by Anthea Sharp
“I’m sorry,” she said, truly meaning it. Although she’d never had a sympathetic mother of her own, she knew they existed.
“Sometimes…” He trailed off, shaking his head, but Anneth recognized the expression on his face. She’d seen it on her own, in the polished silver mirrors of the Hawthorne Court.
“Sometimes you wish you weren’t the Crown Prince of Raine,” she said.
He jerked his head up, gaze meeting hers. “I can’t admit that, to anyone.”
For a moment they stared at one another, and she had to resist the sudden urge to reveal herself to him. She gave a sharp shake of her head. How could she even contemplate doing such a thing?
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to tell your secrets.” Or her own. “Besides, who would listen to a stranger in your dungeon?”
“A very perceptive, intelligent stranger,” he said softly. “Anneth—”
Footsteps on the stairway signaled the imminent return of the guardsman, and Prince Owen straightened.
“Well.” He glanced at the stone bench that would serve as her bed. “I’ll send down another blanket, though I’m afraid I can’t do much more.”
She lifted one shoulder in acknowledgement. “I understand. Thank you.”
“I’ll visit you again tomorrow. Good night.”
He turned to go, and she called softly after him, “Good luck.”
He looked back over his shoulder, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face. Then the soldier was there, and Prince Owen strode away, the oily torches sputtering behind him.
28
Although he knew he could not delay much longer, Owen couldn’t quite bring himself to call upon Lady Fiona that evening. He told himself it was late, and besides, he hadn’t rehearsed what he was going to say. A lady of her station would have certain expectations about how a prince’s proposal should go, and a halfhearted declaration was hardly the way to begin a lifelong alliance. Whether he loved her or not.
First thing in the morning, he vowed he’d do his duty. And he would not go see Anneth in the dungeon—no matter how much he might wish to. Against all reason, she felt like a kindred spirit, and he had the strangest suspicion that she carried royal blood.
The castle halls were quiet as he returned to his suite. He nodded to the pair of guardsmen posted outside his father’s door, and to the man standing sentry at his own.
Inside, the lamps were lit, and Antoine waited to help remove his coat and boots. As soon as those tasks were done, Owen dismissed his valet. He had no taste for further conversation that night.
It took him a long while to go to sleep, and he was roused before dawn by the sound of shouting coming from his father’s rooms.
Heart racing, he leaped out of bed and hastily pulled on his clothing. Grabbing his sword, he wrenched open the door. With a clatter, his blade was struck from his hands. He lunged to retrieve it, but drew up short at the sword pointed at his chest, wielded by one of Lord Jensen’s fair-haired soldiers.
The greve himself stood a pace back, another of his men beside him. All three had bared swords, though only the one man had his turned upon Owen.
“Prince Owen,” Lord Jensen said with sly smile, “we were just coming to fetch you. How obliging of you to awaken and join us.”
“What’s going on?” Owen asked, though he had the sick feeling he knew. “If you’ve hurt my father…”
He glanced up the hall to the king’s door. There was no sign of the king’s guardsmen, though a smear of blood on the wall made Owen’s heart sink even further.
“King Philip is unharmed. For now.” Lord Jensen nodded to his men. “Let’s escort the prince to meet his father.”
He gestured for Owen to proceed down the empty corridor. Wary of the sharp steel surrounding him, Owen kept his arms at his sides. If he’d been thinking more clearly, he would’ve shoved a knife in his boot. But all his thoughts had been on reaching his father.
“Where’s Captain Crane?” he demanded as the soldiers herded him down the stairs to the main floor of the castle.
“If you’re thinking of calling for help, don’t bother,” the greve said. “He is at this very moment telling his men to stand down.”
Owen sent Lord Jensen a sharp glance. “The captain would never betray his king.”
“Of course not—he would do anything to keep King Philip from harm. Which is why, as long as we hold a blade to your father’s throat—or an arrow to his heart—the captain will do as we tell him.”
“You can’t hope to hold the castle for long,” Owen said, thinking frantically. Wherever they were keeping the king, there had to be a way to win free and stop the Athraig coup.
“We don’t need to hold it.” The greve gave him a cold smile. “Our ships are standing just off the coast. On second thought, they’re probably landing soldiers by now. At a fast march, they’ll be here by tomorrow. We only need to keep your overzealous captain at bay for one day.”
“The navy—”
“Has been decoyed to the opposite shore. By the time your Rainish fleet understands they’ve been led astray, it will be too late. Castle Raine, and the kingdom, will be under our control.”
“And then what?” Owen forced his breath out through tight lungs.
“Why, we’ll celebrate your marriage to Princess Rella—who just happens to be with the flotilla. Nothing like the festivities of a royal wedding to hearten a country.”
“I won’t marry her.” Owen’s voice was rough with leashed anger. They’d been fools to welcome the Athraig into the castle, too blind to the danger of treachery.
“To keep your father safe, of course you will.” Lord Jensen gestured to the stairwell leading down to the cellars. “Mind your footing.”
“You’re keeping us in the dungeon?”
“Yes. Very convenient of you to have a few cells handy,” the greve said, and one of his soldiers laughed.
“What about Anneth?” Owen asked. No use waiting for the Athraig to slip and mention their spy, as presumably they’d already discovered and freed her.
“Who?” Lord Jensen asked.
“Your informant in the dungeon.”
The greve’s upper lip curled into a condescending sneer. “If you mean the young woman occupying one of the cells, she’s still there. Whoever she’s working for, it’s not the Athraig. Your intelligence is not the best, I have to say. Our man completely escaped your detection.”
Anneth wasn’t an Athraig agent? Owen paused, trying to digest this new information, and the soldier shoved his shoulder.
“Keep going,” the man said.
Mind whirling, Owen descended the stairs to the cellar. So, Anneth was innocent, and there was a different agent of the Athraig still on the loose, as she’d claimed.
But why had she lied and told them she was working with their enemy?
Two more men stood guard at the bottom of the stairwell. They stood stiffly at attention as Lord Jensen passed.
Surely, if Captain Crane’s men rushed the stairs, they could overwhelm the guards. There weren’t that many Athraig, after all. Fight the remaining soldiers, get to the cells and free the king…
As they stepped into the dungeon, Owen’s rising hopes were dashed by the sight of two men, crossbows trained on the figure of the king, who occupied the right-hand cell. The archers were stationed so that even if Captain Crane’s soldiers could take out one, the other would still be able to fire his bolt. At such a close range, it would easily pierce the king’s heart.
“My two best marksmen,” Lord Jensen said, then nodded to the man prodding Owen. “Lock him in the last cell.”
Despite the soldier’s sword at his back, Owen stubbornly halted. “Put me with my father.”
“And let you take the bolt meant for him?” The greve shook his head. “I can’t abide heroics.”
A sharp prick against his ribs made Owen step forward, and the greve’s soldiers thrust him into the cell on the left. The clang of the closing doo
r sent a chill through him, and he stared at the heavy length of chain the men threaded through the bars.
“Just in case,” Lord Jensen said, closing the chain with a heavy iron padlock, then pocketing the key.
Owen narrowed his eyes. The man had thought of everything, and once again he cursed himself for not taking a firmer stand against letting the Athraig set foot in Castle Raine.
“All the comforts of home,” Lord Jensen said. He nodded to the blanket, bucket, and plate of bread and dried meat set on the wide stone bench running along the back of the cell. “Try not to look too disreputable by the time Princess Rella arrives.”
Then he turned and, his men behind him, strode out of the dungeon. The two archers never glanced up, each of them entirely focused on keeping their crossbows squarely trained upon the king.
“Are you all right?” Owen’s father called from his cell.
Slowly, Owen turned to face the king. And, of course, Anneth, who occupied the cell between them. She sat on the bench, her feet drawn up beneath her blankets, watching him with wide eyes.
Beyond her, King Philip stood in his own cell, peering at Owen through the rows of bars. He still wore his dressing robe, and Owen was dismayed to see his bare feet beneath. They hadn’t even given him the common courtesy of letting him don footwear, and that fact was chilling.
The Athraig weren’t intending for the king to survive. As soon as Owen was married to their princess, the king’s life wouldn’t be worth a copper coin.
“I’m well enough,” Owen told his father. “Given the circumstances. And you?”
“The same.” King Philip let out a heavy sigh. “I am sorry—I should have listened to you and Captain Crane concerning the Athraig’s intentions. Now look at us.” He spread his hands, then lurched slightly and grabbed the nearest bar for balance.
Alarmed, Owen strode to the edge of his cell, where it bordered Anneth’s. “Did they hurt you?”
“My leg pains me. They didn’t allow me to bring my cane, and were not patient.” The king grimaced. “I’m afraid our enemies don’t plan for my reign to continue much longer.”
Grimly, Owen nodded. “I fear the same.” He pitched his voice low. “We must escape.”
Anneth’s head jerked up. “I might be able to help,” she said softly.
Casting a wary glance at the archers, Owen gestured for her to come closer. She stood, and Owen was reminded that her feet, too, were bare. He spared a single thought for the ornate slipper upstairs, then gave a mental shrug.
Since she wasn’t an Athraig spy, and seemed to mean the king no harm, Owen was willing to listen to any plan she might have. The mystery of who she was paled in comparison with their current situation.
Once they were free of the dungeons, however, he had some hard questions for her.
Anneth came close beside him, only the cold bars separating them. Despite her time in the dungeon, she seemed composed. She’d twisted her hair into a series of intricate braids, presumably to keep it from tangling, and brushed the bits of hay from her crumpled green dress.
“My allies are on the way,” she said, pitching her words barely above a whisper.
A bright spark leaped through him. “Can they storm the castle and free us?”
Presumably her people—whoever they might be—would mount an effort to reach the dungeon. Between them and Captain Crane, there was a chance the Athraig could be defeated and King Philip safely restored to the throne. The tightness in his chest eased.
The dark wings of her brows drew together. “Possibly—though they are fewer in number than the Athraig.”
“How many?”
She hesitated, her gaze going to the cobweb-festooned corner before returning to him. The torchlight flickered and for a moment the shadows lay sharply against the planes of her face, reflected in eyes that seemed strangely inhuman.
Then he blinked, and the impression was gone.
“Well?” He leaned forward, awaiting her answer.
“Three,” she reluctantly said.
He stared at her, his brief flare of hope extinguished. “Three people? They have no chance.”
She swallowed, then drew in a breath. “There is something I must tell you—”
“You there!” one of the archers called. “No talking. Step apart.”
He gestured with his crossbow. Giving Owen a pained look, Anneth moved back to her stone bench.
Owen regarded her a long minute. What had she been about to tell him? And how could it possibly make any difference?
His gaze moved past her to his father, and his heart clenched in fear and sorrow. The reality of their predicament descended, cold and heavy, on his shoulders.
They were trapped in the dungeon, the fate of Raine hanging in the balance.
For a wild instant, he imagined goading the archers into shooting him. It was one way to escape the forced marriage to the Athraig princess. But it would solve nothing.
Bending his head, he turned away from the sight of his father, one hand clutching the bars. Away from Anneth, her face pale and worried.
His mother would tell him to never give up—that even in overwhelming darkness, light was possible. The memory of her smile, the lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes, made him straighten.
Somehow, no matter how dire the odds, he must believe there was a way forward that did not include a coerced alliance with the enemy. Or his father’s death.
29
At the prow of the ship, Bran faced into the wind, flicking his vision light to dark. No matter how hard he looked, however, he could catch no glimpse of the shore of Raine.
Beside him, Mara clutched the railing and took shallow breaths. It was difficult for her to tolerate the motion of traveling over the waves. Being outside helped, and eating small bites of bread every few hours, followed by cool water.
“No sign of the shore?” she asked miserably.
He slipped one arm about her shoulders, and she leaned against him with a sigh. “Not yet,” he said.
Luckily, the winds had propelled them quickly across the Strait, taking nearly a full day off their return journey. He sent Mara a concerned glance. The sooner they reached solid ground, the better. For her sake, and for Anneth’s.
According to Ondo, Anneth had been able to reach him briefly and assure him she was unharmed—but Bran very much disliked the thought of his sister held captive in Castle Raine’s dungeon. Even if it seemed to have kept Mara’s family safe from suspicion.
He cast one last look at the blue-gray horizon, then turned to his wife.
“Are you ready to return to our cabin?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling weakly. “Time to scry Ondo, I suppose—since you did insist on daily communication. Which I wholeheartedly agree with.” She set her hand on his arm. “I don’t like Anneth being imprisoned any better than you do. But we’ll be there soon.”
Not soon enough, he wanted to say. Despite the urgency burning through him, he forced patience as he helped Mara through the hatch and down the ladder. A breeze lifted his cloak then swirled down the corridor, leaving a faint scrim of salt behind.
Their cabin was the first door on the left. Although cramped and dim, it boasted a porthole with a teetering view of the water and sky.
While Mara lay down, Bran sat on the edge of the bed and poured water into his silver scrying bowl. The liquid undulated with the motion of the ship. Bracing himself, he spoke the rune of scrying. A moment later, Ondo’s face appeared in the sloshing reflection.
“Any news?” Bran asked.
The scout frowned. “I am worried, my lord. Last night there was a disturbance at the castle. I do not yet know what it means.”
“What kind of disturbance?”
“Shouting, people moving about. It was difficult to determine what was occurring, as I am keeping to the edge of the forest.”
“Stay hidden,” Bran said shortly. “We don’t need you to join Anneth in the dungeon. Has she scried to you?”
> “Only the once.” Ondo leaned forward, his image looming in the water. “I would like to enter the castle. Something is not right.”
Bran shook his head. “Don’t set foot inside, unless Anneth calls for your help. Or unless you sense the use of magic. Mara and I will be there soon. The captain of the ship says we’ll make port tonight. From there, we’ll procure horses and come as quickly as we can.”
“I do not like it.” Ondo’s brow creased with worry.
“Neither do I. But unless my sister makes a direct cry for help, I command you to wait. Try to discover what you can, but don’t risk discovery by entering the castle. Three of us will be better able to rescue Anneth should something go awry. I don’t want you falling into trouble.”
“I do not fall into trouble,” the scout said. “But I understand, your highness.”
“Thank you.” Bran softened his tone. “I’ll scry again as soon as we reach Raine. And you can always cast a sending, should the situation change.”
“I will,” Ondo said. “Hurry.”
Bran ended the scrying, and turned to find Mara propped up on one elbow, watching him.
“I hope your father is holding,” she said softly.
“As do I.” He frowned down at the empty water, but there was no way to scry between the worlds.
And even if there were, it would take a tremendous amount of power—magic that he needed to conserve in order to open the gateway.
“Do you think, before we go, we’ll have time for you to meet my parents?” she asked.
He set the bowl down, then lay on his side upon the thin mattress, facing his wife.
“If we’re able to get Anneth away without raising an outcry, yes,” he said.
Although he found the thought of meeting Mara’s parents nearly as daunting as facing the Void. Perhaps even more so, as he’d been preparing to fight the enemy his entire life, while the notion that he would one day encounter his human wife’s kin had not even crossed his mind until recently. He feared that all his inadequacies as a husband would be mirrored in their eyes—that they would see him and immediately know he was unworthy of their daughter.