Servants, dressmakers, priests—everyone with any tie to the princess was brought in and interrogated. The priest she would have suspected most, the one who heard Kara’s confessions, had been locked up for several days now, so he was of no use. Father Matthias was the humble sort, an older man whose loyalty couldn’t be bought. He stubbornly refused to convert to Ava’s religion and secretly encouraged others to resist. Rotting in prison, he could no longer spread his heretical lies.
But when Ava entered the dungeons, determined to find out what exactly he might know, that priest had the audacity to smile when he learned of Kara’s flight. “The queen is now beyond your reach.”
“Kara will never be queen,” Ava had snarled back at him.
But what if he was right?
Was it too late to stop Kara from escaping to Vallhane? No, surely Marius had already caught and killed the princess. The seeing pool had promised death. The ivory bones, tossed just so, mixed with a splattering of blood, revealed the ancient spirits were on her side.
Ava paced along the balcony, back and forth, unable to stand still. In the distance, a thunderstorm spread across the mountains like a massive hand, lightning flashing in all directions. Moments later, a boom echoed.
Marius would be caught out in the storm if he did not return soon.
The road leading toward the city was filled with the usual traffic, peasants traveling to and from a market day. Still no sign of Marius Dupuis. Then Ava leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. A rider raced his destrier as if devils chased close behind, forcing peasants to scurry out of the way.
Ava’s heart sank as Marius rode into the castle courtyard, his great horse foaming with sweat and breathing heavily. The enraged expression on the marshal’s swarthy face told her he had failed in his task. Blood stained one of his sleeves, and he favored that arm.
Her hands gripped the stone balustrade. This was most unexpected. How could a young girl defeat Marius Dupuis?
She left her balcony, determined to find out what had gone amiss. Within the solar, her private apartment, a servant girl clutched folded linens about to be placed within a chest, her eyes widening with fear at Ava’s approach.
“I must speak with the marshal,” Ava snapped. “Find him and send him to me. Now!” The servant fled the room.
Ava paced the floor until the echo of heavy boots along the hallway signaled his arrival. As they approached her door, the steps slowed. Then Marius stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space. Ava turned to him, her fingers clenching tight. “I want to hear good news, and you do not look like the bearer of good news.”
He stepped inside the room and shut the door.
“Come into the light,” she commanded, pointing at a patch of sunlight filtered to red, gold, and green by the stained-glass window. “I want to see you better.”
He obeyed, though his gaze never met hers. She was close enough to catch a whiff of his rank odor and see the sweat drip from his greying temples.
A breath escaped through his clenched teeth. “I nearly had the job done when a group of men came upon us and started shooting. I took one right here, a lucky shot.” He pointed to his shoulder, his voice sharp with anger. “I barely escaped with my life.”
“And my stepdaughter is still alive. Alive and hale and able to return and reclaim her inheritance in a fortnight. You let her get away.”
Her marshal swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
The idea of men helping her stepdaughter was alarming. “Who were the traitors?” she demanded, taking a step toward Marius while examining his injured arm.
“I don’t know. There were perhaps three or four. Maybe more. I’ll track them down. A storm is sweeping through the mountains, and the river is high. They can’t get far. She won’t escape me a second time.”
The vehemence in his expression was promising, but Ava was still far from being pleased. The chance of Kara’s returning to challenge her for the throne was far too great for Ava to dismiss Marius’s help. Her marshal would find a way—all Tiborne knew how Marius Dupuis longed for a title and land of his own—yet she dared not leave the task solely up to him and risk failure a second time.
“When the storm ends, you will go,” she promised. “But not alone. I will support you every step of the way.”
He bowed, but she did not miss the resentment lurking behind that careful mask he wore. “I expect greater things from you.” Ava paced around him, trailing her fingers across the padded leather protecting his chest. “You know what I do to people who disappoint me.”
He flinched, though he kept his gaze trained on the thresh-strewn floor. “I won’t fail you,” he whispered.
Chapter Five
Would Damien resent her for not sharing her identity sooner? He blinked once, then twice, as if Kara’s admission stunned him, and then his eyes blazed with light.
He bowed, nearly sweeping the ground, and the other men followed suit. Damien’s courtly gesture brought a warm, unexpected memory of him as a twelve-year-old boy skidding across the castle hallway to bring her mother an embroidery sample. It had been a humble task for a page who wanted to be a knight. As a child she had smothered a giggle when he tried to bow before the queen, all spindly legs and arms.
And then her mother died, and with that death all joy had vanished from the castle. Kara pushed the memory away, refusing to let emotion overwhelm her.
Damien raised his head, his features once again tight. “We did not realize the queen was in our presence. Forgive me for failing to recognize you, Your Majesty. I . . .” Briefly he seemed at a loss for words. “How did you escape?”
“It wasn’t as hard as you might think. My servant likes ale, and every night she meets with the head cook to share a pint or two . . . or three. While she was down in the kitchens, I stole her clothes and pretended to be her to get past the castle gates.” Kara paused before adding, “She has a . . . reputation.”
One of his dark eyebrows twitched.
Reputation indeed. While keeping one hand on the handle of her knife and the hood of her cape pulled low, Kara had silently endured the catcalls and ribald suggestions of the patrolling soldiers up on the wall near the gate. Apparently her servant knew the castle’s men-at-arms a little too well and frequently sneaked out for adventures in the village.
When a guard offered to open the portcullis in exchange for a kiss, Kara promised one on her return, knowing she would never return to Tiborne without an army behind her.
“As Father Matthias promised you, I have the message.” She pressed a hand against her body, feeling the crisp curl of parchment beneath the woolen tunic. It was written in her own hand—a detailed list of Ava Chaloner’s crimes and an appeal for help, signed with Kara’s seal.
“Yes.” Damien’s face darkened. “But you are a messenger whom the regent is desperate to kill. She will send men after us.”
“I must get to Vallhane and ask my uncle, King Victor, to support my claim to the throne. For years Ava has hinted to the court regarding her lineage tracing back to a Duke of Raven. If not for the rampant witchcraft in that family, she would have a claim to my crown. If I die, most certainly the kingdom will be hers. She will be no longer a mere regent but a queen with unlimited power.”
Damien’s steady gaze never left hers.
“You must help me get across the border,” she stated firmly. “I have no army. The knights have all defected to Ava. My supporters have been supplanted. Even Father Matthias has been imprisoned merely for offering mass and hearing my confessions.”
Sorrow and weariness threatened to suffocate her at the idea of her dear friend suffering at the hands of the regent. How many other innocent men and women would fall for refusing to obey Ava?
Damien considered, his face thoughtful. “Your Majesty cannot stay in Tiborne,” he said at last. “Providence brought us to you.”
Providence? Maybe. She wanted to believe so, but her faith in the divine had
worn a trifle thin as of late.
A muscle ticked in Damien’s jaw. To her surprise, he stepped toward her, bent his head, and spoke softly so the other men could not hear: “Your Majesty, why did you not tell me it was you back in the clearing?”
She glanced up to see an unreadable expression cross his face. Was it hurt? Or was it frustration? After a pause to gather her thoughts, she answered honestly, “I have learned that few men are truly what they seem, and I’ve witnessed enough betrayal to last a lifetime. The one person I’ve completely trusted may now be dead because of my escape.”
The light in his eyes flickered at this admission. “I am sorry. I knew Father Matthias well,” he replied, leaving her to wonder just how well and how recently.
But she had an urgent question of her own to ask. “Why did you not let me know you were still alive?”
She had heard nary a word from him since the margrave’s execution. Not even a note. Not even a message whispered via the priest. Friends and allies had disappeared one by one, leaving her at the mercy of a woman who was utterly corrupt. With Damien’s disappearance, she had felt alone. If not for the faithful priest, she would surely have despaired.
“It would have brought danger to you,” he replied, shifting his stance so that the other men could not see her—though most of them had returned to the fire, allowing Damien and her some measure of privacy. His voice remained low and earnest. “I doubt the regent would have allowed a traitor to correspond with the rightful queen.”
She felt her face heat, sensing a mild rebuke beneath his measured words. Ava would certainly have hunted him down had she learned he was still alive.
“And now I have brought danger to you and your men,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. The cave was cold, and her clothes were damp, and she was so very weary. She had barely escaped with her life. Perhaps she was a fool to think she could evade Ava’s power.
But his next words sparked a hope she had not dared cherish in a very long time: “My father swore an oath to the Raven King to serve to the very end. If you will accept, I give you my solemn word to do the same. I will see you to Vallhane, come what may.”
Before she could respond with heartfelt thanks, his mouth quirked. “Your Majesty, if you will allow one other thing—I know for certain we have dry clothes packed away here. And since you seem partial to disguises . . . who would expect a queen to dress as a poacher?”
Chapter Six
A ring of candles puddling into grotesque shapes illuminated the seeing pool. Despite recent rains, Ava knelt beside the water, her gown dampening at the knees. Its glassy surface reflected the midnight sky above—so black, no stars could pierce through. Even the moon was concealed. Thunder still rumbled into the night, threatening further storms. She must seek the spirits’ guidance before she and Marius left in the morning.
Ava extended a delicate jeweled hand over the water, admiring its perfect image. The night was crisp. A freezing wind ruffled her linen robes, but a deeper cold resided here among the wet stones lining the pool. She didn’t fear the presence, unlike the rest of Tiborne and her deceased husband, who had once stumbled across the hidden grotto. She still remembered the horror and revulsion marring his handsome features when he first laid eyes upon it. He had threatened to tear the pool apart stone by stone—something she would never allow. There and then she had known he must die before she could turn all Tiborne to her religion.
She dipped one finger, sending ripples in every direction.
“Show me,” she whispered to the spirits who listened unseen. “Who will rule Tiborne in the end? Will my marshal be successful in his quest?”
The pool reflected only Ava’s face. It smiled back at her with lips as red as wine. She exulted over the eyes, green and wide, and auburn hair, thick and curling. A beautiful face, everyone told her. Beauty, however, was merely meant to be handled by the highest bidder, and Ava had little use for it. She was a pragmatist at heart. One day she would be old, and a prettier, younger woman would rise up. So it had always been, and so it would continue until the world’s end. Beauty held no allure for her.
Power did. The power to bring this entire nation under her thumb.
Her grandmother had taught her the secrets of the spirits who promised such power—though later the old woman had been all but silenced by a brutal and pious husband who swore allegiance to the church. Richard Chaloner, following the death of his first wife, had been more than willing to overlook her family’s sordid past. Ava was nobility, after all. He had not realized this grotto’s true purpose until it was too late.
Never again would she submit—neither to a bishop nor to a husband. Not to any man. She would see the spirits take hold once more and change Tiborne into what it should be.
She settled back on her haunches, grateful the pool did not lie. She would succeed. Marius would return with Kara’s heart. The cold air crystallized dangerously until she could see each frosty breath escape from her mouth. Despite this discomfort, relief eased the coiled tension in her gut.
Then, as if in mockery of Ava’s plans, a glimmer appeared in the water—a defiant face flashed for the briefest of moments. Ava cried out and flung herself to the edge of the pool, grasping the stones to keep from falling in. Her own reflection reappeared, eyes dilated with dread and mouth open.
Yet she could not deny what she had seen.
Chapter Seven
The storm continued to rage outside the cave. Lightning flashed bright, illuminating the craggy mountainside, followed by a crack of thunder. Damien stood at the entrance, watching rain pour as though the heavens emptied buckets over the earth. Hail soon followed.
Kara—the queen, he mentally corrected himself—had found a passageway private enough to change out of her damp clothes. James, the slightest of the men, had offered a spare tunic and pants, his face reddening and his voice stuttering as he held them out to the young queen. The clothing was worn but blessedly dry.
Scarborough came to stand beside Damien and peer outside. The lanky bowman was silent for a few moments.
“This rain is both blessing and curse,” he finally remarked. “The regent’s men cannot travel in it. Yet neither can we. The mountain passes will be even more dangerous, and now with our fair messenger . . . Saints above! We have the queen in our company.” A note of awe crept into Scarborough’s otherwise dry voice. “We cannot travel in the valley—someone will be sure to recognize her. Can we take Stranger’s Pass?”
“Aye, we’ll use the far side of the Avell range, but it’ll delay our journey by a few days,” Damien agreed, troubled by the certainty of the regent’s men following. His men knew of a few remote paths, some leading through sharp ravines and narrow passages. Would the marshal be able to track them if they took Kara through such dangers?
“We’ll be low on supplies due to the delay,” Scarborough added, ever the cautious one in the group.
“Good thing we have you with your longbow,” Damien replied easily, though his own misgivings deepened with every hour they remained in the cave. “Also, we will stop at the Adienne Monastery. It’s close to the border, and the monks won’t betray the queen, not one who holds to the true faith.”
Scarborough lapsed into silence again, a familiar trait. But his next words gave Damien pause. “She knew your name. You didn’t even need to give her the last of it,” the bowman remarked before turning from the entrance. His expression remained flat, though a certain spark of interest lit his eyes.
Damien chose not to respond.
A breath escaped him as he remembered Kara’s expression when discovering his identity. What exactly did she remember? The thought unsettled him. She had been eleven at the time of Sir Henry Atwood’s arrest, and he’d been sixteen, a newly appointed squire eager to learn the ways of a knight. Following his father’s execution, Damien had narrowly escaped imprisonment himself, fleeing with James and the other men to the Adienne Monastery for safety. Since then, what poisonous lies had the regent to
ld her young charge?
How long ago it all seemed! He rubbed the back of his neck, his temples suddenly aching. Did she remember the childhood betrothal arranged by their fathers? She’d been so very young. He could only hope she’d forgotten. For all his vows to fulfill his knightly duties, Damien was without land or title. He was nothing more than a spy for King Victor of Vallhane, now charged with escorting the rightful queen of Tiborne to safety. He could offer only his bow and a sword . . . and he feared these might not be enough to help her.
But he would do it, no matter the cost. Even if he had never earned knighthood, the code of chivalry was too deeply engrained for him to abandon it.
One thing for certain, he would never bring up past discussions of betrothals and distant promises exchanged by fathers.
He turned away from the entrance and headed to the comfort of the fire. A few lanterns set at the periphery of their circle further illuminated the space. The horses were quiet, having been brushed and watered at a freshwater stream located near the back of the cavern. The men had settled a comfortable distance from the fire, further than they normally would, giving the queen plenty of room to herself. Even as Damien approached, James offered her a bedroll, beating him to the task. She accepted it with quiet thanks.
Damien walked over to his pack and delved into the leather bag, retrieving a coarse woolen blanket that smelled like horse—the best he could offer.
“A cave is a damp and chilly place to spend the night, Your Majesty,” he said when he handed it to her.
Her face softened as she took the blanket, but then a little frown appeared. “This is very kind . . . but I cannot take all your supplies,” she protested, lifting the blanket for him to take back.
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