.”

“My daughter’s such a sweet thing.” The woman coughed, looking to Kitlyn. “She’d offer away our last bread to someone she thought needed it.”

Oona glanced at a sizeable iron pot over the fire, bubbling with thick, brown stew. Last loaf indeed. “We don’t need to impose on your charity, madam.” She fetched two silver crescents from her pouch. A bowl of stew from a tavern in Cimril cost one or two tin crowns. One silver crescent was worth two steel lumens, each of which worth a hundred tin crowns. “Will this be adequate for a bowl of that lovely stew and perhaps bread if you have it to spare?”

The woman walked around the table, breaking eye contact for an instant to examine the contents of Oona’s outstretched hand before staring at her. Shock lasted an instant before suspicion melted to overwhelming, if insincere hospitality. “Aye. Come in, then. ’Ave a seat. Name’s Ruby.”

Evie almost melted into a puddle with relief. Her giant smile returned.

“I’m Oona. This is Kitlyn.” She winced inwardly at herself for not giving false names, but giving false names would be lying… and Lucen detested liars. Bad enough she’d fallen in love with Kitlyn. She didn’t need more crimes against the gods on her soul.

Ruby’s eye twitched, but she smiled. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll fetch you some stew.”

A small statuette of Lucen and Navissa sat above the mantel over the cook fire. Oona glanced at it while following Kitlyn to the table, wondering if perhaps this might be the sign she had prayed for. Evie crawled up to sit on the bench between them, grinning. The girl did have a rather uncanny resemblance to her. One of the more tedious aspects of being the princess involved too much time perching before mirrors whenever the king demanded her presence at one event or another. It hadn’t been that long ago she’d been a child, and looking at Evie felt like she peered deep into the waters of a seer’s scrying pool, back in time.

The sprite’s permanent grin faded to a meaningful stare as she whispered, “I had a sister named Oona. She died a baby before I’s born.”

Kitlyn glanced at Oona, eyes wide but eyebrows flat.

Ruby fixed two bowls of stew and carried them over, all the while staring at Oona. Evie tensed and kept quiet as the woman got closer.

“Thank you, Ruby.” Kitlyn leaned over and whispered, “This is beyond understanding. Do you think we are still sleeping?”

“Thank you,” said Oona, trying to smile at the woman, but felt certain she’d only managed more of a worried look. “This smells lovely.”

“Anything smells lovely when yer starvin’.” Ruby mumbled something more to herself and wandered into the larder.

“I’m rather sure we are awake,” whispered Oona.

She attacked the stew, inhaling it as fast as heat would allow. Having gone a full day without a meal after a night where she’d only picked at dinner, she probably could’ve eaten beggar’s fare. Evie chattered on about the names of their chickens, pointing out three she designated as pets, which she forbade her mother from cooking. All the while she talked, the child’s head whirled left and right to share her smile with both of them.

Ruby returned with a round loaf of dark brown bread, tore it in half, and set the chunks on the table by the bowls. “Evie, go and fetch them a drink.”

“Yes, Mama.” The child almost tripped in her haste to a cupboard across the room.

The more Oona looked at Ruby, the more uneasy she felt. Eeriness pervaded the air as if she’d stepped past a mirror into a dream world. Evie returned with two wooden cups full of water and clambered up to retake her spot between them on the bench.

Kitlyn glanced back and forth from Ruby to Oona, her already pale skin going whiter.

While they ate, the woman sat at a spinning wheel. Every time Oona glanced at her, Ruby looked up and caught her. Evie rambled for a little more about their hair and how pretty they were before her mother shooed her off to milk the cow. Oona kept her head down and focused on eating, stew, bread, stew, bread, sip of water. Before long, she finished the portion and scraped sauce from the bowl with her spoon.

“If you don’t ask, I will,” whispered Kitlyn.

Oona set the empty bowl down and looked back at the woman.

“Why’re you two lookin’ at me like that?” Ruby stopped spinning.

“I couldn’t help but notice how much like Oona you look, Ma’am,” said Kitlyn. “Beg your pardon for staring.”

Ruby sighed, eyes downcast. “Odd, that.”

“Quite.” Oona looked up at her. “Why do you sound so guilty?”

“That’s a rather large coin purse for a girl your age,” said Ruby, to the floor, resuming her spinning. “Where’d you come by such a fortune?”

“Are you in a bad way, what with your husband’s death in the war?” Oona eased herself off the bench. Nerves prickled at her guts. She pressed a hand to her stomach to quell a sudden twinge of nausea. “I can spare a few more coins for your kindness.”

“You’re her, aren’t you?” asked Ruby.

“I’m sorry?” Oona froze.

“The princess.” Ruby looked up, a mournful expression on her weary face. “Oona.”

“I… Uhh.” She looked down. Sometimes it is rather vexing the gods consider lying a tarnish! “Yes.”

The spinning wheel whirred to a halt. Ruby picked at the thread for a few agonizing seconds. “About thirteen years ago, you lit blue fire to one of the chickens. Magic, they said.”

Oona swooned. Kitlyn leapt up and caught her before she fell and bashed her head on the table. “I… What?”

Kitlyn guided her to the bench, propped her up, and sat beside her, holding her hand.

“A week later, grand King Talomir himself walked through my door. He had learned you had magic in you, and said the kingdom needed you. They promised you a better life, far more than anything your father or I could’ve offered.” Ruby’s hands shook. “Had to give you up, didn’t I, so you could have everything I could never provide.”

No… no… no… the room swirled around in a blur. That wonderful stew threatened to explode back out. Oona clung to Kitlyn for dear life, trembling. “H-how. W-what?”

“You create light, don’t you?” Ruby stood and walked over. “It has to be you. Your servant girl there’s right.”

Oona babbled and cried for a few minutes while Kitlyn patted her back. Could that be true? Am I really not the princess? She’d wished for it, but the thought of having it come true terrified her. Why am I so sick? It’s what I wanted. I’m not the heir. I don’t have to destroy Evermoor… I can be happy. She wiped her face. A smile started to form, but she wound up scowling. “No!”

Ruby hung her head. “Forgive me, child. I… thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“No, I mean…” Oona jumped to her feet. “They didn’t want to train me with magic.” She clutched a hand to her heart and got lightheaded again. “By Tenebrea… the assassins killed the real princess. They needed a replacement. A trick.” She fumed. “No wonder he wants to marry me off. He knows I can’t uphold the Foretelling.”

Kitlyn squeezed her hand. “I don’t mean to offend you, Ruby, but Oona, are you ready to take her word against the king’s?”

Ruby sighed. “Go and ask him.” She hesitated, looked Oona up and down, and pointed at her. “You’ve got a small birthmark dot on your leg.” She poked herself in the back of the left thigh, a hand’s width under her backside. “Here.”

Oona’s guts did another backflip. She’d grown up thinking her mother died giving birth to her, and only a few days ago learned the savages murdered her. Here stood the answer to something she’d been asking the gods for as long as she could remember―a mother. Can it be? She studied Ruby’s forlorn expression, guilt clear as day. A step closer, Ruby flinched as she reached up to put a hand on her shoulder. This peasant woman had the beauty of a well-bred noble under years of hard living, a sylphlike body laden with the weight of a peasant’s toil. Staring into her eyes for a while left no doubt. Too many things stacked up too neat for a lie. Without thinking, Oona pressed a hand into the birthmark on the back of her leg.

What chance was it for Evie to stumble across us? She gazed at the ceiling. I’d spent the day begging for a sign… Did Tenebrea send her to find us?

“Why?” whispered Oona, shocked and heartsick. “Why would you give me away? I… I have a mother…”

Ruby grasped her in a limp embrace. “He wanted to make you a princess. I couldn’t see you. They made me swear to the gods that I’d tell no one… for the sake of the kingdom.” She sniffled.

Oona clung to Ruby, daring to believe her mother lived. First Kitlyn accepted her love, now this! She wept tears of happiness. The woodsmoke-stew-paraffin scent permeating Ruby’s plain brown dress made her feel at home.

“You’ll come to the castle with us. You and Evie.” Oona shook her head. “I’ll not have my mother living like this.” She backed off and paced about, thinking.

Ruby brightened with hope.

Kitlyn came up behind her, whispering at her ear. “Are you sure? That woman’s charity seemed only to extend as far as your purse. Be wary.”

Oona twisted around to look at her. “She knows about my mark. She knows about my magic. Look at her. She’s me after twenty years and two children.”

Ruby coughed. “I’m not quite thirty-five yet… don’t rush Tenebrea along.”

Foretellings have a funny way of coming true. Oona crushed her hands into fists. Loss and grief flash-burned into rage. “They want to kill me!”

“What?” asked Kitlyn and Ruby at the same time.

“You said it.” Oona pointed at Kitlyn. “Foretellings always come true because of the way they are written. The king’s heir will end the war. If Ruby is right…” She looked at the woman, feeling all kinds of sick to her stomach. “And… I think she is.”

“The entire kingdom knows about your light magic. The bandits did.” Kitlyn narrowed her eyes. She caught Oona’s attention and glanced at her money pouch.

Oona twisted to lock eyes with Ruby. “I don’t think she’s making this up. I… can almost feel her guilt.”

“Your magic?” asked Kitlyn.

“Yes.” Sometimes I know how people feel.

“This isn’t the same as making Miss Harper fall asleep.”

Oona smiled a wistful smile. “People thought she drank because she conked out so often in the middle of lessons, but Lucen shows me truth.”

“You’re feeling it that way?” Kitlyn glanced at Ruby.

“It feels true. I believe she is really my mother.” Oona bit her lip. “I’ve grown up thinking my mother dead.” Past humor faded as fury welled up inside her again. “They took me in as a decoy.” Oona stomped around in a circle. “Is the real princess dead? Or… or… he might have another son or daughter hidden off in Torlach or Pirolen, and the only thing I’m good for is being assassinated! Oh, make me all pretty and proper, and if someone kills me, the kingdom’s still safe. Ha! No wonder he’s spoiled me so! Guilt!”

“There’s one other thing.” Kitlyn bit her lip. “If Prince Tristan found out… King Talomir, he’s risking war with Ondar.”

“Oh… thank you!” Oona hugged her. “Now I can’t marry him.”

Ruby gasped. “I… I had no idea. They said your magic was rare and special, and you needed trainin’. The king took me aside and confided how his little girl been murdered in her bed, and the kingdom needed to believe the princess was fine. If… If I’d thought for a moment you’d be a stand-in meant to fool killers, I… I…”

Oona stormed around in a circle for a few seconds before anger plummeted into grief. She collapsed on the bench, barely keeping from bawling. Her daydream of storming back into the castle and demanding Kitlyn be treated right shattered. The king obviously knew who Oona was, and her authority went only so far as he tolerated not exposing the ruse. Running off forever with the love of her life started to feel like the only possible option. Why not? Especially with the Foretelling no longer burdening her shoulders.

Kitlyn clung to her side, patting her back, while Ruby put a tentative hand on her shoulder, as if unsure if she retained any rights to do so.

“It’s all been lies,” said Oona at her lap. “Everything… lies.”

“Not everything’s a lie.” Kitlyn took her hand again.

Oona lifted her head. Eye contact sparked hope. “What are you saying?”

“I still love you.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, Oona leaned into a desperate kiss. This… this was true.

“By Lucen!” wheezed Ruby. “What are you doing?!”

“Mama?” asked Evie. “Bucket’s full’a milk. I can’t lift it.”

Oona whirled her head around to face Ruby. Evie hovered in a small doorway near the back of the house, holding her milk-covered hands up to drip. “What do you mean?”

“You… you… kissed that girl… i-in a manner most unlike friendship.” Ruby’s expression would’ve fit watching a murder.

Oh, don’t you dare. Oona shot up. “I love her.”

“Impure,” muttered Ruby. “Disgusting. How could you do that?”

“How could you sell me?” screamed Oona. “How much money did it take?”

Evie gasped. “Mama?”

“Go to the barn, Evie. I don’t want you seeing this abomination.”

Kitlyn oozed off the bench and stood, tugging at Oona’s arm. “We should go. This is her house, and we’re clearly not wanted.”

“But, Mama,” said Evie. “They’re in love.”

“It’s un―”

“Don’t,” yelled Oona. She dropped her tone to a near-whisper. “Say it. You gave away any right you had to judge me when you chose coins over your own child.”

Ruby took a step back, wiping her hand on her dress. “I suppose this is what I deserve, isn’t it? Orien sees my tarnish, so he sent his sister to take your soul. You’ve done things with this girl?”

We’ve only kissed. The thought of doing more set off a blush, though she wasn’t entirely sure what ‘doing things’ entailed. “I don’t know why the gods led me here.” Oona looked down. “I’m sorry you’re so horrified by who I am, but the tarnish is not mine to bear. If you can’t accept me, I have no need of you. I’ve spent my whole life believing my mother dead; if you wish to remain so to me, that is your choice.”

“Not natural,” whispered Ruby, shrinking further into the room. “Lucen forgive me. Please restore her to your purity.”

“Mama?” asked Evie.

Ruby whirled on the door, pointing. “Go to the barn! Don’t look at them.”

Evie cringed, raising her arms to shield her face. When Ruby didn’t move, she relaxed and stared at Oona with a heartbroken expression, clinging to the doorjamb while sniffling.

“It’s okay, Evie,” said Oona. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This―”

“Don’t talk to my daughter. I don’t want her catchin’ your evil.”

“Evil?” growled Kitlyn. “Don’t you dare call Oona that. Evil is throwing away your own flesh and blood. Twice!” She fumed in silence for a few seconds. “How much did the king pay you?”

Ruby gasped and looked down.

“He did, didn’t he?” yelled Kitlyn. “She was right. You sold your child!”

“And look what punishment the gods have wrought upon me,” Ruby whispered.

Kitlyn scoffed and put a hand on Oona’s back. Evie stepped back enough to hide from her mother in the doorway to the back room, staring apology at them.

Lucen, please don’t let her grow up to be like her mother.

Oona waved farewell to Evie and turned to Kitlyn. “Come. Let us leave. This was never my home, and that is not my mother.”

20

A Royal Mess

~ Kitlyn ~

The sudden change in Ruby left Kitlyn mired in shame and anger. She gripped the old, weathered floorboards with her toes, unable to decide if she should burst into a shouting storm at the horrible person in front of her or shrink away and hide. The way Evie seemed on edge near Ruby made her heartsick for the girl. At least the little one had no visible bruises. Oona’s lucky to have been sold. She took a step back as Oona headed for the door, staring at the Lucen/Navissa statue above the mantel. Despite the sickened glower coming from Ruby, the two gods confronting her stirred nothing at all.

“I can’t believe my daughter is ‘like that,’” whispered Ruby, sidling up to the statues. “Please. Please cure her.”

Oona emitted a strangled growl and stomped outside.

Kitlyn stared death at Ruby’s back, the woman who’d taken Oona from the height of hope and slammed her down into a tar pit of despair. Twice, she sucked in air to give her a piece of her mind, but decided it not worth the bother. Especially not with little Evie watching. Lucen only knew what Ruby might do if pushed. Drenched in humiliation, she bowed her head and trudged out.

“Mama, why are you angry with Oona?” asked Evie behind her.

“An affront to the gods it is, what they are.”

Kitlyn shivered, clenching her hands in fists. She hesitated in the doorway, one foot on the dirt outside, fighting the urge to whip about. Oona had distanced herself to about thirty feet away in the grass and stormed about in a close pacing. At least she appeared furious rather than destroyed.

“How can the gods say love is bad?” asked Evie.

“I’m not havin’ this discussion, child. It is wrong in the eyes of Lucen, and it is wrong in my eyes.” Ruby sucked in a hissing breath and launched into a prayer not to let her remaining daughter become ‘like them’ too.

Kitlyn glanced back. Evie fidgeted and shot her an ‘I’m really sorry’ face. At least the child didn’t look at her as though she were some manner of fiend. That would’ve got her crying. She smiled at Evie, waved, and plodded out into the field where Oona continued to fume.

“Oona?” whispered Kitlyn once she got within a few steps.

Oona whirled around and glared at her.

She leaned back. What did I do?!

The not-princess’ hard glower softened to an expression of shock. Her lip quivered, and she burst into tears.

Kitlyn leapt forward, catching her in an embrace before she could collapse, and held her. Oona clung, sobbing into her shoulder for several minutes before she seemed able to stand on her own. All the while, Kitlyn swayed her gently side-to-side, whispering soothing nonsense.

“It’s you,” whispered Oona.

“What?” Kitlyn blinked. “I didn’t do anything.”

Oona pulled back. Her wet face radiated anger and betrayal. After a momentary stare, she slouched with resigned defeat. “You’re the princess.”

Kitlyn laughed. “You’re not taking that woman’s awfulness well. Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not.” She put a hand on Kitlyn’s cheek. “I know what the servants were talking about. Your eyes.”

“What about them?” Kitlyn’s brows came together.

“Oh, it’s so obvious when you’re angry.” Oona bowed her head, turning a bit to the side. “You have the same eyes as the king. Emerald green. He’s always so stern and serious. When you’re angry, you look so much like him… how didn’t I see that before?”

Kitlyn thought back to the dark-haired girl in the kitchen who seemed so frightened of her as soon as she got angry. Those servants likely brought the king his meals. She swallowed, uneasy at the idea but not believing it either. “No, that’s just a coincidence. Green eyes don’t mean anything.”

“Not merely green eyes. Their shape. The way your nose… your cute little nose tapers.” Oona kept crying, but smiled. “I do not think I can bear any more.” She braced her stomach with both hands.

“You’re being rash. Do you honestly think if I were the real princess, his daughter, that the king would have tolerated how everyone’s been to me?”

“It seems―no, of course.” She clung tight to Kitlyn. “The worse they were to you, the less any spy would even suspect. My fa―the king is proud. They’d never believe he could allow his daughter to be treated so poorly.”

He became furious over Fauhurst making me carry linens… She shivered. “I… No, it can’t be.”

“Don’t you see, Kit? Why else would he take in a little peasant girl who’d wandered onto the castle grounds? You should’ve wound up at the temple with the other children.”

“How many orphans have magic?” asked Kitlyn. “Perhaps they wanted to watch me in case I turned out to be a spy, or so they could study my ‘demon magic’ to aid the war effort.”

Oona folded her arms. “Why make a girl with no status my handmaiden? Why would the king check on you in the middle of the night? Why would Beredwyn show such fondness?” She gasped. “No wonder he wouldn’t make you a lady-in-waiting. He couldn’t give you a minor title because you already have rank.”

“You talk nonsense.” Kitlyn put an arm around her and got her moving. “Let us be away from this place and that wretched woman. In a day or two, your mind will clear, and you’ll see. You’re upset and rambling.”

Oona gave her a look of protest, but followed. They walked side by side toward the edge of where the Mistral Wood wrapped around Llanoen village. A few minutes later, she stopped, forcing Kitlyn to halt as well. Her emotion had subsided, leaving her pensive and sad-faced, but her voice came clear and without the snag of tears.

“Your magic is stronger than mine.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s merely different.” Kitlyn studied the ground.

“Why does the king hover around you so?”

“He doesn’t.” Kitlyn rolled her eyes. “I barely see him.”

“He watches you sleep sometimes. I’ve caught him peering through your door when I had to run to the garderobe in the middle of the night.”

Kitlyn raised an eyebrow. “That is unsettling.”

“No.” Oona gave her arm a light push. “A father watching his daughter sleep, making sure she is well.”

The trees seemed to pull away from her as the world spun about. “I saw him once too. But why would he care about me? I’m a foundling.”

“Don’t you see?” Oona grasped her arms and shook her. “They didn’t ‘find’ you wandering the grounds… you’d been there before me! The savages murdered your mother, and the king was frightened you’d be next. You’re the princess, and I’m merely a target board for daggers.”

Her head swam. Every strange look the king had given her over the years. Being allowed to attend all the tutoring sessions; she’d been educated every bit as much as Oona. Always seeming to dust the shelves whenever the advisors had a strategic meeting. She’d been taught tactics without being aware she’d been learning. The king never once chided her for being ‘too informal.’ A girl with no status given a room next to the princess. No wonder everyone scorned her. That sort of thing didn’t happen. Shouldn’t have happened.

All the maids have been avoiding me lately. That girl in the kitchen recognized me when I got angry, and gossip spread like fire in dry linens.

Oona grabbed at her. “Stand straighter. Tilt your head a bit to the left. Smile at me like you’ve got a secret in your head you can’t wait to spill. Lean a little to the side…”

Kitlyn put up with the posing. “And this is helping how? Are you planning to paint me?”

“No.” Oona stepped back, covering her mouth and nose with both hands. “There’s a painting of the queen in the library. You look like her.”

Kitlyn relaxed the pose and approached Oona, who sniveled like a small girl. “Why are you crying? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Oona choked up. “It is, but I don’t want them to kill you. Or you to kill anyone. Better it’s me.”

“No!” Kitlyn pounced on her, clinging tight. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I’ll protect you.” Oona tried to laugh but it sounded more of a sob.

Kitlyn slid a hand up and cradled the back of Oona’s head, pulling her close. The girl’s breath warmed the crook of her neck. “There is nothing and no one in this kingdom or all the rest that I care for more than you.”

Oona’s fingers dug into her back as she tightened their embrace. “I’ve felt the same far longer than I’ve been brave enough to tell you.”

“Let’s disappear into the woods. We’ll find a village and I’ll make us a little home nearby so we can trade if need be.”

“But…” Oona released their embrace, but kept holding hands. “The Foretelling? The war?”

Kitlyn frowned. “Half the time those things only come true because people either try to avoid them or try to live up to their destiny.”

“Aren’t we trying to avoid it by running away?” Oona grinned.

Kitlyn pulled Oona into walking again. “What’s the war even about? Does anyone know?”

“The savages of Evermoor! They slit the throats of unwanted babies to appease their pit-fiends. They eat people and talk to dark forces.”

Kitlyn smirked at her. “Do you really believe that?”

“It’s what all the scholars say, all the writings.” Oona kicked at a spiked, round seedpod the size of her fist, launching it off into the woods. “So, the war…”

“Yes.” Kitlyn paused at the edge of a stream to drink. “But why?”

Oona squatted at her side and gathered handfuls of water as well. “I don’t know. I wasn’t around when it started.”

Kitlyn laughed. “Nor I. But… Do you think if they commanded the powers of demons, they’d not have already conquered us?”

Oona held her nose up. “Of course not. Demons cannot tread upon Lucernia. Lucen banished them thousands of years ago and blessed our kingdom.”

“And yet the war is happening.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re forgotten.” Oona drank a little more and stood. “It merely shows they are not using demons. He has chased out the minions of darkness, not the hearts of evil men.”

“Perhaps… I… Well, they did try to kill you.”

Oona shivered. “Yes. A young girl helpless in bed. What kind of savage would do that?”

Kitlyn waded into the shin-deep water and squidgy muck while holding Oona’s hand to help her balance as she stepped across a scattering of rocks to cross the stream. At the other bank, she rinsed mud from her feet, and they set off deeper into the woods. Ruby’s stew churned and bubbled in her gut. For a second, she feared poison, but the woman hadn’t known ‘how they were’ before they’d eaten. Granted, it didn’t seem likely the woman would’ve tried to harm them despite her horribleness. No, her meal roiled due to worry―and anger.

If what Oona suggested were true, the king would be her father… and he would’ve spent the past thirteen years watching everyone treat her like dirt. Her blood boiled. How could he do that? She thought back to how he had hugged them both after the assassin ran off. It almost made sense now. He could have comforted only Oona. Still, the possibility remained he might’ve been merely polite―but why? Why would the king of all people feel the need to be polite to a worthless peasant? She pondered it for some time as they wandered the forest, climbing over felled trees covered in bright green and yellow moss, navigating dense underbrush, skirting anything that appeared dangerous.

No, this can’t possibly be true.

“I don’t think you’re right.”

“What?” Oona startled.

“I don’t think I’m who you think I am. The king wouldn’t have tolerated the… the abuse.”

Oona grasped Kitlyn’s cheeks in both hands, pulling her nose to nose. “I can’t help but see it now every time I look at you. Especially when you’re angry. You’ve got his eyes. The queen had night-black hair like you. You’ve got her nose.”

“How, then, has no one noticed by now?”

“Always with your head down, working. You never look anyone in the eye except me or Beredwyn, and my thoughts have been whirling about with too much worry.”

“I can’t believe it.” She scowled. “Why would he have allowed me to be thrown in the dungeon?”

“What if he didn’t know? How many people would’ve been trusted with a secret like that?” Oona blinked. “Certainly not a peasant like me.”

“Stop it. You’re the princess.” Kitlyn hugged her. “Unless you wish to return to Cimril and ask him to his face.”

“It’s too heavy a stone to bear… wiping out an entire kingdom. Even a savage one.”

Kitlyn sighed, half-smiling. “Perhaps I fear that responsibility as well.”

“See?” Oona sighed. “Being the princess is more a burden than a privilege.”

“But you are,” whispered Kitlyn.

“No, I’m not.” Oona winked. “You are.”

Kitlyn stared down. “Well… one of us is. We should return. Our people shouldn’t suffer for our fears.”

“True. At least you get to marry a prince.” Oona grinned.

“By Tenebrea!” Kitlyn gasped. “Beredwyn sent me to sop up a wine stain in Tristan’s room! I thought it another torment, but… if you’re correct, they knew he couldn’t marry you without risking war with Ondar. They wanted to see how I got on with him.”

Oona blinked. “I can’t imagine that went well.”

“No. Not at all. I think he knows. Beredwyn, I mean. About… us.” Kitlyn grinned. “He didn’t seem to mind.”

Oona slouched with a sigh of relief. “You’re right. We should go back, but… perhaps after a few days of freedom?”

“All right.”

“I don’t want to go back,” said Oona in a small voice.

Kitlyn took her hand, holding it in both of hers. “Nor I, but how many more orphans must be made before this war ends?”

“Kit…” Oona leaned into her, shivering. “That’s not fair. This whole―”

“O’er there,” said a man’s voice, distant in the trees. “Thought I ’eard somethin’.”

“Go. Run!” whispered Oona.

Kitlyn sprinted through the underbrush, the charge of her earthen magic heeding her urge to flee. Each time her foot struck the soil, a burst of energy shot up her leg. In moments, the rustling that had been at her heels faded. She looked back to find Oona struggling to keep up a good distance away. Whoa. She stared down at her feet, toes sunken into the dirt. What else can I do?

Oona caught up a moment or two later, out of breath. “How… how did you run so fast?”

“I’m not sure.” Kitlyn scratched her head. “Magic?”

“Did we lose them?” asked Oona.

Kitlyn stared back the way they’d come, but no sign of pursuit materialized. “I believe so.”

After a short rest, they set off again.

“Where are we going?” asked Oona.

Kitlyn grinned at her. “You ask me as if I have any idea where we are.”

“Are we lost?”

“For the moment, it seems thus. However, in order to be lost, one must care where they are going.”

“Oh, bother,” said Oona, sounding not at all upset.

A few minutes later, a child’s delighted squeal broke the silence far off to the west.

“There’s a village that way,” said Oona. “We should try to obtain some provisions. Chancing the woods with nothing isn’t wise.”

“Agreed.” Kitlyn held out her hand. “To the village, princess?”

Oona narrowed her eyes, grinning as she took the offered hand. “A fine idea, princess.”

Kitlyn pulled her in close enough to kiss, but burst into giggles before she could. Oona laughed as well, and bowed her head into Kitlyn’s shoulder. With the mood completely ruined for romance, she walked toward the sound of playing children.

“It’s beautiful here,” whispered Oona. “It’s been so long since I’ve left the castle…”

Kitlyn slowed to watch some manner of bird peck at a patch of pea-green lichen along the side of a tree quite a ways up off the ground. “I’ve never been away. Whenever you left, they made me work.”

Oona laughed.

“That’s not at all funny.” Kitlyn’s lip quivered. “They treat me like a slave.”

“I’m not laughing at that.” Oona’s laughter melted into pity. “I was imagining Fauhurst’s face when he learns you’re the heir.”

Kitlyn covered her mouth. For that, she’d want it to be true. “Oh, he’ll drop dead!”

“Indeed!” Oona squealed into giggles. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

“We just ate.”

“Hours ago.” Oona pointed back. “Where’s your head?”

“I…” Has it been that long? She looked around. “I… feel as though I’ve fallen off the world.”

“Me too.” Oona bit her lip. “I feel like that whenever I’m with you.”

Kitlyn’s heart swelled up. She hugged Oona tight, let go, and flashed a coy smile. “Let’s find a meal, and a place to be alone… maybe we can do some of those unholy things that woman mentioned.”

Oona blushed. “Scandalous… We’re not married.”

“What priest would…?” Kitlyn frowned. “Do you want us to be?”

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you.” Oona looked down and sniffled. “Even if it’s only a few.”

“You’re not going to die!” Kitlyn squished her into another hug.

“Well… one of us is a princess, as we have established.” Oona smiled. “We can wed ourselves by royal decree… if you’ll have me.”

“Hush. Of course. But let’s do it proper… later.”

“You only want to surprise me with a ring.” Oona winked.

“I’m a pauper. I can’t afford a ring.” Kitlyn whistled innocently at the trees. “You’ll need to buy the rings.”

Oona laughed.

Hand in hand, they walked until the sounds of a village broke the hush.

21

Hope

~ Oona ~

Despite an outward smile, Oona couldn’t get the image of Ruby out of her mind. How cruel a twist of fate that had been. Kitlyn seemed to sense something bothering her, and squeezed her hand too tight. Could it be true that her life as the princess had been a lie? A door to freedom gaped ajar. If she broke the secret, told the world, she wouldn’t have assassins coming after her; she wouldn’t have to destroy Evermoor; she wouldn’t have any responsibilities at all.

The king might throw me in the dungeon to keep me quiet. She glanced at Kitlyn. If she’s the true heir, he’d do anything to protect her. By Lucen, he’d let them treat her so horribly her whole life to keep her safe.

She squeezed Kitlyn’s hand in return, this time sending a message of love.

Kitlyn smiled back.

They emerged from the weeds on a small dirt path, large enough for two horses astride. A little ways ahead, a canvas-covered wagon stood off to the side in the tall grass. Four horses milled about unhitched, working on feedbags. Six men in green, brown, or blue tunics rested nearby, ate, tended to the animals, or rested. The middling quality of their garb put them as either poor merchants or well-to-do farmers. Beyond the wagon, an offshoot road curved to the right, heading into a rounded courtyard in the center of a modest village. Children too tiny to do chores ran about, chasing each other and laughing. Older boys looked after goats, sheep, or attended to farm work beside their fathers. Girls hung laundry or swept while a few elders wandered about chatting with whoever got close. Chickens, ducks, and pigeons mingled underfoot.

“Well, it’s small… but it looks lovely,” said Oona.

“They seem friendly.”

Oona looked at her. For now. “Let’s keep our secret for a while. Perhaps they will be less inclined to hate us once they’ve gotten to know us.”

“Do you imagine everyone will find us repulsive?”

She looked down. “Enough will.”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

Oona glared. “No. Do not ever think that! I will not lie, but we need not strike the wasp nest with a stick either. I do not wish to invite the scorn of fools.”

Kitlyn, gaze still downcast, managed a weak smile. “All right. I’m sorry about… Ruby.”

Me too. Her heart slowed. “As am I. She did seem quite taken with guilt at first. Perhaps she will come around?”

“We can pray for that.” Kitlyn glanced up. “Or perhaps Tenebrea wishes to punish her for being an unworthy mother.”

Oona closed her eyes, trying to banish the memory. “Speak no more of that woman.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Stop it.” Oona snarled. “Now I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or being silly.”

Kitlyn crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

Oona started to say something, but froze. Four of the six merchants had ceased their conversation and locked eyes on her. The intensity in their stare made her worry. Oh, bother. I should not have taken so much of my allowance. Yet, she had to. In the throes of panic and too much wine, she hadn’t planned to return. Planning hadn’t a thing to do with it. Right. Great idea, that. Run off into the woods with a sack of coins. And here they were, two young, helpless-looking waifs. She patted at her hip and realized she’d forgotten the sword at Ruby’s house. Damn it. No weapons, no guards, and a princess’ ransom in coins. Don’t panic. I don’t need the sword; I have Kit. They’ll see our magic and run like the last group.

“Those men,” whispered Oona. “I think they’re bandits.”

“All men stare at such a beautiful woman.” Kitlyn winked.

Oona gave her a playful shove. “I’m serious. I don’t like the way they’re looking at us.”

Kitlyn grasped her arm above the elbow, hovering close, and nudged her toward the village. “Maybe they’re concerned at seeing us unescorted by a man? They could be angry at our fathers or husbands for allowing us off alone through the woods.”

Oona almost chuckled. “I… no. Something doesn’t feel right.” She met the gaze of the nearest man. A sense at the back of her mind needled away. He wanted to hurt her. Anger. Hatred. She averted her eyes and hurried along the road toward the village, leaving the wagon behind. Auburn-feathered roosters scurried out of her way and a pudgy black cat watched her impassively from atop a barrel next to a small house.

“Those men aside,” said Kitlyn, “this place looks nice. Why don’t we head a ways farther west? I’ll bring us a little home up from the ground… if there’s enough stone under the soil. We could live happily here.”

Until they see us in love.

A pair of older women ambled by, glancing in their direction. They waved, smiling.

Oona returned the greeting. “Are we far enough away from the castle?”

Kitlyn sighed. “I don’t know, but we can hide in the woods for a few days. If the gods want us to be found, we’ll be found. Let’s go and be happy together. To Tenebrea with the Foretelling.”

“You don’t really mean that,” said Oona. “About the Foretelling.”

“I would hope the gods do not deny us at least a short while together.” Kitlyn squeezed her hand. “We can use the time to think―like how to end this wretched war without more bloodshed.”

In that moment, it seemed almost possible to be happy. To forget it all and let go of the pressure, the fear. Oona fought back the urge to kiss her right there at the edge of this village. “I lo―” Her gaze shifted over Kitlyn’s shoulder at four of the men from the wagon walking up to them.

Kitlyn’s adoring smile faded to a look of worry. She spun around, following Oona’s stare.

A man in a dark blue tunic stepped forward. He appeared in his early thirties, with powerful shoulders and a trace of an ale-belly, but moved with a lightness of stride that didn’t match his size. His short brown hair defied the wind, remaining utterly still. “Well… this is a most unusual surprise… Princess Oona.”

“You must be mistaken.” Technically not a lie. “What do you want?” The feeling in the back of her mind said murder… but it swirled with sudden guilt and doubt. Oona edged away, whispering, “Run.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” A thinner man at the far left of the group turned his hand palm-up, and cradled a glowing orb of flame the size of a fist. The sphere of fire hovered an inch away from his skin, rippling in the breeze, but didn’t burn him. “Unless you wish to see this entire village, and everyone in it, turned to cinders.”

The man at the right end of the line, shorter but also thin, produced a matching fireball. As she stared at them, she sensed little hesitation in their hearts that they would do as promised. Behind her, a peal of children’s laughter etched her heart with ice. Both men casually dispelled the fire. No one in the village appeared to notice; no one screamed, and no curious children came running to watch the magic show.

Oona pushed Kitlyn behind her. “All right. I am the princess. What do you want of me?”

Kitlyn tugged at her arm. “But…”

Oona glared at her. “Damnable peasant. How many times must I tell you not to touch me?”

“Wha?” Kitlyn reeled back. She looked hurt for a second before a horrified understanding dawned.

The man in the blue tunic stepped closer. “I had expected the princess to be… older. You’re still a child.”

“I’m sixteen.” Oona lifted her nose. “As of two months ago. It is rude to make me repeat myself. What do you want?”

He glanced back at his companions. “Change of plan. The princess is not to be harmed.”

The men shifted uneasily.

A man who had not made fire shook his head. “We should be done with it here and now. The fate of… everything rests with her life.”

Kitlyn pulled on her arm. Oona looked back to a face red and covered in tears. The girl mouthed, “Don’t do this,” without lending it even a whisper.

Oona resisted the urge to caress her cheek. I cannot let them hurt you. She concentrated with all her heart on the want for Kitlyn to understand. She had to run. Go back to Cimril. I’ve been raised to die to protect you, and… She fought the urge to tremble. I guess it’s time.

“To the wagon, princess,” said the man in blue.

“Or the village burns,” added one of the firecallers.

“W-who are you?” asked Oona.

He took a step back like a human door opening, one arm extended toward the wagon. “Here is not the time or the place to discuss matters of such delicacy. To the wagon, Highness… now.”

She eyed the men, weighing the odds of blinding them before they could light fire to the village. Her gaze settled on the ground behind the man in blue. His shadow bore the line of a broadsword at his hip and… armor. Evermoor! Her limbs froze to stone. Assassins don’t wear plate armor… nor do they wield demon-fire. They would most certainly burn everyone to death… even the little ones, and perhaps even eat them after. Her stomach churned.

“Foretellings do work in strange ways…” She sent a longing gaze over her shoulder at Kitlyn. I am to die, and her revenge will purge the demons from the land of Evermoor. “Perhaps I am destined to this fate.”

Kitlyn’s fists trembled, the fury in her eyes making her look so much like King Talomir, any trace of doubt evaporated.

Head bowed, Oona walked among the men toward the wagon. The figure in blue sidled close, the unmistakable clatter of armor and weapons obvious despite his having neither.

“No,” said Kitlyn. “She’s not…”

The man in blue looked back. “She’s not what?”

Don’t! Oona stared at her, pleading.

“Going with you.” Kitlyn took on an aggressive lean.

The men chuckled, but otherwise ignored her.

Oona cringed as he grasped her by the bicep and pulled her around to the rear of the wagon. She refused to show anything but the dignity of a princess taken by the enemy as they bound her hands behind her back.

The soldier in blue gestured at the village. “Bring the peasant too, lest she raise an alarm.”

“No!” yelled Oona. She struggled against the ropes tightening about her wrists. “She’s nothing to you! Leave her be.” She strained to break free, but the men held her firm to the wagon.

Kitlyn raised her hands and walked to the third man who’d started after her. She said nothing as he grabbed a fistful of her tunic and hauled her over to the wagon. Oona kept struggling to get away as Kitlyn thudded into the wood beside her.

What are you doing? Why didn’t you run?

They bound her hands as well; Kitlyn offered no resistance, staring at Oona with a look of resigned calm.

Men lifted Oona into the wagon and laid her on her front before binding her ankles. Only a few small trunks occupied the space, which smelled as though men had been sleeping in it for quite some time. She wriggled and squirmed, forcing one of the savages to sit on her to pin her down. Kitlyn slid onto the floor at her left, quiet and still as they wound rope about her ankles.

When they pulled Oona up, a man stuffed a foul-tasting bit of cloth into her mouth and knotted it behind her head, jerking it tighter until she cried out. After, he lifted her into a seated position and pushed her against the side wall. The wood portion came up to her shoulders, letting her head lean against the softer canvas. The men gagged Kitlyn next, gentler about the process, and plopped her down at Oona’s side. Their captives secured, most of them disappeared behind a hanging grey curtain to the front, while the one who had not summoned fire remained in the back with them.

Kitlyn kept her head down, making no effort to struggle or move. She slumped to her right, with a faraway look in her eyes.

Men outside unhitched horses, rushing about to pack up their small campsite. Oona twisted and pulled at her hands, but couldn’t budge the ropes. The large man sat with his back against the opposite wall and extended his legs out between the girls. He stared at Oona with thinly veiled hostility, as though she were some horrible monster that would think nothing of ending tens of thousands of lives. She cringed away from his glare, terrified and heartbroken at the sight of the limp figure next to her. She’s given up. She didn’t even try to flee. A hard lump swelled in her throat.

Kitlyn wants to die with me.

22

Evermoor Bound

~ Kitlyn ~

The shifting wagon jostled Kitlyn about. Whatever bastard had tied her tried to hurt her by making it tight, but she hadn’t reacted at all. Nothing mattered anymore. The savages got Oona. Why had she given up? It didn’t seem likely that six men could destroy an entire village in an instant. Oona should have tried to fight. What if they were bluffing? Oh, well. Too late now. She stared at the rope around her ankles, wondering if these men would do unsavory things to them… or her. Oona was the princess after all; perhaps decorum would protect her to a degree.

Kitlyn should’ve been terrified, but she didn’t care enough. They would kill Oona, and they would probably kill her too. She couldn’t decide which would be worse, dying first with Oona having to suffer watching, or the reverse. Kitlyn shuddered. Drool spilled out around the awfulness of cloth tied through her mouth. She couldn’t close her jaw, and kept miserably dry heaving.

Oona jostled about from her continuous struggle to free herself, but her squirming only served to amuse their guard… the way a cruel boy watches a spider missing half its legs trying to walk. She could’ve run, but she wanted to stay with Oona. Stupid girl! Why didn’t she tell them the truth? Oona―Oona―lied. Forever, the girl had acted as if Lucen himself would appear out of thin air and paddle her to bleeding for even a tiny fib. And here, she told a lie that would kill her.

Tears slid down her cheeks and soaked into the gag.

“You certain ’bout this, milord?” asked a man out front.

“Aye,” said the man in blue.

“They seem ’armless. Like frightened little kittens,” replied a third man.

Someone spat. “Ach, don’t fall for it.” The voice belonged to one of the two who made fire. “They’re like everyone else from this unnatural place. Tricksters and thieves. They only look helpless.”

We’re tricksters? You disguise yourself as merchants. That assassin dressed as a maid! Her feet tingled, close to numb. She wiggled a little, but the rope only hurt more.

“Yeah, yeah,” said the other fire-caller. “All those shiny, regal gods of theirs, that’s a lie too. A pack of magic-given sots calling themselves ‘priests,’ and scaring everyone into submission.”

“Careful, Dahn. Our spirits are real. Their gods may be too,” said the man in blue.

Oona bumped her again and nodded at the back of the wagon.

She’s not serious. What are we going to do, hop away? Kitlyn squirmed at her bindings with a look of disbelief.

“What are you planning, milord?” asked a different man beyond the curtain. “You know what the seers have scribed. She needs to die, and die soon.”

Kitlyn leaned into Oona, glaring death at the faceless grey curtain.

“Easy, Marr,” yelled the man sitting in back with them. “The handmaiden’s ready to kill you with her eyes. Defensive little thing.”

A scattering of laughter emanated from out front.

“You sure you can handle them all alone, Berian? Or do you need us to back you?”

“I can handle these two and all your sisters at the same time,” shouted Berian, to more laughter. “And those ladies are better with a blade than you.”

A head and arm poked through the curtain, glaring. He flicked a finger, and Berian’s tunic caught aflame. Yelping and flapping, the soldier patted at himself until the tiny candle fire died to wisping smoke. After, he settled back against the wagon wall and grumbled.

Minutes stretched into hours. Oona alternated between struggling against the ropes and sitting still, staring at Berian with a look of extreme concentration. The chest of her simple goldenrod dress had soaked from drool, and sweat coated her face. Summer’s end remained three weeks off. Outside, the wind had carried a premature autumn chill, but the sun beating down on the canvasback wagon created a small oven. Kitlyn didn’t struggle or much move, yet still she perspired.

This didn’t make any sense. The forces of Evermoor wanted to kill the princess to prevent her from destroying their kingdom. Why are they abducting us? Her throat tightened. Perhaps they mean to force the king to surrender? An assassin sneaking into the castle couldn’t have kidnapped her… we are so stupid!

A little dungeon cell didn’t sound all that bad anymore.

“Oi,” said another man as he entered the back. He handed Berian a waterskin. “Ralen says we’re to let the peasant whelp go once we got enough distance.”

Berian took a long drink. “Mmm.”

“Cmm ee mmf ummm warer?” mumbled Oona.

Berian exchanged a look with the other man, and shrugged. He leaned forward, pulling a dagger from his belt, and held it to Kitlyn’s throat. “Scream or call out, and… Well, don’t.”

Cold steel nibbled at her neck. Kitlyn pressed herself into the wall, raising her head to get away as much as she could. Her heart raced. No matter how hard she strained, her hands remained trapped behind her. She couldn’t do a blessed thing to stop him if he wanted to slit her throat. At what had to be the wild terror in her eyes, Berian’s expression softened ever so slightly. He relaxed the knife, no longer touching her with the edge, but holding it close enough to keep Oona cowed.

The other man loosened the gag and let her drink. Evidently not enough, as she chased the retreating waterskin with her tongue. He sighed and grumbled, but gave her a little more before retying the cloth through her mouth. Oona let out a whine of protest as he seemed to wrench it tighter than before.

“Sorry if this isn’t exactly the royal coach, Highness.” He patted her on the cheek.

She glared at him.

Kitlyn resumed breathing when Berian lowered the knife. She slouched and exhaled.

“Give the other one a bit, eh?” Their captor moved to put the knife to Oona’s neck.

The second soldier slapped him across the head. “You daft? That’s the princess.”

“We were sent here to kill her. What ya gettin’ on about?” Berian waved the dagger about, close enough to Oona’s face that her eyes bulged.

“Ralen wants her alive… spirits only know why. I ain’t gonna be the fool what has to explain to him why her throat got cut. Watch, we hit a rock and she falls onto the knife.”

Kitlyn shivered.

“Fine, fine.” Berian pointed the dagger at Kitlyn. “Keep quiet.”

She nodded.

The other man undid her gag and held the waterskin to her lips. The warm liquid tasted like leather, but brought welcome relief in the sweltering wagon nonetheless. She kept her gaze locked on the glinting steel only inches from her heart while suckling on the waterskin like a foal. The man holding it glanced at her chest. A few seconds after she started to drink, he cupped her breast. The ropes seemed to tighten. The water turned sour. If she recoiled, she’d stay parched. If she didn’t… She wriggled to the side trying to get her chest out of his hand while keeping her lips on the waterskin.

“Hey…” Berian poked him in the leg with the tip of the knife. “None of that. You’re old enough to be her father.”

Far sooner than she’d have liked, the letch yanked the waterskin away. He corked it and let it swing on a strap. Without ceremony, he stuffed the foul cloth into her mouth again, knotting it behind her head. She braced for the painful jerk, but he secured it firm without being harsh. She couldn’t tell if he’d put it tighter than before or if it only felt that way after a few moments without it.

“Well,” said the waterskin man, “Ralen didn’t say where to let her go. Ebonwolf Shire’s got plenty of reasons why she won’t be a problem.”

“Lanek!” Berian blinked in disbelief. “He doesn’t want us to kill her.”

“We wouldn’t be killin’ her.” Lanek chuckled. “The wolves’ll do that.”

“Nmmm!” yelled Oona, kicking at him. “Dmmn ymmm drrrr!”

“What was that, Highness?” Lanek put a hand to his ear. “I couldn’t quite make that out.”

Oona writhed, struggling. “Ymm hrrrrbl!”

“Maybe Ralen wants her to bring the news back to their king?” asked Berian. “Ever think of that?”

“Bah. He’s too young and inexperienced. This… taking her back alive is a bad idea. He’s playing dice with the lives of everyone in Evermoor. You ask me, we should be done with the both of them and go home. There’s too much at stake.” Lanek, grumbling, tramped back behind the curtain.

Oona cried out, writhing back and forth as if failure to escape within the next few seconds would mean death. Her panic grew contagious, and Kitlyn found herself trying to wriggle free as well. They ran out of energy after a few minutes, and leaned against each other, panting.

Hundreds of moments from the past year played through Kitlyn’s mind. All the missed opportunities to tell Oona the truth. All the subtle signs that, in hindsight, became clear signals. How many times had she tried to admit it? What life could they have had if they’d had the courage to speak the truth? She pictured each person in the castle one after the next, trying to imagine how they’d react to the news that Kitlyn and Oona loved each other. The majority recoiled in horror, especially Elsbeth, who already loathed her. Her initial opinion of Margaret expected she would have screamed her graying bun off, but the dour woman had sent her real food, so perhaps not.

I shouldn’t have judged her on always looking so mean. If I ever see her again, I’ll apologize.

The thought of Beredwyn sent a stray tear down her face. She’d basically confessed to him in the hallway. He had to know, and yet he smiled. Warmth filled her at the memory of his wrinkling face. He didn’t care who she gave her heart to. He loved her like a father, and seeing her happy had…

Kitlyn’s mouth dried out.

He knew all along. He knew who I am. He had to… The king couldn’t have done that alone. Yet, if Beredwyn knew she loved Oona, did the king know? Would the old advisor have shared that secret? Kitlyn cringed. But never mind that. For now, she wanted him to come out of nowhere and save them―but the king hadn’t even known they locked her in the dungeon. Or if he had, didn’t care to intervene.

Some hours later, the sun ceased beating on the canvas overhead. Their captors repeated the knife at Kitlyn’s throat while allowing Oona a simple bit of bread and more water before re-gagging her and feeding the ‘peasant girl.’ She almost choked on the dry, crunchy offering, unable to tell what bothered her more: the staleness, or the awful-tasting nuts and berries baked in.

Soon after the highly mortifying experience of having to use a bucket for a garderobe while tied and in view of their captor, the other man who had held fire emerged from the curtain. He looked like a Lucernian farmer, pale and pudgy in his amber tunic. Something near him clattered like a sword on a sheath, though he didn’t appear armed. He grabbed a handful of Oona’s hair and stared at her. His eyes glowed orange, driving a spike of terror into Kitlyn’s gut.

“Smmm! Dmmm!” she screamed, thrashing about.

Oona slumped over, unconscious.

Kitlyn shrieked as the man seized her head in both hands. He whispered something that echoed in her mind; the walls of the wagon blurred into a spiral. His hands slid away from her cheeks and the floorboards came up to greet her face. She lay there for a second feeling groggy, until she noticed the wagon had become an oven again.

They… magic-ed me to sleep somehow. Woozy, she squirmed in her bindings and moaned.

Berian grabbed a fistful of her tunic and propped her up again, seated against the wall. Oona remained flat on her back, her face near a puddle of drool.

Kitlyn cried at the sight of her. She’s not been sleeping well for weeks. That… magic must’ve hit her hard. How long was I out? She slouched, staring into her lap as the wagon rolled on to the accompaniment of men out front complaining of riding all night. Perhaps an hour or so later, Oona stirred. Berian left her to struggle up to a sitting position on her own. Again, she stared at him with a focused calm, but produced only a frustrated snarl.

The day warmed for a time until the wagon again became stifling. The men had left the wooden pail near the curtain, as far away from the rear exit as possible. When need overpowered shame, Kitlyn nodded at it and mumbled until Berian dragged her over. Oona achieved some modesty by virtue of her dress. Kitlyn, in breeches, had no such kindness. Berian at least did his best to avert his eyes.

As the sun weakened, the same man enchanted them to sleep again, but gave them no bread. Kitlyn moaned into the floor on the late morning of what she guessed to be her third day of captivity. Her shoulders throbbed, and her legs cramped up from sitting in the same position for hours.

Lanek entered and stared at Oona with a dark smile before conjuring up a handful of orange-red flame. “We’re about to pass some merchants. If either of you make a sound, I’ll ash the peasant girl’s head to a stump.”

“Ummen eeef uur eeeml.” Oona narrowed her eyes at him.

“Sorry, sweetness.” He winked. “Can’t understand you.”

Berian chuckled. “I believe she said, ‘Lucen sees your evil.’”

Lanek frowned. “I’ve not a clue how you got that from this wretch’s simpering.” He leaned down and slapped Oona across the face with enough force to knock her over.

Kitlyn growled and tried to fling herself at him, but Berian held her down.

“Evil, pah!” Lanek glared at her. “Nervy little thing, callin’ me evil. I’m not the one who’ll suck the very life blood from our home.”

Oona remained on her side, shivering.

Tenebrea take you! Kitlyn glared at the bastard, trying to throw her magic into the earth, but aside from calling a few stones that rocked the wagon’s wheels, she had little success. Tears of rage streaked down her cheeks at the sound of Oona trying not to cry. Never in her life had she wanted to kill someone―until now. She glared at Lanek, hard breaths blasting from her nostrils. Soon, voices passed outside from a group of innocent farmers riding down a country road, exchanging pleasantries with other travelers.

Lanek’s fireball fluttered and whorled in his hand, adding a sulfurous tinge to the air.

Oona shifted around to look at her, pleading with a stare that Kitlyn not do anything rash.

Not long after the rattle and squeak of a passing wagon faded to silence, Lanek let his magic drop and returned behind the curtain. Kitlyn leaned into Oona, trying to comfort her. Staring at the red mark on her love’s cheek, she strained even harder to get her hands loose.

The wagon drove on for hours. Eventually, a great roaring rush rose outside, a heavy presence in the air that made her imagine a titanic waterfall. Kitlyn swallowed hard. That could only be the Churning Deep, a river at the bottom of a great canyon separating Lucernia from Evermoor. She struggled with fervor, but only succeeded in making her wrists and ankles sore. Wagon wheels went from silent to grinding stone. A bridge. Oona pressed herself into Kitlyn, shaking.

They’d left Lucernia behind.

Kitlyn grunted and squirmed as the roar of the distant water faded once again to silence. Bird calls outside changed, trills and whoops the likes of which she’d never heard before. Some manner of insect emitted a constant ws-ws-ws-ws noise.

Berian shifted with the motion of the wagon, seeming close to sleep.

Oona turned her furious glare on him.

The wagon rocked with the terrain, wheels squeaking. Men out front muttered amongst themselves about their farms or families. One had a son he spoke of in hopes that killing Oona might end the war before his boy had to go off and die. Another countered that the princess’ death wouldn’t stop the hostilities overnight, but without the heir to destroy them, Lucernia would lose hope and surrender in weeks.

Oona continued staring at Berian. The man gave her a brief ‘what?’ glance before dismissing her with a slight headshake. His eyes closed halfway, lulled to sleep by the rocking wagon. Seconds later, he gazed transfixed on Oona.

Kitlyn twisted her hands around, but it hurt too much to move. She couldn’t read an emotion on Oona’s face beyond simple concentration. Sweat ran down her body under the tunic, a dozen tickling spiders she couldn’t reach. A bead of perspiration swelled from the tip of Oona’s nose and fell onto her dress. Still, she stared unblinking at the man across the wagon from them.

“Wmm?” asked Kitlyn.

Neither Oona nor Berian reacted. Faint blue light circled Berian’s head.

The man’s eyes fluttered before closing in a slow blink. They peeled halfway open and drifted shut again. He slumped back against the wall, snoozing. Oona scooted forward and tried to pinch the dagger on his belt between her feet. Her slippers kept losing grip. Her desperate grunts grew dangerously loud.

“Waib!” Kitlyn stretched out her legs and grasped the dagger with her toes. At the perfectly wrong instant, the wagon struck a rock in the road. Kitlyn bounced back, rolling onto her side, legs in the air. Growling into the gag, she kicked to the left to pull herself upright and tried again. She gripped the dagger handle between her big toe and the next, and eased it up and out of the scabbard while Oona went on staring at him.

Kitlyn dropped the knife and crawled around. She grabbed it with her right hand and stabbed it hard into the wagon floor before rubbing her bound wrists against the edge. The rope gave way in a few seconds, and she threw the fragments off before yanking the blade free.

“Oi,” said Lanek. “We’re almost at the brid―”

Kitlyn stared up at the curtain as a different man stepped out. He had Lanek’s voice, but looked nothing like him, with a black cloak over blackened leather armor, daggers and pouches around his belt. Older, he skirted his forties, with drawn cheeks and a coarse smattering of black facial hair.

She leapt for Oona, grabbing at the knot on her love’s wrists, but Lanek rushed in, kicking her in the chest. Kitlyn landed on her back and slid toward the end of the wagon, her scream muffled by the cloth still tied in her mouth.

“Berian, you fool!” Lanek slapped him, which got him stammering awake. “The peasant’s gotten your blade.”

Kitlyn sat up and put the edge to the knot between her ankles. Before she could cut, Lanek created a small orb of fire in his hand and hurled it at her.

Screaming, she flung herself to the side as the projectile struck the tailgate and blasted it to a cloud of splinters and smoke. Oona let out a muffled shriek, jumping toward her, but Lanek grabbed her by the rope binding her feet and dragged her back like a landed fish. Kitlyn clutched the top of the wooden wall and got her feet under her, standing as best she could with her ankles tied. Berian lunged at her, seizing her right wrist in one hand, the other around her throat.

“Drop it, girl. Don’t make me hurt you.” Berian wobbled as the terrain grew more uneven. A rightward turn sent them both spilling into the left wall. The dagger caught the canvas and tore it.

Unable to move her feet apart, Kitlyn swayed at the mercy of gravity.

“What’s going on back there?” barked a man out front.

“Gmmmmm!” yelled Oona. She stared at Kitlyn.

“Nmm!” I’m not leaving you!

Berian wrestled with her, trying to squeeze off her air while crushing the wrist of the hand holding the dagger. She reared back and smashed her forehead into his mouth. Stars of pain burst in her vision as the man stumbled away, favoring a bleeding nose. He gawked at her, astounded, and drew a broadsword from his other hip. “I mean it. Now! Drop the damn knife!”

“Gmmmm!” yelled Oona, thrashing against Lanek’s grip around her neck.

He braced a foot on the side of the wagon and raised his free hand at Kitlyn, but another jolt in the road made him grab the frame instead of throwing fire at her a second time.

Kitlyn squatted to cut the rope around her feet.

Berian lunged forward, grasping at her.

The wagon bounced, launching the big man into a dive. He flailed his sword arm high to keep the blade away from her and inadvertently mashed his left hand into her face. The slap threw her backward into the tailgate, which broke open, allowing her to slide out of the wagon. Kitlyn screamed as she fell, staring at Berian collapsing on his chest and scrambling to grab on to the walls to keep from following her. His sword slipped away from him and struck the ground with a ringing clang.

Kitlyn landed hard on her back, sliding for a few feet before coming to rest on the incline of an arched bridge. Flat, irregular stones of many colors―mostly grey, black, indigo, and crimson―lined the surface of a dangerously narrow span, too small to be any of the crossings over the Deep. The rush of a river below echoed among bizarre trees with long, wispy branches and dark green leaves. She looked uphill past her feet at the distancing wagon, still carrying Oona away over the steep bridge.

She grunted, fighting gravity to sit up, and sliced the rope on her ankles. Berian shoved himself back inside the wagon, joining a blur of bodies and blonde hair.

Kitlyn scrambled upright and sprinted after them. On the precarious span, the driver guided the horses at a modest walk. Knuckles white on the dagger handle, she ran, tugging on the gag, but it refused to come off without being cut. Unwilling to slow down for the delicate task, she ignored it.

“She’s running at us!” yelled Berian, eyes wide.

Lanek flung Oona to the floor and strode up to the opening as two other men filed in from the front. “She’s not important.” He raised his hand, fist aflame, and hurled a tiny meteor at her.

Kitlyn dove flat upon the stone bridge, and started concentrating on warping the stone to make a wall in front of the wagon.

The explosion behind her peppered her with painful shards of rock and a blast of hot air. She abandoned her magical focus, scrambling to get her feet under her as he raised a second glowing hand. Oona mule-kicked him in the back a split second before he threw the flaming bolt at Kitlyn. Lanek screamed and fell out of the wagon, his boot hooking a coil of rope at the side. His head struck the bridge at the same instant the second fireball detonated three feet in front of Kitlyn.

Heat and shards washed over her face, followed by a terrifying crack. She lowered her arms from her eyes as the blast subsided. The wagon dragged Lanek, unconscious, by one leg. Around her, the mortar broke, and a great chunk of stone fell free. Her attempt to leap away pushed the rock out from under her. One hand caught a jagged section of bridge for only seconds before her weight carried her down.

Oona’s muffled screams echoed from out of sight overhead.

Kitlyn fell in a spinning blur, rocks of all sizes tumbling around her. Sky traded places with brownish-green water rushing closer.

She managed to thrust her feet down in time to plunge into the river like an arrow. All the breath left her lungs, hanging in bubbles as if someone had pulled her body off the air inside it. Frantic, she kicked and grabbed at the current. Strong sunlight painted the damaged bridge upon the blur of the river’s surface, the missing chunk resembling a dragon’s bite taken from the stone.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Calm down!

Kitlyn leaned her head to the side and slid the dagger between her cheek and the cloth, slicing the gag away. A controlled effort brought her to the surface, and she gasped for air. She looked up, but the bridge had vanished. Confusion lasted only a second before she realized the water swept her away at an alarming speed, already carrying her too far into the forest to see the bridge anymore.

She tried to swim for a shore covered in dense foliage, but the river disregarded her attempt. The current dragged her along, pulling her under every so often. Soon, thoughts of going after Oona gave way to a primal battle to simply remain alive. Spray buffeted her face. She choked and sputtered. Her knee caught a rock, tree, or something hard underwater, making her scream and swallow mouthfuls of ice-cold river.

When a branch came by, she grabbed it, but it broke off in her arms as she plunged toward the rapids. Roaring and crashing surrounded her. Reality became a chaotic blur of whitewater, painful rocks, and a desperate search for any pocket of air amid the torrent. An undercurrent drew her beneath the surface before a sharp downhill bend spat her into the air for a terrifying few seconds. She crashed into the water flat on her front, stunned, and slipped under.

Her arms slowed; her legs no longer seemed interested in fighting to stay up. Her butt scraped the bottom and another rock caught her in the shin. Seconds later, she bounced off a large submerged boulder and rolled to face up at the silver shimmer of the surface she couldn’t find the strength to swim for.

Only a few feet overhead, it may well have been a thousand miles.

Is this what it’s like to die?

23

A Light in Darkness

~ Oona ~

Pain clamped around the front of Oona’s head. She moaned, sick and woozy. An attempt to press a hand to her face stopped short with a metallic clink. Heaviness leaked away from her mind, and the amorphous blur surrounding her sharpened into a black-walled cell. She found herself lying on her side atop a thin mattress upon the floor that looked like something one might issue to footmen in the army. Basic burlap stuffed with wool unsuitable for garments.

She looked down at her arms. Shiny silver manacles encased her wrists, a good three inches from end to end and as thick as her finger. A single steel ring connected them, keeping her hands as close as if she’d been bound with rope, but with a bit more range of motion. From it, a chain connected to a large ring in the wall. Both manacles had a keyhole on the inside edge, closer to her elbow than her hand. No one with solid bones could put the key in while wearing them.

Oona sat up, a thick, spongy throbbing in her head. The ring she had been bound to hung at eye level, less than halfway up the cell wall. Her captors had taken her purse, but left her dress and slippers alone. She tried to remember what happened. That oaf had shoved Kitlyn out of the wagon, perhaps unintentionally, and the next thing she knew, someone had hurled her headfirst into the ground. Before the dizziness of that had worn off, a hand grabbed her by the face and the weight of unfamiliar magic came over her like a blanket.

As soon as she realized she’d been put to sleep by magic, the odd fuzz in her mind faded.

She gazed past the bars into a void of blackness. A hint of more bars gleamed on the left in the glow of a weak oil lantern set on a table against the right wall. Opposite her prison, a small square of light with three dark lines in it suggested a tiny window in a door too dark to see.

Mossy air, thick and damp, saturated the place.

Oona fidgeted, pulling and clinking at her manacles, not that she expected to do much. They fit a little loose, made for a heavier prisoner, but not so loose that she had any hope of squeezing her hands out of them. Why haven’t they killed me? She grasped the tether chain and pulled herself upright, examining the walls, which sparkled with black luster. Except for the floor and the bars, her entire cell had studs of varying size that resembled shiny onyx gems set into an equally black wall and polished to thousands of little islands with flat surfaces. The air tingled with an unusual energy.

She hung her head, utterly defeated. A chamber pot sat a few inches from the mattress next to a plate with two fist-sized loaves of bread and four sizeable squares of cheese. Oona headed toward the outer room. The tether pulled tight, keeping her hands away from the cell door, but she could lean close enough to stick her face between the bars.

“Hello?”

Her voice echoed for a few seconds, but brought no response.

“Am I alone in here?”

Again, no reply, not even a moan from a fellow captive.

Chain clattering, she paced in an arc, trying to think. If she admitted she wasn’t the princess, that would put Kitlyn at risk. She choked up. No. I won’t do that. Oona raised her hands and concentrated on drawing forth an orb of light.

A tiny spark snapped and died, the sparks gravitating into the wall.

“What?”

She tried again and managed to summon a headache.

Oona slouched with a sigh. Oh, no. Those dark stones… they must eat magic. She sank to a squat and hooked her arms over her knees. Two of those men had been firecallers… it’s more common here. Of course, they would have a means of imprisoning the magically gifted. Magic, according to her father… No. According to the king. She sniffled. He’d told her these people freely surrendered their souls to the demons in exchange for wielding forces others could not. The laugh he’d given her when she asked, ‘if demons are so evil, why do they give people such power’, echoed in her mind.

Power given here, in the short blink of a mortal life, was nothing compared to centuries of torment that awaited beyond. Because they’d willingly parted with their souls, the demons would consume them… the same way Kitlyn’s face, that terrified, panic-stricken face she’d had going out the back of the wagon, devoured Oona’s mind. Kit didn’t want to leave me. Oona bowed her head and wept tears of worry.

Some minutes later, she wiped her face on her sleeves and stood, tugging at the tether. Grabbing the chain in both hands, she put her foot on the wall and struggled to break it. Irrational panic set in, and she flung herself against the chain again and again until she collapsed, exhausted, to her knees.

This is my fault. I panicked like I did with the assassin. Hiding under a blanket… what was I thinking? Why did I run off? Why was I so stupid? She peered up past her hands at the enchanted walls, wondering if they could soak up so much magic even the gods couldn’t hear her in here.

“Lucen, father of the Day, Navissa, mother of Night, please watch over Kitlyn and keep her from harm.”

She remembered kicking that man as he tried to kill Kitlyn and hoped his attack had gone wild. Her mind filled with a daydream that her love had run into the woods from the side of the road, evading capture, going for help. Oh, no… What if they think she’s lying and throw her back in the dungeon?

Oona frowned at the chain. Had Kit been this frightened when they locked her up? She trembled at the thought of facing death. Could she keep her mouth shut and surrender to her fate to save Lucernia? No. Could she let the savages kill her to protect the woman she loved? Yes. She wept again, heartsick as her mind ran away picturing Kitlyn getting the news of her murder.

Time dragged on. She alternated between pacing, sitting, and hoping for a freak error of craftsmanship to allow her to snap the chain. Eventually, she nibbled on the cheese and bread while wondering how by Lucen she’d be able to use a chamber pot with her hands so restricted. She glared at the polished mirror steel around her wrists.

“What are they expecting me capable of that they put these infernal things on?” She rattled them. “Well, I guess I’d be terrified of a person who’s supposed to destroy my entire kingdom too.”

Oona sat, slumped in defeated silence. Hours or minutes later, she lifted her head at the clonk of boots on stone steps outside. Torchlight flickered in the small square window on the far side of the room. Keys rattled in a lock, and a metal door ground inward on hinges in desperate need of oil.

A figure stepped into the room, a torch overhead. A violet tunic of fine silk covered him to the thigh over black leggings and knee-high boots of soft black leather. Upon a heavy belt hung a thick broadsword with a plain cross handle. A metal orb capped the pommel, inscribed with a pattern of vines and leaves. He had a young look to him, though seemed older than Tristan. Long, straight black hair trailed after him.

Oona ran to the cell door; the tether snapped tight, jerking her around so she wound up with her back turned. She growled with frustration. “Who are you!? Let me out of here! How dare you treat me like this.”

He halted an arm’s length from the bars. Steel grey eyes regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and regret.

“Don’t stare at me.” She grasped the chain in both hands and pulled. “What do you want? Are you going to kill me?”

He continued to stand there, his sputtering torch the only sound challenging the clink of her tether.

Chained to the wall in a locked cell, she had nowhere to go to get away from his piercing, eerie stare. She kept fighting the metal, snarling, her slippers sliding over the stone.

“You are so young,” he said at last, his voice quiet, calm, confident. “I expected a woman ready to be queen, not someone nearly a child.”

She startled at the silky voice, so sudden in the silence. “Who are you?”

“A knight. You may call me Ralen.”

“Why have you brought me here?”

His stare taunted her like a mouse under the hungry gaze of a fenhawk. “My orders were to kill you.”

“Oh, is that all?” she muttered, giving the chain another futile yank.

“If you must know, I was to send your body back to your father and bring your head to the king of Evermoor.”

Why did I ask? Her shiver stalled at the thought of Kitlyn. “Well. Get on with it then. You’ve captured the Princess of Lucernia, the heir to the throne foretold to bring ruin to Evermoor. Why am I still alive?”

“Are you so eager to die?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Is anyone?” She glared at him, her face inches from the bars. “However, I am even less inclined to be tortured.”

He moved the torch to his left hand and reached in, two fingers lifting her chin. She refused to flinch from his touch, gazing pure defiance back at him.

“I cannot bring myself to kill someone so young.”

She blinked. “That’s more honorable than I thought one of you savages capable of.”

“Savages?” He raised an eyebrow. “How many savages are you aware of who dress in Alomiri silk?”

“You deny it?” She twisted her hands back and forth, wanting nothing more than to swat his fingers from her cheek. “One of your assassins tried to kill me in my sleep days ago. Another murdered my mother before I was even a year old. Countless others tried to end me and failed.”

“The wages of war are an iniquity paid in blood. Both our kingdoms share a mutual… tarnish, as your kind put it.”

A twinge ran down her spine as his fingers caressed the ridge of her jaw. He likes me. Am I so desperate as to exploit his interest? “Your people have been thirsting for my blood since I was an infant. What threat is a child to your kingdom?”

“You are no child, yet you are no woman either.” He lowered his hand.

Oona sagged with relief and pulled on her arms again, backing away so she could put a hand to where he’d touched her as if to wipe away the ‘slime.’ “What’s to be done with me then if you will not take my life?”

“My plan is to keep you right here for now. These men loyal to me are the only ones who know you still live.”

“A knight so freely disobeys his orders?” She almost suppressed her trembles.

“We had not expected to locate you with such… expedience. At best, we had planned on several months before making a move… yet you walked into our hands. Your people would think it an act of the gods, would they not?”

She scowled at his mockery of Lucen. As indignation faded, her heart imploded. Had they spread false news of her death? Would it reach Kitlyn? She broke out in a cold sweat. She might take her own life if she believes me dead.

“Calm yourself, princess. No one will harm you here. I regret that our king made a decision based on what was ultimately an incorrect interpretation of the Foretelling. Your mother should never have been touched. She was no threat to Evermoor.”

“They killed her not knowing I had already been born.” Oona glared at him. “They wanted to stop the fate your seers thought I’d bring about before it started, but he’d kept my birth a secret.”

He sighed. “That is not what I meant. The Foretelling claims an heir of your father’s line will ‘end the war.’ It does not say how. Some of our more… passionate seers have had dreams of great destruction. The very land itself swallowing us and refolding over into a barren waste.”

Oona blinked. “I don’t know what sort of special herbs your seers have consumed, but I have no power even close to that. I can make lights.”

“And put lazy soldiers to sleep.” He chuckled, patting the broadsword on his hip. “Alas, the only magic I possess is this.”

“I don’t want to destroy anyone.” She moved as close she could to the bars, until the tether pulled her arms to the left. “I never did. The seers are wrong.”

“The Foretelling does not directly claim you will destroy Evermoor. Only end the war. I am… not convinced our alarmists are correct. Alas, I also cannot allow you to leave while you yet may be a threat to our kingdom.”

“If you’re so sure the Foretelling is going to come to pass no matter what you do, then setting me free or killing me will make no difference… and keeping me here is only cruel.”

He chuckled. “You are far wiser than our spies let on. They described you as spoiled and petulant.”

She gasped, her cheeks warmed with blush. “You must not have very good spies then.”

“You may yet be able to end the war, but not in the way everyone fears.”

Oona cringed. “If you’re going to suggest I marry the prince of Evermoor, you should put that sword of yours to use right now.”

Ralen cringed. “I’ll be sure not to tell him you prefer death to his company, but I was referring to another way you may be of use.”

She backed up. I don’t like the sound of that one little bit. “The only thing that must come to pass to end this war is for you to stop attacking us. All the fighting is happening in Lucernia after your people cross. We are defending ourselves!”

Ralen shook his head. “Oh, Princess… I suppose it is not your fault, for your knowledge would be limited only to what you’ve been allowed to hear. You see a few of our feralists sneaking in, and you think us all fur-clad savages with spears? How much do you know of the war?”

Oona scowled. “Your demons drive you to madness and send you to your deaths to take back the land that Lucen cleansed.”

“Is that the gruel you’re being fed?” He leaned back, laughing. “Would you believe me if I claimed that your father and the King of Evermoor had once been close friends?”

She tugged at her wrists. “I’d say you were lying.”

“Do you know of Alderswood?”

Her eyebrows crept close together. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Alderswood is the name of a great tree, from which all the life in Evermoor springs. Some also refer to the entire grove around it as Alderswood. The tree is as old as the world itself, large enough to hold the space of a castle within its trunk, and as tall as the clouds.”

“Trees don’t get that large.” She furrowed her eyebrows.

“If not for my entire kingdom wishing to kill you, I would take you there and let you behold it with your own eyes.”

I can’t feel his thoughts in this damned cell. “Even if it does exist, what could a tree deep in Evermoor have to do with the war?”

Ralen leaned against the bars, tilting the torch side to side, teasing the loud-fluttering flame. She tiptoed closer and snarled at the pull of the tether.

“Your father betrayed his friendship with our king, Lanas Volduin.”

“Liar.” She struggled, wanting to throttle this man, but the more she strained to break free, the more the manacles and the locked bars made her feel trapped. Hopelessness pushed tears to the corners of her eyes, but pride kept them hidden.

“King Talomir became fascinated with stories of our magic. He believed in some obscure bit of fortune telling that he or one of his line would bear great power. Seeing an opportunity to force the hand of fate, he abused the trust King Volduin had placed in him and stole the Eldritch Heart.”

“The what?” Oona blinked. “That sounds like something demonic.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Far, far from it, girl. It is… was the lifeblood of Alderswood. Our tree is dying. Your father stole the Heart and brought it to his castle. I know not what he did with it, though our spies have suggested he has, more than once, drunk from it.”

“Why?”

Ralen reached past the bars and lifted her chin with one finger again. Oona’s face reddened. She felt a little too much like a horse at auction, and recoiled.

“Don’t touch me.”

He withdrew his arm. “My apologies, Princess. Why does any man steal from his friend? Power, wealth, some combination of the two. Sometimes a woman… but King Volduin had no queen.”

Oona, safe from his reach in the middle of the cell, squinted at him. “Did his wife die too? You said there’s a prince.”

“King Volduin enjoys the attention of several spiritcallers who tend to the Alderswood. He has not taken any as his queen, but several have borne him sons and daughters.”

Oh, an illegitimate prince. I should’ve expected no less. She rolled her eyes.

He smiled. “Our customs must seem strange to you. Lucernia is so rigid. For us, all that matters is the love between people. They love him, and he them… and none of them need a ceremony to prove it.”

Oona shuddered, thinking of Kitlyn. She struggled to wrap her arms around herself, but gave up, growling in frustration. What would he think of us? “Please, let me out of these chains.”

“Perhaps in time. I still do not think you believe me. That is understandable. You have been weaned on lies and deception from the day you were born.” He looked away and down.

Oh, by Lucen, have I.

“My people fight to save Evermoor. Even if our seers are wrong, and our destruction will not occur at your literal hand, the absence of the Eldritch Heart means sure death for everyone east of the Churning Deep.”

“If he took the tree’s heart, wouldn’t it already be dead?” Her voice came softer, gentler, than she intended.

“Trees do nothing quickly. If you or I had our hearts torn out, we would be dead in an instant. We believe Alderswood has ten or twenty years left before it will be too late.”

Oona tried to press her hands to her chest, but couldn’t quite bend that way with her forearms locked together. You’re wrong. Having your heart ripped out takes forever to kill. “What happened to my handmaiden? Where is she?”

“I am uncertain. My men informed me she fell from the bridge into the Faunhollow River.”

Oona gasped, staring at him as she wilted to kneel. “No…”

“The current is rapid, but the height of the bridge is not so great that the fall would have been dire. If your handmaiden can swim, she is likely halfway back to Lucernia by now.”

Can I trust him? What if I told him the truth? She looked up. No. I have to give her the chance to escape.

“If it’s true… If my father stole this heart… I will tell him to return it. Release me, and I promise this.”

Ralen turned his back. “I do not doubt that you will try, but I know he will not listen. Our king worries for the survival of his people, and I fear his decisions are rash. My finding you has afforded an opportunity I dare not squander. You shall ask your father for the Heart by your absence. I will send a message to him and demand an exchange. Return the Eldritch Heart within two months’ time, or we shall send him yours.”

Oona shivered in terror. They are going to kill me.

Ralen crossed the outer room to the door.

“Wait. Please!” She jerked at the chain. “At least take these wretched manacles off. Don’t leave me like this, alone in the dark.”

He paused at the exit, but didn’t look back. “Forgive me, Princess. Too many lives are at stake to take even the smallest chance. Your people are well noted for their abilities to trick and deceive, and… I hope my compassion has not already doomed Evermoor.”

Ralen pulled the door closed behind him with an echoing thud. Oona jumped at the noise. The lack of torchlight made the chamber, and her cell, feel darker. She struggled to grab the bars, but couldn’t get her hands close enough. Livid, she screamed in rage and tried to tear the stone out of the wall by the chain. When her arms hurt too much to continue, she kicked at the bars, sending resounding bangs into the chamber outside.

Breathing hard, lightheaded, and terrified, Oona sank to her knees and rolled onto her side atop the dingy mattress. Hands to her chin like a meadow darter with a nut, she stared at the wall, shaking. Would King Talomir give up the Eldritch Heart―assuming Ralen hadn’t lied―for her? She was, after all, only a decoy. Kitlyn had escaped. He had no reason to acquiesce based on a threat to her meaningless life. Yet still, the man had been her father for thirteen years. How much of his parental affection had been an act?

Alone in a dark, magic-eating cell, she huddled against the wall, chains rattling as she shivered.

Tenebrea, we are both outcasts. People shun you for your dominion over death and the world that comes after. People will shun me for the love in my heart. Please grant me the strength to walk into your arms with dignity and not allow my fear to overwhelm me. I give myself to you to spare the one I love. I might not have been born a princess… But I will die as one. Sorrow squeezed her heart, not for her imminent death, but the effect it would have on Kitlyn.

Oona curled into a ball and wept in silence.

24

Driftwood

~ Kitlyn ~

No matter how hard she swam, Kitlyn sank deeper and deeper into the swirling depths. Light above her faded to blackness. She stopped fighting the stony weight dragging her down and drifted into oblivion. Her body settled on the bottom, though she felt as though she’d sank far too deep to be in a river. Had the whitewater spat her into a lake? The current of a waterfall pouring in overhead pushed her so far down, she could never reach the surface before losing consciousness.

Am I dead?

Kitlyn’s eyes snapped open and she gasped air.

Brown and beige blurriness hovered above. She moaned. Her nose and throat burned raw, and her everything hurt. Recoiling from the light, she closed her eyes and lay still for a few minutes. Focus returned, and she became aware of furs beneath and atop her. She lifted her arm and touched her stomach, finding it bare. A short slide of a hand downward found no trace of clothing.

Again, her eyes snapped open.

She lay in a bed made from thick wooden beams with heavy animal hide hung inside the rectangular frame. Myriad pelts of different shapes and colors covered the hide, and a blanket of larger furs kept her warm. She peeked under and found herself stark naked, with red marks on her wrists and ankles. A poultice of rough burlap clung to her left shin, tied on with twine. With her every motion, the suspended hide bed bounced. It far exceeded the comfort of her cot back in Cimril, but couldn’t compare to the magnificent bed in Oona’s room. That had been like sleeping in a cloud.

Kitlyn clamped the furs to her neck, only her face exposed to the world. On her left, the bed touched one wall of an alcove extending from the main chamber of a one-room dwelling. A small table sat near her head to the right. Beyond it, a second identical bed lay empty.

She propped herself up on one elbow and peered into the house. From her vantage point, she observed a round table with four chairs and an arched fireplace large enough for two adults to stand inside of. Two cauldrons hung on hooks over where a fire would have been lit. Cinnamon and cedar traded places on each breath, mixing with the strong leather smell of her bedding.

I… How did I wind up here? She blushed. Naked, no less. And no one to ask.

She debated getting up to look around, but the idea of someone catching her prancing about nude kept her trapped. At least whoever had put her here hadn’t taken any measures to keep her confined―aside from her complete lack of clothing. She looked around again and noticed the dagger she’d taken from that man in the wagon on the little night table.

What? How did I manage not to lose that in the river? She blinked. Whoever found me let me keep it. I suppose I’m not a prisoner then… but why did they take my clothes?

“Hello?” she whispered.

After a few minutes of silence, she pushed the furs away and extended a leg to the floor. Cool air washed over her, setting her teeth chattering in seconds. She looked at the dirt around her foot and wanted to be warm. The chill receded, leaving her comfortable. Well, that’s handy.

Kitlyn lost a moment pondering the sense of connection to the earth, and how her magic worked. Could she brave the dead of winter without a stitch and suffer no harm, or did this effect have a more modest limit?

Oh, what am I doing? I can’t walk back to Cimril like this! Maybe I can find something to wear in this house. She eased her weight onto her leg and stood, one arm over her breasts, the other covering her nethers. Inch by inch, she tiptoed to the end of the alcove and peeked left and right.

The main chamber had rounded walls and looked about forty feet across. A pantry and worktable on the left held a few bowls, knives, and flour dust. To the right, she spotted a pair of enormous wardrobe cabinets carved from wood, dark to the point it resembled charcoal. A subtle hint of cherry red grain stood out against the glassy black shine. They appeared somewhat creepy, but if they held clothes, she didn’t care.

A little ways left of the cabinets, a second alcove much smaller than the one with the beds contained a number of cloak pegs as well as the door to the outside. Sunlight streamed in from four pie-slice windows in a curve at the top.

“Okay, I can escape pretty easy.”

She crept up to the wardrobe cabinet and froze, unsure which hand to uncover herself with to open it.

Click.

Her gaze shot to the front door as the knob turned.

Kitlyn bolted as if thrown from a catapult, streaking across the house to the bed she’d awoken in, and dove under the furs where she curled up in a ball. Ow. The sprint, however short, reawakened the deep aches throughout her body. Wood creaked and a small ratchet clicked. She listened with growing trepidation to the silence, too embarrassed at her predicament to make a noise.

The furs covering her lifted, allowing air to breeze over her back.

Someone’s looking at me, and I’m naked.

It took her a few seconds to get up the nerve to peer over her shoulder, and she locked eyes with a small boy of around six. He had a rich tan, no shirt, and longish light brown hair well past his shoulders. His animal hide breeches ended at the knee and bore a liberal amount of stains from mud, berry juice, and whatnot.

He tilted his head at her.

Kitlyn squirmed a bit, trying to cover her butt without revealing anything more sensitive.

“Are you dead?” whispered the boy.

“No.”

“That’s good.” He pushed down the blanket as if closing the lid on a box.

Kitlyn rolled onto her back and sat up, holding the furs tight to her chest. The boy walked out the only door. She considered abandoning modesty and making a run for it before his parents returned. Lucen only knew what they’d do to her. What kind of people would steal a girl’s clothes?

Indecision paralyzed her for the better part of a minute. The door opened again, brightening the outer chamber for a few seconds. Soon after, an elder woman with white-grey hair and numerous wrinkles ambled into view by the table and smiled at her.

“Oh, bless the spirits. It’s good to see you up and about.”

Kitlyn swallowed, staring.

“You look frightened, child. Calm yourself.” The elder walked over.

Kitlyn lay flat as she approached, clinging to the furs.

“I bet you have many questions.” The old woman smiled and perched on the wooden bedframe. “I am Kethaba, and you are safe here.”

She lowered the furs a few inches to the base of her neck. “Where are my clothes?”

“Out on the line, drying. You were soaked through when Alin found you. He was swimming in the river with some of his friends and you came floating by.”

“I…” A woozy spell came and went. “He saved me. I thought I was drowning.”

“You might have.” Kethaba gave her a meaningful stare. “It took quite a bit of magic to wake you up. But you didn’t drown all the way.”

“Where am I?”

“Well, I assume you are looking for more of an answer than ‘in my home.’” Kethaba chuckled. “About an hour’s walk south of Ilde Brae, near the path of the Faunhollow River.”

Kitlyn gazed into space, trying to place any meaning to those names.

“I thought so.” Kethaba winked. “You’re from Lucernia, aren’t you?”

I’m in Evermoor! She stared at the larger of the two cauldrons in the fireplace… easily big enough for her to fit inside. “Please don’t kill me.”

The old one tilted her head. “Now, if I’d a mind to do that, why would I bother bringing ya back from the brink?”

“So I taste better.” Kitlyn winced, her mouth too fast for her brain. “I…”

Kethaba laughed. “My, what stories they must have across the Churn. I’ll not be making a stew of ya, girl.”

Her cheeks warmed with blush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I… thank you.” She squirmed at the touch of furs on every inch of her skin. Never before had she been in bed without a nightdress on. She remembered how the princess’ silk bedding felt on her bare legs and got lightheaded at the thought of that all over her body… especially with Oona at her side. The naughty, tantalizing thought died a quick death as she remembered the woman she loved had been kidnapped.

“Would you care for something to eat?” Kethaba gestured at the table. “Have a seat and I’ll fix you something.”

“Umm. I don’t have anything on.”

“Of course you don’t. Your clothes were wet.” Kethaba rolled her eyes with a nod. “Oh, forgive me. I forget how different your kingdom can be. It’s the little things you never think of. Our people don’t care so much about clothing as yours do, especially in the warmer months. Families are far less formal here.”

“I… I’m not related to you, am I?” Kitlyn sat up a little further, but couldn’t quite bring herself to drop the blanket. I have to leave. I have to find Oona.

“Our ways are likely unusual to you. By saving your life, I have taken on responsibility for you. You are as welcome here as if you’d come from my womb.”

“Is…” She glanced at the corner of the alcove that concealed the passage with the door. “Is that where the boy came from?”

“Oh, no. I am not that young, but thank you for the compliment.” Kethaba chuckled. “Alin is my son’s boy. Both my son and his wife perished in the war.”

Kitlyn’s heart sank. “I’m so sorry.”

The elder patted her on the leg through the furs. “Hardly your fault, child. This wickedness has been of this world longer than you. I do not permit you to inherit the guilt of your forbearers.”

But my father is… She bit her lip. Might be… “I would be most grateful for some food, but I have nothing with which to repay you.”

“Oh, do not concern yourself of that.” Kethaba rose and shuffled out of sight to the left.

The clatter of wooden bowls and a knife on a cutting board echoed back. Kitlyn stared at the chair, unable to believe this woman expected her to get out of bed, bare as a babe, and sit at the table in such a state. Embarrassment kept her pinned under the furs. A few minutes later, Kethaba peered around the wall. “Still there? Oh. You poor child. I suppose some habits are too ingrained to set aside.” She pivoted to face the entrance and yelled, “Alin!”

After a creak from the front door, a child’s voice called back. “Aye, gam’ma?”

“Fetch the girl’s things from the line.”

“Aye, gam’ma.”

Kitlyn sat up, arms clamping the furs to her chest. What are they doing to Oona? If they wanted to kill her, they would have done it as soon as they had us in the wagon out of sight. Her near-panting slowed as she held that thought. They’re going to ransom her. Or maybe give her to the demons! She whimpered.

Alin scooted back into the house and over to the bed, carrying her tunic and breeches. He dropped them on the furs and whisked back outside. Soon, the cries of boys playing rang in the air.

She pulled her clothes under the blanket and wriggled into her sun-warmed breeches. With at least that much on, she hopped to her feet and kept her back to the room while pulling her tunic over her head. The fabric had dried, which suggested she’d been asleep for quite some time.

Kitlyn glanced at the dagger, but left it sit, not wanting to scare the old woman, and crept into the main room. She took the nearest chair at the table and watched the elder cut things, mix them around, and carry a metal bowl over to the fireplace. A flick of her finger ignited a flame that billowed from spark to full cooking fire in an instant.

“Uhh.” Maybe I should’ve kept the dagger.

“That will take a few minutes.” Kethaba set her hands on her hips. “Oh, calm yourself. Magic is not as rare here as among your kind.” She raised a hand. “And before you ask me if we cavort with demons, we do not. If there are such things as demons at all, they aren’t in Evermoor. That story about King Lanas making deals with ancient evils is pure nonsense.”

“But the priests… the king says… the pact!” She leaned forward in the chair, feet together, hands clasped in her lap. Something about this woman made her feel small and childlike. Perhaps a survival mechanism… act weak and helpless. “It’s why so many of the sav―sorry, the people who live here have magic.”

“Most in Lucernia who show any talent whatsoever with magic are swept up by the priesthood. They believe that ‘magic’ either comes from their gods or comes from demons. They cannot accept that sometimes magic simply is.” Kethaba’s wrinkles deepened with a wide smile. “And magic like yours, which does not match any of the domains of the gods, well, it’s surely demonic.”

“I’m demonic?” Kitlyn glowered. “That’s… I’m not!”

“You are outside of their little story.” Kethaba clucked her tongue. “Though I suppose it is possible that your gods are real in one form or another. Some of your priests who are not born with magic have it granted to them by their gods, but such a gift fades with the gods’ favor should it wane. As well, any child born with magic, they believe is the gods’ doing even if it is not. You Lucernians refuse to believe that anything of power exists other than your four chosen deities… and demons. If something is not of the gods, it must be demonic. There’s more magic than you know where you are from, but not everyone wishes to be carted off and made a priest.”

“So, what do you pray to?”

“We do not. Not in the sense you do. Our spirits come of the earth, of animals, plants, water, wind, fire. We do not ask them for anything, nor do they demand worship. They are. We are. We help each other as we are able.”

Kitlyn fidgeted. “That sounds… nice, but I don’t understand why our priests would say such awful things about Evermoor.”

Kethaba stood and beckoned her to follow. She led Kitlyn to a small rounded window and pointed. “Do you see demons there?”

Outside, a short distance from the hut, Alin and several other children ran about playing with wooden hoops and sticks that had long streamers trailing off their tips. Two girls wore dresses made of animal hide. Other than clothing made of furs instead of fabric, they looked little different from the peasant children of Lucernia… with a bit more color in their skin. Happy and innocent.

“No.” Kitlyn swallowed. “They are children.” The scent of garlic, tomato, and spices wafted over, making her stomach grumble. “I’m afraid I need to leave soon. A friend of mine is in danger.”

Kethaba guided her to the table. “You should not run off so fast, Princess.”

Kitlyn coughed.

“Oh, I know who you are.” Kethaba winked. “I can think of only one person who could come from Lucernia and have the kind of magic you carry… and as strong. And only the princess of Lucernia standing in Evermoor would have cringed like that when called Princess.”

Kitlyn stared helplessly at her hostess. “I don’t know if I am. I’m a castle servant… the princess’ handmaiden.”

“Clever.” Kethaba frowned. “After what he did, I would not put it past that man to make his own daughter live like a servant.”

“What?” Kitlyn lowered herself to sit at the table while the old one retrieved the pot and banished the fire with a hand wave.

Kethaba set a three-legged wooden bowl in front of her, filled with a reddish soup thick to the point of being more of a stew. Hunks of potato, turnip, squash, carrot, and some green vegetables she didn’t recognize floated in a broth strong with the fragrance of tomato and garlic. “Your people would never have told you the true cause behind the war, why your priests cooked up that codswallop about demons crawling all over Evermoor.”

Kitlyn savored the aroma while the old one gathered a small bread loaf and a cup of water, which she brought to the table before sitting in the next nearest chair. Her dark grey dress appeared so old, its patches had patches.

As she ate, Kethaba told her a story about how the kingdoms of Lucernia and Evermoor had once been friendly, their kings as brothers. Several spoonfuls in, a whole garlic clove burst between Kitlyn’s teeth, making her gasp. She stirred at her food while letting her mouth recover from the blast, and realized the bowl contained no meat. The woman spoke of a great natural shrine called Alderswood within which dwelled an enormous tree that brought life to all of Evermoor, from the greenest grasses of the western edge to the inner swamps and moors for which the kingdom had been named. King Talomir stole the tree’s life source, the Eldritch Heart, and this war, for the past two decades, raged over trying to get it back before the land died.

“I believe your mother drank of the Heart, and its energy gathered in you before you were born. I can feel it, and the stone has told me of your coming.”

Kitlyn stared at the spoon hovering over her remaining half-bowl of soup. She may be trying to trick me. Is it possible the priests have been lying? “It spoke to me too.”

“In the catacomb under your castle.” Kethaba clucked her tongue. “The one you love has been taken.”

Kitlyn choked. Kethaba patted her on the back until she could breathe again.

“Do not be ashamed, child. Love is a thing of the spirit, not the body, and for most of us, it only comes along once in a lifetime. You’ll find things quite a bit different in Evermoor than the mere absence of demons.” The old one pursed her lips. “Oh, and we don’t eat babies, either.”

Kitlyn blinked.

“They’re too difficult to prepare. Tiny bones, you see.”

She dropped the spoon in the bowl, horrified.

Kethaba burst into laughter. “Oh, forgive me, child. The look on your face…” She cackled.

Kitlyn glared, but her annoyance didn’t last long. “Is the stone like a spirit or something? Can he find Oona?”

“She is somewhere the stone cannot see. It is more of a many than a ‘he,’ and yes, the stone is one of the spirits of Earth. I am certain the soldiers have put her in a room with Gloam Jet.”

“I do not understand.” Kitlyn hurried to finish off the vegetable soup.

“Far to the southeast in Evermoor, the Gloamwake Forest surrounds the Ebon Mire. A particular gem can be found there, a jet of infinite black that devours magic. If they have surrounded her with enough of them, no magic can reach her. It is common practice for holding lawbreakers with the gift.”

Kitlyn deflated. “Or kidnapped princesses. If you know who I am, than you must know she isn’t the heir. They’re going to kill her!”

“Trust the memory of the stone. Do not lose heart, child. You can ask it for guidance if you touch the earth and concentrate. Picture her in your mind, and call upon your magic.”

Kitlyn looked down at her feet upon the dirt. She pressed her toes deeper and thought of Oona, trying to find the same urge that made the rocks change shape and liquefy. She couldn’t recall how she’d made the voice talk to her in the dungeon, but soon, a strong draw to her right became apparent. She pointed at the wall between the wardrobe cabinets and the alcove. “That way.”

“Oh… That’s deeper into Evermoor.” Kethaba sighed. “It would be foolhardy for you to go there, girl. You have the magic of the Alderswood in your veins, and because of that… there are some who fear you will destroy us.”

Kitlyn shook her head. “No… I couldn’t… I don’t want―”

Kethaba raised her hand. “I saw within your heart when I brought you back from the Wanderer’s Path, that which connects our world to the realm of the spirits.” She lowered her arm, her face stern. “Had I not been convinced of your intentions, I would not have done so.”

“Umm. Thanks for not leaving me dead. That… foggy meadow was real? I hadn’t dreamed that?”

“You were not dead, child.” Kethaba flared her eyebrows. “Close, but you hadn’t yet gone too far down the Path. All who die in this world walk the path. Along the way, it shows them moments from their life, and when they reach the end, they are once again part of the spirit world.”

“I want the war stopped, but I couldn’t destroy Evermoor, no more than I could destroy my own land.” She looked at the window from which the sounds of happy children echoed. “There’s been too many lost already. I wish this war never happened…”

“So do many, child… so do many.” Kethaba gazed into the distance.

“Why don’t they stop? I know the Lucernian army isn’t crossing into Evermoor. We’re not invading… you keep sneaking in. Oona was attacked in her bed!”

Kethaba reached across the table and put a hand on hers. “We are fighting to stay alive. Without the Eldritch Heart, the tree withers. When it dies, our land will die with it. Nothing will grow. The spirits will fade and our animals will fall sick. This place will become a desolate waste.”

“I…” Kitlyn looked down. “I have to find Oona before they hurt her, but I will tell the king to return the heart.”

Kethaba sighed. “You would need an army to reach her. It would be wiser to return to your castle and convince the king to return what he stole.”

“I can’t leave her here.” Kitlyn choked up. “How am I going to get back? They guard all the bridges and I don’t think they’ll let me go.”

“No, you’re right, but there is a way. A deep passage known as Underholm traverses the Churning Deep. A people called the Na’vir once dwelled there, but they died out ages ago.”

“I think I remember a tutor mentioning them.” Kitlyn hurriedly mopped soup from the bowl with the bread in her rush to get going.

Kethaba smiled. “They looked like men, but the tall ones stood only waist high to us. Pale skin, four arms, quite fond of beards, excellent artisans. Their kind used earth magic as easily as you or I breathe. Before you ask, I do not know what happened to them. No one has seen them for thousands of years.”

Kitlyn nodded. “So this Underholm will take me into Lucernia? It’s safe?”

“Oh.” Kethaba chuckled. “Nothing is safe, dear. But safer than trying to cross one of the bridges.” She hesitated, tapping her chin. “I suppose you could try and disguise yourself as a soldier and join a group on their way to battle, but it could take weeks, and I daresay would be quite risky.”

“I can’t wait that long.” She stood. “Oona can’t wait that long.”

Kethaba took her hand and put another over Kitlyn’s heart. “You have strong magic, child. Yet, I sense you do not know how to use it.”

“I’ve used it.” She explained the rock tricks she did for Pim, scaling the garden wall, making the cave bigger, and chasing away the chill.

“Quite impressive for no proper instruction.”

Kitlyn glanced at the hearth. “Aren’t you a firecaller? But you healed me like a priest of Orien…”

“That is the Lucernian in you talking. People are not bound to a single magic. Your priests believe the gifts originate from one deity, and whichever happens to manifest first, that person is trained only in that art. Those who study only one language shall only ever speak one language. In Evermoor, people wield magic of the elements. Some call me a primalist as I call upon all five elements.”

“Five?” Kitlyn scratched at her bandaged leg, making it itch more. “Air, Earth, Water, Fire…?”

“Spirit.” The old one smiled. “How fortunate for you then, wouldn’t you say?”

“On occasion, I have made my magic affect plants, but it is much easier to work stone.”

Kethaba winked and pressed her fingers more firmly into Kitlyn’s breastbone. “Close your eyes and clear your thoughts. I know it is not easy, but try not to think of the war or your friend. Listen to the energy here.” Old fingers tapped at her chest.

Kitlyn closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. For a little while, the attempt to not think of Oona made her think of Oona more.

“Listen to the energy,” whispered Kethaba. “Turn your senses inward rather than outward. Feel rather than see. Know rather than listen.”

Minutes of silence passed before a low roar manifested in her senses, as though she stood upriver from a great waterfall. She focused on it, and the vibration grew in her chest, matching the rise and fall of the distant rumble.

“There. You’ve found it,” whispered Kethaba. “The energy glows around your hands. Don’t look. Don’t break concentration.”

Kitlyn let the faint thundering fill her. Warmth spread down her limbs.

“You have seen the stone. In the catacomb, you opened the eye that sees without sight.”

“Yes. I felt the castle… I knew where the walls were.”

Kethaba patted Kitlyn’s chest and withdrew her hand. “You can call upon the stone to defend yourself or do many things. Open your essence to the energy inside, and let it touch the earth.”

Kitlyn gathered her hands to her chest as if cradling a warm, glowing ball to her heart. A sense of power filled her grasp, though nothing solid met her fingers. Static tingles prickled at her face. She opened her eyes and stared in awe at a sphere of dark green light floating between her hands. It rotated in a gradual counterclockwise turn, glimmering like a faceted emerald.

“That is your gift, child.” Kethaba reached up under Kitlyn’s hands and guided the brilliant sphere back into her body.

Kitlyn stood for a moment with her hands clamped to her chest. She quivered like a child who’d overindulged on sweets and had too much energy to stand still.

“Do not be afraid to harness it when you need it. Yours is the power that flows from the earth; it is everywhere around you. I feel the essence of the stoneshaper within you, yet also your affinity with roots. The lifeblood of the Alderswood chose you. Trust your strength.” She sighed. “Some will consider you dangerous. I… it may be unwise not to teach you how to control and tap your gift, but the one you live does not have months or years to wait.” Kethaba ambled over to the wardrobe, opened it, and removed a cloak, which she threw around her shoulders. “Come, child.”

Kitlyn ran to retrieve the dagger and followed her outside, past the playing children and a small trail leading uphill to where a handful of other huts stood among a mixture of pines and those strange tree-like plants with round masses of willow tendrils hanging at the tops of stalks. The old one led her around a curving path lined with flat shelf stones covered in clusters of red and orange mushrooms. A girl about her age gathered water from a creek to the left, offering a friendly wave when she spotted them.

They halted at the edge of a river. The greenish-brown water here stood as calm as glass, as opposite as possible from what Kitlyn had fallen into.

Kethaba stopped at the bank. “Call to the earth. Beckon the branches of Alderswood to you. Hold the shape of a boat in your mind, and the wood will obey.”

“I’ve only moved some vines out of my way before… I’ve never tried to… rootshape.”

“Do not allow doubt to diminish your ability.”

Kitlyn held her hands out and concentrated on opening the link to the energy inside her. She cleared her mind, finding it easier this time, and tried to imagine the enormous tree of which Kethaba spoke. She dreamed of its roots reaching to her across all of Evermoor and sprouting at her feet into the shape of a boat. In a few seconds, three strands of brown vine pierced the dark sand and writhed together into a tangled mess. When everything stopped moving, she blinked in awe that some of the wooden tendrils had grown so large―bigger around than her leg, but her creation bore less resemblance to a boat than something Pim fished out of his nose.

“Well, I suspect that’s a start.” Kethaba chuckled. “Still, the effort is not wasted. Put your hand on it and command it to change form.”

Kitlyn crouched. Kethaba hovered over her, whispering advice. Over the course of many minutes, the gnarled mass of roots stretched and reshaped itself into something akin to a two-person canoe. She called another length of root, straight as a staff, and flattened the end into an oar.

The pack of children came running down the path, paused at the shore long enough to shed their animal hide clothes, and rushed into the water, giggling and splashing at each other.

“You are a fast learner.” Kethaba patted her back. “If this war ever ends, and our people are no longer killing each other… I do hope you will return to visit so I can teach you more.”

Kitlyn climbed into the boat, hoping to Lucen the gaps between individual vines would hold watertight. I don’t want to drown again. “I’m sorry I thought such cruel things about the people here. I was wrong.”

“Don’t be quite ready to smile at everyone just yet.” Kethaba chuckled. “Until this war is over, there are many here who are as blind as you were. Worse, in fact. Our people know we fight for our very existence. To them, Lucernians are the demons who have slain us already.”

If the king―my father―took that heart, I’ll get it back. How could he be so selfish? “I understand.”

“Now…” Kethaba grunted, shoving the boat into the water, but held on to the end. “To reach Underholm, you must follow the river southward. Not too far north of here is the waterfall, and your magic is not quite strong enough to paddle straight up.” She cackled again.

Kitlyn shivered. “I fell down the falls?”

“More than likely. If you don’t remember it, you were probably unconscious. Good thing, that. Go south until you find a shattered bridge with gargoyles. Put to land on the far bank and follow the road leading away. Soon, you will find a path of stones to the left that will take you down a hill. Keep going straight and you will be home.”

“I’m in your debt, Kethaba. I… thank you.”

The old one pushed the boat out into the river. “I sense your humility, child. You will do the right thing for both our kingdoms. Spirits guide you. Remember to trust in your magic. Do not think a task too tiny to attempt, for the Alderswood itself is part of you.”

Kitlyn settled her weight, eyeing the bottom of the boat for leaks, but found none. After a bow of farewell, she set the oar in the water and got to paddling. Children swam alongside her for a little while, cheering and wishing her a safe journey. She spotted Alin among the group and yelled her thanks for pulling her ashore. He grinned and waved.

The narrow form of her vine boat sliced the water and took little effort to get up to a modest speed. As harrowing as the flow above the falls had been, this part of the Faunhollow River may well have been a long, narrow lake. Most of the surface had the stillness of a pond, broken here and there by fish devouring insects foolish enough to skim. Soon, the trills of laughter faded, leaving only the watery noise of her passage and the occasional modulating cries of unfamiliar birds.

Having to go back to Lucernia alone formed a stone in her gut, but the old woman was right. What chance could she possibly have braving Evermoor by her lonesome? One girl against tens of thousands of people who’d kill her as soon as ask her name. As much as she hated leaving Oona behind, she knew the best chance she had of getting her back waited in Underholm.

25

A Discourse Most Civil

~ Oona ~

Oona lay on her side, staring at her face reflected in each shiny silver band locked about her wrists. Her terror at approaching death faded to a dull, lingering weight in the back of her mind that left her numb to everything else. She regretted eating and drinking, as the need to avail herself of the chamber pot grew bothersome. Each time she got up the urge to try, she hesitated, fearing that someone would walk in on her. Her cell faced the only door out of the room beyond, and bars offered no privacy.

Eventually, discomfort got the better of her; gaze locked on the door, she wrestled with her dress and smallclothes, crimson-faced the entire time she sat upon the freezing tin contraption. If this room was to be her prison for weeks, she would surely die of embarrassment or discomfort before anyone came after her with a blade to cut out her heart.

It took her a while to tug her smallclothes back into place once she’d finished. The manacles allowed her to pivot her wrists around, but she couldn’t move them apart more than half an inch. She busied herself for a while futilely pulling on the tether before deciding to examine the gems set into the wall.

The stone between the little islands appeared normal, black as if stained with ink. Each inset gem nipped at her finger when she touched it, siphoning magic out of her with a feeling similar to a needle prick. She tried getting a fingernail under one to pry it from the wall. Perhaps if she could pick them all out, her magic would return.

Alas, her nails proved far insufficient to the task. She paced around, asking the gods for help and guidance, but mostly beseeching them to protect Kitlyn. None of the cells nor the outer chamber had windows, so she could not tell how long she’d been stuck. It felt like days already, but it may have been only a few hours. She spent a while with her foot braced between her wrists, trying to squeeze her hands out of the manacles, but stopped before it hurt too much.

Oona backed to the end of the tether and leaned against it, grasping the leash in both hands. Were it rigid, it could’ve been a broadsword by length. If she could somehow break the mount on the wall, perhaps she could swing the length of chain like a weapon. The ring appeared thinner than the links and likely iron rather than steel. A burr where the two ends of a rod had been forged together seemed the most likely place to attack. She spun the ring to align the forge seam with the eyebolt in the wall, so yanking on the tether would put the most amount of force on it.

She gathered the chain in her hands again, ran two steps, and threw all her weight into it.

Clank.

Shock stunned both wrists and numbed her hands, but the ring didn’t break.

“Ow.” She hissed while limping back and forth, waiting for the tingling pain to fade.

Resignation crept in, and she slumped to kneel on the mattress. I’m well and truly trapped.

Some minutes, or maybe hours, later, footsteps scuffed down the stairs outside. She didn’t bother standing. The door opened, admitting Ralen who entered carrying a tray. Other than a dark green tunic instead of the violet one he’d had before, he looked the same. He’d brought an oil lamp in place of a torch, and set it on the floor nearby before handing the tray to her via a narrow slot in the middle of her cell door. Oona stared at what appeared to be a bowl of stew.

“Please eat,” said Ralen.

“Why? You’re going to kill me in two months.” She looked down.

“I told you I couldn’t do that. You’re too young… and not exactly the person I’d been led to believe you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Worry that she’d been discovered as a decoy drained the blood from her cheeks.

Ralen smiled. “Most of my men believed you to be an ice-hearted witch who walked the battlefield finishing off our fallen soldiers with a little dagger to the heart after using your magic to take their souls.”

“Where did that come from?” Oona stared at him. “I wasn’t allowed to leave the castle because my father is so afraid of assassins.”

“Then how did we stumble across you?” He wagged the tray. “Please, eat.”

“So I’m in good health for when you cut out my heart to send it to my father?”

“What I write in a letter, and what I intend to do, are not the same thing.” He sighed.

Oona glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “What will you do if he ignores your demand?”

“Do you have any reason to think he will? You are, after all, his daughter.”

She pulled herself up by the chain and walked closer. The tether wouldn’t let her hands get anywhere near the tray. “You’re cruel.”

He reached past the bars, grasped the tray on the inside, and held it out. She managed a clumsy grip on it and eased it to the floor before fumbling to get the spoon in her hand and poke at the stew.

“Hope you like goat.” He let his arm drop. “There is something…”

Oona looked up, mouth full and feeling a bit like a wild animal crouching over a kill.

“There are some among my men who feel it reckless leaving you alive. They will not challenge my command directly, but please do not trust any food I don’t bring you myself.”

She glanced down.

“It’s safe. I shall eat some if you wish me to prove my intentions.”

Oona scowled at the manacles. “Is it necessary to chain me to the wall and lock me in a cell?”

“According to the Foretelling, you are supposed to be powerful with magic. So much that there is some doubt the Gloam Jet will be strong enough to contain you.”

“If only. I can’t do anything in here.” She sniffled and dropped the spoon into the bowl. “I can’t even eat properly.” After twisting her arms parallel, hands facing two different directions, she got a better grip and shoveled stew as fast as she could swallow it.

Ralen stood in silence as she ate. Her face and chest warmed with blush at the indignity of being chained and having to eat from the floor like some kind of dog. After finishing, she dropped the spoon into the bowl and kicked the tray at the door, glaring at him for doing this to her.

He remained silent and motionless for a few minutes.

Oona jumped up, wobbled, and rushed at the bars until the tether jerked her half into a spin. “This amuses you? Watching me struggle? If my magic was as powerful as you say, I wouldn’t have let you abduct me, and I wouldn’t still be sitting in here.”

“Please accept my apologies for your current accommodations. They are far below befitting of a princess, but I much prefer them to having to harm such a beautiful girl.” He reached in and caressed her cheek.

Oona’s skin crawled at the way he looked at her. Every fiber of her being wanted to recoil from him, but she refused to seem weak. “I assure you, I have no magic powerful enough to overwhelm these stones. These”―she rattled the manacles―“are barbaric and cruel.”

“Barbaric and cruel…” He lowered his arm. “How would you describe tearing out the heart of Alderswood and condemning all of Evermoor to a slow, agonizing death?”

She grunted, unable to stop her futile tugging at the tether. “Do you expect me to believe that somehow this tree will kill your people? What, do your lives all connect to it somehow?”

“In a manner of speaking. The Alderswood brings life to everything. If it dies, all the plants will follow. Our crops will fail. Our animals will have nothing to eat. Our people will starve or be forced to flee across the Churning Deep. The death will not be fast or merciful. Tell me again what is barbaric and cruel.”

Oona shivered at the thought of an entire kingdom starving. “I…”

“Your father drank from the Eldritch Heart, and it did not do what he expected. It did not give him power. We believe he beseeched your mother to do the same, and that imbued you with the power of Alderswood before your birth. Our seers have predicted you will summon a great upheaval in the earth, which will swallow and consume the sacred tree and all of Evermoor. Only someone infused with the energy of the Heart could do such a thing. Only the magic of Alderswood could destroy itself.”

“No!” yelled Oona. “I would never do such an awful thing! I don’t want to destroy your kingdom. I have been wracked with guilt for years, dreading that very thing.”

He held her stare for a long few minutes, his face so unreadable she wanted to scream in frustration. Oona leaned into the chain, straining toward the bars.

Ralen brushed her hair away from her eyes, wiped a smudge from her cheek, and looked as if he prepared to kiss her. “I believe you… but, it’s too dangerous.”

“I won’t hurt anyone.” Oona shivered. “What use is my being here to you? No one knows about the Heart in Lucernia. I haven’t ever heard of it until you told me of it.” She scowled, unable to read his intention. Still, his eyes held truth. “Such a pointless war…”

“As if there is any other kind.” He looked down and stooped to grab the lantern.

Oona bounced on her toes. “Please don’t go. It’s so dark and quiet in here… Can’t we talk of something for a while more?”

He paused with his fingertips an inch from the lantern. After a moment, he stood straight, leaving it on the ground, but didn’t face her. “I do not blame you for the actions of your father, but you are the only chance we have. For twenty years, we have been trying to reach Cimril. We’ve sent spies to find and recover the heart, but none of them have been able to locate it.”

“What does it look like?”

Ralen smiled. “It is a great knot of wood twisted together, alive and glowing with the very energy of life.” He held his hands about two feet apart. “The light glows from within, deep and green. If you’d gone anywhere near it, you would have been able to feel its power.”

“It sounds beautiful, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Where would your father put something he did not wish found?” He regarded her with an incredulous look, as if doubting his prisoner would be so forthcoming with information.

Among the servants. Oona sagged with worry about Kitlyn. “I’ve never been allowed in his private study or in the Chamber of Light at the Grand Temple of Lucen. Only gifted priests or priestesses are allowed inside.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin.

“Lucen is the god of purity and light. My father has the powers of a priest. If what you say is true… if he stole this Eldritch Heart, Lucen should be wrathful. Theft is worse than lying.”

“A priest is no god. Mortal men have faults. Your father is vain and craves power.” He let off a sad chuckle. “You sound so naïve and innocent, princess.”

“It’s what the gods say!” She growled under her breath in frustration at being unable to move her arms. “I’ve grown up little more than a prisoner because of your assassins. I’ve not set foot outside the castle in years.”

“You never did answer how we came to find you at that village.” He traced his fingers under her chin again.

Oona blushed. “You’ll laugh at me.”

“I promise as a Knight of Evermoor, I will not… though I may smile broadly.”

She glared at him for a while, but sighed, pacing as she spoke. “I wanted to escape from the weight of everything. I couldn’t bear the thought that I might have to destroy Evermoor. I hated the war, everyone expecting me to bring about its end… My father wished me to marry against my will to the Prince of Ondar. I… panicked and ran away, like a spoiled child.”

“Well…” He grinned wide. “That would explain the amount of coin you had with you.”

“A good part of my allowance for years.”

He tilted his head. “Allowance?”

“My father gave me five gold radians per month. But since I wasn’t permitted to go into the city to spend them, they accumulated.”

“I find that most strange. He did not simply buy for you whatever you asked within reason?”

“No.” She looked down. Because I’m not his real daughter. “I think he wanted to teach me to value money. I hope your men enjoy it.”

“Your coins have not been stolen. I have placed them in the vault. If you should leave with your life intact, they will be returned to you.”

She stepped back, shivering. “If?”

“Be wary, princess. While I have authority over this keep, some are more loyal to the king and their fears of the Foretelling may lead them to follow his order in defiance of mine.”

“You could let me out in the night and take me home.”

Ralen stared at the floor so long, she started to foster the hope he would listen. Without a word, he snatched the lantern and marched out. The door closed soft enough not to bang.

“Damn you…” She looked down at her filthy dress and slippers, as well as her shiny, horrible bracelets.

Feeling sorry for herself lasted only a minute before the weight of Ralen’s words ground in her mind. Not only did she sit trapped in a cage inside a kingdom of people who all wanted her dead, unknown parties among Ralen’s troops might try to poison her. She’d felt like a mouse in a barn full of wildcats before, but now the barn happened to be on fire too―and locked.

She raised her hands toward the wall, concentrating on the ring, calling light and heat. Magic tingled across her back and arms. Hope built. She poured more wanting into it, begging her magic to overpower the stones. The tingles became an army of angry wasps; pain shattered her focus. She collapsed to the floor, screaming. Stinging agony receded after a few seconds, and she dragged herself forward to put a hand on the ring.

Cold.

Damn. I cannot give up. She tried using the manacle to chip at the stones, but couldn’t find a good angle with her hands stuck so close together. Whipping the chain at the wall made a lot of noise, but failed to scratch a single gem. She cried out in anger, letting herself blurt whatever came to mind in the hope that sounding like a raging bratling would keep up the lie of her being the princess.

She collapsed to her knees, fists clutched under her chin, forehead touching the wall. Her heart ached for Kitlyn. She tried to hope that her love had escaped, that she survived and got back to Cimril to tell the king that… the fake princess got taken. The king would never send men over the Churning Deep after a peasant girl playing dress up. He wouldn’t risk even one life to spare his human dartboard.

She would die here.

Strength, and the will to fight, melted out of her. Oona slid down the wall and collapsed in a heap on the floor. She absentmindedly chafed at her shackles, her head bowed in prayer. The coincidence of Evie finding them felt like the work of the gods. Could her stumbling across Ralen’s men have also been part of their plan? A thin ray of hope extended from the darkness, stalling her trembles. She listened to Kitlyn’s voice in her memory, saying Foretellings had a funny way of coming true.

Clinging to the belief the gods had led her here for a reason, she held her head high, and waited.

26

A Land of Monsters

~ Kitlyn ~

The root canoe glided in silence over waters of eerie calm. Aside from the occasional cry of a distant bird, the dribbles of Kitlyn’s oar seemed loud. It had taken her a few minutes to get the hang of going in a straight line. She paddled twice on the left, twice on the right, and back again. Her little vessel held together beyond her expectation, remaining dry save for droplets falling from the oar when she changed sides.

Kethaba hadn’t told her how long it would take to reach the shattered bridge, and since the brown water offered little distraction, she kept her attention on the banks. Would this bridge be large, like the one she’d fallen from, or would it be easy to miss, a lump of rocks in a pile?

With each passing hour, fear that she’d somehow missed it grew. Kitlyn glanced over her shoulder along the river behind her. Should I turn around? The canoe glided while she debated. Oona might not have enough time for her to make a mistake like that. No. Kethaba said I was to look out for gargoyles.

She plunged the oar into the water and pulled hard. Left, right, left, right. In minutes, she worked up a sweat, but her small boat zipped along the placid river. How strange for it to be so still here, yet a storm of chaos before the falls. All manner of horribleness tortured her thoughts at what those men might do to Oona. A phantom hand grasped her left breast, making her shiver with anger. Perhaps being thought of as the princess would protect Oona from that kind of torment. It had surprised her when Berian told him to stop. She never imagined the people of Evermoor to be anything but fur-clad savages offering fiery sacrifices to ancient evils.

Her arms burned, but she kept pushing. The sun glided across the sky, hours passing too fast for her liking. By early evening, a black shadow appeared in the distance where the brownish river curved to the left. Thick trees occupied both banks, pines and those strange rounded willows. Between the masses of blue-green and darker emerald, a thick, flat shape loomed over the water.

A bridge!

Kitlyn paddled with renewed energy, steering away from the middle of the river toward the right bank. The structure neared in time with the rapid splashing of her oar. Color peeked out from under the twilight. An expanse of wood and stone spanned the Faunhollow River; chunks of rock dangled on heavy ropes from a bundle of de-branched trees. Broken boards stuck up like the spine of some long-dead dragon that expired while attempting to cross. It might have been possible for a person to traverse, but no horse could.

Where the ruined structure met the shore, a pair of humanoid figures squatted on pedestals. Bat-like wings stretched up behind their backs, tips touching some fifteen feet or more in the air. They each braced a fist under their chin as if deep in thought; the nearer gargoyle’s horns had snapped off and stuck in the ground like fallen icicles.

This is it.

She trembled as apprehension and excitement collided. What waited for her in Underholm?

A few seconds of furious paddling sent her boat into the bank with enough speed to knock her forward on impact. She picked herself up and jumped out into knee-high water, sinking ankle-deep in the mucky bottom. Grunting, she trudged up onto dry land, dragging the boat. In all likelihood, she’d never need it again, but letting it drift off felt foolish.

With the boat on land, oar tucked inside it, she paused to catch her breath. From the disaster of the bridge, a dirt road wound into the forest ahead. Foreboding undergrowth made the idea of leaving the road seem unwise, and likely painful. Pulsating hissing, clicking, and chirping conjured the image of bugs the size of cats waiting to drop on her, and thorny vines that would rip her legs to tatters. Perhaps she could use her magic to move them out of her way, but she needed to make time. A slow, arduous plow through shrubs up to her shoulders would not help Oona.

She set off with her dagger clutched tight. Not wanting anyone to think her intent on violence, she carried it with the blade up against her forearm. Her legs protested going from hours spent sitting to a quick stride, but she teetered past the worst of the stiffness and found her footing. The dressing Kethaba had tied on her leg loosened and slipped down out of her breeches. She kicked the leather scraps aside without breaking step. Only a dull ache remained of whatever wound had been there, the skin intact.

Expectation put the downhill stone path Kethaba mentioned a few seconds away… but after at least an hour following the road deeper into the forest, she again doubted herself and considered retracing her steps. Her gait slowed as she twisted around to stare back the way she’d come, at the long trail of footprints she’d left in the dirt. I couldn’t have missed another road. These trees are so crowded.

A sense came over her that Underholm remained in front of her. Kitlyn focused on her magic and the feeling clarified. Relief became disappointment. She had not yet passed it, but it felt quite far away indeed. She picked up her step to a jog, and squinted upward, almost straight ahead at the sun.

Lucen, please take your time going to bed this eve.

She jogged until fatigue made her slow to a walk again. Eventually, daylight weakened. She refused to stop for rest. Each time she considered it, she pictured Oona locked in some kind of dungeon cell as Kitlyn had been back in Cimril. Would these people have dungeons? Perhaps they simply tied her to a tree while they danced around and chanted. Maybe they put her in a hanging cage over a fiery lava pit full of demons in some underground chamber.

Oh, stop. They’re not like that…

She eyed the shadowy forest. Everything she couldn’t see grew more frightening the farther across the sky the sun went. All her life, she’d been told stories about the horrible savages who ate human flesh and killed to please their ungodly masters. The eyes of demons could yet lurk here. Despite Kethaba’s kindness, she could not so easily shake off thirteen years of terrifying tales, and changed her grip on the knife to let the blade point down.

Guard Lorne hadn’t showed them anything about dagger fighting. So far, they’d spent all their time on swords. She waved her arm around, gauging the weight of the weapon. I’ll have to get in close. Thrusting, not slashing. Focus on ducking and rolling, no parrying. There’s not enough blade on this thing to catch a sword. She grumbled. Okay, maybe for an expert there is, but… Oh hell, I should try to run if I can.

Keeping a wary gaze on the tree line, she hurried along.

The last vestiges of daylight oranged the sky in front of her and lit up the silhouettes of flat-roofed buildings. Wood smoke and cooking meat lofted on a faint breeze blowing into her face. Having no coin to her name, she ignored her growling stomach and resolved to walk straight through this little town without stopping.

A town.

She halted on the road, staring at the point where dirt gave way to cobblestones. The buildings here appeared well constructed rather than simple village huts. The architecture had decorative elements, long sweeping curves and purposeless whorls, and an overall airier design than what she expected of civilization. The place did not feel so different from the outskirts of Cimril. She stared at a town in the land of monsters, mesmerized by sculpted roots worked into homes. Others had wood carved to resemble stone or giant mushrooms as embellishments.

A few people walked the streets, some chatting, others seeming intent on getting to wherever they went in a hurry. No children roamed about, happy or otherwise, yet given the sun’s imminent departure from the sky, she figured they’d be in their beds.

Kitlyn looked at a weathered wooden sign on a post near the first building that read, “Town of Dorwick.”

This is so eerie. Oh, Navissa wrap me in your nocturnal shroud… please don’t let anyone recognize me.

She tucked the dagger to her arm again and walked a touch shy of jogging. Cold cobblestones met her feet a few strides later. If she hadn’t known those men had taken her to Evermoor, these surroundings would not have made it obvious. Kitlyn kept her head down. Most of the people she’d seen thus far had darker skin than hers, as if everyone who lived here spent all day in the sun. She felt like a ghost and feared someone too curious could get her caught.

Wait… why would they want me? They have no idea who I am. Oona told them she was the princess. Kitlyn paused to put a hand over her eyes, holding in tears. Please tell them the truth. They’ll let you go. Don’t die for me. Please don’t be stupid.

She snarled away her sadness and forged on.

At the center of town, a square of cobbles sat arranged in a radial pattern around a fountain. Polished marble depicted three nude women about half the size of humans, all with pointed ears, bright smiles, and slender bodies. They poured water from vases in their arms, which fell over the sculpted ivy-bound boulder upon which they stood. The entire fountain radiated magic, the likely cause of the moving water.

Dryads? Sylphs? She stared for a moment, entranced by the beauty conveyed in the stonework. A whiff of baking chicken and fish distracted her, and she fired an accusing stare at the redwood façade of an inn on the southern edge of the town square.

Three men flanked another pale white statue that appeared to be the sister of the figures on the fountain, only her head lay on the ground, broken off. Kitlyn crept closer.

“Damn clumsy oafs,” said a broad-shouldered man with silver hair. “I’ve half a mind to demand Paulus pay for this since he can’t be bothered to send a man or two to keep the peace.”

A younger man with black hair to his left chuckled. “He’ll say it’s your fault for givin’ them so much to drink.”

“Aye,” muttered the third man. His potbelly stretched a sea-green tunic to its limits, and a wild mop of hair hung off his head like a dead raccoon, covering his eyes. “Be lot o’ coin ta get ’er fixed, an’ you’ll ’ave a mark ’round the neck.”

Kitlyn salivated at the smell of food in the air and tried not to feel too guilty about the idea of stopping for a bite. She wouldn’t do Oona any good if she dropped dead of hunger before she could get back to Cimril. As she tiptoed up behind the three men, she took on the demeanor of a younger girl, hoping they assumed her thirteen or fourteen.

“Excuse me, good sirs,” she said in a small voice.

The men turned to look at her.

“Beg somewhere else,” said the younger man. “Ain’t no work here either.”

“Sorry, lass,” said the silver-haired man who had seemed the most upset over the statue. “Times are difficult. I don’t need another wench right now.”

She curtsied. “Beggin’ your pardon, sirs. I’m not looking for charity or hire, but I would offer you a favor in exchange for a proper meal.”

The silver-haired man went red in the face. “What sort of man do you take me for?”

Her eyes shot open wide. “Oh, no. You misunderstand me. I’m an apprentice stoneshaper. I… could fix your statue and there wouldn’t be a crack left.”

“Wot?” asked the rotund man with hair over his eyes. “A shaper workin’ for food? Bah.”

“You’ll mend ’er for one meal?” The silver-haired man blinked.

“Yes.” Kitlyn smiled.

He offered a handshake. “Done deal if you are as you say.”

She accepted his handshake, feeling even smaller as his great mitt devoured her dainty fingers. The men backed away, muttering amongst themselves. The rapidity with which he accepted made her wonder what sort of fee a stoneshaper might ordinarily charge for such work. Obviously extravagant given how the man leapt at the offer.

Bother. Not like I need coins right now. A meal and I’ll be on my way.

Kitlyn squatted over the fallen head and picked it up. She grunted with the effort and wobbled back on her feet. Oof. Her arms trembled as she struggled to lift it up and perch it on the statue’s neck. The mop-haired man reached over and steadied it for her, earning a grateful smile.

Free of the burden, she put her hands on the miniature woman’s shoulders, tapping her energy as Kethaba had taught her. In seconds, its form opened in her mind and she willed the stone whole. Shimmering green light wrapped around the sculpture. The crack sank into the marble like a thin grey twig drowning in a bowl of milk. Sensing the stone intact, she ceased concentrating.

“Excellent!” cheered the silver-haired man.

The younger one gawked. “Suppose this one ain’t a beggar.”

“Come then, lass.” The innkeep clapped her on the back, admiring her work. “Looks like she’s fresh from the sculptor’s shop.”

“Oi,” said the mop-headed guy. “Can you make ’er boobs larger?”

The innkeep swatted him. “Mind your manners. There’s a lady present.” He opened the door for her. “Come then, lass. A deal is a deal. What do you fancy?”

Kitlyn smiled. “I’ve been smelling that chicken… perhaps some of that?”

“Of course.” He flashed a broad smile.

The oddity of these ‘savages’ conducting themselves like ordinary townsfolk kept her head spinning as she stepped into a dim room with grey floorboards and many tables packed together. People, mostly middle-aged men, sat around drinking or eating. A tall, dark-skinned girl she figured a year or two older glided past with a large ale mug in each hand. Her cream-colored dress stopped well above the knee; she would’ve been gasped at in Lucernia for showing so much thigh in public―but no one here seemed to care.

Kitlyn headed left and sat at a table a little past halfway to the bar area, placing the knife on the bench at her side between her hip and the wall. The innkeep thumped across the room to a door leading deeper into the building. A few patrons waved at him and called for more drinks or another plate of fish, steak, or chicken. She crossed her arms on the table and kept her head down in hopes no one would pay any attention to her.

The two other men followed the innkeep into the kitchen.

After a few minutes of staring at the table, she lifted her head and looked around. She had never been off the castle grounds until her escape from the dungeon, and being inside a taphouse made her feel as if she’d get scolded at any second. Whether for being too young, or too low class, or too… something else, she couldn’t say. Yet no one paid her any mind. She pondered the green dress Oona encouraged her to wear, and what kind of a reaction that would’ve gotten here. It had made her feel pretty. Confident, too. Her time at the castle had saturated these rags with the ignominy of a nonperson. How much difference had that dress made in the way she carried herself? That entire day, the servants had been doubly wary of her. Had it made her resemble the portrait of the queen so much that they’d all figured out who she really was?

Two men to her right discussed the war. One had lost his brother already, the other lamented that both of his sons went away at the same time, and he did not know how they fared. She wrapped her arms around herself as the weight of guilt dampened her appetite.

“To the Banefallow with the lot of them,” said the one with the dead brother. “May Carros guide your boys home.”

The weary-looking man drank a few long gulps of ale, smacked his lips, and shook his head. “The wolf spirit can’t help them. Those devils know no pity. They always kill to the last man. No prisoners…”

“Aye,” said the older man. “My brother died trying to flee. They were crushed. Two hundred men reduced to a handful in minutes. Less than a dozen of ’em left when they decided to retreat. Them damned Lucernians chased them down. Only one survived, and he had so many arrows in him, he could’ve been a quillhog.”

“They don’t spare anyone. My boys…” The father broke down, head bowed.

Kitlyn twisted in her seat. How could that be? That must be a lie. They’re invading us; we’re defending. We want them to run away. Why would we shoot them in the back? And two hundred? The reports never mentioned a group larger than fifty. She stared at them, doubting, but what reason would these men have to exaggerate?

The innkeep walked over, set down a plate of chicken with mashed sweet potatoes, and gave her a warm smile. “Here you are, lass. If you need a bed for the night, I reckon I can call that part of your wage.”

Kitlyn bowed. “Thank you, sir, but I cannot stay long.”

He nodded. “May the spirits guide you from whatever trouble nips at your heels.” The innkeep thudded back to his place behind the bar counter.

These couldn’t be the monsters the tutors had told them about.

The need to keep her strength up for Oona pushed aside guilt enough to eat, and she rushed her meal. The chicken had a strange, pleasant flavor, somewhat sweet with an unfamiliar tang. About halfway through, she realized it had been simmered in ale. The conversations around her drifted between talk of struggling to keep farms going, unhappy wives, sick children, and of course, the war. Almost everyone in here seemed to regard Lucernia as a kingdom filled with wealthy, selfish, sanctimonious cruds who thought nothing of draining the lifeblood of Evermoor to quell their insatiable lust for power, all the while murdering those who wanted only to stop the withering death of their land. To hear these men talk, everyone in Lucernia sat around tables feasting on little cakes and laughing at them as they marched on toward inexorable doom.

Kitlyn shrank in on herself, fearing what would happen to her if anyone realized who she was. They think we’re all fiends. She scraped up the last of the orange mash and stared at the empty plate. We think they’re all monsters. She could only pity them so much; they planned to kill Oona.

She leapt up, grabbed her dagger, and walked to the bar. “Thank you. The food was wonderful.”

“Mind yourself at night, lass. There’s been talk of Lucernian spies in the woods nearby. I dare not think of what that lot would do to a girl your age.”

“Nor I.” She curtsied. We don’t send spies… do we?

Kitlyn headed out the door, darted around the fountain, and hurried along the road leading west from the town square. The sun had gone down while she ate, though the cloudless sky bathed the town in brilliant azure moonlight. A deeper chill suffused the cobblestones, keeping her steps quick. Two men with swords and commoner’s clothes walked astride, giving her a suspicious glance. They slowed and watched her go by, eyes narrowed.

They must think I’m a thief. She let off a forlorn sigh. Why does everyone think I steal? Okay, perhaps I am dressed like a beggar and traipsing about at night with a dagger… but still!

A few buildings later, a scrap of broken clothesline dangling from a porch caught her eye. She looked back over her shoulder for the town guard, but they’d apparently lost interest in her and wandered off. A quick slice took a length of the old cord, and she kept walking while tying a loop in it. After cinching it about her waist like a belt, she hung the dagger in the loop at her hip, hoping wearing it rather than carrying it would give off less of a threatening presence. Especially if Lucernia did send in spies, she couldn’t risk being killed by her countrymen. Did that make her a spy deep in enemy land? Perhaps not. She had no intention of spying on anything; she’d been kidnapped and had to escape. Again, she wrestled with the idea of leaving Oona behind, but Kethaba did have a point. Going after her alone would at best put her in the same prison, and at worst kill her.

How will I convince him to return the Heart? He’s not going to listen to me. Will he? He ignored Oona when she asked him to make me a lady―she gasped. He couldn’t give me title because I already had one! Would he listen to her, his real daughter, if she demanded he surrender the Heart?

Every torment Fauhurst had inflicted on her over the years ran through her head in rapid succession. If the king really was her father, she had quite a bit of screaming to do. Oh, she’d let him have it, all right… and probably wind up crying too. How could he ignore everyone treating her like some common servant? Especially while that overinflated, self-absorbed peacock of a junior advisor made it his daily mission to remind her how far down the social order she dwelled. Her walk became a fist-clenched stomp from his imagined needling voice grating along her spine.

The end of the town came within sight, but the road continued out into grassland. Dorwick sat on the edge of the woods, wrapped on three sides by forest. To the west lay open plains, past about eight or nine buildings’ worth of street.

Kitlyn marched on… all of three steps before someone grabbed her from behind.

“Make a sound and you’ll bleed,” whispered a man as a cold edge touched her neck below her jaw.

She went rigid. His chin touched her skull above her ear, breath puffing over the left side of her head.

“Easy like. Hand over the money and I’ll be on my way.”

The dagger on her hip seemed to get heavier. His grip around her chest tightened.

“I don’t have any money,” she whispered.

“Right, and I don’t have a knife at your throat. Come on. Be quick about it. Bad to be you if those watchmen come back ’round before I’m gone.”

“I really don’t have any money. Go ahead and check.”

The knife pressed harder into her throat, but he released his arm from around her. Quick fingers prodded about her belt, passed over the dagger, and climbed her front until he grabbed a handful of breast. “Ack!” He jerked his arm back as if encountering fire. “You’re a girl…”

“Yes.” She eased up on tiptoe to lessen the pressure of the knife. “And I don’t have any money.”

He removed the blade from her throat. “Aww, sorry, lass.”

She whirled on him. He looked far younger than he sounded, somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. His youthful face and long, brown hair could’ve let him pass for a girl given the right clothing, until he opened his mouth… He already had a voice on the deep end of adult. Most surprising, he blushed.

“Sorry? You’re sorry for holding me at knifepoint?” By Lucen, I’m rather sick of having blades at my throat.

“I… uhh.” He scratched at the back of his head. “Guess you’re one of us then. Didn’t recognize you. Sorry for the grabbing thing… go on and slap me if you want.”

She glared at him. “One of us?”

“Livin’ out on the streets. The war orphans.”

Her anger faded. “I’m no thief.”

“Figured that when you didn’t hear me comin’ up behind you.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “Why ya dressed like a boy?”

“Because it’s what I have.” She tugged at her breeches. “And a gown would be most awkward out in the woods.”

“You talk like a rich girl.” He looked her up and down. “But you look like a beggar.”

She folded her arms. “Yes, well… my life has been… odd. And I’m about as well off as one.” Kitlyn lifted her tunic enough to expose her waist and complete lack of pouches. “I’m sorry about your parents, but I have no time.”

He kept up as she resumed walking. “Fanks. ’Appened about two years ago. I was just turnin’ twelve. I like to think they were with each other when the Lucernians got ’em.”

Soon, the cobblestones ended and she once again trod upon soft dirt. Kitlyn stared at the road. I’ve a lot more to scream at my father for than making me scrub floors… “I’m so sorry. It’s horrible that you’ve lost both your parents.”

“You as well?” He raised an eyebrow. “Lose any ta’ the war?”

Kitlyn thought for a few seconds. “My mother.”

“You’re leavin’ town in the middle of the night?” He jogged a few paces to keep up with her brisk stride. “What’s your name? I’m Kem.”

“Catherine.” Not taking any chances.

“A pretty name for a pretty lass.”

“Thanks.”

He chuckled. “Hard to impress you, isn’t it?”

“I’m in a hurry. Do you know where Underholm is?”

“What?” He stopped for a second and blinked before running to catch up. “Underholm? Why d’ya ask ’at?”

“Because,” she said, not slowing, “I need to go there.”

“Heap beasties, girl… ’tis a graveyard in there. All sorts of ghouls and goblins… with the ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” She glanced sideways at him.

“Oh, aye. Used ta be some whole city down ’neath the ground, but them greedy sots from Lucernia murdered them all.”

She cringed. “You can’t know that.”

“’Tis what the stories say.”

“And you believe every story?” She slowed for a second to frown at him. “Whatever befell the Na’vir happened thousands of years ago. No one alive today had anything at all to do with it.”

“Oh, you know ’bout ’em then. You huntin’ for artifacts or somethin’? You one o’ them ‘learned’ sorts? I heard o’ some go down that way, ’opin ta find treasure. But none come back.”

“Yes. I suppose… but I…” Can’t tell him I’m going through to Lucernia. “…have to go.”

Kem walked with her. “Underholm’s ’bout four miles on this road. An ol’ path runs down into a canyon, but you shouldn’t go in. ’Tis no place for girls. The college should have hired some mercenaries to keep you safe.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re real pretty.”

“You said that already. Thank you. I’ve got someone.”

Kem snapped his fingers. “Aww, darn. What’s his name?”

“Oona.”

“Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

Kitlyn stared straight ahead. Maybe he’ll go away. “Yep.”

“Oh.”

A few paces later, she glanced at him. He continued to walk beside her with a contented smile. “That’s it? Just ‘oh?’”

“’Course! Why? Hope you love ’er like my parents loved each other.”

Worry gnawed on her gut. “She’s in danger. She’s why I have to go to Underholm.”

“Sorry. It ain’t a place anyone wit’ sense wants ta go. A Lucernian sorcerer ran amok down there, killin’ off all those short people thinkin’ them demons.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “They all still there.”

That doesn’t sound right. A thousand years ago, the kingdoms were friendly. Our king was like a brother to their king before this war… It’s got to be a lie. Kethaba seemed to think she had a good chance of getting through Underholm, but Kem’s ghost stories got her hands shaking.

“I’ll walk with ya, if ya want.”

“Hmm.” She rubbed her neck. “One moment you’ve got a knife at my throat, now you’re my protector?”

“I don’t like havin’ to rob people. Only way I got ta keep myself alive till I get picked up by the soldiers and carted off to war.”

“Carted off?” Everyone here hates us so much, I’m surprised he didn’t try to join the army at twelve. “You didn’t join?”

Kem laughed. “I loved me maw an paw, but I don’t want to be with ’em in the Glimmering Vale.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know the Vale?” He blinked. “You grow up in a cave?”

She chuckled wistfully. “Almost. I wasn’t allowed outside much.”

“Oh. That’s sad.” He held his arms out, framing the distant horizon with his fingers. “When we die, we join with the spirits. If ya lived right, and the spirits welcome you, your ghost walks the Glimmering Vale for eternity. Otherwise, ya get sent ta the Banefallow.” He shuddered.

“That sounds scary.”

Kem nodded. “Aye. It’s a dyin’ meadow where the spirit wolves rip your ghostly self ta shreds and devour ya. Then ya re-form, and they do it again. Over and over, forever. S’pose ya can run, but they always find their meal.”

“That’s… ugh!” She shivered, thinking about Tenebrea’s realm, where the dead dwelled in various states of comfort. The truly dark wound up in Lucen’s forge, slaving away in the infernal heat of a solar furnace. As awful as that sounded, spending eternity devoured over and over again by giant spirit-wolves seemed worse.

“You don’ like tha war either?” he asked. “Y’aint in the army either, an yer ol’er ’n me.”

“It’s cruel and pointless.”

He reached for her hand, but hesitated and left his arm limp at his side. “Sorry. Ya believe what they say about the tree?”

“Alderswood?”

“Yeah.” He kicked an egg-sized stone off the road into the grass. “You think everything’s dying?”

“I don’t know.”

“My parents believed it. ’Tis why they both joined. Me mum was a good shot wi’ a crossbow. They said they wanted me to have a land to grow old in. If they didn’t fight, t’was like killin’ me themselves. S’posed to be all dead in a couple years.” He hung his head. “Now they’re gone an’ land’s still dyin’. What’d they go off an’ get killed fer?”

She wiped tears from her cheeks. “They gave their lives trying to protect you.”

“I’d rather have ’em here.”

Kitlyn stared into his dark brown eyes, so full of pain. She considered telling him who she was, but chickened out. To him, she must be the embodiment of evil. Oona couldn’t afford for her to lose time fighting this boy, or winding up dead by his hand. No words came to mind to fit the weight in her heart, or the sorrow on his face, so she kept quiet. Long meadow grass on both sides of the road wavered in the wind like waves upon the ocean.

Some time later, he chuckled. “They’re prob’ly not happy I’m stealin’, but I don’t got any choice. No one wants workers. Everyone’s struggling.” He sighed. “Thieves steal from thieves. Sorry ’bout that again.”

“I think the war will end soon.”

He took a deep breath, hands in his pockets, and leaned back to stare up at the stars. “Be a good thing, if it ain’t what the seers dreamed.”

“The Lucernian king’s heir is going to end the war…” She glanced at him for a second, but he didn’t pull his stare away from the stars. “The Foretelling doesn’t make it clear how, does it?”

“Aye… but the Order is sure.”

“The Order?”

He pointed up ahead. “There’s the trail. See the blue?”

Kitlyn looked into the distance. A line of glow veered left from the dirt road, leading down a sharp hill. Hundreds of smooth, flat stones caught the azure light of the moon like a colony of will-o-wisps making their bed in the grass.

“The Order of the Sundering… some kind o’ secret cult,” he whispered. “The king has decreed they all be put to death, but they’re still out there. They think Evermoor’s time is over and want it to die. Most believe the war will end when the land breaks open and swallows everything, leavin’ the kingdom a blank slab o’ rock, and the Order’s tryin’ to make it happen.”

“Their minds have gone.”

Kitlyn jogged ahead to the gleaming path, wide enough for several wagons abreast. She paused, aghast at the spectacle. It looks like a river of moonlight. At the bottom of a grassy valley, the path halted before a giant pair of stone doors set in a rocky wall. Two bas-relief faces reminiscent of goblins leered at her from the gate. Protruding tusks, rounded chins, and bulbous noses hung beneath wild, bulging eyes. During the day, they might’ve looked comical, but at night, they glared with malevolence.

“Aye. They’re all nutters. What sorta fool wants ta die, an’ take everyone wit’ him?” Kem sighed.

“I don’t believe every foretelling is correct. What’s to stop someone from saying they’re a seer and that they had a vision? It’s pretty easy to be so vague that you can claim to be right no matter how something turns out.”

“You usin’ those rich people words again. What?”

Kitlyn walked along the trail, smooth as glass and warm. The flat stones ceased glowing wherever her shadow blocked the moonlight, but gave off a familiar magic that bolstered her confidence despite the ever-growing doorway. “I said it’s easy for a seer to lie. What they say is open to being taken more than one way. Take the Foretelling. Seers say the Lucernian heir is going to end the war, but they don’t say how. She could destroy Evermoor as everyone seems to believe, or she could marry the prince of Ondar and form an alliance too large for Evermoor to bother attacking anymore. Or, she could… I dunno, sing a silly song that makes everyone laugh too much to keep fighting.”

Kem chuckled.

“Or it might not even be her. The heir could be someone else. The king isn’t too old to have another child. Everyone is so focused on what the princess does, they’re going to keep dragging her into it. So, no matter what she does or doesn’t do, the seers will claim they were right.”

“Oh.” He whistled. “I never thought ’bout it like that.”

Kitlyn glanced up at the rising rock wall. The doors kept growing and growing, easily forty feet tall or more by the time they got within a few paces. Both goblin faces took up half the surface of the door it extended from, swelling out too far to see past their chins. She could’ve stood under them to get out of the rain.

“Wow. That’s… big.”

“Aye. You’ll not be able to get in there.” He took a few steps back. “Might be able to climb up the noses. Looks like it goes inside the door, but there’s nothin’ to get a handhold on. S’pose you’ll have to come back to town. I can show you a place ta sleep.”

Kitlyn crept up to the door and put both hands against the stone. “I can’t turn back.”

“There’s no way in. And… you really shouldn’t go in there. A girl don’t belong doin’ somethin’ so reckless.”

She frowned. “Kem?”

“Oi?”

“I know for a fact that the heir will not destroy Evermoor.”

“How’s that then?” He scratched his head.

The energy came at her bidding, faster this time, flowing down her arms into the gargantuan doors. She commanded them to move. Green light glowed upon the surface and the carved goblins’ eyes glowed with it. A great echoing thud sounded from the other side. She leaned back, inching away, and the door followed as if adhered to her palms. Step by step, she withdrew until the three-foot-thick door gave way to a passage and a blast of dusty, dry air. Once she had enough room to enter, she relaxed her magic and the light dissipated.

Kitlyn lowered her arms and turned around to look at him. “Because I am the heir. My name isn’t Catherine.”

He gawked at her. His tanned skin paled. Mute, he pointed at the door.

She took a step closer to him. “I’m so, so sorry for what happened to your parents, and what’s happening to Evermoor. I can’t say I understand much at all except that everyone seems to have their heads filled with lies and half-truths.”

“You? You… moved that door. It’s true… you’ve drank the blood of Alderswood.” He cringed away from her.

“No, my mother did, before I was born. I…” She looked down. “I’ve been lied to my whole life. Kept hidden away in the castle, treated like a servant. I didn’t even know who I was until a few days ago… and I still don’t even really believe it.”

He pointed at the door. “Your people don’t have earth magic. They keep ’er heads too far in the clouds to respect anything ’neath their feet.”

“I have to go. Your soldiers are going to kill the girl I love, and I have to prevent that. I… understand now what could drive someone to do such a thing, but it isn’t right. She’s not the princess.”

“You moved the door of Underholm,” he whispered, still staring in awe.

Kitlyn slipped in the gap, gazing down a cavernous, square corridor plunging into the earth. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in great arcs and a scattering of humanoid bones littered the ground near the entrance among fragments of corroded bronze armor. She coughed on air so dry it seemed to draw moisture out of her lungs. Within three breaths, her mouth held the taste of damp must, as if she’d licked the wall. Faint scratches and clicks echoed from a great distance away, likely carried for miles.

“Ya really goin’ in there?” yelled Kem from outside.

“Yes. I don’t have the luxury of choice. Are you coming?”

His voice weakened as he backed away. “I, uhh, should get back ta town.” With that, he sprinted off into the night.

She frowned at the clap of his feet striking the path of glowing stones. “I suppose you’re right then. Girls shouldn’t go in here.”

Kitlyn called upon her magic once more and willed the great door closed, blanketing the road to Underholm in pitch darkness. For a second, she cursed herself for not bringing a lantern or torch. Eventually, her nerves settled, and she allowed a sense of the stone to fill her mind.

The shape of the great corridor roughed out in faint energy silhouettes around her, making her feel tiny and alone. Floor and ceiling stood over four stories apart, and a row of columns down the center made trees feel small. Aside from the general impression of the stone, she held out her hands and advanced blind into the darkness.

If there are any ghosts down here, I hope they give off light.

27

Into the Bog

~ Oona ~

Cold steel pressed into Oona’s forehead. She sat on the pathetic little mattress with her back to the wall, head bowed against her bound wrists, hands clasped. The chain hung in an arc, brushing her shin, and looped up to the ring in the wall at her right. Hours had passed in silent prayer, begging each god in turn to protect Kitlyn. She had asked, rephrased, and re-asked the same question so many times her brain abandoned words entirely and radiated the mere want for her love to survive.

Scene after scene swirled in her memory, back and forth over the brief time between when she told Kitlyn how she felt at Duskdawn Lake and when these awful men captured them. A mere one night together after the curtain of doubt no longer separated them. She replayed every minute they’d spent holding hands, kissing, and cuddling in her daydreams. Tears had run out hours ago, but the need to hold Kitlyn again brought a tangible ache.

Her arms hurt from time spent fighting the chain. Sleeping on a mattress little softer than the stone beneath it left her back aching. The cold had numbed her fingers and toes so long ago she forgot what they felt like.

Clattering in the stairwell rang in the outer chamber. Voices murmured, hinting that more than one person approached. She didn’t recognize either. Perhaps they brought another prisoner down to occupy one of the five empty cells. By the shape of the room, she assumed one empty stood on either side of hers, and the wall to the left had three.

The door opened, allowing a long stretch of orange torchlight into the outer room. Two men in light armor sauntered in, smiling. Neither carried a torch, though the hallway behind them remained bright. A medium-sized cloth sack burdened with rounded objects dangled from the hand of the younger man. The other had a casual grip on a fauchard.

“So, this is the critter that’ll kill us all?” The man with the bag chuckled. He stopped close to the bars and stared at her. “Pretty thing.”

“Aye,” said the other man. “Demons can look like whatever they want.”

Oona stared at her slippers.

“Oi. On yer feet. Give us a little show, eh?” Bag Man grinned. “Got some ivenberries for ya. Word is you adore them, princess.”

She didn’t move.

After a few seconds, the other soldier slid his polearm between the bars and tapped the bladed tip against her manacles. She startled and leaned away.

“I can reach yas anywhere ya go in there wi’ this.” He shook the fauchard at her. “Get up.”

Oona stared in horror at the blade hovering in front of her face, a smallish sword mounted on the end of a long staff. She pressed herself against the wall until he pulled it away, and wobbled upright, squirming her wrists around. “Leave me alone.”

Bag Man reached into the sack and pulled out a pointed red fruit with a tuft of green at the top and an outer coating of small seeds. “Let’s see a little tit, what?”

Her face burned. “Most certainly not!”

The one with the polearm grumbled and set the end of his weapon on the ground like a walking staff. “Damn wretch. Think you can kill us all?” He reached into a smaller cloth sack on his belt and held up a tomato.

Oona leapt to the side as he drew his arm back. He waited for the tether chain to jerk her to a halt, and whipped the vegetable at her. It splattered across her face with the force of a punch, stinging her eyes. She screamed. He pelted her with two more rotting tomatoes; one caught her in the shoulder, the other burst on the exposed skin at the base of her neck. Some of it slid down under her dress while the juice soaked into the fabric. She tried to huddle in a posture that let her nearly immobile arms protect her face. His next tomato struck one of the bars and showered her with juice and pulp, but didn’t hurt.

“Had enough, fiend?” asked the man with the fauchard.

“Still got the ivenberries, crumpet. Let’s ’ave a little tittie now, an’ I’ll give ya one.” He tossed and caught the fruit, larger than an apple, for a moment before his eyes lit up with a sudden idea. “Better yet, bring that lovely arse around here.” He patted the bars. “I’ll give ya the whole sack.”

The other soldier laughed.

“Oi, that wasn’t s’posed ta be funny!” Bag Man held up the sack of fruit. A second later, he seemed to catch on and laughed as well.

Oona leaned away as far as she could, her backside still several feet away from the innermost wall (and as far away from that man as possible) while she tried to pull the ring they’d chained her to off its mounting point. “You disgusting pigs! Never!”

“Oh well.” The man with the fauchard slid it between the bars again. “I guess I’ll ’ave to cut that dress off her if she won’ cooperate. Might be some blood involved. Apologies, this ain’t the most precise o’ knives.”

“Stop!” yelled Oona. “Someone help me!”

They laughed.

Her cheek throbbed where the tomato had hit her. She wiped her eyes on her sleeves and tried to blink away the blurring sting.

“Like a fish on a line.” The blade scraped over the floor, slipping under the hem of her dress. His eyes widened with anticipation as he lifted the fabric up to the middle of her thighs.

Oona screamed again. She couldn’t back any farther away without lying flat. That weapon could impale her through the heart even if she’d been up against the rear wall. An instinctual effort to blind him with magic sent a wave of painful sparkles down her back that weakened her knees.

The two men froze at the sound of boots tromping down the steps. Another soldier walked in; he looked older, closer to forty with traces of grey in his beard and black hair. His severe expression stalled the men in their tracks and made Oona tremble.

“What goes on here?” asked the newcomer.

“Oi, just ’avin a little fun with the Lucernian strumpet,” said the man with the sack of fruit. “She was about to hike up her dress and give us a good time.”

“Never!” yelled Oona. “I’d rather you run me through, you foul, filthy creatures!”

“Impaling is part of the plan.” The man with the fruit winked.

Oona shivered with disgust. If she had any food in her stomach, it would’ve come up.

“Ahh, very well,” said the newcomer. “I suppose I’m third in line, then. Mind if I watch?”

The other two laughed and turned their attention back to her.

Oona stared at her reddening hands. No matter how hard she pulled, she couldn’t get loose. Her heart raced as her sense of vulnerability verged on overwhelming. This couldn’t be happening to her; people shouldn’t treat others like this, let alone someone so helpless. She eyed the chain, wondering if she could somehow strangle herself with it before they got their hands on her.

The newcomer looked at her with a glare that said he’d be more interested in slitting her throat than raping her. She kicked at the fauchard, trying to get it out from under her dress. As the soldier sparred with her, the newcomer edged up behind him. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed the man by the back of the head, hooked his boot around one leg and smashed him forward, face-first into the crossbar on the cell door. Steel gouged into the bridge of his nose, causing an eruption of blood around the eyes along with a sickening crunch of bone. The polearm fell from his grasp with a clatter, sliding out of the cell until the blade snagged on the bars, leaving it pointing up at an angle.

As Bag Man turned, reaching for his sword, the older man shoved him back against the bars, drew a dagger, and slashed his throat in a blur of motion. The sack of ivenberries fell from his dead hands as he crumpled to the floor, gurgling. The older man showed no emotion. Not anger, not worry, not even satisfaction.

Oona gulped.

The newcomer grabbed the fauchard man by the shoulder again and pulled his face off the crossbar, leaving a smear of blood. He flung the unconscious body to the floor and stabbed him twice in the chest with two rapid in-and-out motions.

She looked away; the chain rattled with her trembling.

“Forgive that bit of violence, Highness.” He cleaned the dagger on the dead man’s sleeve before flipping it over his finger and stuffing it into a little scabbard on his belt without even looking. “I need you to relax and stay quiet.”

“W-what are you going to do to me?” She sniffled. “Please don’t…”

He raised a hand, looked over his shoulder at the open door, and stared at her again. “I’ve come to get you out. I’m Ian. There are too many soldiers here. We have to sneak away as quietly as possible.”

“What?” She took two steps forward to ease the tension digging into her wrists. “Are you really there?”

“I’m sorry it took so long. This keep had more fortification than we anticipated.” He pulled a key out of his belt and slid it into the cell door.

Oona’s heart thudded against her chest. She grasped the chain in both hands, staring at the tiny steel dot wobbling around in the keyhole.

Ian wiggled and twisted the key until something inside the lock plate clanked. After pulling the door wide open, he drew a longsword and stepped in.

She thrashed against the manacles as he raised the blade. An instant before her bladder let go, he sliced at the ring on the wall. Sparks flew, and she hit the ground hard on her back, seeing spots.

“Hurry. To your feet.”

The slack chain went taut again, pulling her forward. She shook off the daze of bonking her head and looked up. He held on to the end of the tether, near to dragging her out of the cell. She scrambled to get her feet under her and follow. He rushed across the outer room, pulling her at a speed that kept her in a loping stumble. When he stopped at the doorjamb, she crashed into him from behind.

“Oof,” she grunted.

He advanced up the stairs, easing his weight from one step to the next. She glared at the manacles, but followed him, tiptoeing along. The cramped spiral staircase forced him to huddle down, but she didn’t need to duck. Torches hung on wall mounts every few feet illuminated the curving passage. After what felt like two stories, he paused at another wooden door.

“Are you going to unlock me?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t get the key to those. Now keep quiet.”

She tensioned her arms to keep the manacles from rattling with her nerves.

After an eternity of a minute or two, Ian opened the door and entered a small room with a table and chairs. Plates held half-eaten breads among a few ale steins and some fruit. Oona reached for an ivenberry, but the tether dragged her hands away before she could lay a finger on it.

“Must you?” she whispered.

He crossed the room to an archway and went to the right, moving up to a jog. Oona ran to keep up, terrified of stumbling or tripping. They passed rooms on both sides, some with doors, some mere openings. Voices muttered or conversed here and there, but no one noticed them. Oil lamps hung on hooks at regular intervals along the hallway, creating copious shadows. Her escort turned left when the corridor ended at a ninety-degree bend, jogged another four doors along, and opened one on the right side wall. Heavy steps approached from behind. She shoved Ian forward and ducked into the room before the oncoming soldier could spot them. He smiled at her and pulled the door to. The fragrance of bread surrounded them; she gazed in awe at a large pantry lined with shelves of provisions and a small wooden table where a row of fresh-baked breads sat cooling.

The men outside walked by without slowing.

Oona exhaled into her hands, staring longingly at the bread.

A few seconds later, her arms lurched away from her face as Ian pulled her by the tether across the larder to another door and out into a covered walkway. She nearly tripped from the sudden motion, and scowled at his back. A stone wall with narrow window slits on the right extended into a passage ahead, wood boards overhead and underfoot. The left side opened to a moonlit courtyard.

It’s night? I thought it was afternoon.

“Get down,” said Ian.

Oona dropped to her knees, hiding behind a table heavy with swords.

He lowered the arm that held her chain, hiding it along the side of his leg. She braced her forearms on the ground. The manacles kept her wrists too close to let her put her palms flat.

“When I start walking, crawl as fast as you can. Keep your head down. There is a stack of sandbags, then a bunch of barrels, then a pile of hay bales. Men on the far wall can see you if they look this way. If they see you, I don’t need to say what will happen.”

“All right,” she whispered.

Ian stood there acting like a lazy guard at post for a few minutes. Without warning, he took off at a brisk step. Oona struggled to crawl on three points of contact: her bound forearms and knees. He yanked her along by the chain, pulling so fast her arms couldn’t reach the ground. She wound up in a rapid shuffling waddle until she stopped behind the sandbag pile, cringing from the pain, feeling certain both her knees had been skinned.

Ian stared up and to the left, muttering, “Turn around, damn you. Walk away. Go to the garderobe or something. Walk… dammit man, stop looking at me.” He forced a smile. “Yes, yes, sentry duty today, and I’m every bit as bored out of my skull as you.”

Oona tried to catch her breath, but he rushed off again. She repeated the ungainly crawl to the barrels, moving faster this time, and keeping enough slack on the lead to not be dragged. He didn’t wait, so she kept going to the hay bales, where he stopped again to stretch and yawn.

Ow. Ow. Ow. She bit her lip at how sore her elbows and knees had gotten. The corner of the courtyard sat eight feet away, but the door there appeared to go into a blacksmith’s station.

“We’re following the edge around to the gatehouse. It’s dark. You’re the only girl here, so don’t make a noise. Your voice will stand out.”

She nodded, glaring at the chain. “Why are you pulling me along like a damn horse?”

“Chains are loud when they drag.” He wound a few more inches around his fist as if afraid she’d run off. “When I start walking again, get up and go as close to the wall as you can.”

Is he angry that I was stupid enough to be captured?

“Now,” he whispered.

Oona jumped to her feet and hurried to her right, against the wall. Ian kept the chain in his left hand, but moved his arm behind his back. The passage ahead held darkness; two hanging lanterns between them and the large gate had no flame, despite plenty of oil. She assumed he’d put them out in preparation for their escape.

“Princess!” shouted Ralen.

She gasped and whipped around, staring toward the sound.

The young knight hurried down the steps of the main keep behind them, at the center of the opposite wall of the courtyard from the gate. His armor rattled as he rushed into a full run. Steel grey eyes wide, his expression could’ve either been shock or worry.

“Damn,” said Ian. “Run!”

He raced forward, almost pulling her off her feet. Oona let out a cry of pain from the manacles digging into her wrists. She scrambled to keep her balance as her long dress trapped her legs, preventing a full sprinting stride.

“Stop!” yelled Ralen.

The spy ran through the gate, beneath the shouts of a few soldiers above the murder holes. Ralen dashed across the courtyard with surprising speed, gaining ground. Someone up on the wall shouted about the drawbridge.

She stifled the urge to scream, terrified he’d throw her back in that damnable cell. Oona grabbed her dress and pulled it up past the middle of her thighs, doing her best to keep pace with Ian. They barreled out onto a narrow half-drawbridge only wide enough for two men to fit shoulder to shoulder.

“Princess!” shouted Ralen. “Wait!”

She looked back, catching sight of a crossbowman up on the wall taking a bead at her. A scream started in her mind but never left her mouth. I’m not in the cell! Desire called her magic, and a brilliant explosion of light manifested in front of the archer’s face. He wailed and loosed his shot way into the sky, nowhere near them. A second man raised a crossbow, and she threw magic at him as well. The scintillating flash caught a few other soldiers emerging from the side of a tower to the wall, and they collapsed in a heap, holding their eyes and howling.

The wooden drawbridge bounced with Ian’s heavy steps. This moat gave off no stink of sewage, though had lots of plant matter, reeds, lily pads, and probably more than a few snakes. Oona’s skin crawled.

Ralen reached the castle end of the drawbridge at the same moment two of the blinded soldiers lost their footing and fell. She called another flash in front of the knight’s face, but he seemed to sense it coming and looked away. The soldiers landed on him, bounced away, and tumbled toward the moat. One grabbed his leg on the way down, holding on. Oona stared at the heavy ropes holding up the portcullis gate. Desperation lit off a magical blast that scorched both arm-thick bundles in seconds while Ralen struggled to get his leg free. With a great ripping sound, the massive gate fell, crashing down on the narrow drawbridge. Pyramid teeth at the bottom splintered the wood, cracking it and bouncing Ralen a foot into the air before the hanging soldier dragged him over the side.

Ralen caught the metal-banded edge, trying to pull himself up.

“Princess!” shouted Ralen. “No! The man lies!”

What? She slowed from a sprint to a fast jog, looking back.

Ian tugged hard on the chain, pulling her after him.

Ralen hauled himself up to get his chin above the drawbridge, but his armored gauntlets slipped, and he fell out of sight with a splash.

Another tug on the chain pulled her into a stumble. She snarled and followed Ian along a dirt path for a few minutes before he veered left into the forest.

“You can stop dragging me around like a dog now. They’re not chasing us.”

He tromped on, not looking back.

Oona’s heart skipped. Sweat moistened the tomato residue, and a slight sting returned to her eyes. “You’re not a spy, are you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

She grunted. “Oh, please stop pulling so hard. My hands are about to fall off.”

“Heh.”

“You’re… not from Lucernia.”

“No.” He jerked the chain with enough force to pull her into a fall.

She hit the ground flat on her chest. He pinned her with a knee between the shoulders and tied a strip of cloth around her eyes.

“Stop!” she yelled. “What are you doing?”

At his silence, she shivered.

He hauled her to her feet and kept tugging on the chain to keep her hands away from the blindfold. Twigs and vines snapped underfoot and caught her across the instep. She stumbled and tripped into trees, slipped in shallow mud, and screamed whenever her thin shoes found a pointy rock.

They walked for a chaotic eternity of random pain. Whenever she pleaded with him to stop, he gave the tether a vicious yank, twice dragging her headfirst into trees. Gripped with terror, she trembled, but managed to keep silent. Once she noticed a change in the ground, grass rather than underbrush, she risked a quick dash forward to slacken the chain and pulled the blindfold down.

Ahead of her lay a clearing where about ten more soldiers waited by a small wooden table. The way they stood in a semicircle between two large fires made her think of all the horrible stories of demonic rituals.

“W… what is this?”

Ian glanced back at her, frowning at the loosened cloth. He ripped it away and threw it to the side. “Sir Ralen failed in his mission. He has allowed his overdeveloped sense of compassion to threaten Evermoor.”

Oona set her heels and stiffened her legs; despite that, he dragged her forward, sliding. “No… please… I’m not going to do anything to Evermoor.”

“On that, we agree, princess.” He wrenched the chain, jolting her into a forward stumble.

She caught her balance before she fell and loped after him until he stopped by the table. The ring of soldiers closed around her. Wood smoke stung at her eyes, overwhelming the scent of pine and something… horrible and sour.

Ian gestured at a flask of indigo liquid set upon a plate at the center of the small table. “Since you’re a lady, and a young one at that, we’ve decided to offer you the choice between a painless poison or something sharper. We will not allow you a chance to destroy our kingdom. You will die this eve, but the means will be your choice.”

Oona sagged on her feet. Her knees, elbows, and wrists ached, but nothing hurt more than the hollow within her chest. She stared at the poison, a gateway to Tenebrea’s domain. Her hands trembled, her throat tightened. Tears streamed down her face. She could save herself if she confessed the truth. They could all have a good laugh at her. Maybe they wouldn’t believe her.

Kitlyn… She sobbed.

“It’s not going to work, girl,” said Ian. “We know damn well your kind can look all sorts of innocent right up until they kill you.” He chuckled. “Shame, too. You’re pretty. Just like your mother was. She begged for her life too.”

Oona gasped and stared up at his wide, mocking grin. Of course, he’d meant the queen… Kitlyn’s mother, not the horrible woman who’d thrown her away twice.

“Hmm. Guess the old lady had secrets?” He leaned closer, a gritty chuckle oozing from his throat. “You don’t much look like the king.”

He’s going to figure it out… “I… I’ll drink the poison. Will you at least let me live my last few seconds without these damn chains on?”

“A worthy attempt, princess, but we aren’t that stupid.” Ian smiled. “That, of course, and I did not deceive you on that point. I was unable to find the key. I promise we’ll remove them before we send your body back home.”

She swallowed hard, unable to stop shivering from fear, and edged up to the table. After staring at the fumes rising from the flask for a moment, she stooped at the knee and grasped the bottle in both hands, careful not to spill any on her fingers. Foul odor, a piercing vapor with the pungency of burned, sour grapes, watered her eyes and made her gag as she brought the vessel up to her mouth. She pictured Kitlyn screaming at her not to do it, to tell them the truth, to not throw her life away. A gasping sob escaped her, but if they believed her, these men would only kill Kitlyn instead… and probably both of them simply because they could. She had to keep them away from her love.

Oona closed her eyes and held her breath.

Kitlyn, please forgive me.

28

The Grotto of a Thousand Teeth

~ Kitlyn ~

Kitlyn gritted her teeth as she walked, expecting every step to bring something sharp, painful, or disgusting. Time passed, minutes to hours, and only soft dust met her soles. A sense of going downward at a slight angle made her wonder how long she would have to walk before this tunnel entered Lucernia. She had only ever seen the great canyon that split the continent in half below the Titan Peaks on maps. The rapids that had nearly killed her in the Faunhollow River, according to legend, were a still and placid pond compared to the flow along the bottom of the Churning Deep―as if falling a quarter mile before meeting water wouldn’t have been fatal enough.

Scratchy skittering came from everywhere. The tiniest sound, even her breathing, seemed to echo as loud as speaking. She tried not to think about what might make noises here in the total darkness. Rats, spiders, beetles … Vermin in general didn’t bother her as much as vermin that would bite. She walked faster for a while before worry of stepping on something crippling returned. Who knows what lurked down here? She could find old weapons, spikes, or even step into a hole. Well, perhaps not a hole. If the stone had collapsed, she would ‘see’ the opening.

After what felt like an eternity of painfully slow progress, a faint amethyst glow appeared in the distance. I’m starting to see things. Despite her attempt not to believe it existed, the light strengthened and grew more defined with each step she took. Long, creeping shadows stretched from a rectangular hole in the wall surrounded by ancient carved writing in no language she could decipher. The letters had tall thin spars that ended in circles with dots or diamonds in them. Each character entwined with the next like puzzle pieces, blurring where words ended or began.

In the alcove, an open-faced box held a pile of pinkish-purple rocks that gave off a fair amount of light. They varied in size and shape, with a semi-shiny finish as if they’d spent decades in a river. She hovered her hand near the topmost one, worried it might be hot, but found it as cold as the ground. A grin spread across her face when she held it up, casting illumination around the massive corridor.

A few rotting tools, small pickaxes and shovels, lay against the walls on both sides. Nothing useful, but at least the debris stayed out of the middle. She placed her hand against the wall and called to the stone, drawing forth a polyp of liquefied rock she stretched into a rod. Kitlyn attached four egg-sized glowstones to the tip in a weave of narrow threads before releasing the magic, hardening her improvised torch.

She hefted it overhead. It’s a bit heavy, but at least I can see.

Her new light source allowed her up to a jog, no longer worried about stumbling blind into junk on the floor. Not a moment too soon: a short distance from the alcove where she’d found the glowstones, an eerie, high-pitched snarl came from behind.

Kitlyn whirled around.

A grey-skinned humanoid creature rushed at her. It raised its four arms, each hand with three clawed fingers. Atop its neck sat a spherical, hairless head with no eyes, two tiny nostrils in the middle, and a huge, grinning mouth lined with multiple rows of triangular teeth. It emitted a roar like a wildcat, bouncing at her on legs the same length as its arms.

Kitlyn screamed.

It lunged, grabbing and biting at her. She dove to the side and rolled back to her feet as the creature ran into the wall with a meaty smack. Kitlyn reached across herself to the dagger on her left hip, but couldn’t pull it out of the loop. She tugged and grunted, not caring if the cord belt snapped.

The toothy horror raced at her again, waving its arms about in a frantic blur.

She gave up on the knife and grabbed her torch in both hands, bringing it around in a wild upswing. The stone mace caught the creature on the side of its ball-shaped head, knocking it into a spin. Its body crashed into her, but no claw or tooth found flesh. It emitted a reverberating sputter and swooned over to fall flat.

Panting and gasping, Kitlyn stood motionless for a few seconds staring at it. Another black dot, about the size of a raisin, sat on the rear left quarter of its head. It looked like an extra nostril, the same size and shape as the two in the middle of its otherwise blank face. She assumed it to be a breathing hole… until it blinked.

A tiny little eye.

She let off a yelp of surprise. It’s still alive!

As it struggled to pull itself up, she looked down at her waist. The rope had snagged on the dagger’s crosspiece. She released it with her thumb and got the ten-inch blade to her right hand after shifting the stone torch to her left.

“Go away. I don’t want to hurt you.” She pointed the knife at it.

The odd creature pushed itself up on all six limbs, looking a bit like an enormous rubbery insect. It chittered out a gargling call, whirling around to face her. Again, its gigantic mouth popped open in a growl. Its two tiny oval ‘nostrils’ at the center of its head blinked. Milky saliva trailed in ropey strings from its bared teeth. Upright, it only stood as tall as the middle of her stomach.

She raised the dagger. “I don’t want to hurt you. Go away.”

It let out a keening wail and charged.

Kitlyn leapt back, thrusting the dagger out while letting gravity take her down, away from the chomping maw. Her butt hit the floor the same instant her back rammed the wall. The creature got a mouthful of stone where her head wasn’t, and her dagger sank to the hilt in the middle of its chest. Its body slackened, draping over her as its limbs went limp. The spherical head lolled to the side and a narrow, black tongue―more of a tentacle―slipped out to hang. With a grunt, she pushed the thing off and withdrew the knife. Milky liquid expanded in a pool below it, oozing from the wound. She stared at the gaping mouth, no doubt in her mind it could’ve bitten clean through her neck if it got a hold of her.

She tilted the white-stained dagger back and forth in the light. “I… killed something.”

Her heart thumped in her ears, deafening in the silence. Would the gods consider it murder to kill a creature that lacked reason? Killing cows and chickens and such for food was all right, but this… thing… whatever it was, looked somewhat person-like. It had no clothing or any visible sign of being male or female. Blank, wrinkled skin between its legs revealed little about its sex. Aside from having four arms, the torso resembled a small human man who hadn’t eaten well in years. Spindly and grey. The odd-proportioned legs matched the arms for length, differing in having knees instead of elbows and humanoid feet with three equal-sized toes, all tipped with nasty talons blunted from scraping on rocks.

Kitlyn looked up and to the side, raising the torch. The wall bore thousands of little white scratches, mostly at the seams between giant bricks. These creatures could climb straight up the wall like bugs. She felt eminently grateful for finding the glowstones, but at the same time wondered if they would draw these things like moths to flame.

Without them, I’d never see the little monsters coming.

She shuddered at a momentary nightmare of having one sneak up behind her and sink its teeth into the crook of her neck.

“No. I’m wasting time. I need to get back to Cimril. I’ve got to find a way to convince the king”―she hesitated, still unable to think of him as ‘Father’―“to help me save Oona.”

He’ll never do it. She sagged, ready to give up, but sucked in a deep breath. I’ll scream at him until he does. I’ll tear down the whole damn castle. “Please hold on, Oona. I’m going as fast as I can.”

She rushed ahead, resting the glow-torch across her shoulder. People make torches out of wood for good reason. This thing is heavy. About every forty paces, she passed one of the thick central columns. A few had gouges around the bottom where the polished tiles had broken off, exposing the paler stone interior. She wondered if someone had lost control of a heavy wagon on the downhill and it crashed, but any trace of wheel marks or wood had long since vanished. Somewhere in the library, one of the books she’d read mentioned a place like this as a great subterranean commerce route between ancient kingdoms, filled with an industrious race of gem cutters adept at trade. At the time, she’d thought it a mishmash of make-believe places, but the deeper she went, the more she suspected it had been based on Underholm.

Her legs protested the long trip, and her travel sagged to a determined walk. Minutes before her body would’ve given up whether she wanted to or not, shapes in the distance broke the monotony of the long, straight tunnel. The Underholm road opened into a wider chamber lined with doorways, small patios, and glassless windows. Around the colossal chamber, the walls held four stories of dwellings, linked by a series of staircases. Smashed stone tables arranged in the center of the room suggested a market square. Inches of dust covered everything, along with too many footprints to count. Short, wide, stubby, and three-toed.

Kitlyn gulped.

Two passageways led to the left and right at the middle of the side walls, each only a quarter of the size of the one she’d been following for who knew how long. They had the look of city streets, with more abandoned dwellings or storefronts in both directions. Steel lantern housings decorated the columns, walls, and façades, but none had held oil or flame for a thousand years. An ornate pair of doors, also stone, occupied the wall at the direct opposite side of the square from where she stood, some two hundred or so yards away.

Kethaba said to keep going straight.

Skittering echoed in both side passages.

Kitlyn hurried across the courtyard, running over dust so thick it felt like she trod upon pillow. Clouds tamped into the air each time her feet came down, swelling into a hanging trail. About a minute later, she slammed into the stone doors on the far side, but they refused to move. Snarls, growls, and scratching intensified behind her.

To the right of the doors, a carved stone panel bore three levers above two buttons, and no indication whatsoever of their meaning. Hundreds of those bizarre creatures swarmed out of the passageways, streaming around on the walls, floor and ceiling, a flood of pallid grey.

Kitlyn glared at the door controls. “Tenebrea’s tits.”

With ten thousand teeth racing closer, finding her energy core happened in an instant. She threw her magic at the door, ripping open a hole in the middle. As soon as it got large enough, she dove through and landed in a somersault on the other side. She rolled out of it and whirled around as a creature scuttled in behind her. She raised her hands. Another one emerged.

“Close!” Kitlyn screamed.

The shifting, liquid hole shrank in seconds, crushing a third creature in half at the waist with an explosion of milky blood. Its upper body thrashed as it let off a horrible keening screech before falling limp. The door shuddered from the impact of the onrushing horde. She backpedaled as the first monster lunged. She wanted it away, now. A stone shaft lanced up from the ground, smashing it in the chest and launching it backward. The stalagmite receded back to flat, smooth floor.

Whoa.

The second creature scrambled toward her, still crawling. It leapt, screeching and roaring. She stuffed the glow torch in its mouth to hold back the teeth, shrieked as little claws grabbed at her sides, and jammed the dagger into its upper chest. Grunting, she twisted the blade while pushing the thing away with both weapons. Its arms fell slack. The huge double doors rattled with scratching and banging. Kitlyn yanked the dagger out and stabbed it again an inch or two lower before hurling the corpse to the floor.

She darted to the creature she’d launched with the rock spire, still lying twitching and dazed on the ground by the door, and stabbed it in the heart. It wailed, convulsed, and lay still.

A little red blood marked her tunic where claws had scraped. She lifted the fabric away from her ribs, and breathed a sigh of relief at cuts not much worse than a housecat’s. It burned, but even if it became diseased, she’d have plenty of time to get to an Orien priest… or Kethaba.

The creatures outside refused to give up on the door and kept scratching and slamming at it. Kitlyn backed away, not wanting to be around on the off chance they managed to break in. Identical hallway to the one she’d been wandering in for hours continued on ahead.

I hope this is at least the halfway point. She moaned. I should rest soon. “Right. Not with those things crawling around. I won’t wake up.”

She took a couple breaths, drawing energy from the ground. The trick worked; her fatigue and the soreness in her legs faded. She counted her steps to keep her mind focused on something. At a hundred, she started over. By the time she reached the forties for the third time, a waterfall-like rush filtered out of the silence. Kitlyn abandoned counting and jogged forward. The sheen of day touched the rock ahead on the left side of the corridor, opposite a sideways offshoot.

Kitlyn moved to the right wall and peered around the corner. A perpendicular hallway led to an open area with an unhewn ceiling of natural cave stone. Stalactites covered in bright purple and orange lichen surrounded a series of cracks that let natural sunlight in from above.

Pretty, but… Kethaba said straight.

She disregarded the chamber, despite the sun, and drew a little more strength from the earth to compensate for realizing she’d been up all night. While her body may have kept going on magic, her mind knew she’d been awake for more than a day straight.

Her count made it back to eighty-three for the second time after bypassing the side chamber when the foremost reaches of a cave-in entered the sphere of pinkish light cast by her torch. She raised it higher and crept forward, staring in defeat at an irregular mountain of dirt, rock chunks, and roots that blocked off all of the forty-foot tall passage except for a few narrow spaces between massive stone bricks near the ceiling. Round openings dotted the mound, large enough to crawl into.

“Oh, no…” Her heart sank. “Now what?”

Kitlyn crept up to the nearest opening, praying that the entire hallway didn’t come down on her, and those creatures had already tunneled through the mountain of dirt from side to side.

No sooner did she stick the light into the hole, than a round, toothy head burst forth and roared at her. She smashed it in its not-nose with the stone torch, knocking it back. It fell, grabbing at its face, its angry growl replaced by pitiful warbling. For an instant, she pitied it, realizing she’d smashed it in its beady raisin eyes.

Answering roars emanated from all over the mound, and at least thirty of the creatures crawled out and screeched at her.

She screamed like a little girl.

And ran.

Bodies thumped into the stone behind her. Claws skittering on stone, the little horrors formed a screeching tide of death that flowed down the subterranean corridor. She managed to quiet herself after a few strides and leaned into her run, heading for that side passageway. A creature ran on the left wall, gaining ground. It flung itself at her, but she ducked. Loose dust took her feet out from under her, dumping her to the floor in a log roll. Pure panic gave her wings, and she somehow managed to bounce out of it onto her feet.

She ran into the corner of the offshoot, catching herself briefly against the wall before pushing off and sprinting for the sunlit chamber. Her dash came to a sudden, arm-waving end at a long drop, her toes curled over the edge of the stone where the hallway joined a terrace surrounding a sunken chamber. The room extended six stories down, the walls covered in thousands of vines ranging from thin to massive. Water trickled over the walls, around dense blue-green lichen, flooding the area with the sound of a rainstorm. Her gaze gravitated to a huge statue, a figure made entirely of stone, depicted from the waist up and only vaguely human in shape. It occupied the right side of the room, swathed in a thick covering of moss and ivy. The chamber appeared to be some kind of primitive shrine to a long-forgotten god she didn’t recognize.

The mass of creatures swarmed after her down the corridor.

She pondered jumping for the pool. Going right led to a dead end covered in ivy, but left followed the terrace around the upper portion of the old temple to a matching corridor on the opposite side from where she stood. Running frightened her less than jumping sixty feet into water. She sprinted at the last second; two of the creatures failed to stop in time and slid off the walkway, clawing and scratching at the air before falling to their deaths below with echoing splats. She looked down as she ran around the corner. The two bodies lay in a mere inch or three of water, which had turned milky around them. Discovering what she’d almost jumped into was a shallow reflecting pool weakened her knees.

A few steps past the midway point on the side, a thin section of floor cracked under her weight. She tumbled down with the broken hunks of rock, screaming and spinning head over feet before landing on her back in a tangle of blue-green vegetation. Her torch slipped out of her hand as she scrambled to grab onto a vine. She twisted to the side, watching it spin end over end. Wavering light glided down the walls until the slender stone torch shattered with a pop against the ground. The glowstones skittered off in random directions, but appeared intact.

Seven or eight of the creatures gathered at the break where she’d fallen, appearing hesitant to attempt the jump. After her heart resumed beating, she stared at them. A dense weave of vines two or three inches thick supported her weight, but she couldn’t see any way to climb back up to the ledge… not that she’d want to with those things growling and snapping their exaggerated murder smiles.

She looked down past her shoulder at the statue. Its eyes had been carved to appear closed as if in sleep. Two fists, taller than her, rested on the floor in front of its belly, knuckles touching. Its face possessed only the crudest attempt at human form: blocky, a brick-shaped nose, visible gaps where different-sized stones had been grafted together. A beard-like dangle of moss decorated its square chin, and a lush tangle of ivy hung off its head like hair to its shoulders.

Oh, if only you were real.

A sharp growl snapped her attention upward. A creature teetered on the edge, likely debating whether she’d be a meal worth risking a leap for. Her mind raced. What would she do if it jumped? Kitlyn eyed the vines. How much weight would they support?

The creature screeched and leapt, leading with its gaping mouth.

She raised her left arm across her face, catching it in the throat and stalling its teeth within an inch of her forehead. Screaming and kicking at it, she jammed the dagger over and over again into its side. It made the most horrible wailing gurgle while raking its clawed hands at her. Hot breath, thick with the scent of moss and earth, blasted her in the face as it gasped, spraying her with tiny globules of saliva. Before it accomplished much more than a few rips in her sleeves, it stopped moving. She held it back by one forearm pressed across its throat and the dagger jammed in its side for a few seconds, breathing hard. With great care, she shoved the body off, and the unfortunate thing flowed between the vines and fell with a loud slap not far from the remains of the torch.

Ten or twelve of the creatures milled around at the ledge, snarling and snapping their teeth down at her. She looked at the floor far below her again before studying the shape of the vines. Most descended out of the ceiling from cracks in the stone and hung in arcs across the chamber. They’re roots, not vines. She braced her foot against one, grabbed another, and shimmied up a longer strand that ran up into the break in the center of the ceiling.

If her estimation of length proved correct, she could swing down to a point where jumping to the floor wouldn’t hurt too much. The screeching and hollering creatures made it hard to think. More entered, and the entire upper walkway clogged with them.

Lucen help me…

Kitlyn clamped on with her arms and legs before reaching around behind her butt to saw at the vine with the dagger. When it started to fray and give out, she lurched forward and grabbed on as tight as she could. It held. She bounced twice, causing another snap.

“Dammit.”

She relaxed her grip, intending to poke the cut with the dagger again, but a thread snapped, making her clamp on again, whining. A loud wail rang out overhead as another creature got up the nerve to jump. It came down on her back, breaking the vine. She fell an instant before teeth gnashed shut behind her head. The creature spilled away from her, clamping onto her arm with its claws. Her hands snapped open from the pain; she lost her grip and tumbled over backward. The creature fell to its doom while she wound up hanging upside down by the vine coiled around her leg.

She started to slip.

For a half-second, total panic blanked everything to white as she stared at the wavering floor fifty feet away waiting to rush up and meet her. Reason returned as the scratchy vine scraped over her foot and loosened around her thigh. She poured her magic into it, calling out to the Alderswood, the energy in her chest warming. The root squeezed her leg like a constrictor snake and lifted her to the side. She reached out, grabbed another vine as thick as her forearm, and wrapped herself around it. After releasing the broken one she’d dangled from, she commanded her new vine to detach from one end. Her magic ‘un-grew’ the plant matter, and it popped free. She swung out into the middle of the room, momentum carrying her around in a long, sweeping arc. Kitlyn caught herself with her feet against the wall and bounced away. The backswing had less energy, and she swished to an eventual standstill about ten feet off the ground.

“Well, I suppose I can jump this.” She looked down.

The screeching swarm flowed over the lip, climbing headfirst along the walls like meadow darters running down trees. In seconds, the temple room became an ocean of gnashing mouths.

“No!” She rested her forehead against the vine and lost a few seconds shaking in fear. She could make the vine carry her back up, but the stone around where it emerged from the ceiling already cracked and flaked away. It wouldn’t be long before it broke, and putting more strain on the roots would probably make her fall sooner.

A few of the creatures leapt at her, but vertical jumping seemed to be their greatest weakness. None made it close enough to frighten her any more than hanging over a fast, painful (and rather gruesome) death already did.

She stared mournfully at the statue, which at this distance appeared to be twenty feet tall from where its waist met the floor to the top of its head. “Oh, I wish you were alive. If you were, would you help me? Or would you want to kill me too?”

Heat bloomed in her chest. Bright green energy surrounded her as though she’d been lit aflame with faerie fire. The swarm below emitted a collective gurgle and shrank back like a liquid mass. A second later, the aura of green light rocketed away from her and rushed into the giant statue. The cavern shuddered and quaked, bringing silence to the gaping-mouthed creatures. They looked around as if trying to make sense of the rumbling.

“Stone…” The chamber reverberated with a voice reminiscent of the one she heard back in the dungeon, only far louder.

Kitlyn gawked at it. Kethaba said not to doubt my magic… By Lucen! Doubt gone, she beckoned at the immense statue, calling out to it, wanting it to live with every fiber of her being.

A hundred little gasps echoed from below.

“I, Omun, have awakened.” The statue’s ponderous eyelids parted, spitting dust and rock fragments with a heavy grinding scrape, rising like theater curtains to reveal pale green light within.

“Aaaaaaah!” screamed many little voices at once.

The creatures scattered, racing back up the walls and disappearing into the corridors at the top of the chamber. In their haste, a handful slipped and fell to their deaths.

Omun braced his hands on the floor and pushed. He rose taller, legs that had either been buried or she’d somehow willed into existence emerged from the ground. Dirt and rock chunks rained from the ceiling, smashing to the floor. The giant straightened to a height of about four stories, leaving her swinging a little above his knees.

“You have brought me from the sleep beyond.” Omun’s voice rattled her bones. “Why have you come here, tiny one?”

She stared at him, mute.

Omun took a knee and reached a hand under her, a veritable platform.

Kitlyn let go of the vine and landed sprawled on her back. “I… called you?”

“You have. It has been many ages since I last spoke with a mortal.” Cracking and scraping noises emanated from his face as stones shifted his flat-line suggestion of a mouth into a shallow smile. “It pleases me to have a momentary escape from my tedium.”

“Did we speak before?” She sat up, cross-legged, as the huge hand raised her to eye level.

“Perhaps you have conversed with the stone. There is familiarity about you.”

I don’t believe this… Her heart raced. “Please, Omun… I need your strength. Someone I love more than anything is in a lot of danger. Will you help me find her?”

“Of course, tiny one. These old legs have not moved for thousands of years. It would do me well.” The giant held his hand to his shoulder. She climbed off onto a soft bed of moss and ivy next to a head the size of a small peasant’s hut.

We’re coming, Oona. I don’t need the king’s army anymore. “Can you go east, back through Underholm?”

“Mmm.” Omun turned to the left, heading for a set of massive double doors beneath the corridor she’d entered from.

He pushed them open and stomped along another passage. Kitlyn huddled against the side of his head as the titanic body swayed and jolted with his strides. She eyed cobwebs, hand-sized spiders, and scratch marks all over the ceiling and shivered. I don’t know what’s scarier… those creatures or being so high off the ground.

“What drove the Nimse to pursue you?”

Kitlyn shivered at the enormity of the voice vibrating her bones. “The what? Oh… those creatures?”

“They who were once Na’vir are Nimse now. Cursed. Simple. No longer able to reason.”

“I, uhh, don’t know why they came after me.” She shrugged. “I thought they were hungry.”

“Mmm,” said Omun.

Kitlyn ducked as bumps and breaks in the ceiling passed overhead. “I was walking down the tunnel. Not long after I found these glowing rocks, one attacked me.”

“Ahh. The reason.” Omun pushed open another set of gargantuan doors and emerged in a passage lined with the façades of homes and shops. Distant, small screams echoed along with the scratching of terrified Nimse. “They collect the stones to make shrines. I do not understand the value they place in them, but they would have devoured you for stealing.”

“I… I’m sorry.” She frowned. “I didn’t steal. They were sitting there.”

“Do not succumb to guilt, tiny one. The Nimse do not think as do you or I. They are more animal. Cursed.”

She nodded. “Would they have attacked me in the dark?”

“Perhaps. I do not possess a sense of smell, so I know not if you are delicious. If they thought so, they might have.”

Kitlyn stared at the side of his head, unsure how to feel about his pondering her ‘deliciousness.’

The tunnel connected to the great square she’d traversed before. Dust from her earlier passing still hovered low to the ground in a distinct trail across the chamber. Dozens of Nimse on the walls and ceiling scurried out of sight as the giant approached. Omun’s feet smashed the old, ruined tables on his way toward the passage leading east, back to Evermoor. Kitlyn’s heart swelled with hope. She no longer had to worry about convincing the king to save Oona, a decoy. Would he think of her so callously? The man had essentially treated her as a daughter for most of her life. She shivered, huddling into the ivy. He made me live like a servant… he’d do anything to protect Lucernia. Doubt teased at the underside of her stomach. Was he protecting Lucernia, or was he protecting me?

While she debated the theoretical reaction of the king to her demand to save Oona, a Nimse leapt from the shadowy ceiling, landed on Omun’s face, then zipped around toward her. Omun grabbed it before it got close enough to bite her and hurled it into the wall. The Nimse popped like a rotten tomato on impact.

Kitlyn looked away from the shower of milky gore, dry heaving. The giant picked up speed once in the open tunnel; despite the slow, plodding feel of his stride, the tunnel walls rushed by at the pace of a galloping horse.

She clutched the ivy clinging to the side of his head, braced her feet in crags, and steeled herself. The soldiers of Evermoor would hopefully run screaming from Omun. All she had to do was somehow find where they’d taken Oona.

Compared to convincing King Talomir to send soldiers across the Churning Deep to save a decoy princess, that should be simple.

29

Poison

~ Oona ~

Noxious vapors flooded Oona’s nostrils, bringing an immediate headache. Her lip quivered; her hands trembled, rattling the single link connecting her shackles. She clenched her jaw, searching for the ability to tolerate a substance that smelled like fermenting blueberries mixed with urine passing her lips. Her body rejected it and her arms lowered involuntarily.

If I don’t do this, Kitlyn will die.

She opened her mouth.

If I don’t do this, Kitlyn will die.

Oona lifted the bottle again, but gagged and coughed. “It’s so foul.”

“Stop stalling, Princess.” Ian narrowed his eyes.

Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. She looked around at the unforgiving glares of the soldiers. Not one of them seemed moved by the fear that had to be radiating from her eyes. Tenebrea, give me strength to find you with dignity. Oona couldn’t understand how eleven men could stand there and accept that a girl of sixteen had to die, even appear pleased by it? It didn’t matter, as long as her beloved survived.

She stood straight and tall. Her tears stopped. She whispered, “Forgive me, Kitlyn.”

Glass touched her lip.

Crunch.

The men shifted, all attention on the woods behind her.

“By Carros, what is the meaning of this?” yelled Ralen.

Oona glared up at Ian. Hope flared in her heart. A split second’s concentration conjured a pea-sized orb of dim energy—the kind she’d summoned in the cave, more heat than light. It glimmered for a second, radiating warmth like an ember, before zipping up his nose at her command. Ian grabbed his face, letting off a wild, agonized howl as smoke billowed out of his nostrils. The instant his mouth opened, Oona hurled the vile contents of the flask down his throat. He sputtered and gurgled, black-violet foam pouring from his lips.

“Kill her!” shouted a man.

“Stand down,” roared Ralen, “or answer to me!”

She grasped the chain with both hands and tried to raise her leg to kick him, but couldn’t move that well in a dress. Snarling, she rammed her shoulder into his chest while tearing the tether out of his fingers. He teetered over backward and fell, crushing the small table on his way to the ground. Oona spun about in a quick turn; men on all sides had drawn swords. Nowhere to go. Ralen, soaked to the skin and looking furious, stood two paces away from the circle of soldiers.

I put him in the moat. He was trying to help me. Damn.

“You’re weak, Ralen,” said one. “There’s ten of us. Go back home and drink your wine.”

“Ten?” Ralen’s eyebrow lifted. “I’ll wait if you’d like to call a few more men so it’s fair. This is an execution, which you deserve for disobeying my order.”

“Damn right it’s an execution,” said a white-haired soldier in chain armor. “Kill them both.”

Ian’s face reddened; he convulsed and twitched, eyes bulging. His hands raked at the air for a few seconds before a loud crack came from deep inside his torso. The way he lay upon the ground didn’t look possible without a broken spine.

Oona almost fainted. Painless? That’s what he called painless!?

Men charged.

She swung the chain like a whip, spinning around in a frenzy trying to keep them away. After three steps, she surrounded herself in a brief flash of searing light. Four soldiers near her stopped, blinking blind; two had smoke peeling off their beards.

It’s pitch black out… they can’t see anything now! She grinned with hope.

Oona swooped down on Ian’s corpse and seized his longsword in a clumsy wrists-stuck-together two-handed grip. Screaming with desperation, she swung at the nearest disoriented man. The blade caught him in the neck and stalled against his spine. She yanked it away and backpedaled. He gurgled, clutching at his throat, and collapsed in seconds. Somewhere off to her left, men shouted and steel rang against steel. Grunts and roars broke the night, echoing into the forest.

Oona glanced over at Ralen, who blurred with a twirling slash that tore open the chest of the white-haired soldier who had ordered them killed before the man could even react. The soldier gaped at the sky before falling, an expression of utter disbelief on his dying face.

Crunching approached from behind. She spun, raising the blade as a reflex. A soldier’s broadsword smacked into her longsword and drove the flat of the blade down onto her head. She staggered, dizzy. The man grumbled, calling her lucky, and attacked again with a crossing slash. Guard Lorne had often scolded her for limp parries, but fear of death erased all hesitation. Oona deflected his attack with an upswing, knocking his sword arm over his head, but dizziness made her counter-swing fall short.

Grinning, the soldier teased her with a few feints. “Ahh, li’l girl fancies herself a fencer?”

Not willing to wait for a real strike, she threw another flare in his face. He ducked and backed off, blinking rapidly. She pursued with a sideways slash, committing too much strength into a miss that pulled her lithe body around in a stumbling pirouette after he jumped away. He ran at her with a downswing. Rather than lose fingers, she scurried aside and sprinted to a nearby tree for cover. Another swing cut wood inches from her face. He faked to the left, sending her rolling around the trunk the other way, her back against the bark. The soldier surprised her with a quick reverse jab that drove the pommel of his sword into her gut. Stunned, she gulped air like a landed fish. He grabbed the chain and tossed it over a branch, pulling her arms up over her head and lifting her on tiptoe. The sword slipped from her fingers and stuck into the ground behind her. He pulled harder, hauling her into the air.

After bracing the chain in one hand, he drew his blade back to slice her open like a hunter’s deer.

Already hanging, Oona swung her legs up and stomped him in the face with both feet. His grip faltered, the chain slipped, and she dropped from the branch into a backward stumble. Moonlight glinting on steel low to her right revealed the weapon she’d lost amid the underbrush. She dove after it, managing to recover the blade in time to parry an ill-aimed swing for her head.

Furious, he bellowed, “Someone grab this harlot!”

“Since you need assistance to fight a little girl with her hands tied,” called Ralen, his voice oozing superiority, “it is no mystery why you felt too pathetic to face me.”

When the man turned to roar back at him, Oona lunged forward. Her swing opened the side of his head, splitting his ear in half. She pulled back, trailing the edge over his neck, and cut a long gash across his chest. He howled, sputtering, and attacked. Blade rang against blade for five, six, seven rapid swings, each clash of steel shocked her hands, but she refused to let go. To spare her wrists from breaking, she gave ground as fast as her legs would move. In seconds, he slowed; the blood gushing out from the side of his neck took its toll. He brought his weapon up one last time, but fainted before he could swing it.

A blond soldier shook off the effects of her initial blinding flash and rushed her, rounding his broadsword in an overhead cleave. She leapt to the side; the blade missed her by inches, snagging the chain dangling from her wrists with a clatter. He stepped out of the maneuver into a sideways slash. She cut into his attack as Lorne had taught her, swinging hard. Blades crossed with an ear-splitting crash. His weight and strength lifted her off her feet and knocked her over. Her parry held, sparing her flesh the touch of blade.

Oona landed on her back, panicking for a second as she wriggled side-to-side, trying to figure out how to stand with her wrists pinned together and not lose her weapon in the process. He drew back his arm to drive his blade into her chest.

“Gah!” she shouted, flaring her fingers away from the longsword’s handle.

A starburst of white energy exploded in his face, knocking him staggering with blood streaming from his half-vaporized nose. He danced about in a circle, shrieking while smoke streamed from a flaming spot on his cheek. Another soldier ran at her from the side. Oona flung herself into a roll that slipped beneath his attack and bowled his legs out from under him. He fell forward like a plank, landing flat on his chest, wheezing. She came to a stop face down, and shoved herself upright. Her arms throbbed. This sword weighed more than the wooden one, the manacles constricted her arms, and her elbows hadn’t stopped hurting since the forced crawl in the courtyard. A few seconds reprieve afforded her a couple of deep breaths.

Thok.

She glanced toward the hollow sound to her right and cringed away from a severed head bouncing across the forest floor. The man she’d tripped scrambled to get up, while the burned one slashed his sword back and forth at open air, screaming and howling. She looked between them for an instant before rushing the burned one, since his blindness wouldn’t last long.

Oona twisted to bring her linked arms to the right and up, raising the sword for a high-power chop at the top of his head. She shouted a war cry and threw all she had into the downstroke. Her swing jolted to a halt two feet from the burned man’s skull, at the end of a taut chain. The soldier she’d tripped had gotten his left hand on the dangling end, stalling her blade. He laughed at her ungainly attempt to avoid falling over. She spun to face him, struggling to pull the leash from his grasp.

Another slash from the burned soldier sliced the air where he thought she stood. Oona dashed two steps to the right to get away from his wild flailing. The soldier holding the chain shifted his weight forward; she read his next move, and before he could haul her onto the tip of his sword by her bindings, she charged and rammed her blade to the hilt in his gut.

A distant scream rang out, followed by a squish and a gurgle. Two dull clanks preceded a fleshy thump and the unintelligible moan of someone attempting to scream past smashed teeth.

The soldier she’d impaled howled, abandoning the chain to punch her in the head. Oona refused to let go of her sword, her weight dragging it out with a sideways pivot as the force of his strike knocked her to the ground. Wheezing, he wobbled on his feet, sword raised. Entrails poured from the gash in his belly; a second later, he collapsed to his knees, staring at her. His sword arm fell limp and he slumped over sideways.

She swallowed the urge to vomit and braced her arms on the dirt to push herself upright. The burned man sprinted over and stomped on the chain, almost crushing one of her fingers. She screamed and pulled, but all his weight on one leg pinned her hands to the ground.

“I’m gonna take my time now, girlie.” He snarled, smoke wafting from a charred patch of cheek around exposed bone. “One limb at a time. Sure hope you don’t bleed out before I’m done.”

Oona’s knees slid forward in the dirt as she strained to pull the chain out from under his boot. He put the tip of his sword to her right thigh. She hissed, bracing for pain.

A broadsword burst from his chest, spraying blood over her face. It withdrew as fast as it had appeared, and Ralen spun with a strike that took the burned man’s head from his shoulders. It toppled forward, bounced off her back, and rolled away somewhere behind her.

Oona let off a shriek of disgust and recoiled, somehow managing to keep her grip on the longsword while scooting backward.

Ralen walked after her. When she hesitated, he reached down and grasped her left arm above the elbow, pulling her up to stand. “Are you hurt?”

She stared in abject horror at the field of bodies. The other six men lay in various ungainly poses, some missing arms, some heads. All the blood on Ralen appeared to belong to other people, but his armor had a few new dings.

“I… I…” She looked around at the bodies. “I killed three people.”

Ralen pointed his sword at Ian. “Four, but he deserved it. I am most impressed, princess. If you had full use of your arms, I’m sure you could have bested the entire group.”

She lurched to her knees and threw up, not that she had anything in her to be rid of. After the heaving ceased, she glared at the shiny metal manacles. Never in her life had she hated an inanimate object so much. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Ralen towering over her. She’d come so close to death; the ghastly aroma of that poison still lurked in her nostrils. Her body trembled as her eyes watered. Oona about gave in to bawling like a child because she simply couldn’t handle any more… but as soon as she thought of Kitlyn, she took a shuddering breath and forced calm over herself.

Not entirely able to stop shaking, she set her jaw in as regal a pose as she could manage and raised her nose with the dignity of a princess who had a kingdom to save.

30

Destiny

~ Kitlyn ~

Compared to how long it had taken her to reach Omun, the walk back through Underholm passed in a veritable moment. The stone giant reached the gargantuan doors where she’d parted ways with Kem in about an hour, and pushed them open as easily as any person would a normal door. The sun weakened behind them in the sky, signaling the onset of dusk. Kitlyn yawned; she had been awake for two days and counting.

“Can you set me on the ground so I can feel the earth?”

Omun chuckled, a slow, undulating sound that startled a handful of goats from nearby tall grass. “Tiny one, I am Earth.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Forgive me, I haven’t slept.” She shifted her weight, placing her hands and feet flat upon his stone shoulder.

Kitlyn closed her eyes, tapped her energy center, and called out. She wanted the stone to remember Oona. Where had she gone? For a time, nothing reached her senses, but in the first nascent seconds of despair, a feeling surged in. A direction. East, deeper into Evermoor, and somewhat north.

“I have seen as you have seen,” said Omun, in his slow tremor of a voice. “Rest now.”

She rocked back as he got underway, grabbing vines to keep from tumbling off her perch some forty feet in the air. If ever she could fall asleep in such a place, having been awake for two days in a row would likely be a requirement. Kitlyn curled up amid a nest of ivy and moss. The regular sway of his stride lulled her to sleep soon after she closed her eyes.

* * *

“Wake, tiny one.”

“Gah!” Kitlyn shot upright, startled by the heavy voice. “What? What is it?” She felt dizzy after going to sleep and waking up again in darkness. “How long have I slept?”

“We are near.” Omun raised a massive arm and pointed. “The sun has come and gone again. The memory guides me to a small castle.”

She stood, keeping one hand braced against his head, and squinted into the moonlit darkness. A squarish shadow a few miles ahead hinted at the presence of a keep dotted with a few small torch fires. “Please try not to kill anyone unless they attack us.”

“Tiny ones will either attack or flee. None will stay and talk.” Omun bowed his head. “I have not spoken in ages.”

She patted his… cheek? “I am very grateful for your help. My life is but the flicker of an ember compared to yours, but I’ll talk to you whenever you want.”

Omun lifted his head. “You are a friend of the stone.”

The thud, thud, thud of his steps picked up speed. She glanced at the passing treetops, certain he moved faster than any horse could. They followed a road cutting across the center of a long clearing, like a river of grass dividing the dense forest that seemed to cover every inch of Evermoor. Small dots of torch fire and larger glowing lanterns moved back and forth ahead, illuminating a section of wall around a modest-sized castle.

Men shouted in the distance, sounding frightened.

The fortress wall connected to the keep at the north end, wrapping with little room to spare around the east and west of the building. It extended south far enough to surround a courtyard in front of the main doors. Half of the drawbridge spanned a moat, with the second half likely only lowered to admit wagons. On the east face, a smaller drawbridge canted upward at an odd angle like a broken board.

She crouched low, huddled against his head in case bowmen tried to pick her off. Omun strolled up to the outer wall, which only came up to his thighs. Some nine men in a mixture of leather armor and chainmail clustered before him along the top, quaking in their boots.

“What is that?” wheezed one.

“By Carros.”

Another man fainted.

“Hear me,” yelled Kitlyn. “I have come for the princess of Lucernia. Release her at once and no harm shall come to any of you. If she is harmed or you do not release her immediately, I will tear down this castle to the last stone.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, though no one spoke up. More men gathered in the courtyard, peering up at them. Omun’s great glowing eyes bathed the area in iridescent green light.

A man with grey hair pointed at the giant. “You have your orders. Destroy it.”

The soldier next to him glanced over with an incredulous expression, set his hands on his hips, and yelled, “You destroy it.” After a pause, he added, “Sir.”

“Coward,” said the older man with a contemptuous sneer.

“Me?” The younger soldier held up a longsword. “Exactly wot do ya fink this is gonna do to that bloody thing? Lop off a bunion? Scrape some moss off its arse?” He pointed the blade at the giant. “I can’t even reach its bloody arse.”

Other men murmured agreement.

The apparent captain scowled. “Alright then.” He looked up at the general vicinity of where Kitlyn stood, but didn’t seem to be able to make her out. “Whoever you are, turn back and take that creature with you. You have ten seconds to obey, or we shall take the princess’ head.”

Omun leaned forward with a thundering roar. “Doooo noooot.”

Most of the soldiers screamed and scattered. The captain’s face blanched white, but he held his ground.

The giant drew back his leg. Men on the wall dove into the water seconds before Omun bashed through the outer defenses. He stepped over the moat without even noticing it, sweeping his great hands back and forth, toppling more of the wall like a stack of pillows. He grabbed the drawbridge, tore it loose, and hurled it into the corner tower. The structure rocked back, emitting a blast of dust from every seam between bricks. In seconds, it broke apart and careened to the ground.

The captain turned to run, but Omun lurched forward and grabbed him. Kitlyn, clinging to the ivy to keep from falling, screamed at him to stop, but the roar coming from the giant drowned her out. Omun hurled the man into the northwest tower hard enough to leave a leather doublet stuck to a bloodstain, and no sign of a body. Kitlyn covered her mouth and looked away.

“Release the tiny one’s princess,” bellowed Omun.

He punched in the front of the keep and tore the enormous doors from their hinges. One, he threw into the forest to the west; the other he hurled spinning into the northeast tower, cutting it in half like a saw blade. The upper part toppled over, falling outside the wall, the screams of men coming from within.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” shrieked Kitlyn. “If you break down the keep, you’ll hurt her!”

Omun lowered his arms and slouched. “Apologies.”

Two bolts bounced away from his face at the same instant.

He pivoted toward the east wall. A pair of soldiers with crossbows screamed and dove for the moat. Omun grunted as two splash plumes poked over the crenelations.

She crept to the front of his shoulder, a twinge of unease upending her stomach at the sight of the ground so far below. “I need to go inside.”

He raised his hand for her. After watching the captain explode like a grape under the hoof of a warhorse, she hesitated, but stepped on. Omun lowered her to the ground.

A soldier ran at her with a two-handed sword. The giant raised a fist, and the man reversed, heading for the keep. A great stone hand grabbed him.

“Please don’t kill him!” Kitlyn screamed.

Omun leaned to the side and dropped the screaming man over the wall into the moat.

“You need to go inside. He would hurt you, tiny one.”

Kitlyn breathed a sigh of relief, having expected him to crush the man. “I’ll be right back.”

She climbed over the debris of the smashed façade and ruined stairs. A tangle of corpses lay under the stones in the front foyer. Stepping barefoot in lukewarm blood made her cringe, but she put the thought out of her mind and continued. Kitlyn grabbed her dagger, but spotting a stray longsword on the floor, decided to take it instead. The more familiar weapon had the reach the dagger didn’t, and cut the air with greater ease than the practice version, likely due to it having a real edge instead of a thick wooden shaft. A few test swings gave her a sense of its balance.

Still, she held it in two hands as the weapon favored a taller, stronger person. She hadn’t quite worked up the arm strength to swing it around with one, though a few more wagonloads of linens might do the trick.

She grumbled.

A dining hall or throne room sprawled at the back end of the foyer. To the left and right stretched corridors bedecked with tapestries. Octagonal protrusions in the walls contained narrow, spiral stairwells. She ran to the nearest on the left, but it didn’t lead down. Assuming they’d have put Oona in a dungeon, and dungeons belonging underground, she darted into the left corridor and sprinted past a few rooms before rounding the corner and skidding to a halt, face to face with a soldier.

“You there!” He pulled a blade. “Drop the sword.”

“Sorry, can’t do that. Where are the dungeons?”

He smiled. “I’d be delighted to show you―as soon as you put that sword down.”

Kitlyn narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m only here for the princess.”

The man laughed. “Look, girl. I know the war’s been going poorly for the Lucernians, but I’d think they’d be able to send more than a peasant girl after their princess.”

“You haven’t looked outside, have you?”

He sighed, gazing up at the ceiling. “Let me guess. You’ve brought a whole army, and they’re right beyond the tree line?”

She shrugged. “Basically. Forty-foot tall stone giant.”

“Oh, that’s enough of this foolishness.” He reached for her.

She swatted his hand aside with the longsword and brought the tip to his chin. He knocked her sword away with his blade and moved to thrust, snarling. Kitlyn scooted to the side, turning flat to the wall as his blade passed by. She leaned up and cracked him in the forehead with the pommel, knocking him into a backward stumble.

“Don’t be stupid. I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t hesitate if you’re in my way. Where is the princess?”

He recovered his balance and touched a few fingers to his forehead. Not seeing blood, he frowned. “I think you two will be spending quite a lot of time together in the same cell.” The man roared and started to charge in.

She called a protrusion of stone from the floor that caught him in the groin and knocked him a few inches straight up off his feet. He landed, coughing and red-faced. She stepped in with an upward right-to-left swing. He bashed her attack away and halfheartedly retaliated with one hand while cradling his crotch with the other. Kitlyn ducked and slashed at his face. When he backpedaled, she called a shorter lump of rock to swell up and catch his boot, tripping him flat on his back. She descended on him with the tip of her blade at his neck, stepping on his wrist with her left foot, pinning his arm to the floor.

“Last chance. Where is the princess?”

He blinked. “Uhh… in the dungeon.”

Kitlyn narrowed her eyes.

“Down the end of this hallway, as far as it goes, turn right. Halfway down, there’s a door on the left wit’ a pointed top.”

Boots scuffed around the corner behind her. She glanced back at another soldier in burnished leather. The man beneath her grabbed her blade in his left hand and shoved it to the right. She pushed down too late, slicing open his fingers and nicking the side of his neck, but stabbing stone. The other soldier charged, shouting, sword raised.

The man on the ground reached up and ripped her breeches down around her shins. Kitlyn gasped at the rush of cold air between her legs; he yanked his hand out from under her foot, knocking her back. Fabric tangled her ankles and she fell bare-assed on the icy stone, squealing. The man lunged to his feet. Kitlyn kicked her legs free of her breeches, rolling to the side as he brought his sword down with a clank, sparking on the stone.

The other man pulled her standing by a fistful of hair, dragging her backward. Pain washed over her head from behind; she bit off a scream with clenched teeth. The first soldier slashed at her; she twisted, deflecting the strike. The man holding her squeezed his fist tighter, trying to lift her off the ground. She parried another sideways slash, yowling in pain as her hair threatened to rip loose. After knocking his sword into the wall, she kicked him in the groin; the strike had little strength behind it given her awkward position, but after tenderizing him with the rock, the feeble kick made him stagger, and pause. The second man continued dragging her back by the hair.

The first soldier shook off the pain and roared, charging in with a thrust. Kitlyn twisted away from the fingers in her hair, her eyes running with involuntary tears from the pain. She slashed her blade to the side as hard as her arms would allow while swinging her hips to the left. The first soldier missed her, ramming his longsword into the thigh of the man holding her, an inch away from her leg. The one with a fistful of her hair gasped in agony and lost his grip. Kitlyn leapt past the first soldier, spun, and sliced the lower part of his back.

He shrieked and fell to his knees. The other man stumbled, dropping his blade to grab the handle of the one stuck to the hilt in his flesh, almost three feet of steel sticking out the back of his leg. Kitlyn kicked the kneeling soldier in the back, knocking him flat, and plunged her sword between his shoulder blades. The second soldier wrestled with the impaled longsword, trying to get it out of his leg. She leapt across the dead man and swung overhead, hacking her blade into the side of her last opponent’s head.

The man slouched limp and collapsed, twitching. She stepped on his neck to pull her blade free and ran back to recover her breeches. She blushed after pulling them on and retying the drawstrings. The cur fought dirty. She bent forward, cradling a hand to the back of her head until her scalp stopped aching. Adrenaline brought trembles to her arms.

I tried. I didn’t want to kill them. I had no choice. She gazed at the ceiling, hoping Lucen forgave her. The Nimse might’ve fallen into the same category as mindless beasts, but these soldiers had been people. People like the sons and brother of the men she’d overheard in Dorwick.

She looked down at the blood dripping from the point of her longsword. Was their death her fault? Was it theirs for not surrendering? Could she blame Evermoor for starting the war, or dare she believe the story of the Eldritch Heart? Might King Talomir be responsible for so much suffering?

Argh. “I don’t have time to think about everything now.”

She ran down the corridor, skidded around the turn the soldier mentioned, and halted at a narrow door with a sharp pointed arch top. Finding it ajar worried her. She hauled it open to reveal a narrow spiral staircase into darkness. Without hesitation, she headed down, bare feet silent upon the frigid stone steps. Around and around she went, past a series of dead torches. The stairwell ended facing an open door that led to a large, square room with six prisoner cells. Dark black walls lined the three cells facing her, while the other three to her right appeared normal grey.

Two soldiers lay dead near a weak oil lantern.

Kitlyn stared at the middle cell directly across the room from her with a bladed polearm resting on its bars.

Door open.

Empty.

She closed her eyes and slouched. Gone is better than dead. Gone is better than dead. She blinked. Had she escaped? Another look at the two bodies made her doubt Oona could’ve done that. One had the upper portion of his face caved in. A matching bloody smear on the bars made her cringe.

Kitlyn raced up the spiral and retraced her steps to the front door. She stopped in the smashed foyer long enough to take a scabbard and belt from one of the dead and put it on.

Omun let off a bellow.

She looked up. “Oh, no.” Fearing the worst, Kitlyn sprinted for the door, emerging at the same instant he hurled an eight-foot boulder, a hunk of the wall, into the last remaining tower. It struck with a reverberating crash that slammed the air from her lungs. The chamber at the top disintegrated in a rain of loose stones, sending three crossbowmen falling, screaming, to the ground outside the wall. She skidded down the debris blocking the entryway, cupped her hands over her mouth, and shouted, “Omun!”

He pivoted to face her. The curve of his eyes tilted to an expression of relief. She ran over and slid the longsword into her new scabbard as his hand came down. As soon as she could reach, she climbed on and rode it back to his shoulder.

“Where is your friend?” asked Omun.

Kitlyn hung her head. “She’s not here. I found a cell where I think they kept her, but it’s empty. Some men were dead near it. I think she escaped.”

“The memory of stone does not abide years.”

“What?” Kitlyn blinked.

“Your friend may have been here days, weeks, or months ago. It is… impossible to tell. The glimmer of a mortal life to the stone is not significant.”

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on finding Oona. An arrow whistled by and clicked against the giant’s head. She yelped and held on as he swung around, the force of his whirl nearly sending her sliding off his shoulder. Another archer leapt to the moat in a panic, but Omun roared and charged into the wall, smashing it into hundreds of bouncing bricks―most of which fell into the water on top of the man.

Omun bounded from the keep’s grounds, heading into the moonlit meadow to the northeast. Once his walking settled into an even rhythm, Kitlyn closed her eyes and tried to feel the direction that would lead her to Oona. A fleeting twinge came from the south, but faded. The magical sense still pulled her toward the keep.

“The Foretelling,” said Omun.

“I can’t find her…” Kitlyn glowered. She concentrated harder, her magic surrounding her body―and Omun’s―with brilliant green light. Again, the trail seemed to lead back to the keep. “Is she…?”

“The memory may need time to become firm. You are the one who will end the tiny ones’ war. A great war. I see the place where your destiny waits. You can bring an end to this suffering.”

“But… I have to find Oona!”

He pivoted to the right and resumed walking with purpose. “These puny ones will not need to harm your friend if you fulfill your destiny.”

“What must I do?” She sat on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around her legs.

Omun remained quiet for a few strides. “The memory does not hold this knowledge. When the moment comes, your path shall reveal itself.”

“Oona…” she whispered. Finding Omun had given her such a rush of elation that she could swoop in and save her… What if it had already become too late? Her hope crashed to despair, and she slumped to her knees.

“Why do you surrender?”

“I miss Oona. I have no idea if she is still even alive. There’s so much sadness and death because of this stupid war.”

“All the more reason you should put an end to it.”

She twisted around, peering at the smashed keep sliding into the distance and the thick forest around it. “You are right. I must end this. It isn’t right that the burden of it tormented Oona’s thoughts for years.”

Calm as the stone from which he’d been hewn, Omun thundered on. Kitlyn huddled up against his massive head, wrapping herself in the ivy. Is this what the pixies feel like sitting on people? She shifted around in a search for comfort on a patch of moss. They wouldn’t be afraid of falling off… they can fly.

The giant’s speed brought a stiff breeze that whipped her raven mane about her face. She squinted into the distance for a little while before bowing her head and rubbing the sore spot from where the man had dragged her around by the hair. That’ll hurt for a few days. Did the gods lead me to Omun? Is this all part of my destiny? He could crush the entire Evermoor army himself… if I’m supposed to destroy them, why would he be taking me somewhere specific?

She clung to the ivy and stared over forests, streams, and tiny villages out in the distant grassland. The repetitious thud, thud, thud of the giant’s steps tried to lull her to sleep, but worry about Oona, and what test awaited her, kept rest far, far away.

31

To the River

~ Oona ~

Moonlight glimmered off the polished steel locked around Oona’s aching wrists.

She squeezed the leather-wrapped handle of the longsword in her clumsy grip, and waited for Ralen to drag her by the chain to her feet. He killed seven men in the time I barely handled three… She let go of the blade. Her wrists throbbed in time with her cheek where the soldier had punched her. The tomato bruise likely had a companion on the other side of her face.

The sight of the man’s guts rolling out of his belly would haunt her for years, as would the stink of viscera in the air. No matter how much she hated it, the delicate clink of metal that followed every motion of her arms reminded her she’d been captured. For a fleeting second, she wanted so desperately to be free of the shackles that she contemplated cutting her hands off. Her body shook from exhaustion, nervousness, and excess energy. She forced calm over her mind and tried to remain as still as possible. The adrenaline of fighting for her life faded, allowing a myriad of bumps and bruises into her awareness.

“What will you do with me now?”

Ralen sighed and wandered among the dead, shaking his head at each corpse. He had undoubtedly known them all, yet he hadn’t hesitated.

She stared at the manacles, working on her stoicism. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“These men disobeyed my order.”

Oona grasped the chain near the end and offered it up to him. “Are you to drag me back to the dungeon again?”

Ralen scowled at the woods. “That… that’s too dangerous for you. Ian could not have brought you out here alone. I know not how many of my men are loyal to him and their ideals. There could be others.”

Her heart beat faster. “Ralen… you’re a decent and honorable man, something I’d never expected to see in Evermoor. I don’t care what the Foretelling says; I do not want to destroy your kingdom. I won’t. This war has to stop, but it won’t end with more death. It will end with both sides no longer doing foolish things.”

“So much lurks beneath the ability of an eye to find.” He wandered closer and sighed. “All my life, I’ve been brought up to believe Lucernia is peopled with tricksters, illusionists, and sorcerers who bend light to make people see lies. I believed you to be a cruel, heartless woman who drew the lifeblood from innocents. I expected an embodiment of evil much older than you are. Yet, when I saw you―I found a young girl not even my age, more a frightened child than a murderess.”

Oona tried to tune out the ache in her shoulders. “I never expected to find a man like you in Evermoor. I was taught that your people all danced naked around fires, smeared in the blood of babies while offering themselves to their demonic masters… yet you are worthy of the title ‘knight.’”

He pursed his lips. “Is that what your legends say?”

“Well.” Oona looked up at him. “Your people use illusions to infiltrate the castle and disguise yourselves as merchants. I’ve never met a Lucernian who can do that. Are you so sure we are the tricksters?”

“An enchanter,” said Ralen. “He creates amulets for the king, who grants them to our spies.”

She stared down at her lap. After a long, awkward silence, she looked up through her windblown hair at him. “Take me home. I’ll tell my father that you saved me, and you can stay there or return here, as you care to.”

“I cannot do that.” He sighed with annoyance, but it didn’t seem directed at her.

“Why not? What is wrong?”

He adopted a regal stance, head raised. “I am Ralen Volduin, eldest son of King Lanas Volduin, ruler of Evermoor.”

Oona’s eyes widened. A second later she blushed, and laughed. “I’m sorry. I do not prefer death to your company.” Oh, that is so mortifying. “I had no idea…”

Ralen grinned. “I did not take it personally. You spoke of some theoretical prince conjured from the dark recesses of the lies you’ve been brought up to believe. Did you imagine I had horns? Scales? Perhaps a tail with a barb?”

She laughed.

He grasped the chain a few inches away from her hands, and gently pulled her to her feet. “Perhaps there is another way to end this war.” Ralen brushed her hair away from her face.

Oona tensed. She’d been wanting to move her hair forever, but the manacles… “I…” She looked down. “I have someone already.”

Ralen drew her closer by the chain.

She lifted her gaze to his, all at once radiating anger and pleading.

His slate grey eyes hardened. “Do you love him, or have you been commanded to marry by your father? Our spies mentioned the Lanwick royal at your castle.”

“I am in love.” She held eye contact. Lucen’s gift! At remembering she no longer sat in a cell made of some infernal magic-eating gemstone, she tugged at his mind. He did have feelings for her, but she couldn’t discern between pity or love.

Ralen pulled her a little closer. “I can see it in your eyes.” His stare softened. “Whoever he is, he is a lucky man.”

A faint metallic scrape made her look down.

He slipped a key into the manacle on her left arm and opened it. Two halves of steel fell away from a three-inch wide ring of bruise. He unlocked the other one and tossed the infernal chains to the side.

Oona let her arms dangle limp. “Oh… Thank you. I could not stand another moment in those things.” She tentatively stretched her arms, wincing at the soreness in her elbows and shoulders.

He reached up and brushed a hand across her cheek. His expression shifted from admiration to curiosity, and he plucked at her eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“I am sorry.” He held up a dried tomato seed so she could see it before flicking it aside. “Your beautiful face is bruised. Your dress is stained and ruined, and you have been treated in no way proper for a lady of any station. I accept responsibility for subjecting you to this hardship.”

“Since you finally let me out of those horrible chains, I forgive you.”

He smiled. “Well, they didn’t slow you down much.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, unable to believe what he’d said.

“I jest.” He patted her shoulder. “I will escort you to the river, but I cannot go farther. If you prefer, I can fetch you a clean uniform from the keep so you may disguise yourself as a soldier.”

Oona frowned. “And wind up killed by my father’s forces once I go across?”

“It pains me to see you in such a state. Perhaps I will be able to secure finer garments for you on our way.”

“I’m beyond caring about the state of my clothing. I would prefer to get home as fast as possible.” She balled her hands in fists to contain her emotion. “Do you know what became of my handmaiden?”

“My men told me she leapt from the bridge over Faunhollow River. There are some dangerous currents not too far from there, but I have no reason to think anything unfortunate happened to her… unless she cannot swim.”

We haven’t played in the water since we were quite small… before she became a ‘servant.’ “She can swim, though it has been a while.”

“That is one of those talents a person never forgets. The mind has a wonderful way of remembering when death is sneaking up on you.”

She glared at him. “Please don’t make light of those things. Did you go after her?”

“Why would we have? The only reason we brought her along was to prevent her from raising the alarm. I ordered my men to release her once we had passed the northern crossing.”

“Well, they didn’t. And one of your men―Lanek, I believe―touched her inappropriately.”

He scowled. “I shall deal with him when I return. I will escort you as far as the Churning Deep, but I cannot travel past the Arch of the Ancients.”

“You have a garrison of men stationed on this side. Most of your soldiers want to kill me.” She frowned. “Whether you want them to or not.”

“Now do you understand why I suggested you dress like one of our soldiers? You can switch clothing once you cross the peak in the Arch.”

“Change? In broad daylight? Outside?” She gasped.

He chuckled. “My apologies, princess. I forget how highly your people regard so-called modesty. There is nothing unseemly about switching one’s garb, or shameful about what nature has created.”

“But… out in the open?” Her cheeks burned at the thought.

Ralen held up a hand. “Well, to pass the garrison, you’d have to dress like a soldier. They would even question a commoner attempting to cross. If you do not change your clothes on the bridge, your soldiers will mistake you for one of ours. If they see a single Evermoor soldier walking across…”

“Wouldn’t your men also question a single soldier running off to her death?” She thought of Kitlyn. “What of a simple tunic and breeches? I’ll conceal my hair in a cap.”

“That would have to be an awfully large cap.” He grinned, trailing a hand down her hair all the way to the ends by her backside.

Oona squinted at him. “You are having quite the lot of fun at my expense. Look at me. Do you have the faintest idea of what your men tried to do to me before almost putting me to death?!”

“What?”

“That… assassin. Ian. He killed two men. They were about to slice my dress off with this… this… sword on a stick and―” She shuddered. “Make me… do things.”

Ralen’s face turned scarlet with rage. “I would claim the power of Carros to raise them from the Banefallow so I may slay them again.”

Oona bowed her head. “I’ve never been so sick and terrified in my life.”

“Hmm.” He scowled. “The timing seems too convenient. I imagine Ian sent them there on purpose.”

“What?” She blinked.

“You’d been down there long enough… if those men had that sort of inclination, they wouldn’t have waited several days. No, I believe he sent them there to frighten you so he could play the savior and you would have no hesitation following him.”

“But… he killed them so fast, barely seconds.” She put a hand on her chest in an effort to rein in her out-of-control breathing.

“Ian belonged to a sect known as the Unbound. They sever all ties with the spirits and the Alderswood. No matter how black or grey their souls become, they are spared Banefallow… but they do not find peace upon death. They walk in the shadow between this world and the next. Your people would call them ghosts, or wraiths, forever denied an afterlife. My father’s assassins. They do the king’s bidding without question. Ian would have thought nothing of killing them to further his mission.”

“Horrible.” Oona’s hand slid up from her chest to grasp the front of her throat. “I cannot see how I will simply be able to stroll across the Arch.”

He thought, tapping his chin. “There is another option. I know of a place where a pathway leads down the walls of the Churning Deep. We would have to walk down a narrow precipice before navigating an old tree quite close to the most violent rapids imaginable, and assuming we don’t slip and fall off to our demise, walk a treacherous route zigzagging up the other side.”

She stared at him.

“Or you could dress like a soldier and traverse a nice, wide bridge.” He tapped himself on the hip. “With walls about this high.”

“One soldier?”

He smiled. “You’re an assassin on a special operation… with an illusion charm.”

Oona threw her arms up. “Oh, all right. All right.”

A tremendous crash and rumble rocked the earth.

Ralen whirled to peer into the distance. “What in the name of Carros?”

“It felt like a great boulder fell from a mountain,” said Oona.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Splat!

She tiptoed to the longsword she’d used and picked it up. Her forearm ached under the weight. “That did not sound pleasant.”

“I swear that scream sounded like Captain Wellin.”

Another resounding boom sent Oona stumbling. As the ground shuddered, she crept up to stand at his side. “What do you think is happening?”

“I do not know, but the disturbance is coming from the keep. I must investigate.” He marched off into the woods.

I can’t fight everyone in Evermoor myself. “But… but… You’re going to leave me out here alone?”

“You’re welcome to follow me if you want. Or wait here until I return.” He strode into the woods away from the clearing.

Oona looked around. She paced a bit, stared after him, and huffed. Trees, dead men, one not-quite-princess―slightly battered. Oh, damn it all!

“Wait.” She hiked up her dress and ran. “Wait for me!”

32

The Timeless Watchers

~ Kitlyn ~

Omun walked until the sky blued over the jagged shapes of distant mountain peaks. Kitlyn shifted, yawning her way out from the fitful sleep she’d been drifting in and out of for the past few hours. The giant’s shoulder, a slab a bit larger than the cell she’d escaped, rocked with the gentle sway of his stride. Worry for Oona had lingered in fleeting moments between fitful naps. As difficult as she’d found it to rest when it had been dark, with the sunrise imminent and continuous rustling, splintering, and cracking emanating from below, she stopped trying.

Kitlyn sat up, hands braced behind her on the cool moss-covered stone, and let her legs stick straight out. How long will it take the memory to find her? Oona could be anywhere in Evermoor, and Omun’s notion of fulfilling destiny at least had a definite location. She tried to ignore the growling in her stomach, not remembering the last time she’d had anything to eat. With Oona lost, or worse, how could she even consider food?! Did she escape or did they take her somewhere? Is she still a prisoner? Is she alive? Kitlyn didn’t want to think about how harsh and cruel they’d treat someone they believed wanted to raze their whole kingdom.

“Can you go any faster, Omun?”

“Soon.” His voice boomed over the countryside. “I am walking with as much haste as the moor allows.”

The sky ahead remained dark in the silhouette of an enormous oak, larger than anything that seemed possible. The sun crawled higher, shifting deep blue to brighter hues, revealing an endless canopy of violet willow trees surrounding them on all sides. She rolled around onto her knees and crawled to the front of his shoulder to peer down. Milky water tinged with lavender came up to Omun’s thighs; most of his legs vanished in the bog. Patches and strips of solid ground formed a maze in the murky water, but the giant tromped in a straight line, oblivious to the terrain underfoot. Fallen logs bounced away or splintered like twigs, yet his pace never faltered. He altered direction only to avoid tearing down the eerie blue-green forest. Every so often, she leaned out of the way of a draping strand of willow leaves.

“We are near, tiny one.” Omun pointed at the impossibly large tree-shaped shadow on the sky.

“What is that?” whispered Kitlyn, breathless.

She sat back on her heels and stared. With the increasing daylight, details filled in the silhouette, pale brown bark covered in great carpets of emerald moss. Her vantage point almost four stories off the ground gave her a clear view of a bowl-shaped crater brimming with greenery. The tree stood at its center, as if in a great flowerpot. Shapes moved in swooping arcs, and after a moment or two of watching, she recognized them as birds. To see them from so far away, they’d have to be almost the size of horses.

Kitlyn shuddered, feeling too much like a mouse for comfort.

“Alderswood,” said Omun.

She squinted at the sky, trying to guess how far it reached. The forest surrounding it appeared more like a coating of moss on the earth than trees. Even Omun seemed small in comparison. For a few fleeting seconds, she could’ve sworn winged serpents circled the higher reaches. Flashes of white, blue, and green streamed around the branches, but nothing remained in sight long enough to get a good look.

The giant walked in a direct path toward the rounded valley. Smaller birds collected around his head; some flew by as if curious while others landed on him. She glanced to her left when a hawk a touch larger than a turkey set down a few feet away from her. Deep burgundy feathers faded to pale blue along the leading edges of its wings and crest. Glowing sapphire eyes regarded her for a few seconds in silence before the bird leapt into the air and darted off into the forest.

Kethaba said my father took something from this place. She shivered. Her heart thudded and slowed at the thought her destiny entailed surrendering herself to this tree. If the old one had been correct, the energy of the Eldritch Heart had given her its power, but without it, the land of Evermoor died a slow death.

Kitlyn looked down at her chest, wondering if the green light she’d summoned was her heart. Did she have to sacrifice her life force to spare this kingdom? She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. My life isn’t worth more than all the people of Evermoor. The two men from the inn came to mind. Kem’s parents as well, and those children at Kethaba’s village. How many sons and daughters had perished because of her father’s greed? Her heart ached at the thought of Oona’s reaction to news of her being gone forever. It would be the right thing to do, but could she leave Oona? Worse, did she even remain alive to leave?

I’ve been lying to myself. These people already killed her, and that’s why I can’t find where she went. She’s their pariah. They’ve been trying to murder her since she was a baby. How can an entire kingdom demand the death of a child?!

She leaned against the side of Omun’s head. These people killed Oona. Why should she save them? And if she’s dead, I should be with her in wherever we wind up after this life. We had so little time together.

“My only regret will be that I don’t see my father’s face when he hears the daughter he ignored since we were three is gone,” she whispered.

Omun thundered onward, oblivious, or perhaps he chose to say nothing.

Kitlyn picked at the handle of the longsword, wondering how much it would hurt. Would the tree simply absorb her or would she have to stab herself? Maybe Omun would crush her so she didn’t feel anything. The more she thought about Oona’s death, the more she thought she would not mind this fate. She fell over sideways and curled into a ball. The end, if the woman she loved so dearly no longer existed in this world, could not come fast enough.

“What troubles you?” Omun’s voice vibrated his great shoulder plate.

Kitlyn tried to say ‘Oona’s dead,’ but what came out of her bore no resemblance to words.

“Do not fear, tiny one. We near the moment of your destiny. The Foretelling is at hand.”

Instinctual fear of dying dragged her uncontained emotion back to numb silence. She wouldn’t fight it. Giving herself to the tree would right a wrong, let her be with Oona again, and punish her father for everything that he’d done―both to Evermoor, and to her.

Omun grunted.

A roar rose up around them as he lifted his great bulk up from the swamp. Water streamed out of crags and cracks in his body, pouring back to the bog then splattering to the earth once he strode upon dry land. Snakes, darter lizards, and several fish abandoned him for the safety of the murk he left behind. Soon, his footsteps passed with the deep, resonating thud, thud, thud of solid ground.

Kitlyn picked herself up to stand, clinging to his ivy hair for balance. He slowed to a halt at the lip of the crater mouth. Alderswood left her speechless with its enormity. She had never been outside Cimril before chasing Oona. Endless weeks and months spent daydreaming about what the world looked like paled next to the sight before her. Alderswood exceeded anything she could have ever imagined. The trunk had to be larger than the whole city of Cimril. A sprawl of roots at the base tapered from twenty or more feet around to the mere size of cows at their narrowest.

Life radiated from everything; a vast, verdant forest spread out below, giving off energy that flowed into her body. Her hunger vanished, her fatigue evaporated, and all her aches, bumps, or bruises faded until she no longer noticed them.

Did I do that or did the tree?

No voice or sentience greeted her, but a subtle welcoming wrapped around her like a mother swaddling her infant. Even her fatalistic sorrow at Oona’s loss seemed bearable in the radiance of this place. Her trembling ebbed. If this tree meant to consume her, why did it feel so… comforting? The instant she recognized awareness within the energy, it darkened to sorrow.

Dying.

This grove, the tree, and everything in it, withered… and it knew.

One of the birds she’d seen before glided up to investigate Omun. It wasn’t quite the size of a horse, but it came close. Rich blue feathers covered its body, while the wings with a span greater than most dwellings shone with orange, pink, and red. A gleaming black beak, long enough to slice her in half, opened with a soft, undulating cry.

Omun rumbled in response.

He stepped over the edge and walked down the crater wall. Unlike the moor they’d spent the better part of a day in, the ‘small’ trees within the Alderswood grotto towered over him. She gasped and gawked at hanging fruits big enough for her to use as huts, vines as thick as trees, acorns that could crush a house. A deafening cacophony of life blared around her: birds, monkeys, wails, chatters, and whistles.

This place is beautiful.

Omun carried her deeper into the crater. Evermoor’s source of life became less and less a tree as they neared, and more an expanse of wood. He approached the edge of a clearing where a starburst of roots extended out from the base of a tree so massive, she felt as though she stood before a canyon wall made of bark, mottled with moss of every imaginable shade of green. At the center of the trunk, two enormous roots curved outward from a balcony even with Omun’s chin. They wrapped forward in a shape similar to the horns of a bull, creating a pair of curved ramps up from the ground. Beyond the balcony, two ornate doors of living vines, a knotwork of hundreds of decorative whorls and gaps, hung in front of a curving tunnel that appeared to lead upward into the Alderswood like a spiral staircase without the steps.

I guess that’s where I need to go. That has to lead to the umm… the heart chamber?

Glowing points of light in various shades of blue, orange, or emerald, emerged from thousands of places around the tree, moving in the erratic flight of moths. Some glided in slow, sweeping arcs, while others perked up at their approach. She watched them for a few seconds before noticing the light spots had the silhouettes of tiny people inside them.

Faeries?

She gazed at them in awe.

A peal like crystalline wind chimes emanated from both sides. Ten scintillating spots of pure white light manifested in front of them at the base of the ramp-like roots. The shimmering orbs expanded, drawing inward as specks of blue and silver appeared around them. Seconds later, the energy forms coalesced into mirror-finished suits of plate armor, intricate engraved scrollwork of vine and leaf patterns covering their breastplates. In place of legs, vaporous clouds of pulsing white-green light roiled beneath them. The same glowing energy occupied empty helmets with narrow, vertical slits in the face that ended at a small circular opening as if made for a cyclops. Ghostly hands tipped with claws raised mirror-silver swords as long as her height. The air around them charged with the fragrance of fresh-cut grass and mint.

She gasped as they floated toward her. “What… what are you?”

The figures formed a semicircle at Omun’s feet.

“We are the Timeless Watchers.” Ten echoey, identical voices spoke at once; the light within their helms pulsed in time with each word. “You are not welcome here.”

Omun drew his leg back as if to kick them.

“Wait! Don’t attack!” she yelled.

The giant lowered his foot.

Kitlyn stepped to the edge of his shoulder. “Timeless Watchers, may I address you?”

They moved in unison, lowering their blades―a little.

“Please let me down,” she said.

Omun raised his hand to his shoulder. She stepped onto his blocky palm, and he eased her to the ground. The second her toes touched the spongy carpet of mossy leaves, her hair stood on end. Such a surge of power radiated upward through her, she thought she could rend the entire castle Cimril to bits on a whim. Standing among the mirrored guardians, she felt like a child. They would’ve been ten feet tall if made of flesh and bone.

Kitlyn looked up at the tree. It welcomes me… but it’s sad. “I do not understand why you are angry. This place calls to me. Am I not to give up my essence so the Alderswood may live?”

The Timeless Watchers held their swords sideways, forming a fence around her. “We will not allow the destroyer to go any further.”

She blinked. “Destroyer? What do you mean?”

“We will not allow the Sundering to come to pass. You will rend apart this grove, upheave the firmament, and the very earth shall swallow Evermoor.”

“What? No!” she yelled.

The Timeless Watchers again pointed their swords at her. She leaned away from ten gleaming razor points, inches from her head. “The energy of the Alderswood flows within you. You will corrupt and poison from within, where no mortal can reach. You will turn the life against itself and herald the ruin of all. Once it is started, it cannot be stopped.”

Kitlyn gasped, horrified. “No! That’s not at all why I’m here. Omun brought me here to fulfill my destiny. My father took the Eldritch Heart. Am I not supposed to return its power?”

Ten silvery helmets exchanged looks.

A shift in the energy saturating everything fluttered in her stomach. Hope, a faint thread, filtered out from beneath the sadness radiating from the great tree. It expected me to destroy it? The feeling shifted. No… it hoped I would help.

She edged forward until the sword points almost touched her chest. “I would end the war between Lucernia and Evermoor, but not at that cost. I cannot destroy all that lives within this land. I will not.”

“Mmmmn.” Omun emitted an approving moan. Stone scraped as he bowed his head and shook it side to side, mossy beard swaying. “Too great the cost.”

“There is more than one meaning to a foretelling.” Kitlyn backed up. “I will not poison the Alderswood. I will harm nothing. This war has brought enough death.”

“If you speak the truth,” said the Watchers. “Turn back and leave this place. Since you do not have the Heart, destruction is your only purpose here while the Alderswood is weakened.”

She raised her hands. “I will leave.” A tear ran down her cheek. Oona… No… what shall I do?

Footsteps pattered across her back. The ground came up to meet her as she fainted, though as soon as she hit the ground, she realized she had not fallen―her senses had shifted; she’d become the ground. Oona ran by, shouting at someone to wait.

Reality returned in seconds; she remained standing before the Timeless Watchers.

“Oona lives!” Kitlyn shouted.

Ten helmets pivoted about. The mirrored guardians appeared perplexed.

“What’s wrong?” She looked at them while waving at Omun to lower his hand again.

“We,” said the multi-voice, “did not expect the destroyer to leave in peace.”

Omun’s hand met the ground at her right with a thump.

“I’m not the destroyer.” She climbed up, sat on the edge, and dusted mulch from the bottoms of her feet. “Despite everyone trying to kill us…”

He lifted her back to his shoulder.

The Timeless Watchers relaxed their swords at last, hovering silent between her and the tree.

Kitlyn’s chest tightened. Well, if I’m not supposed to die here, then what?

Omun backed up a few steps and labored his way around a turn. After a few seconds’ pause to shift his balance, he tromped along the route they’d taken into the crater. Kitlyn looked over her shoulder. When distance shrank the Watchers to only a few inches tall, they flashed out of existence as if they’d never been.

She turned her gaze forward at the upward-sloping crater wall. A giant bird overhead let off a squawk of urgency. Kitlyn looked up; the beast stared straight at her and repeated the call. It seems to be asking me for something.

“What do you want?”

It emitted the same call a third time and banked away on the wind.

“While the tree is weakened…” She sighed and sat cross-legged upon the stone shoulder, thinking. “You’re right, Omun. My destiny is tied to this place, but I shouldn’t be here yet. I don’t want to dest―” She perked up. “That’s it! I’ve got to get the Heart back!”

“Where shall I bring you, tiny one?”

The vibration of his voice in her bones comforted her. “I must find Oona. I can’t feel where she is in the memory, but I know she’s alive.”

“Mmm,” said Omun. “The distance is too far for your eyes which are not eyes. I will go.”

Kitlyn gazed up at the late-morning sun and wondered whom Oona could have been telling to wait… or did that happen hours or days ago? Her love chased after someone, but who or why? She nibbled on her lip and fought the urge to beg Omun to move faster. His stride felt ponderous, but looking down proved they covered ground far faster than any horse could. The giant veered to the right once they crested the top of the crater, as if he had an idea of where to go.

I’ll have to trust him. She sighed. What choice do I have?

33

A War of Nothing

~ Oona ~

“Wait!” yelled Oona.

Ralen strode through the forest at a pace that kept her jogging not to fall behind. Little moonlight made it past the dense treetops, and more often than not, she followed the clatter of his armor more than any sight of him. Her body threatened to quit. All the energy and terror of fighting for her life had fled, leaving her alone with sore arms, a dry throat, and an ill feeling in her stomach. By all rights, she should be famished, but every time she thought about eating, she felt that man’s head bouncing off her back again and retched.

“Slow down,” she called, not quite shouting.

He continued for another exhausting ten or so minutes before stopping and looking down. “I’ve found Captain Wellin.”

Oona crept up behind him. “Is he all right?”

“No. He’s rather not.” Ralen faced about and blocked her path. “You shouldn’t see this.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I cut a man’s insides out. You killed another one and his severed head touched me. What could be worse?”

He gave her an ‘as you wish’ smirk and stepped back with a quarter turn.

The forest floor looked as though a bull had exploded all over it.

She gagged. “By Lucen…”

“I did try to warn you.” He grasped her shoulder and guided her around the ghastly sight.

“Oh…” She coughed, bile dripping from her lips. “How… do I want to ask how you recognized him?”

“Hand. Signet ring.”

She covered her mouth to stop from throwing up… again.

Ralen cleared his throat.

Oona, gasping for breath, looked up at him. He too seemed pale, and perhaps fought to keep his meal in as well. “Are… are you all right?”

“Fine.” His voice lost a bit of its former weight.

“I’m sorry.” She looked down. “You must have had a lot of respect for that man.”

“Captain Wellin was the sort of commander despised by new recruits and held in high regard by veterans.” Ralen stepped over the remains of a long-ago-destroyed wagon onto a dirt path. “Only the men who lived long enough to appreciate his training respected him.”

“I can’t say I understand what you mean, but may his soul rest well.”

“What…” Ralen closed his eyes and swallowed. “What could have possibly done such a thing to a person?”

“Fire magic?” whispered Oona.

He shook his head. “No… there is no charring.”

She kept her head down for a few minutes more as they walked along the road. A man’s startled shout rang out a good distance off to the right, far enough away that she didn’t react with anything other than a curious glance into the woods.

“By Carros…” Ralen stopped.

“What?” She turned her gaze away from the voice to the direction of the road.

The upper two stories of a stone watchtower stuck in the ground like a thrown dart. A short distance beyond, what had once been the wall surrounding the keep in which she had been held littered the ground as loose stones. A handful of dead soldiers lay here and there, most of whom appeared to have died in the collapse. The keep itself did not look to have suffered much, at least not along the rear face. A constant tremor shook the earth with repetitious thudding that faded off, each one weaker than the last. Ralen raised a hand in a gesture of pause until the odd earthquake ceased.

Heavy silence hung over the place. Nothing moved.

“Wait here,” whispered Ralen.

“Why? You think I’m too delicate?”

“No. I don’t want you to be captured or attacked again.” He looked at her. “I will be as fast as I am able. I must understand what happened here.”

“Perhaps one of your alchemists mixed something poorly?” She raised an eyebrow.

He narrowed his eyes. “I think not. There aren’t enough bodies for that to be true… at least that I can see from here. Hide in that cluster of trees until I return. I trust you can handle yourself.”

“I’m too tired to walk another step anyway.” Oona plodded over to the spot where six trees grew in a group like a dryad’s crown. She slipped between the trunks and sat on the dirt, leaning against the coarse bark. I know I’m exhausted. I couldn’t care less that my dress ripped.

Ralen fussed with some branches, creating a bit of camouflage for her, and hurried off to the keep. She sat in silence for some time, enjoying the simple act of breathing. When that lost its appeal, she stretched her arms out to the sides, up over her head and straight out in front. Serenaded by a distant lovesick owl, she rubbed the bruises around her wrists, gasping and wincing at the tender spots. She may not have wanted to destroy Evermoor before she’d been abducted, but the more she tried to massage the ache out of her arms, the more she considered it.

“Hmmph.” She chuckled. Good thing for them I’m not the heir.

The sharp crack of a wooden board slapping on stone echoed from the keep, startling her. A low clattering followed, conjuring the mental image of a cascade of tiny stones.

“It’ll be my luck he breaks his neck in there.”

She wiped at her face, plucking bits of dried tomato away. Her hair had gone all sticky on one side, her cheek still tender where the rotten vegetable had struck her. I am in dire need of a bath. Her eyes closed as a shuddering sob tried to break free. Thinking of a bath made her think of Kitlyn. Innocent fun as children, bathing became a meaningless task as they aged into royal and servant, and… over the past two years, grew into something else entirely. They hadn’t shared the bath for a long time, and Kitlyn’s shyness made sense in hindsight. Both of them had felt the same way, yet neither could overcome the wall of shame such a love brought with it in the eyes of Lucen. Or at least in what the priests claimed would be the eyes of Lucen.

Oona stared up past the wavering treetops at the indigo sky. “I cannot believe that you, who created light and life, would object to the love I hold in my heart. You gave me your power…” She summoned a small orb of light like the one she used to roam the halls of the castle at night and cradled it in both hands. The little sphere turned its pale eyespots up at her like a puppy happy to see her dearest friend. “Lord Lucen knows my love, yet his gift is still mine. If he disdained me, surely, he would take away my gift.”

A smile snuck out of the gloom and perched upon a face that had almost forgotten how.

“What are you doing?” hissed Ralen.

Oona yelped and clamped her hands to her chest, crushing the light. “I… what?”

“That light! You’ll stand out, attract trouble.”

She struggled to get up, but weary muscles refused her. Ralen reached in and took her hand, pulling her to her feet and helping her step over where two trunks fused. A short distance away, a beautiful warhorse waited, jet black with a long, snowy mane and small rings of white above its hooves. She reached out and let the animal sniff her hand.

“He’s magnificent,” she whispered.

“Faen, my warhorse. At least he escaped harm from what…. I cannot even fathom what happened here. The wall’s been smashed to rubble and the doors torn from the keep. I found a few men dead inside. More than the two you said Ian killed. I think someone came looking for you.”

Kitlyn? She peered at the destruction. No… her magic couldn’t do anything like that, blast stones apart. She’s nowhere near that powerful. “Perhaps Lucernia?”

“There isn’t a single body not one of my men.” He tilted his head. “Though perhaps the Lucernians would’ve gathered their dead before leaving. They don’t afford us the same courtesy. We bury their dead before leaving the scene of a battle. It’s too dark to look for tracks. Come, let us leave this place before any stragglers return.”

“I’m so tired.” She swayed on her feet, eyes fighting to close. “Wait. You bury our dead? They claim you take the bodies back here for… ungodly things.”

Ralen quirked an eyebrow. “And you have been subjected to vast amounts of truth.”

She sighed. “Evidently.”

“I’ve brought you a clean soldier’s uniform in the saddlebag.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I’ve fetched your coin purse. The sum does not seem significant to a king’s daughter, though I suspect your tale of this… ‘allowance’ has added some sentiment?”

“I’ve spent years wanting to spend these coins, mostly because I couldn’t leave the castle to do so.” She sighed as she reached for the saddle and wound up leaning on the horse.

“Forgive me, princess.” Ralen grasped her by the hips and hoisted her up.

Oona squirmed about to sit sidesaddle. He took the reins and walked Faen around the southern side of the keep.

“This is not going to be any faster than walking.” She grumbled. “We should both ride.”

“Are you certain?” He looked up. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Oona held up her bruised wrists. “You don’t?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “I did not mean that manner of comfort.”

“I trust you to keep your hands where they belong. You are a knight, after all.” She yawned.

She scooted back as he climbed into the saddle, and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He said no more, snapping the reins to bring the horse up to a trot.

The next thing she knew, he eased her into a patch of spongy moss before covering her with a coarse, grey blanket.

They hadn’t given me a blanket in the cell…

* * *

Oona startled awake. The sun shimmered among the treetops. Leaves of blue-green, emerald, and port-wine rustled in a steady breeze. Her chin brushed the itchy touch of wool, a blanket up to her chin. Ralen groaned a few feet away, rolling his arms around and twisting at the waist.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

He smiled. “Slept in my armor.”

Oona yawned and sat up, staring blearily past a curtain of her hair at the woods. In the daylight, the forest seemed peaceful and far removed from yesterday’s horrors. She rubbed her eyes but froze with her hands on her face, staring at the purple rings around her wrists. The marks reminded her of being taken away from Kitlyn, from her home, of the sheer stupidity of running off in the first place.

Ugh. I am never drinking wine again… at least not three glasses in one hour.

She stood and stretched. Her eyes shot wide open as a ripple of pain ran down her back. Everything ached. Her dress stuck to her, her hair formed a crusty spot where tomato juice had dried.

“There’s a stream a short distance that way.” Ralen pointed. “If you’re thirsty. I’ve brought some rations as well.”

She rubbed her growling stomach. “I’ll be a moment.”

He nodded.

Oona wandered in the direction he pointed and found a quiet stream winding along at the bottom of a deep channel in the forest floor. She edged up to the bank and looked over her shoulder. Ralen had taken a seat with his back to her, though enough trees between them made seeing him difficult.

She hurriedly peeled off her dress and smallclothes before sliding bare into the water. Two hands clamped over her mouth muffled the shriek she let off at the cold rising up to her neck. Worried Ralen would race over to see what had happened, she tucked herself against the bank, arms crossed over her chest, peering back. He remained as he had been, not moving. Perhaps he had heard her yelp and guessed what she’d done. Once the paralysis of the frigid creek wore off, she wet her hair and gave herself a quick bath, chasing away the sourness of tomato, stickiness of sweat, and the grunge of several days trapped in the same dress. The frigid water made her bruised wrists ache, but otherwise, the sense of being cleaner lifted her spirits.

In mere minutes, her teeth chattered. She drank a few mouthfuls and climbed out. Fallen leaves at her feet smoked as she called upon a bit of magic to dry herself. After, she scrambled to get dressed before he came to check on her. Carrying her slippers, she padded back to their little campsite and took a seat on the mossy patch where she’d slept.

He handed her a squarish block of something that gave off the smell of spiced meat. It didn’t look or feel like anything she’d ever had before. She nibbled at the firm substance, coughing at the amount of salt blasting her tongue. Hunger overwhelmed her; she gnawed, twisted, and pulled at it until snapping off a hunk small enough to chew. Her eyebrows wagged about in confusion as she tried to determine what in the name of Lucen she ate.

“Venison, rabbit, pork, and chicken,” said Ralen. “Ground up and mixed with bread that turned hard… and salt. Our soldiers carry it.”

Is it any wonder they’re so willing to die? “I see.” I’m starving. I suppose it’s not so bad. Stale bread and random creatures.

Ralen ate his portion in six bites and gathered up their blankets while she ground her teeth into the stubbornly tough food. He waved her toward the horse. “You can eat while we ride.”

Her feet had dried enough, so she pulled on her slippers and stood. Still chewing, she trudged past him with a flat-eyebrow stare. He lifted her into the saddle.

He led the horse to the same creek she’d bathed in and let him drink. Once Faen had his fill, he mounted and they headed west. Ralen let the horse walk for a while. Once Oona finished off the ‘ration,’ circled her arms around him, and rested her head against his back, he urged the animal up to a trot.

The forest passed in relative silence, save for the cries of birds or the scamper of unseen woodland creatures. Around noon, he stopped to rest the horse and let it graze. When Ralen gave her ‘the look’ and wandered off to relieve himself, Oona did likewise―heading in the opposite direction. Afterward, he handed her another one of the dreaded rations. He clamped another one in his teeth and climbed back on the saddle before taking a bite. She grumbled, but followed suit.

A few minutes into their resumed journey, he drew in a great breath and sighed it out. “I apologize for abducting you and your servant.”

Oona gasped. “If it is true our king stole from you, then it should be me who apologizes. We―”

“Why is it you have not yet called him ‘Father?’”

Navissa’s nethers! “Umm.” She glanced at the trees, down at her lap, at the clouds. “We’re… umm, not that close. You know how royals are. Governess for most of my life… see him only at meals, and only sometimes. Holidays, ceremonies. Sit there in a pretty dress and keep my mouth closed.”

He laughed with a hint of sadness. “Yes. I know how royals can be, though I was not required to wear pretty dresses.”

Oona laughed.

“How wretched a life have our fathers wrought upon us, then.” He made a clicking noise and the horse broke into a fast trot along a mild uphill grade.

The forest seemed utterly endless, continuing as far as she could see in every direction.

“So,” asked Ralen, “you spend your days being silent and pretty?”

A bird glided overhead before swooping into the underbrush and coming up with a limp, brown, furry lump in its talons.

“Not entirely. I spend a rather large amount of time being unable to sleep under the guilt of everyone expecting me to kill a whole kingdom or hiding under my bed from assassins.”

“I…” His words turned into a disgruntled sigh, part groan. “My father is not the most reasonable of men.”

“Our king stole the Eldritch Heart and doomed your people to a slow, withering death. I think I would be quite petulant about that too, though I would not blame his child.”

“My father didn’t… at first.” Ralen slowed the horse as the trail curved back and forth, winding around a series of huge trees. They passed between a giant pair of weeping willows before the path curved down along the edge of a twenty-foot hollow in which a waterfall cascaded into a greenish pond. Bright purple and red flowers, each as big as a man’s head, dotted the polished rocks among blue ivy. “Not until the Foretelling had spread far and wide, and our seers tried to discern a more exact meaning, did he decide you a threat.”

“This place is so beautiful.” She twisted to keep staring at the waterfall chamber as long as she could before it vanished behind earth. “I do not understand why King Talomir refuses to give the Heart back.”

“Pride, I would imagine. That or the weak hope that he may yet gain power from it. It is impossible to take from it. The Alderswood will only grant power to those it chooses. His hopes are folly.” His hand closed over hers upon his armor. “I hope that you are right. May you put an end to this madness?”

I… She blinked. The Foretelling proves Kitlyn is alive! The war continues… Her spike of elation faded. But… the king finding her dead could make him do something rash. That could still be claimed as her fulfilling a role. Oh, I hate seers! “‘End the war’ doesn’t specify who wins.”

Ralen squeezed her hand before grabbing the reins again. “It is war, princess. War has no winners, only those who remain alive when it comes to an end.”

“The king likely believes Lucen entitles him to the magic within the Heart… or he’s bringing glory to the gods by weakening the ‘demons.’” Oona bowed her head. “He has seen Evermoor. He has to know your people are not demons. I’m sorry.”

“His deeds are not yours to atone for.”

Oona rubbed her bruised wrists, heartsick at the thought of how the orphans and widows suffered for King Talomir’s lust for power. Her magic told her Ralen spoke truth. As much as she struggled to match the smiling face of her ‘father’ to the idea he’d succumbed to greed, she trusted Lucen’s gift. “I’ve spent my whole life seeing him as an embodiment of Lucen’s ideals, yet our king’s actions betray all we hold sacred. I cannot sit idly by.”

“You would turn on your own king and father?”

“I do not wish him harm, but he must answer to Lucen for what he has done.” I have never felt deceit from him, but he, too, is a wielder of light. His skills far exceed mine. He shielded his thoughts from me.

She spent the remainder of the day in silent prayer, beseeching Lucen, Navissa, Orien, and even Tenebrea for guidance, strength, and forgiveness. They rode into the night and camped again. Oona huddled under the rough grey blanket, not much feeling like talking. While waiting for her heart to slow enough to let her sleep, she continued praying, asking the gods to protect Kitlyn and sway the king’s mind.

At daybreak, Ralen woke her. After they dealt with morning needs, they set off once more.

An hour or so into the ride, the forest thinned.

“How large is this wood?”

“The Eternal Glade spans most of the western border. We are nearing the Churning Deep. We’ll not be long now.”

“Perhaps I should put on that uniform?”

“I’ve thought better of it.” He let out a soft laugh. “I will ride straight past the garrison. Before anyone can recognize you, we’ll be too far across the Arch of the Ancients for it to matter. I will bring you as close as I dare to the other side and hold the bridge behind you.”

“All right. I can distract them with a flare if need be.” She rested her cheek against his shoulder. He’s risking himself for my modesty. How could we have thought them savages for so long? Oh, Lucen! They’re not so different from us. “You don’t have to do that… I will wear the uniform and change clothing on the Arch. There’s been too much death already and my dignity is not worth more.”

“Fear not, Princess.” Ralen’s voice brimmed with confidence. “I shall not kill any of them.”

Is he eager to die, reckless, or does he truly believe he will stand against an entire army? She thought back to those assassins, and how Ralen seemed to blur far faster than a man ought to be able to move. He must have magic of some kind.

Two hours after resuming the trip from their noontime stop, a faint, continuous rumble grew ahead. The sound increased as trees petered out to a loose scattering over a rolling grassland that swept upward at a modest incline. A few miles away, the meadow ended at a rocky ridgeline capped with a cloud of mist as far as she could see to either side.

The Churning Deep.

Ralen steered southerly, heading toward where a pair of tall bone-white statues capped the end of the Arch of the Ancients, the largest permanent bridge across the canyon that separated the kingdoms. Both figures, each at least three stories tall, wore flowing robes. The nearer, a woman, had a crown of flowers, while the man’s headdress bore antlers.

Faen made good time up a swollen hill dotted with periwinkle wildflowers. If not for the war, the place would have been soothing. A crosswind kept the animal’s snowy mane, as well as Oona’s hair, fluttering to the left.

“Stop somewhere close and I shall put on that uniform,” said Oona.

“Forget the uniform. It won’t work.” Ralen started to urge Faen to a gallop as they crested the top, but wound up hauling back on the reins, bringing the horse to a dead stop.

There, in the low part beyond the hill, sat hundreds of men and women, all in the armor of Evermoor’s soldiers. They had encamped a safe distance from the Churning Deep, but at the sight of the approaching horse, two women and a man bellowed orders she couldn’t make out from the distance. Ralen shifted tall in the saddle and steered to the right, intending to go around the encampment. He clicked his tongue, urging Faen up to a healthy trot.

Soldiers massed away from their tents and cook fires, hurrying toward them.

“Why are you not racing away as fast as this beast can move?” She prodded him in the back.

“If I attempt to flee, they will doubt me. Better I order them back to their places if they approach.”

She cringed. “I hope you’re right.”

A white-haired man in metal armor similar to Ralen’s emerged from the front of the formation, grinning from ear to ear. Behind him strode a woman with charcoal-grey locks, but a young face. She also wore armor with metal plates on leather and hurried to gather her hair up out of the way of a fight.

“Ahh, my prince,” said the man. “Congratulations on capturing the temptress.” He looked back to the camp. “Someone fetch manacles.”

Oona jerked her hands back from around Ralen and stuffed them in her armpits. “I’ll throw myself on a sword before I let them chain me again.”

“Captain Pelas, stand down. The situation has changed. We are returning the princess to her father in exchange for the Heart.”

A collective gasp swept over the soldiers. Most of them followed it with grumbling.

“I have heard of no such plan,” bellowed the Captain. His joviality melted to steely distrust. “Are you ensorcelled?”

Ralen glared. “Dare you question me? Have you forgotten your place, Captain? This girl is no threat to our kingdom. She is not to be harmed.”

Captain Pelas pointed at him. “Orders from King Lanas himself. He is aware you have gone soft, lost your commitment. Tell me, boy. Shall we save Evermoor right here and now, or bring her to Ivendar so your father can watch?”

Oona peered around his arm at the sea of armed men and women, all staring at her with barely-contained hatred. He should’ve run.

“The Ephemeral Council is mistaken in their interpretation. My father has been misled by their dreamstem-addled minds. For years, our kingdoms have warred, and the bloodthirst has only worsened. Do you honestly think this girl is a threat? She has no intention of destroying us.”

“You have been deceived,” said Captain Pelas. “Lieutenant Rhōn, relieve the prince of his weapon and place him under arrest.”

The charcoal-haired woman glanced at Pelas sideways before clearing her throat and taking a step toward them.

“My dear lieutenant…” Ralen kicked a leg over the horse’s head and dropped to his feet. “Your captain has ordered your death.”

Captain Pelas squawked like a kicked chicken. “Ralen!” He laughed again. “Your skill is commendable, but, my boy, I’ve two hundred and thirty footmen behind me.”

Ralen glared at him, unflinching. “Then I shall endeavor to take as many as I can with me to the Glimmering Vale. An innocent girl will not come to harm while I yet walk these verdant forests.”

Dozens of swords scraped out of their scabbards. Various cries of ‘she’ll be the doom of us,’ ‘kill her,’ ‘to Banefallow with the pair of them,’ and the like emanated from random faces in the crowd.

“Stand down, or my father will hear of your treason, Captain.” Ralen glared at Lieutenant Rhōn, forcing her back a step.

“Who do you think warned us of yours? Ralen?” Captain Pelas spat his name with contempt.

“Stop!” screamed Oona. “How can you all hate me so much that you’re willing to slay the son of your king?” She stared at them for a few seconds, panting. “This is as pointless as the war that’s been killing our people for longer than I’ve been alive. You’re going to murder each other because some old blind men gorged themselves on dreamstem and scribbled some cryptic nonsense when they lacked the capacity to even stand on their own? Think about that for a moment.”

Murmurs passed from one end of the army to the other.

Ralen and Captain Pelas continued glaring at each other as if their eyes could stop a heart.

Lieutenant Rhōn squeezed and relaxed her sword hand, her stare darting back and forth from Oona to Ralen.

“Please, listen to reason!” She gasped, throat sore. “I have no intention… I’ve never had any intention to do anything to harm your kingdom.” She slid off the saddle to the grass, but didn’t walk too far from her scavenged longsword. “Look at me.” Oona raised her arms to the side, hands high. “Do I look like someone who wants to hurt any of you?”

Captain Pelas’ face remained like iron. “Quite touching. Surrender or die.”

“Come then, coward,” yelled Ralen. “You are so ready to stand back and let your men bleed while you watch from a safe distance?”

“Hold!” shouted Pelas. “You dare?”

Ralen pointed his sword at the man. “You’re the only one here aside from a princess not yet seventeen years of age who has not drawn a weapon. Shall I fit you for a gown?”

Captain Pelas wrenched his broadsword from its scabbard with a long, spine-tingling cry of metal. “Insolent whelp. You’re not as good as your mouth thinks you are.”

“I shall have to educate you then.” Ralen paced to the right, sword raised to one side, empty hand to the other. “Unless you need thirty on one to feel like a capable bladesman.”

“He taunts you, sir,” muttered Rhōn. “He’s trying to lure you into an uneven fight.”

Pelas glared at her. “Are you suggesting a one-on-one is an unfair match?”

A faint tremor in the earth made Oona looked down at her feet. She disregarded it until another one happened three seconds later. What was that?

“Sir, with all due respect, he is bladeborn,” said Lieutenant Rhōn.

Ralen rolled his eyes. “I do not have magic.”

“Fine.” Rhōn put her free hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow at Pelas. “When we meet in the Glimmering Vale, you can tell me I was right.”

Pelas roared, “Stand formation,” and charged at Ralen.

His overhead lunge bounced away from Ralen’s blade with a musical ring. Both swords flashed high. Ralen swept his weapon around and slashed down into a block that stalled the edges within inches of the Captain’s face. The older man growled, while Ralen wore a smile of amusement. They shoved apart, each man taking a step back.

Oona looked at the grass again as the rhythmic thudding intensified. She turned around, but nothing appeared out of place. “What is that?”

Roaring, the captain grabbed his broadsword in both hands and rushed in again. Ralen diverted the attack and spun with a ducking slice that smashed his blade into the man’s chest. The strike launched the Captain two feet into the air with a loud bang of crimpled metal, but failed to penetrate his armor. A rule-straight dent spanned both pectoral plates. Pelas wheezed on his back like a turtle. Ralen could’ve finished him, but paced side to side.

“Too much for you old man? I see you’re in need of a nap.”

Thud, thud, thud.

Oona yelled, “What is that shaking in the earth?”

A few soldiers looked at her, Rhōn included, but none said a word. The lieutenant narrowed her eyes and took a few steps closer. Oona whisked her longsword out of the straps holding the saddlebags and held it up.

The armored woman gave her a condescending frown that said ‘aww, how cute.’

Damn. Oona tried to keep a determined expression despite her rapid breaths. I don’t want to fight her. This is so pointless! I… something scary. She focused on her magic; a sheath of brilliant blue light exploded around her body, molded into a cloak of blue-white flames. “I would much rather you listen to reason than face Lucen’s wrath.” Oona adopted a defensive stance, but locked eyes with the woman. “I do not want to harm anyone. Not you, and certainly not your kingdom.”

The lieutenant’s confidence faded to concern. She opened her mouth in a hesitant attempt to speak, but glanced to her side at a chorus of soldiers yelling.

Captain Pelas rolled to his feet. He feigned a strike wide and left, but Ralen didn’t go for it. The prince swiped at him with a halfhearted sideways slash, and then another and another, advancing with each stroke. Ralen barely seemed to be exerting any effort to move with near blurring speed, while the older man’s struggle to keep up and turn each swing showed in his expression. The captain backed away from the barrage. Ralen stopped when the Captain put his foot in a cook fire and knocked over a tripod cauldron of something brown and goopy.

Ralen laughed.

Enraged, the captain pressed the attack. Blade rang against blade four times; Ralen flowed from one defense to the next as if he somehow knew where the Captain would swing before the man himself did. The fifth time Pelas brought his weapon around in a wide sideward stroke―even Oona could tell the man leaned on his weak leg and had little power―Ralen allowed the sword to glance away from his armored shoulder with a dull thump.

The captain let off a gurgling wheeze.

Ralen turned his back on the man with a contemptuous air and raised his free arm in a gesture of salute to the soldiers, three fingers of his right hand still clasping the handle of his broadsword―which he’d rammed to the hilt in the Captain’s gut.

Oona made the light-fire shrouding her larger, stretching it into wings to attract attention. “What is the matter with all of you? Why do you all want so much to fight? This is madness. Please listen to reason. We are trying to stop this!”

Thud, thud, thud.

Oona snatched a quick downward peek. She could no longer dismiss the rhythmic tremors as a figment of her imagination. How is no one else reacting to this most bizarre earthquake?

“You may look innocent,” said Rhōn, “but you―”

“Attack!” wheezed Captain Pelas. “Kill them…”

Ralen yanked his blade free and spun around to face him, holding the broadsword out to the side, crimson steel glinting in the sunlight. Blood gathered along the edge, running to the point, dripping into the grass. Rhōn gripped her longsword, staring at Oona, indecisive, flat-lipped. Hoping sense won out, Oona lowered her blade and tried to conjure her most earnest ‘please trust me’ face.

Pelas, clutching his gut wound, staggered into another attack. As soon as he moved, three other soldiers rushed at Ralen. The prince sidestepped the wounded captain, staying out of his reach with ease. The first soldier slashed at him. Ralen parried high with a clang and took the man’s head while he reeled backward trying to control his weapon. He caught the second man’s arm at the wrist, stalling his sword while kicking Pelas in the chest, allowing an ineffectual slash to bounce off his armored back.

Ralen raised his broadsword, about to smash it down into the second soldier’s neck.

“Gah!” A scream came from the back of the group. “What in the name of Evermoor is that?”

The prince glanced to his left and did a double take. He shoved the man away without drawing blood, and the soldier took off at a wild run. Ralen stared into the sky behind Oona, jaw wide, eyes wider.

Captain Pelas stumbled to one knee, still clutching his gut, and turned his gaze upward. What little color remained in his cheeks vanished. All the fight seemed to leave him in an instant, and he trembled. Saliva fluttered from his lower lip as he struggled to speak but wound up only gasping.

Oona wanted to look behind her, but dared not take her eyes away from the woman pointing a longsword at her. Lieutenant Rhōn blinked as she raised her stare into the sky, then blanched white as a ghost. The reverberation in the earth intensified, knocking Oona into a backward lean against the horse. She kept her sword ready in case Rhōn made a move, refusing to break eye contact.

Faen fidgeted and stamped, desperate to flee but not terrified enough to break training.

An earsplitting rumble as loud as ten thunderstorms rolled over the sky. The clamor of soldiers rushing to surround Ralen halted in an instant. All eyes turned to the sky behind Oona. Even Ralen looked about ready to pass out.

Lieutenant Rhōn backed up a few paces, staring up past Oona’s head. “By Carros…” She sprinted away toward the camp, where a large mass of horses had already crushed their way out of their improvised stables. The animals scattered in random directions, some dragging bits of timber or tents with them.

The deafening roll shifted to form words in an inhumanly deep, slow voice. “Beeee gonne.”

Oona whirled around.

And stared up at a four-story stone statue covered in ivy and moss. It resembled a crude attempt at a human figure with too-wide shoulders, a square jaw, and fists the size of small huts. A beard of moss hung halfway down its chest, swaying with its stride, and a tremendous mass of ivy ‘hair’ resembled the barbarian warriors she’d seen depicted in paintings.

She drew in a breath to do what any self-respecting sixteen-year-old princess with a meager longsword would do when finding herself ten paces away from such a thing: she screamed.

Faen took off into a black-and-white smear over the meadow green.

“Oona,” shouted Ralen, raising his hand. “Come on. Snap out of it. Move!”

“Oooooona!” yelled a tiny voice from way up high.

The giant lifted its right leg and stomped forward, arms raised as if to pummel anything close. “Be gone! Do not harm the girl.”

Captain Pelas’ eyes rolled up into his head. With a groan, he fell flat on his face.

The rest of the soldiers ran screaming in random directions, tripping over and bouncing off each other in their panic.

Oona kept trying to scream despite having no air left in her lungs.

“Oooona!” yelled the voice again.

She stared up the towering wall.

Kitlyn’s face peered over the shoulder’s edge, forty feet above her. “Oona!”

She dropped the sword, clamped both hands over her mouth, and burst into joyful tears.

Ralen grabbed her from behind before her legs gave out from happiness. “We must flee!”

She pointed up, trying without much success to compose herself. “No… no…”

The giant shifted to stare down. Its eyes, massive pools of glowing green energy, narrowed from circles to lines at Ralen.

“Don’t hurt him!” shouted Oona.

“Down!” yelled Kitlyn. “Please!”

The giant lifted his great slab of a hand to his shoulder. Oona shielded her eyes from the rain of dirt pouring off the underside of the limb. Stone creaked and ground against itself as the creature lowered Kitlyn to the meadow. The girl jumped down before the giant touched grass, and flung herself into a hug that knocked Oona into a backward stumble.

Oona sobbed, clutching Kitlyn with as much strength as her beleaguered arms could summon. They spun and spun in circles. She refused to let go, no matter what might happen around her, forty-foot giant or not. Her heart leapt with such pure joy, she couldn’t stop crying. Every time she tried to say something, she babbled.

“Oona! You’re alive!” Kitlyn wept into her shoulder. “I thought they’d killed you.”

“They said you jumped off the bridge.” Oona basked in the warm breath puffing at the crook of her neck. “I thought you’d drowned.”

Kitlyn leaned back and looked too guilty. “If by ‘jumped,’ they meant blown off by a flame bolt and nearly crushed by falling bits of bridge, then I suppose I jumped.”

“What!” Oona wanted to kill someone, but no one in easy reach deserved it. “W-what’s with that staring at the ground? You’re guilty about something.”

“I… think I did drown, but this old woman saved my life with her magic.”

Oona clenched two fistfuls of Kitlyn’s tunic, her heart at a standstill for a few long seconds as her mind refused to digest the thought. She half-started to speak four times, but could summon no words capable of bearing the magnitude of the emotion. Her throat ached; distant fleeing soldiers and even the stone giant blurred into a meaningless haze. All that mattered in the world stood before her. Kitlyn threaded her arms up through hers, clasping her hands behind Oona’s neck. She, too, seemed lost for words.

Oona pulled Kitlyn into a deep kiss, without the tiniest shred of care who saw her.

34

Nature Spirits

~ Kitlyn ~

Elation, relief, and guilt left Kitlyn hanging on to keep from collapsing. The look on Oona’s face at the mention of her near-drowning made her regret saying it at all. Days spent not knowing if her love had been killed crashed into her and sapped the strength from her weary bones. She slid her hands back, cradling Oona’s cheek as she kissed her for many beautiful minutes until the weight of an outsider’s stare broke the mood.

Kitlyn scowled at the man watching them with an expression of confused distaste. Long, straight black hair drifted to his right in the continuous misting breeze wafting down the meadow from the Churning Deep. His armor, steel plates over leather, looked heavier than most of the soldiers Omun had chased off, and he carried himself with an air of authority.

“What?” she snapped. “Something wrong?”

He glanced at Oona with an expression that said ‘you can’t be serious’ before the disapproving smirk again came her way. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Princess? This will not be received well.”

Oona’s joy receded to a grim frown. “I do not care what you think of us. I love her with all my heart, and I will no longer be ashamed of who I am. If you cannot accept me being in love with another girl, I have no further need of you.”

“Oh…” The man laughed. “You misunderstand me.” He gestured at Kitlyn. “She’s… a peasant.”

Kitlyn blinked. “You… don’t think we’re an abomination?”

Oona cringed at the word.

“Aside from how your subjects will react to the vast difference in your social status… not at all.” He sighed. “My people believe that spirits―natural, animal, and ancestral―are sacred and to be honored. In Evermoor, most would see your love as a joining of your spirits, regardless of the living flesh wrapped around them.”

Kitlyn furrowed her eyebrows. “Yet you scoff at the thought of a princess loving a peasant?”

“It does not bother me.” He grinned. “I only question if she is sure this is what she intends to do. You Lucernians are notorious for the importance you place on status and worry more how you stand in the eyes of your gods dwelling in the distant clouds than what may trouble your neighbor.”

“Oh.” She relaxed. “So you approve of us then?”

“It is evident to me that your spirits have chosen each other.” He bowed at Oona. “I wish you the best of luck convincing your people to accept a commoner as your lifemate.”

“We should bring Ralen with us,” said Oona. “He might be killed if he remains here.”

He looked up, leaning back far enough that he almost fell. “Well, I suppose I understand now what happened to the keep.”

Kitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Ralen, huh? I shall assume he is helping you since he hasn’t run off with the rest.”

“Well… yes.” Oona scratched at the back of her head, emitting a nervous laugh. “He’s… also the man who captured us, and he’s the Prince of Evermoor. Ralen Volduin.”

“What happened to your arms?” Kitlyn grabbed her hand and studied the bruise around her wrist. “Prince Ralen?” She blinked. “He doesn’t look anything like the man in the blue tunic!”

“I believe my dungeon cell was less comfortable than yours.” Oona frowned and explained what had happened to her, but glossed over the poison part. She fumed. “You have no idea how humiliating and vexing it was to be dragged around on a leash. My shoulders still ache.”

Ralen offered an apologetic look. “Please forgive me for succumbing to the superstitions of our diviners.”

Kitlyn drew Oona’s arm close and kissed the bruise as gently as she could, pain and sorrow clenching at her gut. “I wish I could wield life magic. I cannot bear to see you hurt.”

“’Tis only a bruise.” Oona hugged her. “I’ll be fine in a few days. Ralen’s help is why I am still alive. I doubt I could’ve taken on ten men, especially not with my hands manacled.” She glanced at him. “What did that woman mean when she called you a bladeborn?”

Ralen sighed at the clouds. “As you wield the power of light, some focus their magic inward. Rather than affecting the world around them, they use their gift to become faster, stronger, and develop a preternatural ability to understand what their opponent’s next move will be. They are the most feared warriors in all of Evermoor, but quite rare.”

“Are you sure you’re not?” Oona smiled.

“I do not mistake dedication and training for magic. Were I a bladeborn, I would have had a good chance of surviving against that entire group.”

“Two hundred men?” Oona gasped. “I find that difficult to accept.”

“Well, not all of them.” He smiled. “It would’ve been such a brutal spectacle that perhaps half would’ve fled. Most victories occur in the mind. As soon as they lose the will to fight, I prevail.”

Kitlyn put a hand on Oona’s arm. “I know how to stop the war.”

“What?” Oona blinked.

“And it does not involve destroying Evermoor, though the land is dying already. A wise woman told me of something called the Eldritch Heart. The king stole it from this enormous tree… you should’ve seen it.” She gazed into the distance, awestruck even by the memory of the grove. “Such magnificent creatures, so many colors of flowers and birds…”

Oona nodded. “I’ve been told of it, yes.”

“You… went to Alderswood?” Ralen blinked at her, for the first time appearing frightened.

“I did. Omun brought me there.” She gave him only a second’s glance before her earnest stare returned to Oona. “These silvery creatures appeared and told me to turn back. Timeless Watchers. They said they would not allow me near the tree.”

Ralen paled and his jaw hung open.

“What?” asked Kitlyn and Oona at the same time.

“You’re the princess?” Ralen pointed at Kitlyn.

She bit her lip while fidgeting at her shoddy clothes. “Uhh. Why would you think that?”

Oona trembled.

“By Carros…” Ralen put his hand to his forehead. “The Order of the Sundering has spent almost a decade trying to bring the Lucernian heir to Alderswood, believing her magic could set off a cataclysm that would swallow Evermoor into the bowels of the world.” Paler still, he stared at her. “The Timeless Watchers are the guardians of the great tree. They would’ve sensed the magic of the great tree within you. If they manifested at your approach, there is no doubt. They would not have shown themselves for any other.”

Kitlyn bowed her head. So, it is true. I am the princess. A small bit of happiness at confirming the truth in her not being an orphan abandoned at the castle drowned under the anger and hurt at her father casting her aside. “I suppose I am.”

“If the Order ever learned you had set foot in Alderswood and they’d not been there to guide you through the ritual…” He shivered for a second before he laughed. “Oh, to see the looks upon their faces.”

“She won’t destroy the kingdom,” yelled Oona.

“No. Absolutely not.” Kitlyn grabbed Oona’s hands. “We have to get the Heart back from the king.”

“You still do not call him your father?” asked Ralen. “And Oona… ahh, now it makes sense why you never referred to him as such.”

“I’ve half a mind to ask Omun to throw him into the ocean,” mumbled Kitlyn.

“Did you speak my name?” asked the giant. His voice carried the tone of normal speech, but its weight and volume made her jump.

“I was merely expressing my vexation. I do not mean to be taken literally.”

“As you wish,” said Omun.

“So you really could’ve destroyed the land?” Oona whispered.

Ralen nodded. “Her magic is the essence of Alderswood. So long as the great tree remains weakened by the absence of the Eldritch Heart, she could sunder the grove and set off a chain of earthquakes, lava flows, chasms, all manner of destruction.”

“Wait.” Kitlyn held up a hand. “You mean if the Heart is returned, I’ll no longer be a threat to your kingdom?”

“To the best of my ability to understand things of a magical nature, that is correct.” His expression turned suspicious. “The tree with its heart would no longer be vulnerable to corruption from within.”

Kitlyn looked at Oona. “Then we shall recover the Eldritch Heart and bring it back where it belongs without delay.”

“Yes,” said Oona.

“Prince Ralen…” Kitlyn walked up to him, tilting her head back to make eye contact.

“Hmm?” He raised one eyebrow.

After staring at him for a second or two, Kitlyn slugged him in the jaw as hard as she could.

Oona gasped. “Kit…”

Her hand throbbed. He took a step back, both eyebrows up. “That’s for kidnapping Oona and treating her so horribly. Now then”―she shook her hand out, trying to dull the pain―“with that out of the way… Despite this ‘misunderstanding’ almost killing us both, I will not rest until I have returned the Heart to where it belongs. Too many people have suffered over my father’s greed.”

Ralen adjusted his jaw side to side. “Perhaps I had that coming.”

Kitlyn grumbled. “Both sides have given in to their worst fears and most vile prejudices. I learned more about your people in the past several days than all my life before it.”

“Their king adheres to the most worrisome stories,” said Oona. “He ordered his army to kill Ralen… his son.”

Kitlyn closed her eyes and sighed. This must stop.

“How will we get past the garrison?” Oona walked up to Ralen. “If your entire army has been commanded to kill you?”

“Oona?” asked Kitlyn.

“Hmm?” She whirled to look at her.

Kitlyn pointed up. “Forty-foot-tall stone giant.”

Oona gasped. “Oh, right. I… forgot.”

“How can you misplace a massive stone person?” Kitlyn tilted her head.

“Well…” Oona bit her lip. “He is kind of quiet when he’s not moving, almost like a statue.”

“Incredible,” said Ralen. “As a boy I heard stories of them. One of his kind has not trod the land for over a thousand years. No stoneshaper powerful enough to call one has…” He looked with horror at Kitlyn.

“You have nothing to fear from me. Except perhaps another fist.” She put an arm around Oona. “Let us return to the castle. I would like a bath… and someone to attend me while I have it.”

Oona gasped in shock—and blushed brighter than an ivenberry.

“I shall not make you a handmaiden.” She took Oona by one hand and looked deep into her bright blue eyes. “Princess Oona Talomir, will you be my wife?”

“I…” Tears streamed down Oona’s cheeks. Her voice came a breath above a whisper. “I’m no princess.”

Kitlyn cradled her face in both hands. “Oona, family name unknown, I care not for where you came from or who the world thinks you are. Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” yelled Oona, bursting out in laughter despite continued tears. She clamped her arms around Kitlyn and dragged her around in a spin. “Yes! I will.” After joyful sniffles subsided, she stared at her. “Princess Kitlyn Talomir, will you marry me?”

Kitlyn grinned, her heart about to leap out of her chest. “I will.”

Ralen applauded.

Boom!

Kitlyn found herself sitting on the ground, unaware of what had knocked her over until Omun clapped a second time. She covered her ears an instant before he clapped a third time. Ralen winced. Oona’s scream stretched into laughter.

“I have one request,” said Oona. “I want to twist the knife a little deeper. Let’s play their game for a while longer?”

“Oh, yes. Delicious.” Kitlyn grinned. “I cannot wait to see that wretch Fauhurst’s face.”

Oona looked down, speaking in a timid voice. “What of the king?”

“I don’t know if I can forgive him for lying to me and treating me like a beggar.” She gazed off at the shifting white-blue mist hanging over the Churning Deep, a cloud tucked in a pocket of earth. It thickened and ebbed in time with the roar of distant water. “It’s not even the drudging work or the derisive stares… he let me believe it. He never acknowledged me, even in private.”

Ralen put a hand on both their shoulders. “After all the assassins my father sent… dare I suggest the way he treated you is our fault more than his? I am truly sorry.”

Kitlyn thought of punching him again, but, for one thing, her fist still hurt, and another, he hadn’t sent the assassins.

“Let us make haste to Cimril,” said Oona.

“Omun,” yelled Kitlyn. “Please lift us.”

“I accept your suggestion to accompany you.” Ralen took a few steps back. “However, if you do not object, I would prefer to ride. Allow me a moment to find my horse.”

The giant’s great stone hand settled on the earth. Kitlyn hopped up, turned around, and helped Oona climb on. She squealed as they glided upward. By the time they passed Omun’s ‘belt,’ she clung to Kitlyn, trembling. She pulled Oona onto the giant shoulder and sat amid his ivy hair, holding her hand.

Oona’s face had lost all trace of color. She gazed around at the landscape, awestruck. “D-don’t let go of me.”

“I won’t. It’s fine. Omun’s quite careful. He won’t drop us. Besides, didn’t you say you’d gotten over your fear of heights?”

“I… I may have t-tested the boundaries of truth.” Oona closed her eyes, breathing in small, rapid sips of air. “A-and this is m-much higher than that little tree in the garden.”

Ralen seemed to have difficulty convincing Faen to approach the giant. He followed at a modest distance.

Omun set off toward the Arch of the Ancients. Oona squealed the instant he started moving, but settled to a quiet, nasal whimper after three booming steps. The giant cleared the meadow in under a minute, approaching the two great statues flanking the head of a bridge older than kingdoms.

Kitlyn remembered stories from their tutor, at how the people who’d built it long predated either Lucernia or Evermoor. Some whispered that they had come before even Lucen, but statements like that could get someone locked in the dungeons until they repented for their heresy. She bit her lip. So many things she’d seen here had made her question everything she thought she knew.

A crumbling fort consisting of a chest-high stacked stone wall and rickety wooden shacks stood near the Arch on the Evermoor side. A mass of soldiers scrambled around within, swarming toward the northeastern corner to face their approach. Men and women in Evermoor armor stared, dumbfounded, up at Omun.

“The soldiers from the rear camp must have warned them,” whispered Oona.

Kitlyn blink at her. “They could see him from here.”

A few soldiers raised crossbows.

“Stand down,” yelled Ralen. “We are on our way to Cimril to retrieve the Heart.”

“Your father has warned us you have turned traitor,” yelled a man deep in the crowd.

Kitlyn stood, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Omun says he isn’t.”

“Who the bloody hell is Omun?” yelled a woman.

“I am Omun.” Most of the thin wooden shacks wobbled under the weight of his voice.

“Captain Nells,” called Ralen.

A red-haired woman in her early thirties, wearing the same plate-on-leather as Ralen, stepped forward from the group. “You are to return to Ivendar, Prince.”

“I am unable to do that now, Captain.” Ralen gestured at Omun. “Send word to my father that I have found the heir of King Aodh Talomir, and I am on my way to recover the Heart.”

“And if I refuse to disobey my king?” asked Captain Nells.

Ralen shook his head. “I suspect Omun will render his disapproval.”

“Will everyone please stop being foolish?” yelled Kitlyn. “Stand down and no one shall be hurt. I am King Talomir’s true heir.” She held her hands out to the sides, calling the flow of warm, earth energy in the core of her chest. Two obelisks of stone wreathed in brilliant green light rose on either side of the giant with a rumble that again shook the encampment. “I have been to Alderswood and I have felt the pain and sorrow of the great tree. I understand my father has stolen the heart of your land, and it must be returned. All I ask is that you grant me the chance to make right what my father’s greed and stubbornness have caused.”

The soldiers remained silent, as they had fallen upon the eruption of the obelisks.

“Why did you tell them who you are?” whispered Oona. “Now they’ll be trying to kill you.”

Kitlyn squeezed her hand. “Perhaps, but they won’t hurt you.”

Oona glared at her. “It’s more important that you live. Don’t you remember my purpose?”

A lump swelled in her throat. Unable to talk, Kitlyn held her, swaying side to side.

Captain Nells let her hand slip off her broadsword. “Very well. I will send messengers to your father informing him of your journey. It is unlikely he will understand your decision to release the heir, but I hope for your sake you are not riding off to your death.”

Ralen rendered a faint bow from horseback as she moved out of his path. “If death awaits me in Lucernia, I will ride proud in the Glimmering Vale, as I will have died having given everything to protect my people.”

Once the soldiers moved aside, Omun navigated the camp with a minimum of damage. Only three tents collapsed from his passage, as well as one rickety shack that could not withstand the shaking. He shifted sideways to fit between the statues at the beginning of the Arch of the Ancients and set out upon the mile-long strand. The colossal bridge had enough space for him to walk, though with a mere sliver of room to spare on either side―a matter of a few feet. From Kitlyn’s perch, the bridge may as well not have existed under the giant’s feet. She could see no trace of it, feeling as if his bulk simply floated across the deep chasm. Far below, whitewater smashed and whorled against the rocks, jagged peaks breaking the surface. He crossed at a speed much slower than he’d used while traveling overland. Kitlyn couldn’t see his face from his shoulder, but the hesitance in his stride suggested he might have been nervous.

I guess even stone giants don’t want to fall the better part of a mile into rough water.

Oona kept her face hidden in the crook of Kitlyn’s neck, no interest whatsoever in the view.

A few minutes later, they crested the midpoint and uphill became downhill. A Lucernian garrison had set up a heavier fortification at the western end, a tiny stone keep and several defensive walls rather than huts. Trumpet calls of alarm rang out.

“Oh, bother.” Kitlyn shook Oona. “Do something. They think we’re an attack coming from Evermoor. All they see from this far has to be a stone giant!”

“I can’t look.” She shivered.

“Oona, please. I’d rather not have to watch you shot with arrows.”

The not-quite-princess raised her head, eyes closed. After a few breaths to inhale courage, she stood with a white-knuckled grip on the giant’s swaying ivy hair.

“Now would be good. They’re gathering archers.” Kitlyn shook her head and muttered, “Fools. What do they think they’re going to accomplish?”

“Hold me, please. W-we’re so high up.”

Kitlyn stood behind Oona and wrapped both arms around her. After a few days spent riding up here, she felt secure enough to stand without holding the giant’s hair for support.

Oona gingerly released her fingers from the ivy and raised both hands over her head. Shimmering spirals of blue light surrounded her arms and shot off into the sky. They exploded in starbursts, like the shows some of the priests put on during holidays, only with more flash and less boom. The Lucernian soldiers hesitated. Oona brought her hands together and created a twenty-foot tall light glyph of the symbol of Lucen: a half-sun with wavy triangle ‘rays’ above the silhouette of a book.

The symbol lingered for a few seconds and faded, but had the desired effect.

“You should probably say something to them, Princess,” whispered Kitlyn with a hint of giggle.

Oona looked back. Her fear of heights faded to a mischievous smile.

Kitlyn giggled.

Omun turned sideways once more to squeeze past the two great statues on the Lucernia side, then stopped five paces in on solid ground. He slouched forward emitting a faint rumble of relief that vibrated his entire body. Perhaps he’d been as frightened as Oona the entire time and needed a moment. Soldiers gathered at a cautious distance.

“It’s the princess,” yelled a man, pointing.

Oona crept to the edge of the shoulder slab. “I am fine and healthy. Please do not send word on ahead. I wish to surprise my father.” She winked at Kitlyn. “He has been in such poor spirits of late, I would not want him to suffer the anxiety of waiting between the message and my arrival home.”

“What is that?” yelled a different man.

“Omun,” said Oona. “He is a friend of Lucernia and means no one harm.”

“The enemy approaches,” yelled a different soldier, pointing past them.

“He is with me,” yelled Oona. “He is not to be accosted. This is Prince Ralen Volduin, son of King Lanas Volduin. He is on a diplomatic journey and is under my protection.”

“I… see,” said an older man in armor. “Highness, this is most unusual. You will at least allow an escort.”

Oona gestured at the giant’s head. “I have no objection to your escort, though I do not think your men will be able to keep up.”

“I’m sure with only the meager protection of a stone ancient, she could use a few more broadswords at her side,” said Ralen. “I hear Lucernia’s highway bandits are quite troublesome.”

A few nervous chuckles came from the soldiers.

“Humor me, Highness,” said the knight-captain.

“I did not object.” She smiled and lowered her voice. “Whenever you are rested, Omun. Please, to Cimril.”

“Cimril.” Omun straightened his posture. “It would bring me pleasure to aid you.”

Kitlyn sat, dangling her feet over the front his shoulder. Oona nervously joined her, and they held hands as the forty-foot giant trod across the grasslands of Lucernia toward the interior.

35

Royal Pardon

~ Oona ~

Omun continued west, passing south of Cimril far enough not to cause a stir. A small contingent of soldiers who had tried to escort them fell way behind, no longer even visible.

The city’s pristine white walls shimmered in the sunlight of a clear sky, radiant against the rich green of the surrounding meadow. He came to a halt at the edge of the Mistral Wood, about an hour’s walk away from the gates.

Ralen took the opportunity to rest his horse, dismounting and letting the animal meander off into the tall grass on its way to the edge of Duskdawn Lake for a drink. The stallion seemed relieved, shaking its billowy white mane, stark in contrast to its midnight-black sheen. A few goats followed to check out the newcomer.

“We’re quite far from the city.” Oona clung to the ivy, staring at the distant towers of the castle she’d called home. Though she worried at not knowing what would become of her once the truth of their identity got out, she smiled knowing Kitlyn would no longer suffer within those walls.

“I do not wish to frighten your people, tiny one. I will find a place among these woods.” Omun raised his hand to his shoulder.

Oona quite looked forward to being on solid ground again and ignored her fear of heights long enough to make the leap to the waiting hand. Kitlyn followed. He stooped and lowered them to the grass beside the same dirt road upon which she’d been attacked by bandits days earlier.

Kitlyn choked up as she pressed herself against his leg, perhaps the closest a human could get to hugging such a being. “Thank you for your help, Omun. You are a true friend.”

“Goodbye is not farewell,” said the giant. “It would please me not to wait another thousand years to have someone to talk to.”

“I will visit you,” said Kitlyn.

“As will I,” said Oona, still awestruck at the existence of such a being.

“Are you going back to sleep?” asked Kitlyn. “Will I need to… wake you up again?”

“It takes me a great while to fall asleep, tiny one. Many times your lifespan.” He chuckled, startling the goats into a panicked dash.

Kitlyn patted his shin and stepped back. “If I can ever do anything for you in return…”

Omun bowed. “Fulfill your destiny, tiny one.”

Oona curtsied at him—not that he noticed.

With a wave that rained dirt and stone dust, Omun brought his massive body around and walked off into the Mistral Wood. The thud of his footsteps in the ground remained noticeable for some minutes after his head and shoulders vanished amid the trees. Oona started to fuss at her hair, but stopped.

Why bother. I am a complete disaster right now… and who cares? It’ll shock them more. “Ready?”

“A moment, Highness.” Ralen said. “Faen is spent from keeping pace with your friend.”

“He was going slow,” said Kitlyn.

“You call that slow?” Ralen scratched the back of his head.

“Yes. We traveled from the keep where you held Oona to Alderswood in one day.”

“That’s…” Ralen blinked. “Impressive.”

“Big strides and he is tireless.” Kitlyn put her hands on Oona’s shoulders and touched foreheads. “I do not know that I can keep hiding my feelings here.”

“You’re the princess,” whispered Oona. “You can do whatever you want. I only held my tongue for fear you wouldn’t share my feelings and I would lose you. I never cared what anyone else thought.”

Kitlyn smiled. “Later, then.”

“Yes. Later.” Oona flashed a devilish grin.

They stood in silence, holding each other for a while. Eventually, Ralen made a series of clicks, and the horse trotted back over. He patted the animal on the neck.

“He could use a good brushing, and some oats. I imagine he’s rather tired of grass.” Ralen took hold of the reins. “Let us go. I’ll rest him and walk.”

Oona took the lead with Kitlyn at her left and a half-step behind. Ralen followed on the right a little farther back. Weariness kept their stride unhurried, and about an hour later, they arrived at the city gates, wide open for the midday. Town guards stirred to alarm, but froze at Oona’s raised hand.

“Remain as you were. Do not send word to the palace. I wish to surprise the king. He could do with a bit of good news for a change.”

All the soldiers looked at her as though to say, ‘but, Highness, you look a shambles,’ but none dared voice it.

She gestured at the horse. “One of you bring this fellow to the royal stables. See that he is brushed and fed and relieved of his saddle and gear.”

“Yes, Highness,” said the youngest soldier, only a few years her senior.

Ralen got a few looks, but either no one recognized him or no one believed a single Evermoor soldier would’ve made it alive this deep into Lucernia. Oona strode down the street, head high, radiating all the imperiousness her supposed rank entailed. Most of the citizens went about their business, her plain, dirty, bloody dress and disheveled, wild hair serving to disguise her.

Kitlyn grabbed her arm. “I forgot about the stolen jewels. The palace guards will try to arrest me.

Oona frowned. “We will deal with that as well.”

“Oh, it surely was Elsbeth!” She scowled. “If she admits it, maybe I won’t make her a scullery maid… but I think I’ll put her in the dungeon for two days. Fair is fair.”

“You’re too kind.” Kit grew up as a servant. She’s going to make a beloved queen.

“Perhaps.” Kitlyn fidgeted at her tunic.

“I’ll tell Father to pardon you.” Oona examined her fingernails.

Kitlyn laughed.

“And honestly, you are the princess. How can you steal what’s yours?” Oona poked her.

“You raise a fair point.” Kitlyn giggled.

Oona ogled the streets of Cimril: white stone roads, gleaming buildings, and so many people. She hadn’t seen it up close since she’d been twelve. I yearn to visit the shops and the people again… but will they be happy to see me? She bit her lip.

“Stop it.” Kitlyn poked her in the side. “Princesses don’t look so frightened.”

Oona laughed. “I can’t wait to see you in a proper gown.”

“Must I wear those awful, cumbersome things? I rather miss wearing dresses, but something that takes four servants to get into? I’ll pass.”

“Yes, I quite agree.” Oona brushed at herself, trying to clean up as much as she could.

They turned right along the Grand Avenue, which led through the merchant square and the great Fountain of the Four to the castle.

Soon, statues of Lucen, Navissa, Orien, and Tenebrea came into view, towering over the crowd. At a mere fourteen feet tall, they seemed miniscule compared to Omun. The white marble of Lucen and Orien gleamed, while Navissa’s likeness had been carved from onyx. Tenebrea, an innocent-faced teen with a haunted look in her eyes, stood out in dark grey stone, polished as smooth as glass.

Almost no one reacted to the three of them crossing the square, save for a few men who tried to get Oona’s attention with catcalls, mistaking her for a commoner or a tavern wench. She ignored them, leading Kitlyn and Ralen under the Royal Arch at the north end of the square and past several blocks full of manor houses owned by wealthy merchants who couldn’t quite afford (or chose not to bother with) full mansions outside the city.

Two guardsmen scowled and walked over when they approached the castle grounds, evidently assuming them too poor to be in this part of the city, though once they got close enough to make eye contact with Oona, they gasped.

She waved them away with a steely glance and proceeded to the front of the castle. Four halberdiers at the gates had similar reactions, but yielded to her wave as well. As Kitlyn drew near, the man on the left made a grab at her arm.

Oona whirled on him, pointing. “Do not.”

“But, Highness, she is an escaped thief.”

Instant rage triggered a blinding flash before she could hold herself back. He wailed and grabbed his eyes. “Am I not speaking loud enough? I said do not touch her. Someone―and Tenebrea take me, I will find out who―is responsible for placing those items in her chambers.”

Three of the guards leaned back, eyebrows up. They exchanged confused glances.

They’re used to me being whiny.

Kitlyn gave her a wide-eyed look of surprise.

The halberdier blinked and wiped his eyes. “By Lucen…”

Oona fought the urge to apologize, settling for a contrite sigh. “No one is to touch her, or my guest. This is Prince Ralen Volduin of Evermoor.”

“Yes, Highness,” said the four at once, their eyes about to bulge out of their skulls.

“Where is the king?” asked Oona.

“In conference, Highness. The throne room,” said the nearer man of the pair to the right.

All four gripped their polearms tighter.

“Stand down,” said Oona, her tone icy. “I repeat, the prince is my guest.”

All four snapped to attention, drawing their polearms to their shoulders with sharp clicks.

She hiked her dress up a little and walked a touch shy of a jog across the antechamber and past the main hall to the stairs. Kitlyn kept a hand on her arm. Oona looked back; her magic read only love. Whether she truly feared being imprisoned or simply acted meek, any other emotion lurked like a single candle under sunlight.

Oona smiled.

Servants stopped what they were doing and trailed along behind them. She darted up the curved stairway, Kitlyn and Ralen at her heels, and crept up to the double doors separating the antechamber from the king’s throne room. Oona pulled the door open enough to peek.

Guards stood post by eight marble columns running down the center of the room on either side of a long golden carpet trimmed in red. Beredwyn, Fauhurst, Advisor Lanon, and Prince Tristan Lanwick gathered around the king on his throne. Murmured conversation jumped back and forth, alternating between discussion of a trade agreement with Ondar to secure their alliance in the war since (as Fauhurst put it) they had no way to know if the princess was even still alive. Advisor Lanon objected, citing the trade arrangement was so disadvantageous to Lucernia, it would be better to lose the war. King Talomir appeared to tune the entire display out, slouched in his seat with his head bowed into his hand, a look of utter defeat about him. His grave expression pulled at Oona’s heart. She’d been so angry with him for the past few days for what he’d done, but seeing him like that almost made her feel sorry for him.

Almost.

She might forgive him for his treatment of Kitlyn, but every orphan and every wartime death on both sides hung around his neck. That, only the gods could forgive.

Beredwyn, for his part, kept bringing the topic back to searching for the princess. Fauhurst either ignored him entirely or protested with random justifications for why it would be foolish to hope she had survived.

Oona snarled, and heaved both doors open as hard as she could push them. The booming echo of wood on marble rolled over the room, silencing the men and drawing startled gasps from a pair of chambermaids seated in chairs against the left wall, in wait of anyone needing anything.

The eight soldiers started to draw broadswords―until they saw who’d barged in. They gawked at her with a mixture of relief and confusion, which soon became horror at her appearance.

Oona stormed down the long carpet and came to a halt a short distance from the dais. “Pardon my intrusion. Am I interrupting anything important?”

The king stared at Kitlyn for a few seconds before looking at Oona. “By Lucen’s grace…”

Fauhurst gasped. “My princess! What has happened to you?”

“We’ve been discussing how best to go about locating you,” said Beredwyn.

“Well,” said Fauhurst. “Now that she has returned, we no longer need to worry about that unfavorable trade arrangement with Ondar. Wedding preparations can begin straight away.”

Beredwyn pursed his lips and looked off to the side.

The king blinked in shock. He raised his head from his hand as if it weighed as much as Omun’s, and stared at Kitlyn for a while longer before looking at Oona. Color swam into his face and he leapt to his feet.

Oona held up a hand as he swooped in, seeming intent to gather both girls into an embrace. He stopped.

“Who is that?” asked Fauhurst, one eyebrow cocked at Ralen.

“There will be no wedding to ally Lucernia with Ondar,” said Oona in a calm, confident tone. A tone no one in the castle had ever heard from her before.

“What?!” yelled Fauhurst.

The king tilted his head, his expression shifting past relief to wonderment. He gazed at Oona as if he couldn’t recognize this person standing before him.

“Your Majesty, I introduce Prince Ralen Volduin… of Evermoor,” said Oona.

The chambermaids gasped. In seconds, their fear gave way to curiosity, and they whispered back and forth while hungrily staring. Additional whispering came from the second-floor balcony walks overlooking the room. Other servants, who’d likely been scrubbing floors or dusting, peered over the banister to watch. It sounded as though most of them thought him handsome.

Fauhurst gaped like a fish brought out of water. Beredwyn blinked at him, doing little to hide his approval.

“Prince Tristan.” Oona faced him. “You are, from what little I have seen of you, a noble and honorable man. However, I cannot marry you. For one, I could not in good conscience do so for a rather significant reason that will become clear to you soon. Second, and more importantly, I am in love with someone else. Third, there is no need to drag Ondar into a war that will end this day.”

The king, and all present (save Beredwyn, Ralen, and Kitlyn) gasped. Prince Tristan appeared to be resisting the urge to smile.

Beredwyn glanced at Kitlyn with poorly concealed amusement.

Oona’s heart surged with emotion; she looked at Kitlyn and pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss. Another round of gasps swept over the room. A cluster of servants in the doors behind them murmured. Oona ignored them all, lost in Kitlyn’s embrace.

“Oh, thank the gods,” said the King before exhaling a deep, relieved sigh. “I expected you were about to tell me you had fallen for Prince Ralen.”

“Sire?!” whispered Fauhurst. “A-a-are you seeing this? Not only a peasant orphan and a thief, but a girl? I-it’s… deplorable. It’s impure. It’s improper.”

“That’s quite enough,” said Beredwyn, giving the junior advisor a hard stare.

Prince Tristan laughed, flashing a broad smile at Oona. “About bloody time.”

A few of the servants muffled chuckles at the prince’s common language.

Oona disentangled from Kitlyn and leaned back enough to stare into her eyes. I don’t care what they call us. Her love looked terrified, but elated.

“Guards, arrest that girl for thievery and escape.” Fauhurst pointed at Kitlyn.

“Pff.” The king waved at Fauhurst. “Forget the matter. She is utterly forgiven.”

Fauhurst stared at him with an expression befitting a little boy who’d had his birthday present snatched from his grasp seconds after opening it.

Oona pulled away from Kitlyn to face the throne, but continued holding her hand.

Fauhurst reddened. Beredwyn covered his mouth, seemingly to keep from laughing.

“You cannot forgive her,” said Oona, to more gasps.

The king raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“She didn’t do anything to forgive!” Oona pointed at Fauhurst. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he planted the jewelry in her room and lied, claiming she stole it. Most of us here know he has had a vendetta against her from the moment she arrived in this castle.”

Fauhurst blinked rapidly and raised his hands. “Wait, I… no! I had nothing to do with that.”

Oona brought her magic to bear on him… and gawked. He’s not lying. While the guardsmen stared at the king, awaiting his order, she raised a hand. “What do you know…? No, he didn’t do it. Lucen reveals the truth of his words.”

“Elsbeth,” mumbled Kitlyn.

“No. I did not.” Fauhurst snapped his robe tight to his shoulders.

“Right, then. But in the meantime, will someone please explain why the prince of the enemy kingdom stands here before the king and has not been disarmed?” asked Advisor Lanon.

“Quite a good question,” said Fauhurst.

Eight guards put their hands on their swords.

36

The Foretelling

~ Kitlyn ~

Kitlyn squeezed Oona’s hand. Most of the people in the room, including the servants up on the balconies, stared at her. She wanted to crawl into a little dark place and hide. At that second, being carted off to the dungeon for thievery didn’t seem too terrible an idea. Down there, no one could see the glowing red color she felt certain had swept over her face. Why did she kiss me in front of everyone? Oh, Lucen… I hope she’s ready for this. The whole kingdom is going to lose their senses.

Advisor Lanon’s words hit her like a slap.

“What enemy kingdom?” she snapped. “There is no enemy kingdom.”

Murmurings quieted. The room hung in silence.

Fauhurst glared at her. “Still your tongue, girl. You’ve no place spea―”

“You be quiet,” roared Kitlyn. “I’ve had more than enough of you. Now stand there and for the love of Lucen, stop talking!”

Fauhurst gasped, hand to his mouth.

She swept her gaze around at everyone before staring at the king. “There is no enemy kingdom. We know about the Eldritch Heart,”―she narrowed her eyes―“Father.”

Everyone (including the chambermaids) gasped.

Beredwyn’s face went red with the effort necessary to keep his expression neutral.

The king opened his mouth, but couldn’t find words.

“No…” whispered Fauhurst. “This petulant―”

“Did I give you permission to speak?” Kitlyn glared at him. “Look at my eyes. Look at my father’s eyes.”

An eruption of whispers echoed from the balconies. Several servants blurted ‘I knew it,’ along with a few invocations to the gods. A bit of red hair peeked over the railing from the second floor. Rowan waved at Kitlyn, beaming with joy.

“There is no reason to continue the deception.” Kitlyn turned in a circle, arms held high to the room. “Evermoor will not be sending more assassins. This war is going to end now.”

Oona raised her head. “I am not the princess. I met my mother in the village of Llanoen after I ran away.” A flurry of muttering sparked up among the servants and guards. Fauhurst twitched and shivered. “The king… purchased me from my mother when I was three years old. I am a target dummy to protect the heir.”

“It is true,” said the king, his voice grave. He stepped down the dais stairs as if marching to his own execution, and approached Kitlyn.

Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.

He gripped her shoulders. “This is my daughter. This is Princess Kitlyn Talomir.”

Fauhurst gurgled, wheezed, and blanched, ready to faint.

Beredwyn let out a cheer. “By Lucen’s grace, I am so relieved not to have to hold that in any longer. Most of the servants have already deduced the truth or at least possessed an inkling of suspicion.”

The king glanced at him.

“The resemblance is most striking when she is angry.” Beredwyn chuckled. “Though to be fair, you have not had much to lift your spirits as of late, sire.”

Kitlyn stood rigid as the king embraced her, patting her on the back.

“I… after your mother’s death, I could not bear the thought of losing you as well. The very idea of it killed me. Having you live in disguise seemed the only way to protect you.”

“It isn’t.” She pushed him out to arm’s length. “You had a better way from the very beginning.”

Beredwyn glided over and hugged Kitlyn from the side. “Please forgive us, child. It was my idea to place the treasure in your room. After the assassin managed to infiltrate the castle and attack Oona, and then she disappeared, we were too worried to think clearly.”

“What?” Kitlyn glared. “I trusted you, Beredwyn. I thought you cared for me like a grandfather.”

“I do.” He bowed his head. “We felt the ruse necessary to fool any spies that may still be lurking about. Surely, they would assume the king would not tolerate having his daughter incarcerated, and it would have been most difficult for an assassin to get to you down there. I apologize. We did it only for your protection.”

Kitlyn fumed. “Oona was missing and I was locked in that little room unable to help!”

“What would she have done?” Fauhurst rolled his eyes.

Growling, Kitlyn thrust her arm forward. A shaft of stone grew up from the floor, slamming to a halt inches from Fauhurst’s nose, spraying him in the face with dust.

He leapt into a backward lean, and squeaked.

The spire sank back into the floor, smoothing flat as tiles slid back into place over it.

“We have come to ask you to return the Eldritch Heart. Their kingdom is dying.” Kitlyn looked around at the people watching. “We have been to Evermoor. The tales of demons are lies. Their king has summoned no ancient evil.”

“Oh, child…” King Talomir put his hands on her shoulders and continued in a raised voice that carried over the throne room and into the balcony. “I fear the magic of the savages has affected your thoughts. You are not yourself. Come with me to the temple, and we shall have the demon exorcised. Lucen’s light shall shield you.”

A soft blue ring surrounded the king’s head for an instant before fading. Matching light appeared in Oona’s raised hand. “He lies.”

The advisors gasped. Servants stared in silence, while a small group of priests and priestesses stared at her with keen interest.

Oona raised the light high over her head. “The king deceives. Lucen shows me the truth. There is no demon.” She stared at the king. “Please, Fa… Highness, give the Heart back. There is no reason for this war.”

“You are mistaken,” said the king, still orating for the entire room. “Lucen has instructed me to wield the Heart in furtherance of his power. So few of our people are born with magic, barely one to twenty of theirs. We are on the defensive. I will unlock―”

Snarling, Kitlyn flung her arms to the sides, sending energy into the ground. Warmth tingled in her toes and spread up her legs, coalescing in her chest. The floor stones tore loose, rising into a swirling storm. Advisor Lanon’s tall hat vanished with a thwap, torn from his head by a flying brick. Several of the guards shouted in alarm. Chambermaids screamed and dove behind their chairs. A chorus of awestruck gasps fell from the balcony. Oona went wide-eyed, staring at her. Even the king paled a few shades. The stones, lofted on glimmering threads of bright green magic, gained speed, becoming a blurry tempest of earth. She couldn’t help herself and flung one into Fauhurst’s chest, knocking him on his ass. Her father’s white robes tinted green in the light radiating from her eyes. Soon, the entire castle shook.

Ralen held his arms out for balance. He gazed at Kitlyn with a mixture of awe and respect.

“Father, you ripped the Eldritch Heart from the Alderswood, dooming an entire kingdom to a miserable, wasting death. If you do not give back what you stole, I shall tear this castle apart to the last brick until I find it!” She broke apart the left wall exposing the inner courtyard, lifting the stones inches into the air before sending them back into place. A heavy slam shook the keep from the wall reassembling. Some of the guards and most of the servants lost their balance and fell. The screams of distant servants filled the halls.

“Kit!” screamed Oona.

King Talomir gawked, backpedaling with his arms raised.

“Kit!” Oona grabbed her arm. “Please, stop!”

She glared for a few seconds, breathing hard through her nostrils. Rage ebbed, and she guided the maelstrom of stones back to where they had been. Floor, walls, and ceiling knit together as if nothing had happened. A moment of uneasy silence hung in the room, her glare drilling holes in her father’s skull. “I have seen Alderswood. I have its power inside me. You stole its heart.”

Oona glanced at the priests. “Gaze upon his intentions for yourself, see the truth. He’s too weak to hide from you now.”

“All right.” The king bowed his head. “Daughter… I have spent the last thirteen years living as though my child had already died. I watched you from the shadows, always wanting to tell you the truth, but too frightened a little girl could not keep the secret that would save her life.” He sighed, and raised his dark green eyes to meet hers. “I do not deserve it, but can you ever forgive me?”

Kitlyn folded her arms. “Father―and whether or not I continue to call you that is up to you―there is only one thing you can do for me that would even open this conversation.”

“What? Anything.” He grasped her upper arms.

“We have a chance to end this needless death, right now. Return the Eldritch Heart, or is it worth more to you than my life? The countless lives of our people?”

The wrinkles of a decade seemed to spread over his cheeks in seconds; he slouched in on himself, taking on the posture of a much older man. King Talomir had not yet reached forty, but the grey of endless worry seeped into his dark brown hair and beard. His voice came as a whispery croak. “It is here… In the Chamber of Light. I yet work to unlock its secrets. For safekeeping, it is hidden it in a great statue of Lucen I molded from solid light.”

Oona gawked. “Y-you stole it and used the image of the God of Truth to conceal your lies? You told us King Volduin summoned demons twenty years ago. Seconds ago, you tried to tell everyone we were possessed! What else has been but a fabrication?”

The clutch of priests off to the side murmured amongst themselves.

King Talomir bowed his head. “I thought Lucen guided me to this task.”

“No wonder…” Oona blinked. “You never discovered Advisor Yelem as a spy because Lucen had stopped listening to you.”

A collective intake of breath rose among everyone in the room.

“Father…” Kitlyn put a hand on his chest. “The people of Evermoor are not savages. They do not traffic with demons or consume the flesh of babies. I have been back and forth across their kingdom and I have seen their true faces. I have seen innocent children. I have seen fathers who have lost sons and daughters, soldiers who have lost their brothers and sisters, an entire land facing a slow death. Because of what you did, I have nearly been killed several times.”

He wept in silence, tears gliding down his rugged cheeks and soaking into his beard.

“If the Heart returns to Alderswood, they have no reason for war. No reason to send assassins. You set this all in motion. I am going to stop it.” Or I shall not leave this castle standing.

“And so you shall. Lucen has shown me the error of my ways through your actions. All that has come to pass has been his plan.” The king bowed. “Come, child.”

Oona gazed around the throne room. Continuous murmuring surrounded them, especially among the priests. The one to whom she’d given the coin purse stared at her with horror in his eyes. “Your Majesty, if you were to visit the orphans in the temple, could you tell them their mothers and fathers perished at Lucen’s will?”

Without a word, the king drifted off down the carpet like a broken specter, his robes concealing the motion of his legs. Kitlyn shot another glower at Fauhurst before following the king. Oona ran up and took her hand. Both princes, Beredwyn, and the two advisors trailed after.

King Talomir walked out of the throne room, down the curved stairs, and back along the main hallway to the rear of the castle. Halberdiers opened two great wooden double doors to a covered walkway outside that bisected an immaculate grassy rectangle. To the north of the passage stood a twenty-foot statue of Lucen in the middle of a white marble reflecting pool. To the south, his bride, Navissa, posed in a matching reflecting pool of onyx.

Kitlyn stole glances at Oona as they walked, smiling as the wind among the columned arches on both sides lofted her hair. She is so beautiful, even weathered and weary. “The second thing my father must do for me to even contemplate forgiving him is to grant you land and title.”

Oona squeezed her hand.

At the end of the walk stood a pair of glossy red double doors with a decorative pattern in gold around the symbol of Lucen. King Talomir raised his hand and summoned an intricate web of lightweave in the air, which matched the carving. The glowing rune faded, absorbed by the wood; an answering flare lit the seams around the doors, and they drew ajar on their own. Only priests and priestesses of Lucen had ever been allowed to see the interior of the Chamber of Light, and that old tradition made her (and everyone else) hesitant to cross the threshold.

King Talomir advanced into a blinding chamber with a tall domed ceiling. Hundreds of round windows caught and channeled the sun into a figure of Lucen made entirely of pure white light. Despite having no skill with that form of magic, the energy it radiated was unmistakable. Kitlyn leaned away from the tremendous brilliance. Her father approached the representation of Lucen, the top of his head a few inches shy of the statue’s waist.

The king raised his hands, chanting in a low voice too quiet to make out individual words. Tiny, glowing sigils appeared around his gesturing arms and one sun-like shape glowed in front of his forehead. A few seconds later, portions of the tall, robed figure’s chest vanished. Within the torso sat a great gnarl of golden-brown wood. It appeared aged in parts, fresh in others, and bore a thick coating of verdant green moss bespeckled with tiny yellow and white flowers. Deep green luminescence glowed from within its seams. Withering around the ends of the thick roots hinted at where its connection to the Alderswood had been severed.

Even from thirty feet away, the sight of it flooded Kitlyn with energy. For a second, an overwhelming sense of fear gripped her, as if the Eldritch Heart knew she wielded the power to destroy it in its weakened state. Kitlyn focused her desire to mend the tree toward it, and dread shimmered warm, shifting to hope.

It knows. She smiled as her father reached up and pulled the Heart down. Despite the wooden knot being almost three feet tall, he did not struggle with the burden of carrying it. Did it choose to share its power with me, hoping I would someday bring about its return?

This is not where you belong. Kitlyn stared at the Heart, willing it to listen. It is time for you to become whole again.

The pulsating emerald glow brightened and it radiated gratitude.

Ralen gazed in awe at the life essence of his entire kingdom.

King Talomir backed up a few steps and sealed the statue with a wave. After a bow to the image of the patriarch, he carried the Heart over to where everyone had gathered near the doors.

As the life-giving knot of wood neared, the energy it gave off rippled within Kitlyn, making her lightheaded. She concentrated on how much she wanted to return it to the tree, and all the pain and regret she felt for everyone who had been hurt by her father’s actions. Worry that she may mistakenly damage it, dooming Evermoor, kept her gaze on the floor.

“I was a fool,” said the King. “An arrogant, mindless fool who sought only the glory of Lucen at the expense of those who refused to hold him in reverence as do I. For years, I could not confront my inability to unlock the secrets of this artifact.”

Kitlyn lifted her head. “The Heart gives its power only willingly, Father. It cannot be stolen.”

“Indeed.” Prince Ralen gazed into the scintillating green glow.

The king faced Ralen, offering the Heart. “Prince Ralen Volduin. This belongs to your people. Please accept it with my most humble apologies, and tell King Lanas I have never regretted anything so much as betraying his trust.” He bowed his head. “I should have admitted the folly of my actions years ago and surrendered the Heart back to its rightful place. Pride has been my greatest nemesis. I refused to see that my wife’s death had been my fault, and focused only on the assassin… and your father.”

Ralen grasped the heart with reverence and bowed. “The people of Evermoor appreciate your honesty, King Talomir. I shall do what I can to dull his anger, though I expect he will demand reparations. Many have suffered for this conflict.”

“And so he shall have them,” said King Talomir. “We have both been fools. Me more than your father. I shall await his discourse and seek the counsel of Lucen to atone.”

“The war shall end this day.” Ralen tilted his head. “I am surprised to hear you regret betraying my father more than what you have done to your daughter.”

The king lowered his head. “Had I not stolen the Eldritch Heart, her life would never have been imperiled. You are welcome to stay here as an honored guest, though I suspect you will wish to journey to Alderswood as soon as possible. I shall provide an escort to see you to the Arch with all due haste and protection.”

Ralen backed away. “The Eldritch Heart must return to its home. Already, the deadening affects our outermost reaches.” He bowed. “Kitlyn, you have risen from your humble beginnings to true nobility. May your eventual reign as queen be prosperous, and your time from now until then be filled with the joy you deserve.”

Kitlyn stared at him.

“Curtsey,” whispered Oona.

Oh. Right. She flashed a wide smile and curtsied, though felt foolish for doing so covered in dirt while barefoot in a tunic and breeches.

Beredwyn brought his hands together in a sharp clap. “The Foretelling has come to pass. The Heir has ended the war.”

Kitlyn looked to Oona and grasped her hand. Her dearest love shivered with relief, worry, and fatigue. She pulled her close. Whatever the future held for them, Kitlyn would no longer be a broken branch drifting wherever the waters of fortune carried her.

I am the stone that bends the river.

37

Gods and Peasants

~ Oona ~

Oona sat on a cushioned bench in her bedchamber as Meredith put the finishing touches on her hair. Four days had passed since Ralen took the Heart back to Evermoor. Four wonderful days of soft beds, proper food, and not having to worry about people trying to kill her.

With the truth of Kitlyn’s identity revealed, Elsbeth’s animosity toward her evaporated and she acted as though none of it happened. The girl expected to be promptly installed as Oona’s handmaiden, but after the way she’d treated Kitlyn for so long, Oona refused. For her part, Kitlyn decided against exacting any sort of revenge or punishment and even allowed her to remain on as First Maid—though with a stern warning that she would be dismissed if she was ever caught mistreating any servant in the future.

One of the royal chambermaids, Meredith, had been promoted to Kitlyn’s handmaiden. For the time being, Oona didn’t have an official handmaiden, and likely wouldn’t until the wedding had been officiated. Although, Meredith had taken quite graciously to helping her as well on a temporary basis.

Without significant protest, the king had given in to his daughter’s second requirement to obtain her forgiveness (on a lengthy and not-yet-finished list), granting Oona an estate in the woods northeast of Gwynaben, a property long vacant save for a small cadre of caretakers. She had little intention of going there, though perhaps they may summer at the countryside on occasion, as the foothills could be quite comfortably cool that time of year.

Kitlyn, much to Oona’s guilt and relief, had refused to allow her to be evicted from the princess’ bedchamber. They planned to marry and would likely share the room once that came to pass. However, since they had made their love known and remained unwed, the king had forbidden them from being with each other indoors without supervision.

Most surprising of all, Meredith had shown little hesitance at attending to Oona’s bath. She did make it quite clear she had no interest in women and wished to remain professional and polite. Oona had a nice long talk with her. Unlike what some of the more virulent adherents of Lucenite doctrine would claim, she had no intention of ‘corrupting’ her or ‘grabbing every innocent woman she could get her hands on.’

Even Elsbeth seemed to find the couple cute. The formerly jealous First Maid had been one of the last people Oona had ever expected to be at peace with her love for Kitlyn. Much to her surprise, the girl showed no hint of distaste. Oona bristled whenever the girl came too near. It would take her a long time to forgive how she’d been to Kitlyn, though she kept her mouth shut.

Some arguments are not worth the breath. Enjoy the peace.

“All done, milady,” said Meredith.

Oona examined herself in the mirror the girl held up. Her hair looked much better. Two small braids came together at the back of her head, containing the rest of her locks, which hung down her back. Flowers of blue and white gathered above her right ear, complementing her deep blue dress. At her insistence, she wore a simple gown without the need for an army of servants to help her into it.

“It’s lovely.” Oona smiled at her and slipped on her elbow-length gloves. A priestess of Orien had mended her bruises, as well as a few cuts and scrapes. The same woman had sensed a disease in Kitlyn, which she’d cleansed. Whatever malaise she’d been afflicted with had not yet presented any symptoms, though the priestess reacted with great concern. Kitlyn had said only one odd word to explain how she’d become sick: Nimse.

Meredith flashed a grateful, proud smile.

With her outfit in order, Oona stood and made her way out through the hall to the stairs and her favorite place in the entire castle―the garden. The king had arranged a celebratory feast for their safe return. He beseeched her to regard him as her father, as he had essentially been so for most of her life.

On the way out onto the garden walk, she wondered what her actual father had been like before he died in the war. Her little sister’s constant flinching filled her with worry about how Ruby treated her. The child appeared ever in fear of being struck. Oona wondered had she not been sold, would she have grown up like that as well, or had her true father’s death changed her mother?

“Oona!” yelled Kitlyn.

She looked up.

Kitlyn gathered a billowy white dress up off her matching soft shoes and hurried over. Her gown bared both shoulders and rustled as she moved. She hadn’t bothered with the gloves and had her hair simple and straight under a silvery crown set with three rectangular emeralds, two small ones flanking a larger one in the middle.

No one had taken Oona’s silver and sapphire crown away, but she didn’t feel proper wearing it anymore, at least not until she’d officially married. She grasped Kitlyn’s arms and they traded quick cheek kisses.

“You look beautiful,” said Oona.

“You as well, but you always do.” A touch of blush pinked Kitlyn’s cheeks. “I don’t think I will ever get used to wearing shoes. It feels strange, like I am cut off from the earth.”

A significant crowd mingled about several tables set up with refreshments near a trio of skalds that provided muted background music with a mandolin, flute, and some small drums. Beredwyn and the king stood off to the far right, near the entrance to the garden proper where Oona longed to be. If it wouldn’t cause a massive social disaster, she’d have flung off her shoes and hose before dragging Kitlyn, laughing, into the hedgerow maze to the pond.

They held hands instead while walking among the guests, chatting about the room Kitlyn had moved into across the castle on the west side, one of the large suites reserved for visiting dignitaries. She’d wanted to keep her little room due to its being closer to Oona, but the king wouldn’t tolerate her in such ‘squalid’ conditions anymore. Oona had been quite impressed with Kitlyn for not throwing it in his face he hadn’t taken issue with it for thirteen years.

Some of the nobles refused to look at them. A handful actively scurried away as they approached, and about a third seemed curious. Whenever someone asked ‘but how can you fall in love with a girl?’ Oona rolled her eyes internally and repeated the same thing she said to everyone else that asked: “I just love her.”

She had expected universal derision. About one in three tolerating them felt like the gods themselves smiled down on her. Perhaps those who felt so strongly as to be problematic had refused to attend or been removed by the king? That their High Priest had accepted them already defied her wildest expectations.

A group of five Lucenite priests, two of them women, congregated together near the wall, away from partygoers. They kept their attention focused on the king, with the occasional glance at Kitlyn. Their grim expressions did not fill her with much hope, though they didn’t react much to displays of affection, so perhaps the grimness came from something other than her love for Oona.

Perhaps they place greater import on the king’s lies?

For once, she didn’t feel like the center of attention. Kitlyn weathered an endless stream of apologies from most of the castle staff, the guards, and the advisors. The last she’d seen of Fauhurst, he’d been brought to the temple for anti-poison magic after quite overdoing it with alcohol. Rumor had it that he’d been so certain of horrible reprisal for his treatment of Kitlyn, he’d attempted to send himself to Tenebrea with drink. Whether or not the man had genuinely wanted to end his life, she didn’t know. She doubted he’d have gone to that length. However, given the way he’d reacted to her falling in love with a girl, she wouldn’t miss him if the king sent him away, a matter that remained undecided. If not, well, she daydreamed about Kitlyn ordering him to carry linens and scrub floors.

A little more than two hours, three teacakes, four cups of tea, and a glass of wine later, a familiar voice from behind and left locked every muscle in her back.

“Oona?” asked Ruby.

What does she want? Oona looked around for Kitlyn and spotted her halfway across the outer garden, surrounded by a cluster of noble daughters. The girls ranged from little up to about thirteen, and from their wide-eyed expressions, she assumed Kitlyn told them about Omun or some other part of their adventures in Evermoor.

Oona froze. “Mother.”

“I wanted to apologize to you.”

Oona turned.

Her mother wore a plain navy blue dress, extravagant for a peasant, but only a slight notch upward from the castle servants’ garb. Basic black boots poked out from under the hem. The woman mashed her hands together and smiled. Evie hovered behind her in a white sundress, still barefoot, but at least clean.

“It was wrong of me to react like I did. I was too overwhelmed with seeing you again after I thought I’d lost you forever. I didn’t handle it well.”

Oona folded her arms. “So I’m not an abomination anymore?”

Ruby winced. “Forgive me. It’s not anything I’ve had experience with so… close. Only what people say. I never imagined―”

“That your daughter would be one of them?”

“The priests… they always talk about purity, and I never thought twice about it. I spoke too fast, before I really thought about how I feel.” Ruby looked down. “I know we haven’t gotten off on the best foot, and I’ve not seen you since you were three. I’m happy you’ve found someone you can love as much as I loved your father… even if they are a woman.”

Oona flinched. “How long ago did he die?”

Ruby leaned on a table, gazing off into the garden maze. “They conscripted him off to war. I don’t know exactly how, but he died. Evie was only a few months old… about seven years ago.”

Her little sister gave her an eerie stare, seeming unfazed by the topic.

“The war’s over now.” Oona picked at her gloved fingers. “I wish I’d known about how it started years ago, so I could’ve done something.”

“You’re still a child.” Ruby smiled. “Only sixteen. ‘Years ago’ you would’ve been Evie’s age.”

“People marry and start families at my age. I’m astonished you hadn’t asked what’s wrong with me that I haven’t married yet.” Oona sighed. “But you already know what’s wrong.”

Ruby bit her lip. “It will take some adjustment, but you’re still my daughter. I was mistaken. I regret what I said in the heat of the moment. I don’t want to natter at you. When you’re ready to talk, please…”

“All right.” Oona smiled and waved at Evie.

The girl lifted a hand in a limp wave. She looked as though she’d done something bad and dreaded being caught. Oona gave her an inquisitive head tilt, but the child lowered her gaze to the ground and trudged off after her mother.

“Well, that was odd.”

Gerald, the butler, announced the meal, and a hundred and change people arranged themselves at the tables set up on the grass. She sat to the king’s left, Kitlyn on his right. After taking her seat, she peered around him at Oona with an earnest and somewhat annoyed look, likely at being too far away to hold hands.

Is he ashamed of us? Does he not want us acting like we’re in love in front of everyone? Oona furrowed her brows.

Servants brought out an appetizer course: small medallions of mutton wrapped in mint leaves, followed by salad. Oona picked at it, her appetite dulled by the constant wonder at why the king had gone to such lengths to keep them apart. By the time the servants brought out the turkey and ham entrées (she opted for turkey), she realized he wouldn’t have let her share a bedroom with Tristan either until they’d been officially married, and felt better enough to eat.

After dessert, people broke into clusters to talk and enjoy more tea and sweet wine. The king whisked Kitlyn off on ‘the rounds,’ ensuring that she spent a few moments meeting everyone who showed up. Oona wandered near the garden, eager for all the guests to leave so she could have some time alone with Kitlyn. Judging by the fading sunlight, the party would go on well into the dark, and they wouldn’t be able to find any quiet until tomorrow.

Perhaps I’ll retire for the night early.

“Oona,” whispered a tiny voice.

She moved closer and peered over the low wall separating the garden walk from the field between the castle and the maze. Evie crouched out of sight behind the white stones, teetering on the verge of tears.

“What’s the matter, child?”

The girl cried, trying to keep as quiet as possible. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?” Oona leaned down and took her sister’s hand.

Evie lowered her gaze to the ground. “Mama’s lying. I heard her talkin’ to Mrs. Fitch next house. She still don’ think it right for you to love a girl, but she don’ wanna be a peasant anymore. She’s only bein’ nice because you’s goin’ to marry the princess, and Mama wants to be royal.” She sniffled. “Mama says you’re not pure, but Lucen despo… despir… don’t like lies, and Mama’s fibbin’.”

Oona clutched her chest as if her mother’s rejection had happened all over again. Rejection, and worse, deceit.

Evie put her hands together at her chin. “Please don’t tell on me. If she finds out I told you, I’ll get punished. Maybe she’ll sell me too.”

Oona couldn’t help but tear up at the child’s heartbreaking expression of dread. She hurried around to the nearest opening in the waist-high wall and crouched to hug her younger sister. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I like Kitlyn. I’m glad you love her.” Evie wiped tears. “Mama’s afraid I’m going to ‘turn out rotten’ too.” She looked down, ashamed.

“Look at me, Evie.” Oona seethed with anger. Once the girl made eye contact again, her glower softened. “The only one who gets to choose who you can or cannot love is you. When you find whoever it is you were meant to be with, it just happens.”

“The Fitches in the next house are always yellin’ at each other. Are they in love?”

Oona sighed. “I don’t know. Love can be far from perfect―but I’m sure they love each other in their own way.” She stood and scanned the party for her mother. The woman hovered by the table of teacakes, nibbling on one in between sips of wine. “Thank you for being honest, Evie. It hurts to hear now, but it would’ve been far more painful later if I started to trust her and then found out the truth.”

Evie gulped.

Oona thought about the pouch with her ‘allowance’ in it, still sitting back inside on the bureau where she’d dropped it days ago. No. That’s special. I’m going to use that on something for Kit or treat myself to the shops in town. She spent a few minutes comforting her sister’s tears away before approaching the king and waiting for him to notice her.

“Oona.” He hugged her. “How are you feeling, child?”

“Uneasy. May I ask you an uncomfortable question?”

He steeled himself, and nodded. Kitlyn gave her a worried look.

“When you made the… arrangement with my mother, how much did you pay her?”

Kitlyn’s eyes reddened.

“Why would you ask such a thing?” King Talomir put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Oona’s lip quivered, but she kept her composure. “She is here. I suspect she had you or Beredwyn issue an invitation on the pretense she wished to mend fences with me. What I’m sure she had not revealed is that when we met her in Llanoen, she saw me kiss Kitlyn and threw us out of the house. Tonight, she tried to say she regretted it. I’ve learned from a trustworthy source that she’s only trying to ingratiate herself for financial reasons. I would like to offer her a similar sum in exchange for going away and leaving me alone.” She started to look away, but snapped her gaze back to him. “And I want her to leave Evie, my sister, here. I fear she is being cruel to her, and my sister is such an innocent, I could not bear the thought.”

Kitlyn gasped. “Evie?”

“The woman will surely blame the girl for revealing her lies, and I fear for her safety.”

“A hundred gold radians,” muttered the king.

Kitlyn’s jaw hung open. A ridiculous sum to a peasant; to a king, a trifle.

“Very well.” He patted her shoulder. “If she accepts your offer, she will receive her coin. She does not deserve you.” The king glanced at Kitlyn. “Perhaps Lucen guided me to you for a far nobler reason than I intended.”

“My magic will reveal her intentions,” said Oona. “Though, I am not inclined to doubt my sister.”

He raised both eyebrows. “You are much farther along the path of light than I would have imagined. When we have time, you must talk with me about everything you have been able to do. Seeing the light of another’s soul is quite a rare gift for a person your age.”

Oona hesitated at the sense of pride wafting off him. She hadn’t thought he regarded her as anything more than bait. Will Lucen ever forgive him? His magic is weak, as his moral fortitude is weak. No wonder I can see past his defenses. “Thank you. Of course.”

Kitlyn hugged her. “I’m sorry for the way your mother is.”

“Don’t be. She should be sorry for being the way she is. I don’t even know her.” Oona strode over to Ruby, who had drifted over to stand under the one tree that existed in the clear space between the maze and the castle, munching on another teacake. This put her almost in the dead center of the party. Past caring who heard what, she cleared her throat. “Mother…”

Kitlyn and the king followed, holding back a few paces.

The woman looked up, smiling. “Oona, I’m glad you’ve come to talk so soon.”

“Are you truly willing to accept me for who I am?”

Ruby looked at the pastry in her hand. “It will be a lot of adjustment for me, but for you…”

She doubts. Oona looked back at Kitlyn and gestured for her to come closer.

She approached, squinting at Ruby with distrust.

Oona put an arm around Kitlyn. “This is the person I love and want with all my heart to spend the rest of my days with. If you are to remain part of my life, you will need to accept this.” She looked to her right and stared adoration into Kitlyn’s eyes before giving her a brief kiss on the lips.

A pang of revulsion wafted away from Ruby, the magic making it as clear as a fist to the gut. Blue light shimmered on Oona’s hands, echoed by wisps of glowing smoke around her mother.

“You’re lying, Ruby. Watching us nauseates you. Lucen tells me you deceive because you wish to remain close to the royal family for financial gain, even if it means acting as if you can tolerate who I am.”

Ruby’s face reddened. She looked worried, almost panicky. “Oona, daughter… it will take time. You can’t expect me to change my thinking in a matter of days.”

More blue light danced about her fingers. “You are feeling desperation now.” Oona sighed. “I wish to make you a familiar offer. You are welcome to stay and try to change the way you feel about us, but know that Lucen will show me your true intentions. Or, I will give you a hundred gold radians and send you on your way.”

Ruby stared down, gnawing on her lip.

“Oh, one more thing.” Oona held her head high. “If you accept the money, Evie will remain here with me, and we will raise her. That money, plus what you have left from before, will let you live quite well in Imric or Torlach. You’ll never want or worry again, provided you don’t waste it frivolously.”

Evie emerged from the crowd, staring at Oona in pure shock. Ruby glanced at her, at Oona, and back at the floor.

Oona frowned. “If I were Evie, I’d be hurt that you have to think about the offer at all and did not immediately decline it. I’m rather glad I was too little to understand what happened when you sold me.”

The partygoers, having fallen silent during the exchange, emitted a collection of gasps, whistles, and mutters of disapproval.

“It… I cannot so quickly abide such an affront to purity,” shouted Ruby. She looked at everyone. “Are you all so ready to cast aside Lucen’s teachings?”

Oona narrowed her eyes. They are so willing to ignore it when the king casts aside his doctrine. They believe Lucen’s high priest can do no wrong. Even Lucen seems silent. A soundless sigh escaped her nostrils. Who are mortals to claim to understand the wants of the gods? Whatever the king said in the name of Lucen, the people all accepted as truth. Seeing his lust for power first hand, she questioned how much of ‘Lucen’s desires’ had belonged to the man instead.

Some voices murmured tentative agreement. About an equal number spoke up in support of Oona.

King Talomir raised his arms and gathered everyone’s attention with a brief, bright flash. “If any of the gods take issue with my daughter choosing to love this girl instead of a man, let them show themselves and say so in person.”

Everyone gasped.

The king kept his arms skyward. He cocked his head to the left for a few seconds before looking right. “Lucen, I call upon thee. If their love does not please you, let it be known.”

A hundred and change people stood in perfect silence for a little over a minute before the king clapped.

“Lucen has rendered no objection. I―”

Something in the air changed, stalling the mood to one of apprehension. Faint, glowing fog glided out from the garden maze, seeping serpentine among the assembled people. Six paces from Oona, it shifted from a low-lying patch to a vertical column and took on the general hint of a teenage girl’s shape, trailed by a wisp of silver-grey hair. An ethereal skeleton appeared inside the coalescence for the few seconds it took to walk past her and Kitlyn, caressing their cheeks with an icy hand. The ghostly lips hovering over the skull smiled, clearly pleased.

Tenebrea! Humbled, Oona bowed her head in reverence, shivering with gratitude and awe. She heard me…

Seconds after the apparition dissipated, three quarters or so of the crowd whispered prayers beseeching Tenebrea not to claim them to the realm of the dead.

The king’s confusion faded. He smiled and clapped again. “No god disputes their love.”

“That is a change to the teachings,” yelled a man.

“No, a clarification only.” The king shot a stern look in that direction. “The doctrine calls for purity, and their love is pure. As Oona has read this woman’s intention, I have seen the truth in their dedication to each other. Both of them thought nothing of giving their lives for the sake of the other. I need no further proof.”

“Lucen has not commented.” The oldest priest raised his hands to the sides before clasping them at his waist and offering a faint smile. “Though his daughter seems to approve.”

“The Lady of Dusk knows well the life of an outcast,” said a red-haired priestess.

Oona looked at Ruby, at the dark shadow of greed hovering around a feeble glimmer of guilt. “It is not my intention to bar you from visiting Evie, but her home will be in the castle, with me.”

“A hundred coins,” whispered Ruby.

“Do you desire the money, or can you truly accept a daughter who loves a girl with all her heart? I do not expect you to change overnight, but Lucen will show me the color of your heart.”

Ruby stared at the ground.

Oona turned away after an awkward moment of silence. “See the butler on your way out. He will attend to your payment.”

Evie’s head swiveled back and forth between them; her breathing quickened, eyes growing red.

“I do not mean to steal you from your mother.” Oona took a knee and patted Evie’s shoulder. “If you wish to remain with her, I will not break my offer. I merely thought you would be safer and happier here.” She pulled the girl into a hug and whispered, “You seem so frightened of her. Does that woman strike you?”

Evie managed a tiny nod.

Ruby squinted at Oona. “You’re going to corrupt her and make her like you, aren’t you? That’s why you want her to stay here.”

“No, Ruby. You do not understand. Our spirits choose love without regard to what others want. You are going to corrupt her, with hate and cruelty.”

“Mama, Oona’s not bad. Please don’t hate her.” Evie ran over and tried to pull Ruby closer to Oona. “She’s nice! Kitlyn is nice! You don’t even know them.”

“You’ve already turned your back on Lucen,” whispered Ruby. “Go, live with your abomination of a sister if that’s what you want.” Blue light wisped around, startling a gasp out of her. “What did you just do to me?”

Evie dropped to her knees, sobbing into her hands.

Oona crouched behind Evie and held her arms open, offering a hug. “I pity you, Ruby. Do you really think of this child as a burden to be rid of? How could you? Is it draining your money to feed and care for her, or does she simply get in the way of your finding a new husband?”

Evie looked up at Ruby. “Mama? Is it true? Do you want me to go away?”

“Of course not.” Ruby looked off to the side. “Raising a child without a husband is… frustrating at times, is all.”

Evie whirled into Oona’s arms, bawling.

The murmurs of the crowd turned against Ruby, who backed away and hurried toward the door. Oona’s spirits lifted as a few whispers called her mother disgraceful.

Kitlyn put an arm around Oona’s back. “Evie’s so much like you. So kindhearted and sweet.”

Ruby hesitated at the door.

“If you truly change your heart, I will know,” called Oona.

The woman walked out.

Evie sniffled, looking back and forth from Oona to the door.

Oona stood, holding her sister’s hand, and faced the king. “With your leave, I’d like to go inside. We’ve already ruined the mood of the gathering.”

“If you so desire,” said the king. “Kitlyn is right about you. Never have I seen a person embody such kindness and innocence. I believe Evie will be much happier here. And perhaps your mother will yet come to regret her choices.”

Kitlyn gazed down and whispered, “Unless the woman has no soul, perhaps a few days in an empty house may stir regrets.”

Oona found herself not much caring if Ruby changed her mind about their love. She fussed at Evie’s hair. “Perhaps, but I shall not lose another moment of sleep over that woman’s opinion.”

Beredwyn wandered over, pulling at the white ringlets of his beard. “Uncanny. The little one looks quite like you did at her age.” He made a few silly faces at her.

Evie sniffled again before smiling.

“Well, perhaps we’re not quite done with the party after all.” Oona grinned. I can’t believe Ruby left her here without a shred of protest. She squatted and put an arm around her sister. She is so sweet and innocent. Lucen give me the strength to nurture that and not let wealth ruin her.

38

The Garden

~ Kitlyn ~

The following afternoon, Kitlyn stood upon the balcony of her temporary bedchamber, unsure what to do with all the extra space. She leaned her arms on the smooth stone railing and gazed out at the streets of Cimril.

A pleasant early autumn breeze brushed her hair off her shoulders and chilled her feet, though she adored the momentary escape from having to dress for a social event. Upcoming days promised a near endless series of gatherings and meetings; the entire kingdom wanted to meet their true princess and express their gratitude for ending the war. She’d travel to the Arch of the Ancients in a few days to thank all the soldiers for their sacrifices and stand around like an ornament while her father and the King of Evermoor established an official truce. A small pang of worry at facing Lanas Volduin needled at her; the man had been calling for her death since she’d been born.

A soft knock at the door made her look back.

Kitlyn let a sigh slip away with the wind, then stood. Whoever it was would give her grief for her simple outfit, but she didn’t care. The day was too nice to wear twice her body weight in fabric. She crossed to the door and pulled it open.

Margaret smiled at her, an expression that didn’t look right on her usually severe features. “It is wonderful to have you back, safe and sound.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

The head housekeeper looked back and forth down the corridor before lowering her voice. “Piper suspected the truth. It seemed too incredible to believe, but once I’d had a good look…”

Kitlyn made a face somewhere between smirk and smile. “I don’t know if I should be cross with you for leaving me in the dark or pleased you kept the secret for my protection.”

“I cannot believe they didn’t tell you at least, though I imagine you would likely have acted rather differently had you known.” Margaret sighed wistfully. “At least you are happy now.” She smiled; again, it looked unnatural on her. Some of her wrinkles even vanished. “I hope you and Oona have many wonderful years together. I… had a love like that at your age, but he died.”

“I’m sorry.” Kitlyn grasped her hand. “That damnable war.”

“Oh.” Margaret’s dourness returned, though her face didn’t match her soft tone. “He didn’t perish in the war. He was a mason. Fell from a tower.”

Kitlyn cringed.

“Look. Enough sorrow. The servants are talking…”

“When aren’t they?” Kitlyn chuckled.

Margaret bowed her head in reverence. “Word is spreading over Lucernia. People are saying the Goddess of Dusk herself smiled upon you and Oona. There are still many who will have trouble accepting, but some are coming to realize the words of man and the wants of gods are not the same.”

Kitlyn drew a sharp breath, overcome by hope and gratitude. “Thank you for telling me, Margaret. I fear I’ll be a pest to you. I’ve been kept away from the truth so long, I barely know the world I live in.”

“Ask as you may need. I would be happy to help as I am able.” Margaret grinned and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “To that end, someone’s waiting for you in the garden.”

Oh, yes! Kitlyn grinned and bounced on her toes. “Thank you, Margaret.”

The head housekeeper bowed with a nod before drifting off down the corridor like a ghost. Kitlyn darted out of her room and ran to the left, gliding down the stairs to the ground floor and veering past the throne room doors to a back hallway that would take her to the garden.

Little Pim ran up to her. He forgot himself and leapt into a hug before staggering backward, horrified.

Kitlyn hugged him again and ruffled his hair. “Oh, Pim. Nothing’s changed. I’m still the same person. Don’t be afraid.”

He grinned. “I been sent ta fetch ya. Priests want to talk to you.”

We’ve not even set a date yet. They wish to discuss the wedding arrangements already? “All right. Lead the way.”

Pim scampered off, one hand on his breeches to keep them up. She followed him toward the western side of the castle where the corridor connected to the temple and out to the open archway holding the statues of Lucen and Navissa. In the middle of the walkway, two women and three men clad in the white robes of Lucen priests stood in a line. They wore their hoods up, exposing only the lower portions of their faces, all with grim expressions.

The one in the middle, the man Oona had given the coins to, pulled his hood down.

Her smile, and expectation of discussing wedding plans, died. “Lightbearers…” She curtseyed. “What may I do for the servants of Lucen?”

“My child, I fear I bring most unsettling news. There is unrest brewing among the people. Some are losing faith because of the king’s deceit.”

“They question how our high priest can flagrantly disregard the teachings of our Lord Lucen,” said a red-haired woman. The holy symbol hung around her neck appeared made of solid light. “Yet he has claimed that his actions were motivated by the gods.”

“Clearly another lie.” A fortyish man on the far right, grey marking the short black hair over his ears, frowned in disapproval.

“Lucen detests lies,” whispered Kitlyn.

The five priests nodded in unison.

“What is to happen?” She clenched her hands in fists to hide her trembling. No! Not now… Oona… Please, Lucen, do not punish her.

“Our order will soon confront him,” said the lead priest in a grave tone. “We shall demand he step down as high priest. Lucen has seen his treachery and has turned his back. He has lost much of his power.”

The brunette bowed her head. “He invoked Lucen, yet Tenebrea showed herself, and not to defend his actions but to give her blessing to the one you love.”

“Lucen did not object.” The redheaded priestess smiled warmly. “So we do not. Though much of your father’s words of these past two decades have been falsehoods, on the matter of whom you have chosen to love, we have decided we shall have no quarrel, as your love is pure and true.”

Kitlyn’s heart fluttered.

“Oona revealed the traitor your father could not. Spies and assassins roamed the halls because he could no longer see their intent,” said the black-haired priest. “How is he to protect his faithful? His country?”

The middle priest sighed, and his face took on the expression seen by countless widows given bad news. “The Temple of Lucen will act. Aodh Talomir will face the consequences of his actions, hopefully before the unrest among the people initiates a civil war.”

“We do not need more bloodshed,” said the brunette priestess.

Kitlyn’s throat tightened. They mean to kill him. Yet I feel so little. Who am I? She looked down. “I understand and thank you for coming to me with this. I will not interfere. He betrayed Lucen. He betrayed his order. He betrayed the people of Lucernia as well as his once-friend King Lanas and the land that had so often hosted him as an honored guest.”

The priests again nodded in unison.

She looked the middle priest in the eye. “You know I must share with him what I have heard. I am no liar. If you wish to detain me, I will not object.”

The priests smiled.

“It would be a crime against Lucen to lie, a lesson he should have learned.” The middle priest nodded once. “We regret the necessity of our actions. Your father has blackened Lucen’s name.”

“My father…” She gazed up to the right at the statue of Lucen, a swath of white shimmering in the reflecting pool at his feet. “Has he ever truly been thus? My entire life, he refused to acknowledge me. He made our kingdoms suffer for his greed. What you must do is Lucen’s will. I am ashamed, for I am his daughter, yet I cannot bring myself to raise a hand to stop you.”

The priests regarded her in silence, some offering sympathetic looks.

Her stomach whirled in a storm, though she kept her poise and did not tremble. “If it pleases you, I will take Oona and we shall vanish quietly. She did fancy our living off in the woods all to ourselves.”

“Oh, no.” The middle priest raised a hand, eyes wide. His companions all shook their heads. “Oona has the love of the people of Lucernia for her kindness and compassion. You have earned the respect of the people of Evermoor. The people of both kingdoms regard the pair of you as saviors. You are a uniter, and we feel it would do the kingdom well not to have an upheaval.”

“And you have that giant,” muttered the eldest priest with a hint of a smile.

The storm broke to a light drizzle; Kitlyn pressed her hands into her stomach. I am the stone that bends the river.

“Aodh Talomir is not long for his throne, and may not be long for this world. Many among the soldiers are angry and side with the people.” The middle priest bowed his head. “We are sorry, child.”

“We shall not stand in the way of the truth. Tell him, if it is your wish,” said the red-haired priestess.

Fear clawed at her heart, but did not rend it. I am the stone that bends the river. “Lucen be with you.”

They bowed in unison before facing the statue of Lucen and making reverent hand gestures. After, they walked back to the temple side and disappeared into a doorway.

Kitlyn hurried back into the castle, her mind a tempest of chaos. Should she drag the man out in the middle of the night, send him into exile? Should she keep quiet and offend Lucen over the tiny scrap of familial loyalty she had? The man had left her scrubbing floors for years, treated like a veritable slave while he watched. He could have stopped it―stopped all the killing―at any time, but he did not.

Servants smiled and curtsied as she hurried past. Two gave her uneasy stares, but she couldn’t have cared less. She reached the little spiral staircase leading to the ground floor near the kitchen and the door out to the garden walk. The smell of cooking ham and some manner of onion soup filled the narrow curving passage, stone steps slick and cold under her feet.

At the bottom, a shadowy figure moved toward her from the wall.

Kitlyn spun back with her hand raised, a half-second from summoning a crushing stone when she recognized the dark-haired kitchen maid. She looked a touch younger than her fifteen years, with wide eyes and a guilty expression. Red ringed her eyes.

“Piper?” asked Kitlyn.

She nodded. “I have to confess something.” Trembles took her.

Kitlyn offered a hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Please spare my life.” Piper bowed her head. “Have you noticed some staff missing?”

“Well, now that you mention it, yes. One of the groundskeepers and some others I never much spoke with.”

Piper clasped her hands in front of her. “They were spies from Evermoor. With the war at an end, they’ve returned home.”

Kitlyn gasped. “You… knew?”

Crying, Piper lifted her head to look at her. “I was sent here to poison you. I’m a spy as well. But I don’t want to go back. I couldn’t do it. I’ve… had so many chances to, but I just couldn’t.”

The girl realized who I was. Kitlyn swallowed, her mouth dry. “Y-you’re younger than I am. They used you as an assassin?”

“I was thirteen when they sent me. My parents died in the war and I had nowhere to go. I was begging on the streets of Lamneth, terrified someone would force me into a brothel or worse. Soldiers found me and said I could avenge my family if I was brave enough to go into Lucernia. I… wanted to die so I could be with my parents. At first, I thought Oona was the princess, but she acted nothing like I expected. She’s so caring and pure.”

Kitlyn put a hand on her shoulder. “Well, you did come here to kill me, but I do not think an idea not acted upon is worthy of punishment. I have thought many times about drowning Fauhurst in the laundry cauldron, but I have never done so.”

Piper sobbed into her hands. “I couldn’t be like those who took my parents’ lives. I had to know the person I brought poison to was responsible for all the death. I watched you both for years. Neither of you had anything to do with it. I refused to do as they asked. More than a year ago, I threw the poison they’d given me in the fire.” She sniffled. “I could not bear the secret any longer. Please show mercy.”

“Piper…” Kitlyn folded her arms. “Did you steal anything, reveal any secrets of the kingdom to anyone, or do anything of that nature?”

“No, Highness.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I observed Oona, waiting for her to act like the horrible person they told me she was. But she isn’t. When I realized who you were, I felt awful. You’re like me, your life ruined because of the war.”

Kitlyn glanced to her right, eager to get out to the garden with Oona. “It took a great deal of courage to admit what you’ve told me. You’ve been one of the few servants who never treated me poorly, and to think of the reasons for it.” She chuckled. “You don’t still want to kill me, do you?”

“No.” Piper sniffled. “Please! I’ve been hiding, hoping the other spies forgot me.”

“I’m sorry for the way your life has gone. Losing your parents, being forced into serving as a spy at your age. You should be forgiving me. If you wish to return home―”

“I’ve more of a life here as a servant than I could hope for in Lamneth. There is nothing for me there. By your grace, I consider this my home now.”

Kitlyn thought it over. “I shall keep your secret for now. However, tomorrow after our morning meal, I want you to repeat what you told me to Oona. She will know your intentions. If you cannot do that, you are free to disappear in the night.”

“Of course, Highness.” Piper grasped the wall to keep from fainting. “I will speak to her.”

She didn’t hesitate. Kitlyn relaxed. “I shall see you on the morrow. Someone is waiting for me.”

The kitchen maid offered a teary smile. “It’s about time. The two of you were so frustrating to watch for the past year.”

Kitlyn stopped two steps away and looked back. “What?”

Piper grinned. “It was so vexing to see the way you and Oona flirted with each other and neither one of you figured it out.”

“You knew?” Kitlyn’s cheeks warmed.

“Well… suspected.” Piper looked down with an impish smile. “I had been watching you more than most.”

She doesn’t sound horrified. Of course, she’s from Evermoor. Kitlyn smiled. “I’m almost more upset you didn’t tell me that than you’d come here to kill me.” She sighed. “Oona was so worried about the war and everything, her mind was unfocused… and everyone seemed to hate me.”

Piper bowed. “They were only jealous of the way the royals treated you.”

“Yes.” Kitlyn sighed off to the side. “I know.”

Piper took a step back, bowing.

“One moment.”

Yes, milady? The younger girl went wide-eyed.

A victorious smile spread over Kitlyn’s face. “You are aware that Oona does not presently have a handmaiden.”

Piper fidgeted at her apron. “Aye.”

“I would like for you to take the position. Of all the servants, you’re the most acquainted with us. You’ve also more than proved yourself, and it is the least I can offer for what this dreadful war did to you.”

“But…” Piper trembled. “Milady… I’m merely a kitchen maid. That’s too much of a promotion. Elsbeth would—”

Kitlyn giggled. “Another benefit.”

“You’re serious?” Piper’s awe and worry melted into a conspiratorial giggle, as if the two of them remained lowly servants commiserating in the kitchen. “She’ll turn red as an Ivenberry.”

“Indeed. And if that girl gives you so much as an angry glower, you are to tell me at once. I’ll not have her treating anyone else as she had grown accustomed to vexing me.”

“Of—” Piper giggled into a cough, then tried to compose herself. “Yes, your highness.”

“One more thing.” Kitlyn smiled. “When we are in private, please don’t call me that. I do not think I am superior to anyone simply because of who my father is.”

Piper nodded.

Kitlyn stepped to the door. “I must be going. We shall talk more soon.”

“All right.” Piper turned away, muttering, “How is it can kings cause such suffering and pain, yet answer to no one for it?”

“Piper?” Asked Kitlyn.

“Yes, Highness?” Piper froze, a hint of a tremble in her hands.

“Look me in the eye.”

She did, pure fear etched on her face.

Kitlyn reached out and took the maid’s small, work-roughened hand. “You’ve been keeping a big secret for years. I shall trust you to keep another one for a few days.”

“Oh…” Piper exhaled, slouching with relief.

“You said kings who do awful things always avoid consequence.”

Piper folded her arms, shivering. “Aye.”

“They don’t,” said Kitlyn, deadpan. “Lucen’s justice approaches.”

The serving girl’s eyes practically bulged from their sockets. “The rumors… are they true?”

“Your parents deserve to be answered for.” Kitlyn stepped away. “It is out of my hands.”

Piper stared in astonishment for a second before bowing her head. “Thank you, Highness.”

* * *

Kitlyn exited the spiral stairs and padded down the hall to the dark oaken doors of the king’s study. The look Beredwyn had given her in the throne room when she’d asked where he’d gone hinted he’d also had a talk with the priests, or at least had heard the same rumors. Her magic read the castle stone and led her to the fourth floor. She pushed the door inward, leaving it ajar as she slipped by.

Four arches spanned the length of the wall at her right, open to a small veranda and a breathtaking view of rolling green fields. A steady, pleasant breeze rolled over her, swirling about the room and fluttering papers on a table midway along the left wall. King Talomir sat upon a smaller throne at the center of the distant wall upon a two-step dais, his high priest’s robes shadowed, more grey than their usual pure white.

He lifted his chin from his fist, half-focused eyes regarding her as though he struggled to grasp whether she existed only in his mind. A silver goblet lay on the floor a short distance from him, its carved dragons breathing a spill of wine across the floor.

Her steps made no sound over the cold stone floor, bare toes peeking out from under her dress with her stride. She halted before him, trying to summon any emotion other than contempt.

“Daughter,” said the king in a hoarse rasp. The battered stepchild of a smile stretched his lips. “You no longer need to hide, yet you still have no shoes.”

“I was on the way to the garden.” She stood motionless. “The energy of the earth warms me.”

The king rose to his feet and stepped close. His fingertips caressed her cheek with a gossamer touch while his breath stroked her senses with the pungent scent of alcohol. She stiffened, rigid at his touch, refusing to look into his eyes.

“I am sorry circumstances could not have been different. More than anything, I regret that you had to live as a servant.”

More than anything? More than the countless deaths? Kitlyn kept staring at the bookshelves along the wall opposite the arches. “You could have told me years ago. I could have kept a secret like that at twelve. Oona, too. Knowing would have made all the difference.”

He lowered his arm from her cheek, his eyes shifting side to side. Though he searched for words, he found none.

“But of course, the reason you didn’t tell me is that you couldn’t. You couldn’t tell anyone what you did.”

“I…” The king took a step back, turning his gaze away from her.

She advanced as he retreated. “You were afraid to lose your power. More afraid of that than appalled at the suffering and death you’ve caused in the name of vanity.”

“I…” He edged away, his heel bumping the first step of the dais.

“The whole kingdom believed every word from your lips came from Lucen. You could have convinced them of anything. Merchants who used to trade with Evermoor believed people they had known for decades had become infested with demons.”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Daughter, you must understand. The plans of the gods are not always laid clear to mortals, even their priests, even me. With enough time, I had hoped to do what Lucen asked of me. I had studied the Heart because he―”

“You locked it away,” said Kitlyn. “Because you had to spend so much time covering your lies with other, grander lies, managing the war you caused because you wanted power. And now, still it is not your fault? You blame Lucen. I know your power is diminished. How else could there have been so many spies? He no longer shows you the truth because you have spurned it!”

“Dare you…” He drew his hand back.

Kitlyn leaned forward, inviting him to slap her.

He shrank from her, lowering his arm.

“I was on my way to the garden when five of your priests approached me. They told me you are to be deposed from the temple.” Kitlyn looked down, her voice a whisper. “Lucen detests liars. He detests thieves even more, and he detests the murder of innocents most of all.”

King Talomir stumbled up the dais and fell crooked in his throne. His knuckles whitened on the armrests, his eyes wide. “You should have come to me in secret. Discussed the Heart away from prying eyes and ears. What have you done?”

“No.” Kitlyn looked down. “This is not my doing. The storm that comes is that which you have set in motion twenty years ago, that which has kept you concealing your sins and making so many suffer. The priests also say the soldiers have lost their confidence; they conspire with the people and will not be placated with tales of Lucen’s wishes.”

“At…” A smile flickered upon his lips for a mere instant. “At least my actions have brought you to your love.”

“Of all that has come of this tragedy, Oona is my light in the darkness. You may be my father in title, but you have not been so in action.” Kitlyn stared down. “You’ve placed me in a position to choose between the only family I have left―family who couldn’t bear even the truth of our blood―and all the people of Lucernia.” Her clenched fists trembled as her voice rose. “How can I make such a choice?”

He stared through her.

“I…” She stood tall, her arms relaxing. “I will stand aside and let Lucen’s will pass as it may.”

King Talomir wiped at his face, mumbling past his hand before it pulled down over his goatee. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”

She stepped back, facing the arches and gazing out over the wavering emerald fields. Thin red tapestries hung by the columns lofted in the wind. “I wish to unburden myself of the guilt of standing idly by. You are still, in some small measure, my father. I had to warn you.” The priests knew I would. They wanted me to tell him.

He slouched in the throne, his gaze unfocused, lost.

“For power, you betrayed your friend King Lanas. You let my mother die, let countless families be torn apart.” She thought about the people she’d seen in Evermoor, the soldiers, their orphans, children like Alin, innocent enough to still be happy. “I was wrong. I once thought you could have stopped the war at any time. But you could not. You lacked the courage, because you feared the cost of your vanity.”

His voice came forth, weak as the rasp of a dying man. “I would have given anything to protect you. Lucen―”

Kitlyn whirled to stare at him. “You twisted Lucen’s image to excuse your actions. You lied and claimed it his truth. All the rubbish about demons devouring babies and trying to kill us to the last you cloaked in the words of the gods, and in so doing, have shaken the faith of a kingdom…” She looked away before he could see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “…and broken my heart.”

He opened his mouth but said nothing. A moment later, he tried again, but only averted his gaze.

Kitlyn stared at her toes, wishing the stone could swallow her, and everything that had happened, into oblivion. The man cannot even admit it now. She rested her hand atop his. “You are my father. May Lucen forgive you.”

Head down, she walked the length of the study, yet he still did not speak. She grasped the doorjamb and peered back over her shoulder.

King Talomir lay draped in the throne, a mannequin hastily propped up for the background of a theater play. Pallid, gaze unfocused, mouth open, he seemed to be far away.

He is not long for this world. A trace of sorrow lapped at her heart. She could not summon much sorrow for a man she barely knew, not even for the father he might have become if not for the most unforgivable of deceptions. So many had died.

The king raised his head, staring into her eyes. Once the same deep emerald green as hers, his had gone pale.

He will not allow himself to suffer the humiliation. When the priests come for him, he will be gone. “I forgive you for the life I have been forced to lead, but do not ask me to absolve you of the blood that stains your hands.”

“Be good to Oona. I take comfort in that the two of you can be happy.” His focus dissolved, gaze distant.

Kitlyn backed out of the study, staring at her father alive for what she expected would be the last time. Wan and terrified, a pale shadow of the once-strong, revered figure. “Farewell, Father. May the gods show you the way.”

She pulled the door closed.

* * *

Kitlyn plodded across the kitchen and out to the garden walk, where Oona perched on the wall with her back against a column. Her long blonde hair, wrapped with threads of white wildflowers, spilled over a rich green velvet dress. She stretched her legs out, bare feet decorated with faerie slippers bearing blue silk roses perched behind her toes.

“Kit!” Oona swung her legs to the side and stood.

She ran into an embrace. Oona picked her up and spun her around. As soon as her feet touched grass, Kitlyn lifted Oona and gave her a twirl, making her burst into a peal of laughter. They held hands and ran into the garden maze like a pair of children, jumping vines and ducking branches. Flowers and grass tickled her as she raced among them, trying to keep up with Oona’s random turns along the narrow path.

Soon, they emerged in the little corner clearing by the artificial pond. Oona slowed to a walk and guided her to sit on the bench with their feet dangling in the chilly water. They sat for a while, holding hands and leaning against each other, listening to the whispering wind in the trees and the melodic twitter of birds.

After a moment or three sitting in silence, Oona giggled.

“What?” Kitlyn squinted at her.

Oona swished her feet side to side, teasing the little fish. “Do you remember when Beredwyn asked you to clean up that wine spill?”

“Yes. I was so frightened of being that close to a prince.” She smirked. “I suppose that is somewhat funny.”

“That’s not why I was laughing.” She bit her lip. “They wanted me to marry Tristan, but when I was so… disinterested in him, your father suggested Beredwyn put the two of you together to see if anything stirred.”

Kitlyn sighed. “I was too busy being petrified. Besides…”

“It confounded them that neither one of us even looked twice at him.” Oona leaned back, taking a deep breath. “They would’ve abandoned the ruse if you’d fallen for him. I’ve been feeling ashamed of myself for being immature and running away, but I suppose if I didn’t, you might’ve been stuck marrying him and the war would have continued.”

“Beredwyn knew about, umm, ‘us’ that night, I think. I babbled like an idiot when he asked if I thought you liked Tristan.” Kitlyn grinned. That the old advisor had been so open and welcoming to their unusual love warmed her heart.

Another several minutes passed of silent handholding.

“What awaits us now?” asked Oona, breaking the calm.

“More than I think I am ready for.” Kitlyn leaned into Oona’s arms. With a soft breeze rustling overhead and teasing at her hair, she explained everything that had happened. “I am frightened. I’m not ready to be a queen.”

Oona held her in a tight, comforting embrace, resting her chin atop Kitlyn’s head. “I would still be happy to live off in the woods with you.”

“I offered. They think the kingdom needs us.”

“They?”

Kitlyn sighed. “The elder priests.”

“What do you think?” asked Oona.

“We’re young, but the priests and people respect you. The soldiers respect me. And we have an Omun.”

Oona’s laugh turned somber. “I confess I am ashamed of myself. The man I thought my father is likely to die, and all I feel is horror at his actions. Yet… I know I’ll fall to bits over it when it becomes real. Whatever it is.”

“Perhaps I will too, for all I scarcely knew him.” Kitlyn sat up straight.

“What shall we do now?” Oona took her hand. “While…”

“We wait?” Kitlyn sighed, then forced out a smile. “We do still have a wedding to plan.”

Oona smiled. Her mirth proved fleeting, and worry took over her beautiful face.

“What’s wrong?” Kitlyn squeezed her hand.

“We won’t have an heir. What if the advisors object?”

Kitlyn pulled her close. “If I have to abdicate the throne to marry you, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Oona looked away. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

She pulled Oona’s head back with a hand on her chin. “It wouldn’t be a matter of debate.”

“But… I’m not worth a whole kingdom.”

“Don’t make me slap you to your senses.” Kitlyn sighed. “If only my father would’ve been able to find another queen yet and have a son. Then we’d be set in the corner like some useless royal fluffery, decorative cobwebs clinging to the castle rafters.”

Oona laughed. “Fluffery. I’ve certainly got the wardrobe for that.”

“Alas, I fear our journey is not at an end.” Kitlyn picked at her dress. “It shall be so strange to stand at the table rather than eavesdrop while dusting.”

Oona poked her. “You will make a fine queen.”

“I don’t want to be queen.” Kitlyn stared at her hands.

“Now you sound like me.” Oona fake-pouted. “I hate being princess.”

“I want…” Kitlyn almost laughed and stared into her eyes. “To spend the rest of my days with you. That is all I desire. If you are with me, I am the stone that bends the river.”

Oona squeezed her hand, love brimming in her eyes.

“I suppose we shall make do,” said Kitlyn. “We did walk to the ends of Evermoor and returned alive.”

“There is still the question of an heir. How will we manage that?” Oona grimaced.

“What of Evie?” asked Kitlyn. “If the question of an heir comes up, we’ll treat her like our daughter. She will be our heir.”

“Me, a princess?” gasped a child’s voice behind them.

Kitlyn twisted back. Evie, a little ringlet crown of wildflowers on her head, crouched in the bushes a few feet away, grinning.

Oona laughed.

“Are you going to kiss now?” asked Evie with an impish smile.

Kitlyn brushed both hands over Oona’s hair, lacing her fingers behind her head.

Oona radiated pure joy, seeming even more beautiful without the burden of war or the fear of admitting her love. The change in her left Kitlyn’s heart surging.

Eyes half-closed, Kitlyn pulled her into a deep kiss.

Evie cheered and clapped.

* * *

fin

The Story Continues…

Kitlyn and Oona’s story continues in The Cursed Crown.

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading The Eldritch Heart!

My thanks go out to Gwen for inspiring me to write this novel. One day at work, I overheard someone complaining about the movie Frozen, mistaking it for a story about two girls in love (and the idiot was all kinds of angry Disney would dare do that). Hearing that gave me the idea to write a princess story where the two girls did fall in love. I jotted down some notes, but set them aside, unsure if I should write it. However, upon hearing Gwen’s story, and the difficulties she had to overcome, I felt compelled to finish this book.

About the Author

Originally from South Amboy NJ, Matthew has been creating science fiction and fantasy worlds for most of his reasoning life. Since 1996, he has developed the “Divergent Fates” world, in which Division Zero, Virtual Immortality, The Awakened Series, The Harmony Paradox, and the Daughter of Mars series take place. Along with being an editor at Curiosity Quills press, he has worked in IT and technical support.

Matthew is an avid gamer, a recovered WoW addict, Gamemaster for two custom RPG systems, and a fan of anime, British humour, and intellectual science fiction that questions the nature of reality, life, and what happens after it.

He is also fond of cats.

Visit me online at:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewSCoxAuthor

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/mscox

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/matthewcox10420/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7712730.Matthew_S_Cox

Email: mcox2112@gmail.com

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Other books by Matthew S. Cox

Divergent Fates Universe Novels

Division Zero series

- Division Zero

- Lex De Mortuis

- Thrall

- Guardian

The Awakened series

- Prophet of the Badlands

- Archon’s Queen

- Grey Ronin

- Daughter of Ash

- Zero Rogue

- Angel Descended

Daughter of Mars series

- The Hand of Raziel

- Araphel

- Ghost Black

Virtual Immortality series

- Virtual Immortality

- The Harmony Paradox

Divergent Fates Anthology

* * *

(Fiction Novels - Adult)

The Roadhouse Chronicles Series

- One More Run

- The Redeemed

- Dead Man’s Number

Faded Skies series

- Heir Ascendant

- Ascendant Unrest

- Ascendant Revolution

Temporal Armistice Series

- Nascent Shadow

- The Shadow Collector

- The Gate to Oblivion

Vampire Innocent series

- A Nighttime of Forever

- A Beginner’s Guide to Fangs

- The Artist of Ruin

- The Last Family Road Trip

Standalones

- Wayfarer: AV494

- Axillon99

- Chiaroscuro: The Mouse and the Candle

- The Far Side of Promise anthology

- Operation: Chimera  (with Tony Healey)

- The Dysfunctional Conspiracy (with Christopher Veltmann)

Winter Solstice series (with J.R. Rain)

- Convergence

- Containment

- Catalyst

Alexis Silver series (with J.R. Rain)

- Silver Light

- Deep Silver

Samantha Moon Origins series (with J.R. Rain)

- New Moon Rising

- Moon Mourning

Maddy Wimsey series (with J.R. Rain)

- The Devil’s Eye

- The Drifting Gloom

Samantha Moon Case Files series (with J.R. Rain)

- Blood Moon

- Dead Moon

* * *

Young Adult Novels

- Caller 107

- The Summer the World Ended

- Nine Candles of Deepest Black

- The Eldritch Heart

- The Cursed Crown

- The Forest Beyond the Earth

- Out of Sight

- Evergreen

* * *

Middle Grade Novels

Tales of Widowswood series

- Emma and the Banderwigh

- Emma and the Silk Thieves

- Emma and the Silverbell Faeries

- Emma and the Elixir of Madness

- Emma and the Weeping Spirit

Standalones

- Citadel: The Concordant Sequence

- The Cursed Codex

- The Menagerie of Jenkins Bailey

- Sophie’s Light