Through a Dark Glass

by Barb Hendee

  “We’re almost ready, my lady,” said Captain Reynaud, the head of my family’s guard. He was in his late forties, of medium height and a solid build. His beard had gone gray, but his hair was still brown. He wore a wool shirt, chain armor, and the forest green tabard of the house of Géroux. He was loyal and steady, and I trusted him with my safety.

  Father assigned him and nine other guards to escort me to Partheney. Captain Reynaud had made the journey several times with my father or George, and he knew the best routes for each time of the year. Thankfully, we were now in early summer and the roads should be dry.

  I watched two of the men tying down my final trunk.

  Another guard led my horse, Meesha, from the stable. She was a lovely creature of dappled gray. I’d decided that I would prefer to ride than to sit on the wagon’s bench.

  Walking over, I reached out to take her reins, and then I stroked her nose. The guard walked away to check the lashings on the back of the wagon.

  “We have quite a journey ahead,” I whispered to Meesha.

  Yes, a long journey with an uncertain ending. I’d stayed up late in the night, talking to my brother, George, as I oversaw the packing of my belongings. Though he and I had seldom had reason to speak outside of the dinner table, he’d been only too willing to help prepare me.

  Linking our family to royalty would open doors for him.

  Still, he’d told me little that I hadn’t known before. Father expected us all to be well informed.

  George didn’t know any more than anyone else as to why the young king was so reluctant to marry. A man in his position should have a legitimate child in the cradle by now. But Rowan’s path to our throne had been unusual. When he was a boy, his father had been king of a small territory off our eastern border, known as the kingdom of Tircelan. His father died, leaving the queen, Genève, and their son, Rowan, at the mercy of a pack of ambitious nobles all vying for power.

  Our own king, Eduard, was a widower with a small daughter named Ashton. Upon hearing of the death of the neighboring king, he rode to Tircelan to personally offer any needed assistance—as he feared possible upheaval or civil war so close to his own border.

  But upon meeting Genève, Eduard fell in love. They married, and Tircelan was absorbed into our own much larger kingdom. Any initial resistance was stamped out quickly. This all occurred when Rowan was twelve and Ashton was two. Not long after, King Eduard formally adopted Rowan as his son.

  Over the next fifteen years, the blended royal family became admired and loved by the people. Eduard was a good king, respected by the noble families for his attention to securing our borders while not over-taxing the commoners.

  Then one night at dinner, he grabbed at his chest and died.

  By right of blood and birth, Ashton should have taken the crown, but she was only seventeen—and a woman—and our council of twelve noblemen held a vote to crown Rowan as king. This vote passed unanimously. There was some surprise among the common people, but Rowan and Ashton had long been viewed as brother and sister . . . and he was the elder brother.

  He was crowned without incident two years ago.

  Now, he needed a queen. He needed to secure the line with heirs.

  I had no intention of letting this chance slip through my fingers, not for any reason. No matter the obstacles, I would overcome them.

  Footsteps sounded behind me, and I blinked at the sight of my father walking across the courtyard. Had he come to see me off? To kiss me good-bye?

  The absurdity of either thought almost made me laugh.

  What did he want?

  Stopping a few paces away, he studied me again. This morning, I wore a gray cloak over a simple traveling gown. Even in summer, the nights and mornings could be cool.

  “Daughter,” he said.

  “Yes, Father?” I responded dutifully.

  “Lord Arullian has asked for your hand again.”

  Of all the things he might have said, this was not one I might have expected. Lord Arullian was a corrupt earl in his late fifties—rumored to be sadistic. He’d already had three wives. Two of them died under suspicious circumstances, and the last one killed herself by drinking poison.

  Watching my father carefully, I said nothing.

  “It would sadden me to see you in his hands,” Father went on, “but the connection would be good for the family. Should you come home in failure, I see little choice but to accept his offer.”

  Though the morning was not overly cool, I shivered.

  His threat was clear. I would succeed or he would make me suffer as Arullian’s next wife.

  “Yes, Father,” I answered. “But I won’t fail. The next time you see me will be to attend my wedding to King Rowan.”

  He smiled. “Of course. I have no doubt.”

  “We’re all set, my lord,” Captain Reynaud called. “Is Lady Olivia ready to leave?”

  Stepping toward me, my father reached out. I took his hand, put my foot in the stirrup, and let him help me settle into Meesha’s saddle. I could not remember him ever having touched me before.

  “Good-bye, daughter,” he said.

  “Good-bye.”

  I looked around the courtyard at the keep. I would not miss this place. I hoped to never see it again.

  My new home was the castle in Partheney.

  About the Author

  Barb Hendee is the New York Times bestselling author of The Mist-Torn Witches series. She is the co-author (with husband J.C.) of the Noble Dead Saga. She holds a master’s degree in composition/rhetoric from the University of Idaho and currently teaches writing for Umpqua Community College. She and J.C. live in a quirky two-level townhouse just south of Portland, Oregon.