Through a Dark Glass

by Barb Hendee

  It hurt Kai to see his brother ride off, but this was the best that could be managed, and we both knew it.

  The family living at the hall now consisted of Jarrod, Kai, and me.

  Kai took up his duties riding out over our lands, and sometimes, Jarrod went with him. As the months passed, and Jarrod’s dependency on Kai grew stronger, Kai began expressing a voice of his own.

  He managed to get his father to agree to cut back on taxes and to allow all the people living on Volodane lands to fish the streams freely, hunt game, and set snares.

  I was proud of my husband.

  One day, in midwinter, he asked me, “Are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything I could ever do for you?”

  I had been waiting for this. “There is one thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “Lift your order that I’m not allowed to pass through the gate without your permission. No, don’t look at me like that. I assure you that out of consideration, I would not leave without telling you my destination, but it troubles me that I can’t leave without your orders to the guards. Do you understand?”

  For a moment, I thought he might refuse, but then he nodded. “I’ll lift the order.”

  That had been the only thing I wished.

  The following spring, I gave birth to a baby girl. Jarrod went into a sulk, but Kai was thrilled. We named her Bridget.

  Soon after, I found Jarrod in the nursery, humming her a lullaby, and I didn’t interrupt. I suspected he might be a better grandfather than a father.

  Two years later, I had a boy. We named him Rolf.

  As soon as Rolf could walk, we took both children to the apple orchard. I let them chase me around the trees, laughing, as Kai looked on. I saw peace and pride in his eyes.

  I had my family, and I had love.

  Chapter 21

  The world around me vanished, and I found myself standing in the storage room of my parents’ manor, staring into the three-tiered mirror.

  I dropped to my knees.

  Now, there were three reflections of the dark-haired woman as she gazed out at me from all three panels.

  In a flash, I was hit by the full memories of all three lives I’d lived out with each brother . . . Rolf . . . Sebastian . . . Kai.

  “Which one?” the woman asked. “Choose.”

  She wanted me to give an answer right now?

  Struggling to take in breath, my mind raced. If I chose Rolf, Kai would die. If I chose Sebastian, Rolf and Jarrod would both die. If I chose Kai, Rolf would still die.

  “Wait!” I cried. “Once I choose, will I still remember what I’ve seen?”

  If so, I could alter events.

  The woman shook her head. “The mirror offers a gift to you, not to others. You must make this choice for your own sake, and your sake alone. Once you have chosen, all the memories you have seen will be gone.”

  I closed my eyes in pain. I would remember nothing. I could save no one.

  “Choose for yourself,” she said. “This is a gift. Which of the paths do you most desire?”

  Soon enough, even without her prompting, I would have to make a choice.

  On my knees, I let the images from the mirror wash over me.

  Rolf . . . he was so much more than he let most people see. With him, I would have deep respect. I would be valued. He would give me confidence and a belief in myself. I’d have power and influence over matters of state, and I could use this to help the people of our nation.

  These things mattered to me.

  Sebastian . . . with him I would know a much-needed feeling of safety and intimacy at first. I would depend on him and love him. This would dissolve into loneliness, sorrow, and self-doubt, but at the end of such pain, I’d receive a great gift: independence. I’d be able to live my life exactly as I pleased, with a home and money of my own. My thoughts flowed over the life that I’d carve out for myself, answering to no one. How long had I dreamed of this?

  This mattered to me.

  Kai . . . moody, prickly, passionate, unpredictable Kai. Life with him would often move between the heights of joy and the depths of despair. It would be messy and confusing and satisfying. Even here, in this cold storage room, I could still feel the pressure of his mouth on mine and the urgency of his touch. With him, I would have my children, my own family.

  These things mattered to me.

  In the end, the choice was really not so difficult, not as it had seemed at first.

  “Kai.”

  The woman nodded. “The third choice.”

  The air before me wavered and the mirror vanished.

  * * * *

  Startled, I found myself on the floor of the storage room where I’d taken refuge. How long had I been in here? Had I fallen asleep?

  Quickly, I rose, fearful that my mother would come looking for me at any moment, and I hurried from the storage room back to our dining hall, dreading what awaited me.

  As I walked back in, I saw my mother conversing with Sebastian while my father spoke with Jarrod and Rolf.

  Kai stood off by himself, uncomfortable and awkward, his long hair hiding half his face.

  Suddenly I knew. Something inside me spoke his name, and just like that, I made up my mind.

  “Kai,” I whispered.

  Read on for a preview of the next Dark Glass novel from New York Times bestselling author Barb Hendee…

  A CHOICE OF CROWNS

  Olivia Geroux knew her king was reluctant to marry her, whatever the negotiations had arranged. But she never expected to find handsome, arrogant King Rowan obsessed with his stepsister instead. Before she can determine what course to take, she overhears her greatest ally plotting to murder the princess. Olivia must act quickly—and live with whatever chaos results.

  As the assassin hunts his prey, a magic mirror appears to show Olivia the three paths that open before her:

  ~ If she hesitates only a moment, the princess will die—and she will become queen.

  ~ If she calls for help, she will gain great power—but she must also thrust away her own happiness.

  ~ If she runs to stop the murder herself, she will know love and contentment—but her whole country will suffer.

  As she lives out each path, her wits and courage will be tested as she fights to protect her people, her friends, and her heart. And deciding which to follow will be far from easy.

  A CHOICE OF CROWNS

  New York Times bestselling author Barb Hendee reveals a world of ruthless desire, courtly intrigue, and compassion as one woman shapes the fate of a nation.

  Available in February 2018

  Chapter 1

  I’ve heard it said the most important moments in one’s life pass more swiftly than others. Perhaps it’s true.

  I only know that all my senses were on alert as soon as my father sent for me, asking me to come to his private rooms. At the age of eighteen, I’d never once been invited to his rooms. In the past several weeks, he’d been closeted away much of his time, sending and receiving messages, but I had no idea what this was about—as he didn’t see fit to share such intelligence with me.

  Now . . . he wanted to see me, in his rooms?

  I could hardly refuse, nor in fact did I want to. I was curious.

  Gathering my long green skirt, I nodded curtly to the servant who’d delivered the message and made my way to the base of the east tower of our family keep. I knew exactly where his rooms were located, even if I never been inside.

  Upon arriving, I stood with my back straight and knocked on the door.

  “Father? You sent for me.”

  “Come,” he said from the other side.

  With my hand shaking only slightly, I opened the door. Inside, I found a somewhat austere main room that appeared to be a study, with a large
desk and chair. There were tapestries of forest scenes on the walls, and an interior door led to a bedroom.

  My father, Hugh Géroux, sat behind his desk working on what appeared to be a letter, but he stood as I entered. In his early fifties, he still cut a striking figure, with a smooth-shaven face, dark peppered hair, and dark eyes.

  “Olivia,” he said, as if meeting me for the first time.

  We didn’t know each other well, as I was the fifth and youngest of his children. I had two older brothers and two older sisters, and my father had used all four of them carefully to enhance his own wealth and prestige. My mother died of a fever when I was only seven, so my father raised us alone in a manner that was both distant and overbearing at the same time.

  My family, the line of Géroux, was among the old nobility of the kingdom. While past famines and civil wars had destroyed several of the ancient families, ours survived. We were survivors. My father respected strength and nothing else.

  His eyes moved dispassionately from my feet to my face, as if assessing me.

  I knew only too well what he saw. I was tall for a woman. He was tall, and I could almost look him directly in the eyes. Unfortunately, the current fashion for women was petite and fragile. My hair was long and thick, but it was a shade of burnished red, and again, red hair was not currently in fashion.

  Still, I’d been raised to remain sharply aware of everything going on around me, and it was no secret that most men found me desirable. My face had often been called pretty, with clear skin and slanted eyes of green.

  I looked best in green velvet.

  Though I was not vain, I had also been raised to understand that survival was based on value, and at some point, I’d be given a chance to prove myself valuable.

  Had that chance finally come?

  “You’ll need to pack tonight,” he said. “You leave for Partheney in the morning.”

  In spite of my careful awareness of self-control, I nearly gasped. “Partheney?”

  This was the king’s city. My family’s lands were in the in the southeast corner of the kingdom. Partheney was in the northwest, near the coast of the sea. I had never been there.

  “You’re to marry King Rowan,” my father said flatly. “His mother, the dowager queen, and I have arranged it.”

  I stood still as his words began to sink in, but I still couldn’t quite follow what he was trying to convey. “King Rowan . . . the dowager queen . . . is this why you’ve been receiving so many messages?”

  His eyes flashed, and I dropped my gaze, cursing myself.

  Father did not brook questions from his children. He expected only two things from us: strength and obedience. But the slight shaking in my hands grew to a tremble. Had I heard him correctly? I was to marry the king?

  Stepping around the desk, he approached me. “Do you know anything of the rumors surrounding King Rowan?”

  Unfortunately I did, hence the reason my hands trembled. Even here, in the isolated southeast, rumors still reached us. In his late twenties, Rowan de Blaise was a young king and had held the throne for only two years.

  But over those two years, four betrothals with foreign princesses had been arranged via proxy. Envoys had been sent to Partheney to finalize negotiations. In all four cases, when the envoys arrived, Rowan refused to even see them. He’d sent them away.

  “I know some of the stories,” I answered my father. “I know betrothals have been arranged, and he’s sent the envoys packing.”

  “Yes.” My father nodded. “His mother, the dowager, was the one who arranged the betrothals. She is anxious to see him married and founding a line of heirs.”

  “Why will he not marry?”

  My father waved one hand in the air. “That is of no matter. What matters is the dowager has decided to stop seeking a foreign princess and marry him into one of our own noble families. She’s wise and has chosen the line of Géroux. We’ll be linked to royalty, and I’ll be the grandfather of kings.”

  The truth of all this hit me, and my hands ceased trembling.

  I would be queen.

  Clearly there were obstacles, but I allowed my initial worries to vanish and let my mind flow. Father expected complete success from himself and would expect nothing less of me. This thought made me brave.

  “If Rowan has refused to even see the envoys,” I began, “what makes you and the dowager think he will agree to entertain negotiations this time?”

  My question was bold, but instead of growing angry, Father only looked at me as if I were simple—which I was not.

  “Because as I said, you will leave in the morning,” he answered. “I’m not sending envoys. I have no faith in envoys. I’m sending you. You’ll go to the castle, meet the king, and handle negotiations yourself. You are a daughter of the Gérouxs. He cannot turn you away.”

  “You’ll not come with me?”

  “No. That was my first instinct, but the dowager believes it best if the king is given no choice in facing you directly. It will force him to be . . . polite.” His expression darkened. “And you will not fail to secure him. Do you understand? You will not fail.”

  I met his eyes without flinching.

  “I understand.”

  * * * *

  Dinner that night was both strained and exciting. We sat in elegant clothes around a long table while our servants poured wine.

  I allowed Father to deliver the news to my siblings—after the first course had been served. Silence followed for a long moment.

  Inwardly, I triumphed at my sisters’ mouths falling open.

  “Olivia?” Margareta asked. “To marry King Rowan?”

  She herself was married to a minor baron who’d not only forgone a dowry but also paid a fortune for the privilege of the marriage—in land. My father had long wanted a forty-square-league territory at the bottom of our own lands that boasted fine vineyards. Margareta was a shrewish woman who didn’t care for her husband, but she’d married him all the same, as father had ordered it. Unfortunately, her husband soon grew tired of her and began bringing his mistresses to live at the family manor.

  Margareta now spent much of here time here, citing that Father “needed her.” He did not need her, but he didn’t mind her presence so long she played the dutiful wife and gave the baron no reason to demand his land back.

  Raising a goblet to his mouth, Father offered her measured stare. “Why not Olivia?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” interrupted my other sister, Eleanor, “she is so young.”

  Eighteen was hardly considered young for noblewoman. I’d had female cousins married off as early as sixteen.

  But—I shamefully admit—with some glee, I knew this news would come as a particular blow to Eleanor. At the age of twenty, she was engaged to marry a silver merchant. Father had arranged it. The man had no title, but his family was obscenely wealthy. Over the past months, Eleanor had been boasting to Margareta and me about the upcoming luxuries she would enjoy for the rest of her life.

  As she stared daggers at me across the table, I could see the quiet fury in her face, and her thoughts were so open.

  Why her and not me?

  Both my sisters had inherited our father’s dark hair and our mother’s small size. They were considered fashionable and beautiful. I had inherited our mother’s coloring and our father’s height.

  My brother George—the eldest—had also inherited our father’s coloring. He swallowed a bite of roast beef. “Do you think Olivia can manage this?” George would inherit our lands and my father’s title. He was calm and calculated, all mental gears and wheels and little heart. “I’ve met Rowan twice, and he struck me as rather intractable.”

  Father nodded. “She’ll manage.”

  This turn in the conversation caused both my sisters’ faces to light up.

  “I’ve heard King Rowan prefers men,�
� Margareta said, not bothering to hide her spite. “That may prove challenging.”

  I shrugged, speaking for the first time. “He’ll still need to marry. The people expect it. The nobles expect it.”

  Her brown eyes flashed hatred at my cavalier reaction.

  Eleanor leaned forward. “I’ve heard he’s so possessive of his throne that he won’t share it with anyone, not even a queen.”

  “That’s not true,” George answered without an ounce of passion. “He works well with the council of nobles. He’s no tyrant. So long as Olivia makes no mistakes, she’ll secure him. She’ll have the support of the council and the dowager queen. They all want to see him wed. Olivia just needs to act wisely.”

  As these words left his mouth, a fraction of my confidence wavered. He and my father would both view any failure here as my failure, that I had made mistakes. Without meaning to, my gaze shifted to the empty chair at the table. This had belonged to my other brother, Henri. Of all my siblings, he might have been the only one to show me support, to perhaps offer comfort. But he wasn’t here. Father had wanted him to rise high in the military, and he expressed a preference to study the arts of healing abroad. They’d argued.

  In a cold rage, my father had purchased him a lieutenant’s commission in the far north, in the cold, along the border, and sent him away. Henri hated the cold, but Father believed in punishing any act he viewed as dissent.

  I could not forget this.

  I could never forget this.

  “She will succeed,” Father said.

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  Eleanor’s jealous anger glowed off her face, but I met her eyes evenly. I couldn’t wait to be queen and force her to kneel and kiss my skirts.

  * * * *

  The following morning, as the sun crested the horizon, I stood in the courtyard of our keep watching my trunks being packed into a wagon. I’d packed everything that mattered to me, as I had no plans to return.

  No one from my family was present to see me off, but I hadn’t expected anyone to rise early. There was no love lost between any of us, and it was pointless to pretend otherwise.