But Clervie side-skirted it. “We decided by rank: those of higher birth hunted, and those of lower birth hid.”
Surprise pulsed up Iona’s spine. She twisted around; Clervie stared somberly back at her, inviting her to betray the shameful truth herself. Iona, eyes narrowed, looked away again.
On the opposite side of the carriage, Lisenn regarded this interchange. “So Iona must have hunted, then. Unless… didn’t you say she claimed to come from Ghemp? What rank did she carry?”
Clervie evaded again. “Your sister was a master at the Hunt. All three years I participated, she was the best player in the school.”
Was the girl trying to flatter her? It was a ridiculous lie, but Iona resisted meeting her gaze again. Beyond the window, the city gave way to stone walls and hawthorn hedges, with meadows rolling into the distant haze. Clervie neatly shifted her story again.
“The problem with such a tradition, as you can imagine, lay in the disparity between hunters and prey. Because the prey always came from families of lower rank, they couldn’t risk expulsion by fleeing the grounds for that week. Instead, they were forced to skulk through the woods or face the ridicule of capture. And it happened year after year, generation upon generation, with no way for those in the lower ranks to avoid this fate unless they also sacrificed their education and the connections they could make within the Royal College.”
“So it bred unrest in the lower nobility,” Lisenn concluded. “And that influenced your civil war?”
“Relationships where one party dominates and the other submits can’t last unless the submitter allows it,” Clervie said. “When they tire of oppression, they have only to revolt.”
“And those who dominate have only to kill them—in self-defense, of course.”
Naturally her sister would jump to that conclusion. Iona’s fingernails dug crescent-moons into her palms, a specter of her own possible fate staring her in the face. True, Lisenn had never used lethal force against her, but that was no guarantee that she never would. The more Iona rebelled, the more violently her sister might respond.
“There is another option,” Denoela said. “Those of higher rank can acknowledge their lower-ranked peers as equals. No one has to die.”
The crown princess tipped her head, as though considering this. “But then the ranks become meaningless.”
Clervie laughed. “But Your Highness, they’re meaningless either way. A king who kills his subordinates to keep his power over them has no power when they’re dead.”
A flash of annoyance—of the true Lisenn, who made Iona’s blood run cold—crossed her pretty face. “Fortunately, Wessett doesn’t carry such traditions among its rising generations. Perhaps that’s why we have no Royal College here. Yours predates our country. The children of Wessettan nobles would have attended when Wessett was only a Caprian province instead of a kingdom in its own right.”
“Perhaps their experiences there prompted them to secede,” Denoela said. “The island nobles decided not to let the mainlanders dominate them anymore. And you are stronger than us now because of it.”
Lisenn lapsed into silence, rubbing one finger along her chin as she looked out her window. In the quiet that followed, Iona chanced a look at their Caprian travel-mates.
What had been the purpose of discussing that topic in particular? At school, Denoela had reveled in her superiority, reminiscent enough of Lisenn that Iona had avoided her altogether. Clervie, quiet and cunning, had wielded her rank as a weapon, forcing those beneath her to do her bidding on threat of harassment if they failed.
The Hunt had not contained itself to a single week. It ran the whole year long, with the prey forever under attack.
For Iona, it was running still, though under different terms. If, as Clervie claimed, she was a master at the game, that was only because she’d been playing some form of it her whole life.
Chapter 12
Their caravan stopped for lunch at an earl’s estate, where the nobleman himself greeted them with flowery language and deep bows. He praised the impending alliance with Capria and paid special homage to Jaoven and Lisenn. The carriages changed horses and the party continued at a fresh pace.
Denoela and Clervie, having made themselves at home, chose to remain with the princesses of Wessett for the afternoon. Several of the men opted for horseback. When Iona’s view out her window showed Jaoven and Elouan cantering alongside them, she tucked her chin to her chest and pretended to sleep.
The land rose, from foothills to narrow mountain passes, the foliage growing denser and deeper only to break away into magnificent, far-flung views. The snowcapped ridges of the Morreinn slid past in the midafternoon, and Sorrow’s Linn lay only a half-hour beyond.
The last stretch of road, marked only by a pair of wheel ruts in the newly sprouted grass, was so narrow that the horsemen had to ride in front of and behind the carriages. A sharp ravine dropped off to the left, its dark stone walls the channel for a crystal river, the Awinrea, that flowed all the way to the island’s western coast. True to Iona’s prediction, the waters ran high, swirling white foam atop their swift, green depths.
They could hear the waterfall before they saw it, the roar loud enough to pierce the carriage confines. A short, steep footpath marked their final ascent, requiring them to leave horses and carriages behind. Lisenn climbed on Jaoven’s arm. Iona hung to the back of the group with the servants who carried their blankets and supplies. The whole party surfaced on a huge, flat stone that overlooked the idyllic scene.
The pool, Sorrow’s Linn, had swollen in its basin. Its waterfall churned from a cliff a hundred feet above, at this season a monstrous cascade of white foam that propelled the sweeping current.
Jaoven tried to speak, but the noise of the river swallowed his words. Beside him, Lisenn shook her head, not comprehending. He pointed to a berm that ran round the pool, its highest points almost submerged. The Caprians, through shouts and pantomimes, decided to explore the area, and Lisenn on Jaoven’s arm necessarily went along. Iona declined their invitation and settled instead in the center of the flat stone, where she opened the sketchbook she had brought along.
The afternoon, warm for this time of year and elevation, waxed old. As she sketched trees and rock formations, she kept one eye on her sister, so easily visible in that deep red cloak. Some of the Caprian men ventured into one of the calmer corners of the pool, their trousers rolled up to their knees, while the women egged them on. They winced with every step into the cold water, careful not to slip.
Across the distance, they appeared youthful and carefree, an innocent set of friends instead of a collection of monsters and tormenters.
Perhaps Sorrow’s Linn truly did cleanse those who journeyed to its shores.
Iona, weary of their mirth even from afar, contemplated her own dilemma. The nearby path and the horses that waited at its base beckoned to her. It would be a simple task to slip away, to hop into a saddle and ride for oblivion. The servants would report her, but the roar of the waterfall and the length to reach their masters would delay the message. She might arrive at the main road before anyone could follow her, if they even thought to try.
Pieces of that morning’s conversation kept pulsing upon her mind: Lisenn had jumped straight to killing a rebellious subordinate, in hypothetical. Would it truly come to that between them one day if Iona failed to properly submit?
With a shiver, she snapped her sketchbook shut. The Caprians were returning, her sister in their midst. Soon they would be on the road again, to one of her father’s estates and a herd of servants she didn’t know—servants who held no allegiance to a spare princess. She had lost her window to escape.
Her cowardice might one day be the death of her.
She stood as the first of the Caprians, Clervie and Neven, ducked under a low-hanging pine branch and scaled onto the flat rock again. Neven spared her a cagey glance, but Clervie smiled and waved. They continued on to the footpath and passed out of sight.
Denoel
a came next. A flash of red between the trees warned that Lisenn was not far behind. Iona stood, her legs stiff from sitting so long, and started toward the footpath. The red cloak came into her periphery as she picked her way down. Her foot slipped, but she caught herself from falling.
Perhaps she should have let Lisenn precede her. Pebbles tumbled past her on the trail, and a glimpse of red above quickened her heartbeat. The Awinrea churned in rapids to her right, a smaller cascade tumbling from the upper pool to feed the river. The twisting footpath wound toward its drop-off and away again. Iona increased her pace, eager to reach the base without mishap.
It was nonsensical, her paranoia. Lisenn would never attack in front of so many witnesses unless they were confederate to her crime. The Caprians still believed her to be pure as the waters of Sorrow’s Linn, though. She would save her torment for when she and Iona were alone.
But ahead, at the carriages, Clervie and Denoela were pulling their knapsacks from within, transferring them from one vehicle to the other. Iona stopped short, dismayed. Her father’s estate was at least two hours away, and two hours alone with Lisenn after the elder princess had been forced to wear a pleasant façade all day was a disaster in the making.
Footsteps approached from behind. The hairs on the back of Iona’s neck lifted as her sister paused beside her.
Lisenn’s mouth stretched wide in a triumphant grin. “The Caprians have been such lovely company, but you seem tired. I asked them to ride in the other coach to let you rest.”
Iona backed away, but she had nowhere to run. Between the river and the carriages and the upper footpath, she was nicely hemmed in, and her sister loved every second of it.
Indigo eyes flitted to the sketchbook she clasped protectively to her chest. Lisenn extended an imperious hand. “What have you been drawing? Give it here.”
Not a muscle did Iona move, as though she had not heard the command.
Her sister’s expression flattened. “You can’t keep it from me forever.”
But she could. Lisenn would only deface and destroy the small collection, as she had countless others. Iona had the power to create her drawings anew, and in this moment she had the means to destroy them by her own hand. She spun from her sister, bolting for the nearby ravine and the river that coursed high within its dark stone channel. She leapt over ferns and bracken, eyes fixed on the point where the land dropped off. On her heels, Lisenn grasped for her shoulder, for her arm. She caught Iona’s cloak and tried to reel her back.
They were close enough to sloping ground. With the roar of the river in her ears, Iona flung the sketchbook. It arched through the air, the covers flapping open, the cream-colored leaves catching on the wind. The book fell and crashed into the current, and the waters devoured it in a greedy wave.
The hand on her cloak released, and the heavy material fell to Iona’s side. She turned, victorious, her breath short in her lungs.
Lisenn stood with deathly stillness, crimson against a backdrop of spring greenery. Her face twisted and her palm shot out to connect with Iona’s chest, thrusting her backwards. There was a moment of weightless horror, of the ground behind her too steep to catch her footing, and then she tumbled, her cloak tangling around her, into the ravine.
Chapter 13
Iona hit the frigid water and the current dragged her down. She gasped just before her head went under, arms reaching, scrabbling for a handhold on the shrubbery submerged beneath the heightened waterline. Slick branches slipped past her fingers. The river was too strong. She couldn’t kick with her legs entangled in her cloak, and her heavy, water-logged clothing pulled her deeper into the flow.
Her back slammed into a huge, jutting boulder, forcing the air from her lungs. Thankfully, the obstacle buffeted her upward as well. She surfaced again, lungs on fire, but when she tried to cry for help, river water poured into her mouth. Sputtering, she dipped back into the consuming depths.
This was her life’s end, lost in a swollen river, battered by rocks and carried through a cold, merciless flood, no more power in her than a scrap of flimsy, sodden detritus. She struggled in vain. Her strength drained from her with the effort. Air escaped her lips, and the surface glimmered too far away. Blobs of trees and looming rocks streamed by, as though she lay still and the world beyond that treacherous membrane moved.
Even in her panic, the image, its interplay of light and shadow, fascinated her.
Darkness bled into her vision. As her sight fizzled to nothing, an arm encircled her torso, and a body yanked her upward, strong legs kicking with none of the restraints that weighed her down.
The surface broke around her in sparks of light. Iona inhaled water and blessed air together, choking on the combination. The arm around her maintained an iron hold, its owner angling with the current toward the river’s edge.
Black stone loomed high above them, the land at the top of the ravine pitching upward. He caught a spindly, jutting tree branch, and the current swung them around, slamming them into the sheer canyon wall.
She coughed, still wheezing, only tangentially aware of her rescuer in the strange realization that she was somehow still alive. The rock beneath her hands was smooth and weather-worn. As she pawed at it for any small finger holds, she cast a sideways glance over her shoulder.
Jaoven, in profile to her, clenched his teeth, gripping their anchoring tree branch against the weight of the current that yet fought to sweep them both away.
Confusion and hope shot through her together.
But the branch splintered apart, and the current whirled them back into its grip.
A grunt sounded in her ears, and the arm around her tightened. Boulders and eddies spun them together in a deadly dance. The roar around them escalated, and she didn’t register why until the river dropped out from beneath her and an overburdened waterfall spilled them down a ten-foot drop into a turgid pool below.
Jaoven wrapped around her as they hit the surface. The fall disrupted the river’s force. In the comparative calm of the pool, he kicked out, stretching toward a shelf of stone that rested above the waterline. The boulder that formed it rose beneath them. He caught his footing and heaved Iona to relative safety.
She coughed water from her lungs, breathing raggedly, soaking in the warmth of the sunbaked stone upon which she lay. Her hair had come loose and splayed sodden around her, tendrils plastered to her face and neck.
Jaoven, no less winded for having saved them both, sat with knees tented and stared out upon the deathtrap they had just escaped. Iona, unmoving, studied him in silence.
“Can you not swim?” he asked at last, his voice hoarse and his eyes searching the ravine walls. The top loomed forty feet or more above.
Was that his primary concern, that she had not been able to rescue herself?
With a shuddering breath, she pushed away from the stone, rivulets streaming from her, and yanked at the clasp that secured her cloak around her neck. The sodden fabric splatted onto the boulder. Iona rolled, kicking to loosen where it yet wrapped around her legs. The instant she was free, she wadded the traitorous cloth and tossed it further up the shelf, into the shadows of an overhanging rock.
Jaoven mutely observed this action.
“Turn around,” she said.
He scowled. “What?”
“This gown has soaked up half the river. I’m taking it off to wring it out, and I don’t particularly care to have you looking at me in my underclothes.”
His eyes widened, and he quickly spun, his back to her.
Warily, she did the same, facing the direction the river coursed as she worked at the dress enclosures down her back. Now that the immediate threat of death had subsided, her brain launched into their broader chances of survival. They were too far downstream for their original party to find and offer them help, and they were on the opposite side of the flow anyway. The Awinrea threaded through a series of narrow ravines until it spilled out onto Wessett’s western lowlands, and most of those ravines meandered through thi
ck woodland, accessible only by miles of footpaths. The day, although warm, was waning, and sunset would drop the temperature. They had scant fuel for a fire—only the debris pushed into the corners of their small haven, cast-offs from the last time the river flowed this high—and no sure way of lighting it.
If they stayed here expecting help, they might die of cold during the night.
Which left only one viable option.
“I can swim,” she said as she peeled her dripping sleeves from her arms. Her shoulders, exposed to the air, caught the breeze, and a shiver coursed down her spine.
A bitter huff sounded behind her. “It’s a little late for that,” Jaoven said.
She scowled at his sodden back. “If we don’t go soon, it will be too late.”
Instinctively he glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“Don’t look,” she snapped, and he averted his gaze back to the waterfall. A blush leapt to her face, though she fought to contain it. “We can’t stay here. The ravine is too sheer to climb out. Our only choice is to go further downstream and seek a better mooring.”
He started to turn again but caught himself, clamping his arms around his knees to keep his position. “Have you gone mad? You just escaped certain death, and now you want to plunge right back into it?”
“And what do you propose?” She climbed on shaking legs, stripping her dress and petticoat away and stepping out in only her shift and stays. Her boots squashed against the stone. She sat back down and plucked at the knots in her laces.
“Obviously we remain here,” he said.
“With no food and no warmth, and darkness only an hour or two away.”
He bucked his head at the cold logic of her inventory. “What were you thinking, running toward a river at breakneck speed? Were you trying to kill yourself?”
So he hadn’t seen Lisenn push her, only a concerned elder sister pursuing the younger. Her hands shook, her heartbeat fluttering in her throat. The final barrier between her and Lisenn had burst with that lethal shove. Her sister wanted her dead.
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