by Barb Hendee
Both were off, forgetting their elder cousin. Only Felisien stopped halfway and glanced back. With surprise on his lean, rather pretty face, he swung his head with a smile, urging her to follow.
Reine just shook her head.
Felisien rolled his eyes. Prim as a peacock in his glistening long coat, he went after his brother, and Reine glanced about the room.
Not one other lady present was dressed in a split riding skirt over breeches and high polished boots. Oh, yes, her attire was made of satins and elven sheot’a, as fine and proper as any royal among her people. But it wasn’t like theirs. Among the men, she saw a number of officers, some bearing arms, a sword or dagger—but not the women.
Not one wore a horse saber on her hip, like Reine, regardless that it hung from a belt gilded with silver rosettes. All these ladies in their floor- length gowns and robes left Reine feeling . . . foreign.
She would never let it show, but she didn’t care to ride into this kind of wilderness. She tried tucking her saber a little farther behind her and then stopped. Why should she be embarrassed by who and what she was? She let the blade hang in plain sight.
Cousin Edelard had set in renewing his acquaintance with Prince Leäfrich reskynna, each dressed in their fine uniforms. They’d met before on exchanges between the nations’ militaries. Felisien was pestering a young officer with his raffish banter. The younger dazzle- eyed sublieutenant looked almost as uncomfortable under such attention as Reine felt in the hall. Amid the men were three ladies. Reine had met the tallest briefly that morning.
Princess thelthryth reskynna, heir to Malourné’s throne, stood close to her brother.
Reine knew the ways of court and how to deal with its society and ploys. But as much as the reskynna were hospitable in their aloof way, there had to be better and more interesting places to wait until dinner. She backed one step toward the doors and . . .
thelthryth turned her head on her long neck and stared straight at Reine with her family’s deep aquamarine eyes. The princess’s lithe form turned, sending a gentle sway through a white gauze overskirt atop her pastel sea green gown. She moved—flowed—around her brother toward the chamber hall’s doors.
Reine quickly smiled, but under her breath she exhaled. “Oh, give me a horse!”
“Pardon, Highness?” a deep voice asked.
Startled, she glanced aside—then up—into the hard eyes of a Weardas by the doors.
Triple braids on his vestment marked him as an officer, though she didn’t know enough to discern his rank. A tuft of dark beard stuck out upon his square jaw.
“Nothing,” she answered, then cleared her throat, repeating with disinterest, “It is nothing.”
He bowed with only his head.
Reine looked away—straight into the bodice of that sea green gown. She quickly raised her eyes, more and more, until they met the studying gaze of thelthryth.
“I’ve meant to ask,” said the princess in an emotionless lilt, “do you know how to use that?”
Confusion stifled Reine until thelthryth’s focus slowly lowered, and her attention fixed briefly on the saber’s protruding hilt.
“Of course,” Reine answered softly, on guard for some implied slight.
“Hopefully not on anyone here,” returned thelthryth, “much as you might wish to cut yourself free of this event.”
The barest empathetic smile broke thelthryth’s tepid serenity.
“You would not be alone in such desire,” she added, letting a brief but tired sigh escape. “Regardless of what station requires of us.”
With that, thelthryth gently took Reine’s arm and steered her into the crowded hall.
Lost in confusion and growing discomfort, Reine maintained dignified composure as many an eye turned their way, along with respectful nods at the passing of two ladies of royal blood.
“At least we might keep you from being hunted,” thelthryth whispered. “Though I’ve heard you handle predators well enough.”
Reine wasn’t certain what to make of this. As direct heir to a throne, the princess would have had her share of suitors to fend off. Then they passed Prince Leäfrich’s group.
He paused midsentence, though his companions didn’t notice in their chatter. Leäfrich glanced at his sister, offering a slight nod of some covert agreement. Then he looked once toward the back of the long chamber.
A shadow of concern raced quickly across the tall prince’s face.
Reine tried to follow his gaze. Wherever or whoever he had sought, there were too many people to pick out his target.
Around a cluster of self-amused debutantes, Reine spotted Uncle Jac with the king and queen of Malourné. He smiled at her, though it looked forced, veiling some unspoken worry. King Leofwin, hand-in-hand with Queen Muriel, looked to his daughter.
“Keeping our cousin well cared for?” he asked.
“Always, Father,” thelthryth answered. “Like my very own.”
Familial references were common respect for royalty of allied nations, but it left Reine unsettled—more so when King Leofwin glanced in the same direction that the prince had only moments before. Reine tried again to find their source of concern.
Queen Muriel whispered something in her husband’s ear, too soft and low to catch. Leofwin slumped, hanging his head. His eyes clenched shut, and Muriel grasped her husband’s hand in both of hers.
“Come,” thelthryth urged. “Let us find a defensible spot with more room to breathe.”
Reine was swept onward before she heard anything more.
What was happening here? And why had her uncle looked as concerned as the reskynna?
At the hall’s rear, before a tall window of crystal clear panes, stood a fragile-looking young man, his back turned to everyone. He was dressed plainly but elegantly in a white shirt of billowing sleeves beneath a sea green brocade vest. All alone, he faced the outside world, and dangling locks of sandy blond hair hid any glimpse of his face. His shoulders bent forward under some unseen weight, his hands braced upon the sill.
Was this where all wayward glances had turned?
“Freädherich?” whispered thelthryth. “Could you keep our cousin company?”
Again that familial term.
It bothered Reine even more—especially as she stared at the younger prince’s back. She wouldn’t have recognized him as he was now, though she had met him earlier that day. He’d been silent then as well.
“I must see to late arrivals,” thelthryth said, and still her youngest brother didn’t turn.
Reine began to heat up with barely suppressed anger.
For all Uncle Jac’s supposed understanding, was he now trying to make her suitor to some foreign prince? Or had the reskynna coerced him into this, so quickly executed by thelthryth?
Reine turned on her royal “cousin,” ready to remove herself, even at the cost of insult—but she held her tongue.
The princess watched her brother with the same wounded concern as had the king and queen and Prince Leäfrich. Then her gaze wandered.
thelthryth stared intently out the window beyond Freädherich. Her fixed eyes turned glassy until she blinked suddenly. With a shudder, she pulled Reine back a step.
“Please,” she whispered, “decorum’s pressure might force him to speak with you.”
With a final pained glance at Freädherich, thelthryth turned away, gliding back through the crowded room.
Reine was left alone with the young prince, but it only made her ire grow.
She wasn’t about to be played, especially under her uncle’s betrayal. No wonder he’d fended off suitors in their own land. He’d kept her like a prized purebred to barter for political gain. Why not just throw one of his sons at thelthryth and aim directly for the crown of Malourné?
No, that would be pointless. Edelard was already heir of Faunier, and Felisien . . . well, his numerous indiscretions leaned entirely in another direction.
Reine turned like a cornered fox and cast her spite across the r
oom at Uncle Jac. But King Jacqui only lowered his head with firmly pressed lips, and then cocked it slightly toward Freädherich. All Reine saw in her uncle’s face was more concern, and Queen Muriel watched her with frightful expectation.
Reine slowly turned about, frustrated as she gazed at Freädherich’s back.
Something more was happening here, aside from an attempt to throw her at the young prince. Much as she wouldn’t allow the latter, she stepped closer, coming around two paces off so as not to startle him.
Prince Freädherich was young, certainly a few years younger than she was. Shoulder-length sandy hair framed a long, pale face. His narrow nose looked slightly hooked, but nothing too severe or unappealing. The thin lips of his small mouth were parted, as if his jaw hung slack, and his eyes . . .
Those eerie aquamarine irises were locked unblinking into the distance outside.
His face was barely a hand’s length from the window, and quick, shallow breaths briefly fogged the chilled panes.
“My apologies for the invasion,” she said quietly. “This seems the quietest corner of the hall.”
He didn’t respond or turn from the window.
“I am Duchess Reine Faunier, if you remember,” she added. “Except for my uncle and cousins, I’m . . . unacquainted with anyone here.”
Freädherich blinked once. His head turned just a little toward her. His eyes turned last, so reluctant to relinquish the view.
“I don’t know anyone but my family,” he whispered.
Unlikely for a prince of the realm, Reine thought, unless he had purposely cloistered himself for many years.
His gaze touched hers for an instant before he turned back to the window. It was enough to fill her with a sudden shiver. Over the outer castle wall, she made out the full moon hanging high above the dwarves’ distant mountain peninsula. It cast a shimmering road of light across the wide bay and out into the open ocean.
Reine stood rigid, watching Freädherich stare again out the window. She knew that desperate look, or thought she did.
There were times when demands of station, even in her remote duchy, grew too smothering. She would grab her horse bow, perhaps go hunting covey in the scrub, or just ride until exhausted. Her escapes always ended in the high eastern granite steppes. She would stand where the sky was large enough that she no longer felt trapped.
Freädherich gazed the other way, to the west. The desperation on his face wouldn’t let Reine back away.
“Then we’ll wait here,” she said, “and pretend a deep conversation. No one will bother us until dinner is announced.”
It was all she could think to say.
Freädherich’s eyes shifted her way but not to her face. He glanced over her foreign attire, ending not upon her sword but rather on her calf- high boots. It gave her a notion, something, anything to say.
“Have you chosen a mount for the ride?”
His thin lips parted suddenly, as if her words startled him.
“The tour of the local province?” she urged. “Your father arranged a ride. I have my horses but was wondering about the stock of your stables. I assumed that . . . you . . .”
Her voice failed as he shrank upon himself, as if no one had ever tried to force him into conversation like this.
“I don’t know how to ride,” he said.
“And I do not know how to swim,” she answered—then regretted it instantly.
Freädherich slid away along the sill, grown wary at some implied expectation. Reine was suddenly smothered in guilt for her quip. She’d thought only about his longing to escape. Stupidly, mistakenly, she’d frightened him more in turn.
“I can teach you,” she added. “With a gentle mount, it wouldn’t be difficult.”
Freädherich remained silent—then he nodded slightly, just once.
Another stillness hung between them for so long that Reine became self-conscious. This was something she’d seldom felt before coming to this coast among these seafaring people. When she finally grew too uncomfortable, she turned her back to the window and its disturbing view.
That seemingly endless ocean, dark yet with no firm ground to race across, could swallow her into its depths in the first step. Perhaps her ways of horse and plains and steppes were as unsettling to him.
She half sat upon the sill, and to her surprise, he turned and did the same.
But when Freädherich faced the crowd of drinking nobles, panic filled his eyes at the sight of so many people. Not like a child. More like a wild horse spotting roving winter wolves that hadn’t yet noticed it. On instinct, Reine slid her hand along the sill to cover his.
Not everyone was watching them—only Uncle Jac and the royals of Malourné. Or at least these were the only ones Reine noticed. The relief in Queen Muriel’s face was almost disturbing. King Leofwin took a deep breath, hand on his chest.
Reine was baffled by all of this.
When a finely suited servant rang a silver bell, announcing that dinner would be served, Freädherich’s hand tightened upon the sill’s edge beneath Reine’s. She watched his frantic eyes race about as everyone flowed toward the doors. Then he fixed upon someone across the chamber.
Reine’s cousin, Prince Edelard, offered his arm to one lady in their group. Prince Leäfrich did the same for his sister, thelthryth.
Freädherich looked down at Reine.
At first, she thought he might spin around, fleeing to the safety of his window view—but he did not. She kept her eyes on his until he calmed and lifted his arm for her. And she took it. They sat together at dinner, talking little throughout the meal—which consisted of more courses than Reine cared for. Afterward, Freädherich grew agitated and nervous again.
“Take me on a tour of the castle,” she said.
Without a word, he got up, gripping her chair to slide it out. Reine quickly covered for him, making their excuses. Neither the king nor the queen questioned this and were more than obliging. Uncle Jac appeared pleased, and Reine shot him a cold glare before she took Freädherich’s arm and they left. As they wandered through the maze of the castle, coming upon a gallery of family portraits, she had to finally ask.
“Freädherich . . . is something wrong?”
“You should call me Frey,” he said, ignoring the question. “That’s what thel and Lee call me.”
Such nicknames were a little amusing compared to how formal the reskynna were with outsiders, but she wouldn’t be put off so easily.
“I meant, you seem somewhat beside yourself . . . elsewhere,” she insisted.
Again, her quiet directness startled him. This time he recovered more quickly.
“The ride,” he whispered. “Father insists that I go.”
That wasn’t what was really on his mind, though it obviously bothered him as well. At another evasion, Reine chose not to press him into whatever more uncomfortable thoughts he wouldn’t share.
“You don’t wish to go?” she asked.
Freädherich—Frey—looked at the floor.
“I don’t like horses,” he said flatly. “I prefer to sail.”
Reine was a bit stunned. Coming from a nation of horse people, she’d never met anyone who feared those proud animals. Then again, perhaps he’d never met anyone afraid of the sea . . . the endless ocean. Why was she so drawn to protect this strange young man?
On the edge of the next dawn, Reine secretly slipped out to meet him at the stables.
Frey was waiting outside and wouldn’t enter until she pulled him in. She showed him the tall mounts her uncle brought in their entourage, but he wouldn’t step near even one. When she came to her own three—Cinnamon, Nettle, and Peony—she made him stay put as she led out the latter gentle and dappled mare.
By the time Felisien came searching for her, Reine had already gotten Frey to mount. To her surprise, he learned quickly. And she later learned that he’d been forced onto a soldier’s stallion by his elder brother at too early an age. But he’d never been taught in proper fashion to work w
ith a horse. Peony took to him well.
By afternoon, the Weardas and a contingent of cavalry prepared to escort all the royals out for their tour. Reine was mounted atop Cinnamon, her muscular stallion. Frey, still atop Peony, remained at ease so long as he had Reine in his sight.
He worked easily with the calm mare, or rather she with him, even cantering past his father twice, much to everyone’s shock. But Frey seldom left Reine’s side. If he did, she kept watch on him. When Felisien tried to goad her into a round of tag-arrows on horseback, wheeling his mount in her way, she booted him in the rump. She wasn’t about to panic Frey with the sight of such a wild game.
By the time the tour ended, and they’d returned to the castle, Reine decided that she would put off leaving when her family headed home. Something inside her didn’t wish to abandon Frey—or that was how she viewed it. Three days later, she went to see off her cousins . . . her uncle. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night of the first banquet.
Uncle Jac, mounted on his plains-bred stallion, looked sternly down at Reine.
“This was only for hope of your happiness,” he said, and then added with emphasis, “nothing more. The rest is up to you . . . and him.”
Was all of this truly only seven years ago?
Metal grating upon stone wrenched Reine into the present. She turned about as the iron doors split down their center seam. They slowly parted, sliding into the walls. A second pair began to separate as well, and then a third.
There was Cinder-Shard, on the doors’ other side, standing dead center in the widening portal. Reine hadn’t even seen him enter.
At his brief wave, the remaining Stonewalkers passed by, bearing Hammer-Stag’s body into the chamber. Cinder-Shard turned away out of sight to the portal’s left.
“Time to go,” Chuillyon said from behind her.
All Reine saw between the chamber’s inner rounded walls was an opening in the center of its stone floor. It looked like a shaft as wide as a bailey gate.
Filled with blackness in the low light, that hole seemed to drop straight into the mountain’s bowels. She could swear she caught the scent of seawater filling the chamber, perhaps rising from the shaft. It wasn’t possible, though she shivered again.