“Yes. I never meant to imply that I see you only as only an extension of your crown when I said your authority supersedes your aunt’s. I merely meant to assure you that you were perfectly capable of choosing to do as you wished last night. I wanted to see you smile again. But I realize now that you might have interpreted my comment as a marker of interest in your power—your position—and not you. And for that, I am very sorry.”
Evelayn employed every bit of training she had honed to keep herself from staring. That he had so completely read her mind, that he somehow understood exactly what she’d been thinking—it was not only surprising, it was … a relief. That’s what made the tightly coiled muscles between her shoulder blades release slightly. Relief that maybe her first assessment of Lord Tanvir had been correct after all—that he wasn’t like all the other males who had sought her out.
“And,” he continued, “I am also sorry that your mother was called away again so soon. Duty is an unforgiving taskmaster and often comes with a steep price, especially for those left behind.” He spoke as if he truly understood, as someone who had paid that price; not like so many who just used the words as a way to start a conversation. So sorry your mother had to leave you again and may never return. But did you see Lady Oria’s dress last night? It caused such a scandal. A shadow crossed his face, a darkness made of sadness and pain and fear that called to her own.
Careful, Evelayn warned herself. Just because he knows what to say and how to say it, doesn’t guarantee he means it. He could just be a fantastic actor. The silence stretched out as she warred with herself, wavering between answering with her usual diplomatic niceties or actually giving him a true answer—speaking to him as she would a friend. Which meant speaking to him like he was Ceren, for she was Evelayn’s only true friend.
Before she could decide, his eyes shuttered and his face settled into a mask of neutrality. “Thank you for letting me speak my mind, Your Highness. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Lord Tanvir bowed stiffly to her and turned to walk away, when she finally found her voice.
“My lord …” The words were slightly hoarse. “Please don’t go.”
He paused and then faced her once more, his expression still guarded.
“Thank you.” She took a hesitant step toward him, all too aware of each breath he took and the way he watched her, like he could see so much more than just her face. Remembering all too vividly the feel of his arm around her, his body pressed against her back when he had beat her during training. “And I am also sorry for my behavior last night—for jumping to conclusions.”
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” He lifted his brows, a spark of hope softening his amber eyes, and Evelayn found herself smiling again. He had quite a talent for getting her to smile.
“I believe it does, my lord.”
He smiled back at her, and it was like the sun bursting on the horizon, bringing light to a new day.
Careful, tread slowly, that voice in her mind warned her still. But as they headed back to the castle, Evelayn didn’t just walk beside Lord Tanvir, she tumbled forward into something new and exciting, foreign and terrifying. If only her mother were there to talk with—to ask her if this was what it had felt like when she’d met her father. A pang of regret darkened Evelayn’s mood instantaneously.
Lord Tanvir glanced down at her and his smile slipped. She hadn’t taken care to guard her expression. But then he smiled once more, this time a smug little grin.
“I’ve heard rumors of how fast you can run,” he said. Which was not at all what she had expected him to say.
“That is the rumor,” she agreed cautiously. All Draíolon were fast, but she was considered the fastest at the castle. At least, she had yet to be bested in a footrace.
“I quite enjoy running myself.”
“Is that why were you out so early yesterday?”
“Indeed,” Tanvir agreed. “So … would you care to race me?”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“Like this?” She gestured to her training leathers.
“What better outfit to wear than one that is already sweaty and dirty? Would you prefer a dress and dancing slippers?”
Evelayn glared. “Did you just call your crown princess dirty?”
“I believe I did.” Tanvir grinned, unrepentant. “First one to the southeast door wins.”
A surge of adrenaline washed through Evelayn’s limbs, making her itch to take off, even though only a few minutes ago she’d been thinking about how tired she was after the training session. “And what does the winner get?”
“I didn’t take you for the betting type.” Lord Tanvir’s eyes lit up with a wicked gleam.
“It makes my impending victory that much sweeter,” Evelayn baited him. She couldn’t believe her own daring. She’d never spoken to a male Draíolon this way before. It sent a thrill through her when he took a step closer and bent toward her.
Lord Tanvir lowered his voice. “Then I better make sure it’s worth it.”
Evelayn held his gaze. “If I win, you have to run with me for a week.”
His eyebrows lifted again. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment to me.”
“If you come, the sentries won’t have to trail me, slowing me down or getting left behind and lost.”
“Ah,” Tanvir said knowingly. “Well, if I win, I get to take you on a private picnic to a place of my choosing.”
It was Evelayn’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment to me, either.”
He flashed that same grin, full of sunshine and heat, at her. “Then we have no reason to bemoan losing. Are we agreed?”
“Yes.”
She’d barely spoken the word when he shouted, “Then go!” and took off at a dead run.
Cheater, she wanted to yell, but instead she saved her breath and shot after him.
At first her legs protested being pushed further, but a familiar calm quickly descended over her. When Evelayn ran, everything seemed clearer. The world sharpened around her; her breathing settled into a rhythm along with her heartbeat. And now with her new abilities, she was even faster than she had been before—her body seemed to have new amounts of strength and endurance. The trees blurred as she raced toward Tanvir, quickly gaining on him, despite his head start. They shot past General Kelwyn and Dela, who cried out in surprise, jumping out of their way.
He was fast—faster than many of the sentries assigned to guard her who lagged behind on her runs—but she was faster. She was sure of it. The castle loomed ahead, but she’d already come up on him so that they ran side by side for a moment, breath for breath, stride for stride, flying through the forest. They sprinted so quickly she could barely see individual trees or bushes or flowers; instead they blurred together into a glimmering tapestry of color and scents that filled her lungs and sent her blood singing through her veins.
Tanvir glanced over at her just as they exited the forest and streaked toward the castle. She winked at him. His eyes widened in surprise, and she couldn’t help but laugh as she kicked her heels up even higher and pulled away from him, leaving him several body lengths behind her as she slammed to a halt, slapping her hand against the door.
Evelayn spun to face Tanvir just as he reached the door, a triumphant grin on her face.
“Looks like you get to go running with me tomorrow,” she crowed.
“Looks like I need the extra conditioning,” he replied, one hand on his side, breathing heavily, but a smile still on his face.
“Your Highness!”
Evelayn barely refrained from jumping when Tyne somehow materialized at her side, a stern look pulling her eyebrows down. “I’ve been looking for you, Your Highness. We must hurry if you are to be ready in time for the council meeting. With your mother away again, you must sit in her place. And then we must finish preparing the baskets to take to the families of the wounded. You cannot be late, if you are to return in time for supper.”
The exultation of winning slid aw
ay, as did Evelayn’s smile. No more running and laughing and teasing. It was time for her to become the proper, refined young princess of Éadrolan again.
Lord Tanvir nodded at Tyne, and then turned to Evelayn, a knowing look in his glowing eyes. “I will be eagerly awaiting the morning, Your Highness.”
And that’s when she realized what he’d done—how effectively he’d distracted her from her unhappiness. She didn’t understand how he could have known a race would lift her spirits, but he had. And she was indebted to him for the brief distraction. Evelayn lifted her hand to him, something she rarely offered anyone.
He gently took it, the callused skin of his fingers brushing against the soft pad of the underside of her hand, sending a delicious shiver through her.
“I will send word of when and where to meet me, my lord.” Evelayn managed to keep her voice even, despite the thump of her heart, which seemed to originate from where Tanvir touched her rather than her chest.
He bowed and released her. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Lord Tanvir turned and strode away, and only then did Evelayn realize a great many eyes were on them, watching their exchange. She quickly schooled her features into a mask of blankness, void of emotion of any kind, and gestured for Tyne to lead her back into the castle.
But as she followed her lady-in-waiting to her room, Evelayn’s fingers curled in on the spot on her hand that still pulsed with the memory of Tanvir’s touch.
THE TRAINING ROOMS WERE FULL OF DARK DRAíOLON, the air thick with their sweat and shouts, as Lorcan strode toward the one isolated room where only the most elite were allowed to train in privacy. That’s where his father and Lothar were waiting for him.
He opened the heavy door, and once it shut behind him, it closed off all noise, leaving behind a silence as heavy as the stare his father leveled at him, his silver eyes ominously dark.
“You’re late.”
Lorcan held up the missive in his left hand. “There was a messenger from the warfront.”
The anger on King Bain’s face tempered to speculation. He strode forward and snatched the sealed parchment from his son, then turned his back to open it. Lothar waited on the other side of the massive room, already stripped down to just his pants to spar with Lorcan. Their father preferred for them to train without protective clothing—to truly feel any mistakes they made. King Bain had the block on both princes’ power removed when they were only fourteen and twelve so they could train longer than other Draíolon. Their bodies bore the reminders of the many errors they’d both made throughout their lives, the scars a map of their growing skill and their father’s fury.
Lorcan stripped off his own vest and shirt, trying to quell his curiosity while the king read the letter with the unfamiliar seal. He didn’t want his father to scent it and use it to manipulate him. He didn’t risk asking either, knowing it would only goad his father into keeping the information from him, unless the king deemed it necessary that he know what the message held.
“What are you waiting for?” Bain suddenly snapped. “Get started.”
Lorcan swallowed his angry retort and refocused his irritation into the power that flowed through his body. Lothar nodded at him from across the room, and Lorcan stalked forward. Their father wanted a show, so a show he would get.
Lothar attacked first—a blast of black, flaming shadow that Lorcan deflected with the shield he conjured, also made of shadow. Darkness versus darkness. It wasn’t the same as fighting a Light Draíolon, but it was better than nothing. Lorcan went on the attack next, shooting two quick blasts at his brother—the first a snaking tendril of darkness to wrap around his ankles, the second a thicker band that would entrap his arms while Lothar was distracted trying to escape the snare on his feet. Lothar barely managed to twist out of the way, blocking the second but tripping and falling to the ground from the bindings around his ankles.
Lorcan hesitated for a split second before attacking again, allowing Lothar to break the bonds on his feet and jump back up, prepared to defend himself once again.
Lorcan’s bare back exploded with pain. He arched away from it instinctively, almost falling to his knees. He barely managed to stay upright and swallow the bellow of agony that threatened to escape. It was one of his father’s favorite tricks: turning the shadows into a whip that sliced through leather, skin, and even bone if wielded strongly enough.
“You’re going easy on him.”
Teeth clenched so tightly they ground together, Lorcan whirled to face his father, even as he felt his own blood slipping down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his pants. The king’s silver eyes were cold, his mouth tight with disappointment.
“Do not ever give your enemy the chance to break free, to stand up. You attack and attack and attack.” The letter crumpled as the king clenched his hand into a fist.
He’s not my enemy. Lorcan bit back the words and merely nodded, knowing it would only mean more punishments if he said or did anything but agree, comply, obey.
“Again. And this time, don’t hold back or else I will show you what it means to spar.”
Lorcan turned back to face his brother, hoping Lothar could read the regret in his eyes. And then he attacked.
An hour later the king finally grew bored of watching his sons slashing at each other and lifted his hand.
“That’s enough for today. Go get cleaned up and join me in the council room in one hour. The time has come. We depart in the morning.”
“Where will we be going?” Lothar risked asking, picking up his shirt and using it to mop the blood off his chest from the wound Lorcan had inflicted on him just minutes earlier.
The king’s silver eyes glittered with malice as he lifted the creased vellum. “To kill a queen.”
Though Lorcan burned with the need to know what the message was—who it was from—he didn’t let his gaze drop to the letter. “It was good news then, I take it?”
“Very.” The king glanced between his sons, and after his gaze raked over the many wounds Lothar was nursing, he finally smiled, a cold, cruel twist of his lips. “Lorcan, you will meet me in my rooms in thirty minutes. I have a few things to discuss with you in private before we meet with everyone else.”
Lorcan stiffened but then quickly bent forward into a shallow bow, the wound on his back, which had already begun to close, pulling at the movement. “As you wish, Father.”
The king nodded, not even looking at Lothar again before turning and leaving the room.
Once the door was shut and the brothers were alone, Lorcan hurried over to Lothar’s side.
“Here, let me help.”
But Lothar twisted away from him. “I’m fine.”
Lorcan watched in silence as Lothar continued wiping the blood from his body, revealing all the injuries he’d received at Lorcan’s hands. Many were already closed or closing, aided by the ability all royals had to heal faster than other Draíolon, who healed quite quickly themselves. But there were two particularly bad ones that looked like he might need to bandage. “You know how much I hate doing this to you,” Lorcan’s voice was a low growl, some of the fury he’d had to bite down in his father’s presence seeping into his words.
“Father would have done worse.” Lothar wouldn’t look up as he finished tying a strip of leather around his abdomen, holding together one of the deeper slices, where Lorcan had turned the darkness he wielded into a whip and lashed through his brother’s skin and muscle, nearly splitting him open to his organs. He was just as good at it as their father, and it made him sick to think he’d done that. But there was also an underlying pride in knowing he was faster, stronger, more skilled than his brother—and that only made his guilt worse.
“You’d better hurry if you want to be presentable in less than thirty minutes.” Lothar turned away from Lorcan to pick up the rest of his belongings off the ground.
I’m sorry. The words were there, nearly spoken, the scent of his remorse bitter even in his own
nose, but instead Lorcan turned and walked out silently, leaving Lothar alone in the training room, the floor stained with their blood.
“Lorcan.”
He whirled around to see his mother standing a few feet away in the shadows, as if she had been waiting for some time. Her white hair was arranged in an intricate, useless style around the crown that gleamed, even all the way down here, in the lower levels of the palace where the only light came from the fires and candles lit all around the training rooms. Her crimson dress enhanced the obsidian darkness of her skin. He’d inherited so much of his looks from her; only his silver eyes were a testament to the king’s paternity.
“Mother?”
Her eyes darted to his torso, to the few fresh wounds Lothar had managed to land and the many scars he bore from all the times before, and then back up again. “A meeting has been called,” she said quietly.
“Yes. Father said it is time. He received a message.” Lorcan spoke carefully, aware of the possibility that listening ears could be hovering nearby.
Abarrane, the Queen of Dorjhalon, nodded. “Stay strong, my son.” Her gaze flickered to the scar that bisected his left bicep, a particularly terrible wound his father had inflicted on him with a shadow-sword when he was still a youngling. “Soon you will be the one to leave your mark.”
When she met his probing gaze again, her eyes were so full of loathing and fury it made his own mirrored emotions that he worked so hard to suppress rise up, pulsing hot in his veins.
And then the door groaned open behind them. She quickly composed her expression into a calm, impenetrable mien before Lothar emerged.
“As my mother wills it,” Lorcan murmured with a bow, and hurried away before his brother could stop him.
I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU WERE CAPABLE OF RISING BEFORE THE sun,” Evelayn teased when the door creaked open behind her, already able to recognize the different footfalls and unique scents of many of her attendants and members of the court.
“It proves my dedication to you,” Ceren responded, flouncing over to the princess’s bed and throwing herself dramatically across it. “We never got a chance to talk yesterday, and I know you have training and meetings all day today … so I made the ultimate sacrifice.”
Dark Breaks the Dawn Page 5