“What prisoner?”
“The one guarded by Second Captain Pualo.” Taillefer gestured as if he couldn’t say the rest and had to be intentionally vague. “You know, that prisoner.”
The guards looked at each other. And suddenly she understood the cleverness of his plan. It highlighted his observational skills—she hadn’t even said the guard’s name and title all together, and yet he’d managed to use Pualo’s predicament to his advantage. It would be wise not to forget this particular talent of Taillefer’s—everything she said or did could and would be used for his own gain.
“Told you she’d been reassigned,” one crowed, smacking the other. Amarande cringed. These guards were as green as an Ardenian spring. Inexperienced, raw, and much in need of Captain Serville’s guidance.
“Boys, not to upset your wager, but Pualo is injured and the prisoner is missing. We need you down here to aid in the search.”
“All of us?”
“Yes, all of you. Report to the north tower for further orders. Go, go, go.”
Amarande braced for them to question Taillefer on the prisoner’s identity yet again, but he’d played it correctly—no one knew anything but didn’t want to admit it.
Boots thundered down the steps and then whispered in a run across the flattened grass of the training yard. When the gatehouse door swung closed, the last boy lingered.
“We shouldn’t leave the gate unguarded,” he said, worrying his lip. “Our superiors would not approve.”
Taillefer didn’t flinch, answer at the ready. “I have been ordered to stand guard until the hunt has finished.”
“But shouldn’t we have more men up high? To get a better vantage point on the prisoner? Surely that point of view would help.”
A calculating look flickered across Taillefer’s face. He put a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m up there—in case the prisoner makes it out of the castle. But if you and the others keep the prisoner in the castle, I won’t have to be the last line of defense.”
“That doesn’t seem at all what the—” In the twitch of a moment, Taillefer’s free hand seized the guard’s dagger from the sheath at his belt, and sank it into the soft meat of the boy’s side. Taillefer’s other hand peeled off the guard’s shoulder quick enough to muffle his dying cry.
That’s when Amarande began to run. A straight shot, through the field, to the stable and the meadow’s juniper trees beside it. In another minute, she heard footsteps closing in behind her—Taillefer, sprinting full bore, bloodied dagger now stashed in his belt.
Perhaps Taillefer wasn’t just observant or a quick study but actually properly trained. She’d never considered that Renard truly knew how to use his ridiculously appointed sword, but perhaps she’d misjudged him. Or she’d surmised the dead prince’s skill properly and Taillefer’s talent with that dagger was an aberration, like almost everything else about this boy.
Whatever the case, Amarande wouldn’t dismiss what she’d seen, her father’s tenet sticking.
If you underestimate an opponent, you overestimate yourself.
Taillefer claimed not to be her opponent, but he was also not her friend—the tenet stood.
* * *
AMARANDE slowed as she neared the entrance to the stable, Taillefer on her heels. She unsheathed her sword and plastered herself to the side of the wooden structure, peering into the dim interior through cracks in the vertical boards. After making sure there was no movement within, they entered. Taillefer ran for the horse stalls, but she veered off to a door opposite the entrance.
“Where are you going?” he whispered, yanking a bridle off the wall.
“To change out of this. Ready the horses. Nothing too flashy.”
Amarande entered Luca’s quarters and shut the door tight behind her, ears and intuition ramping up for any sign of trouble. Because it was coming, no matter what.
Speed here was key. Amarande knew it in the forefront of her mind, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room that had been Luca’s home for so long, all the adrenaline from the escape fled.
For the length of a deep breath, she found herself suspended in amber, floating, surrounded by the presence of her love.
Pallet bed, neatly made with a quilt lovingly knit by Maialen, one of his foster mothers. Books borrowed from the Itspi library, stacked neatly beside it—Luca had a taste for poems. At the foot of the bed, a juniper-wood chest, stuffed with the warm woolens necessary to combat the cold Ardenian winters. Against the wall, by the single window, stood a scarred wooden wardrobe. She threw its twin doors open wide, revealing a set of cedar shelves, lined with neatly folded clothes.
Amarande grabbed a gray tunic, black breeches, and a worn leather belt to hold them up. Off came her prisoner’s shift, which she stuffed in the very back of the wardrobe. Amarande stepped into the breeches, tucked their extra length into the tall shafts of her boots—stolen from Pualo, along with a scabbard—and pulled the tunic over her head.
Closing her eyes, she couldn’t help but take a quick whiff of the shirt—one of his well-worn favorites. It smelled fresh and clean, like new hay and the mellow cedar of the wardrobe, but there, too, was the dreamy scent of the lavender oil he used on the horses.
A shout went up. Her eyes shot open.
The guards.
The princess collected her sword and dagger, tightening the strap of the scabbard slung across her back and dropping the knife inside her boot. Before she could get to the door, Taillefer yanked it open, his eyes averted as if he assumed she was still indecent. “Hurry, Princess! We must be going!”
Amarande sprinted behind him to find two horses fully prepared—ones she knew well, twin chestnut geldings by the names of Bastian and Balkan. Taillefer held Bastian’s reins out to her, and she heaved herself on.
“Did you fill waterskins?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I wasn’t saying you were, I wasn’t sure you’d had enough time.”
“I had possibly too much. Do you need me to demonstrate how one hitches a belt without the help of a maid?”
“Shut up and keep up.”
The princess tore into the night, not bothering to look behind her as she directed the horse toward the exact same trail she’d used when she’d chased Luca’s kidnappers into the Torrent mere days ago. Behind her, Balkan squealed as Taillefer kicked him into motion.
“There! Stop them!”
Hearing the guards’ voices so near, Amarande gripped Bastian’s bridle with white knuckles, hurtling toward the break in the trees and the mountain passes beyond the castle grounds. She dipped low on the horse’s neck, urging him on until the only noises she could hear were the pounding of her heart, the whistle of wind in her hair, and the horse’s hoofbeats.
Lone hoofbeats.
Stars. If Taillefer had been captured, she could only hope he’d keep his mouth shut. Though that was unlikely.
The princess hazarded a look over her shoulder, and found slight relief in seeing him in the near distance, thundering toward her, a grin on his face, and chaos in his wake.
Dozens of horses galloped freely across the open field between them and the Itspi’s guards. The horses blocked and corralled, distracted and disturbed any attempt to follow the two fugitives. A clamor rose to the stars as the men shouted orders and imprecations. Taillefer’s grin grew wider as he and Balkan caught up to Amarande and Bastian. Past the Itspi’s grounds, they looped down switchback after switchback in the foothills surrounding the castle. Soon they would be lost in the maze of mountain paths leading away from the Itspi and Ardenia. No effective chase would occur until sunup, and even then their tracks would be growing cold and muddled with summer travelers.
“Clever move, Prince, loosing those horses. But I wouldn’t celebrate just yet. They’ll come after us before long.”
Taillefer did not drop his satisfied grin, nor did he hesitate to answer.
“It is always worth it to celebrate the little victories
, Princess—it might be the last one you get.”
CHAPTER 20
THE body should not have been unexpected. Still, it was disturbing.
General Koldo stood over the guard they’d found sprawled on his back near the gatehouse. Under the light of blazing sconces within the Itspi’s morgue, the general frowned and inspected the body. The entry wound was precise—straight into the lung with an upward thrust. The kind of maneuver that would have destroyed the guard’s capacity both to breathe and to call for help before the life bled out of him altogether.
Clearly the killing had been done by someone highly trained. It was exactly the sort of blow Koldo had taught both Amarande and Luca—decisive and deadly. That they would use their training to kill a guard in the castle they grew up in was disturbing.
But Koldo did not believe either to be the murderer.
Strategic mind churning, the general left the morgue and climbed the north tower stairs to the council room, puzzling over the clues left behind by Amarande’s escape.
The window broken from the outside. The melted and misshapen metal bars that had once framed it. The similarly destroyed lock. A concussed Second Captain Pualo.
And then there were the reports of Amarande’s escape into the Torrent.
The gatehouse guards sent to the tower on orders that were not given. The murdered guard, yes. The Itspi’s own horses used as diversion. All perpetrated not by the princess, but according to witnesses, by her likely rescuer.
A young man dressed in an Itspi guard uniform. Blond hair, blue eyes, bare jaw.
Not Luca. Entering the council room, Koldo firmly shut the doors behind her and approached the great table. As always, her eyes darted first to Ferdinand. He sat uncomfortably in Sendoa’s seat at the head of the table. Geneva paced furiously up and down the length of the room as Satordi, Garbine, and Joseba watched her warily.
“Everything about this is a problem.” The Queen Mother’s regal countenance was fraying, frustration sharply clipping each word. “It is well past daylight. And yet the guards have found nothing.”
The princess they had pronounced presumed dead was now known to be alive and on the run—not just by a handful of castle denizens but by everyone on the Itspi’s grounds. Word of the lie and Amarande’s daring escape would seep past the gate and spread like wildfire throughout Ardenia, sowing distrust and confusion.
It likely had, already.
Worse than the wrath of their own people would be the ire of the remainder of the Sand and Sky. Not only had they lied, they had accused Pyrenee of murder. And no ruler on this continent would take such a horrific false allegation lightly.
It was a precarious position of their own making. And the Queen Mother would not let it stand. “Go after them, Koldo. You know Amarande better than anyone. You can find her. Disarm her. Bring her home for the good of Ardenia.”
That was true. But the priorities here were complicated.
“I want Princess Amarande home and safe,” the general answered, “but I believe what she told us to be accurate, and Pyrenee did force her hand only to lose its crown prince in the process. Which means we have much larger problems—ones I cannot address from the back of a horse in the middle of the Torrent.”
That was where she’d gone, of course. Through the same maze of roads leading from the western border of Ardenia into the Torrent that she’d used little more than a week ago in pursuit of Luca and his kidnappers.
“Yes, Pyrenee will be coming—Inés is gathering her forces, I’m sure. Still.” Geneva nodded. “Look, we have known she would be coming since Amarande first arrived in that putrid wedding gown. You have settled your men at the border. Let them handle her. Given Inés’s lack of urgency thus far, I have no doubt you can retrieve Amarande and still have time for a decent meal and a bubble bath before returning to the front. Leave now—you should have left hours ago.”
Koldo turned to the king. “Your Highness, may I finish my analysis before we decide on a course of action?”
Ferdinand gestured to the empty seat to his right. “Yes, please. Speak plainly about these larger problems.”
The general pulled out the chair and angled herself both toward the king and the Royal Council. Geneva stayed behind, pacing resumed. “I spoke with the guards who were given false orders to arrive at the north tower. All of them confirmed that the man was not of Torrent. He was flaxen haired, with pale coloring—light skin, blue eyes.”
Geneva paused. “Are you suggesting Amarande was not rescued by the stableboy?”
“Luca, Mother,” Ferdinand corrected.
When it was clear Geneva would not deign to respond, Koldo pressed on—dwelling on Luca was dangerous, indeed. The general did not know if Geneva knew the stableboy’s true identity, and it was not a risk she was willing to take knowing what she did about Geneva’s past. “No, I’m suggesting the princess was taken by Pyrenee. In fact, from the descriptions I’ve gathered, I think the imposter could be Prince Taillefer himself.”
Satordi cleared his throat. “Which is technically what we stated in our letter. If Pyrenee did free her, it only makes our case stronger. They possess her.”
“Except that she was stolen from us,” Ferdinand replied, “which is not what that letter said.”
Tension thickened within the council room as the king’s private frustrations over the lies at his coronation seeped into the space. The Queen Mother approached the table, and it was obvious to Koldo that she intended to smooth over this irritation of Ferdinand’s as easily as she must have once smoothed a lock of hair out of his eyes.
“My king, the letter spoke truth. It’s simply that the timeline is not quite accurate.” Geneva spoke as if hours and days were as malleable as bread dough. “In time, no one will tie themselves in knots over these fiddly little details because they will remember the largest one and the only one that truly matters—that Pyrenee was behind Amarande’s disappearance.”
Discomfort sat on Ferdinand’s young features. He looked to Koldo then, and she took it as an opportunity to steer the conversation back to what they could currently control. “It does not matter what is perceived as much as what can actually happen to the princess. If Pyrenee has her, she is in true danger.”
The king nodded. “I agree with the general. Princess Amarande’s well-being should be our priority, not what others think.”
The Queen Mother chewed upon this rebuke. She did not move away from the table, but rather seemed to really see him now in the blazing morning light. He wasn’t wearing his crown, but in that moment, sitting in his father’s chair, Ferdinand suddenly appeared very much like the Sendoa she had married—and left.
“My king,” Geneva bit out, “wars are won by what people think.”
Koldo could not disagree more. Thoughts played a part, yes, but public perception did not wield a blade or bleed out into the trampled grass.
Yet she held her opinion—this bickering was only wasting time.
“In any case,” Koldo pressed, “we have received no letters from the Dowager Queen nor Prince Taillefer threatening retribution for the death of Prince Renard—this is unusual.” She leveled both of them with the concern that had been welling within her as each moment passed. “The royals of Pyrenee are known for their savvy—they will want to control the narrative on this. And yet I fear because they have not—it is possible that their silence means they are playing another game entirely.”
Geneva gestured to a map that someone had set upon the table, labeled with figurines of each of the houses and showing the general alignment of Ardenia’s divided forces.
“We shall send your troops at the Pyrenee border north, push all the way to the gates of the Bellringe if we have to,” the Queen Mother said. “We will be defending the honor of our princess. No one can fault us for that, and Ferdinand’s first act as king will be seen as virtuous—rescuing his sister after discovering she was not murdered.”
Ferdinand was defiant but careful not to push Geneva’s
limits. “I do not want my sister used as a bargaining chip.”
“Noble thought, my son, but not useful,” Geneva replied gently, holding Ferdinand’s gaze. “If we retrieve Amarande from Pyrenee’s clutches and show the world what we have done—reinforcing our preferred timeline, of course—the princess gets what she wants. She won’t live out her days in a tower as long as she recognizes Ferdinand as king.”
Geneva’s general dismissiveness of both her children frustrated Koldo, to say the least. Her next words were measured and careful, a soldier’s to a superior, no hint of what simmered beneath. “With all due respect, Your Highness, that is the bare minimum of what Princess Amarande wants.”
“Ah, yes, the stableboy. She runs after him so, and then he does not arrive with her at the Itspi. She did not even tell us what became of him after Taillefer made it appear he had died.” Geneva examined her nails. “Curious, isn’t it?”
Koldo treaded carefully here. “It is. However, if the princess’s accomplice was Prince Taillefer, we must think about what he wants. His aims may not be the same as his mother’s.”
Ferdinand frowned for a brief moment before looking to Satordi. “As heir to Pyrenee, Renard needed to marry to gain his throne from his mother’s regency before age eighteen—would Taillefer be eligible for the crown in the same way? If he married?”
No one could say Ferdinand lacked an eye for strategy.
“I am not as familiar with laws of succession in Pyrenee as I am with those of Ardenia,” Satordi answered, “but it can be presumed that if the succession laws were rewritten for one son they would be for both.”
Garbine arched a brow. “Prince Taillefer does realize how badly that tactic went for his brother, does he not?”
Satordi shook his head. “He likely does not care—he was the architect of Renard’s death. The princess was clear on that. She drew the knife, but he planted the motivation.”
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