“Stay close,” Nehelon warned as he noted her attention drifting. “We don’t want you to get lost in this city.”
She lifted her eyes to his, trying to read the warning.
But all he did was nod at the side streets, which were darker than the main road they were following and where women in light dresses were offering their bodies for money.
“Just because something is pretty on the surface doesn’t mean it’s as pretty deep down.” For some reason, Gandrett didn’t have the feeling he was speaking about Ackwood.
The spires of the castle towered high over the rest of the royal residence. Royal because House Brenheran had once held the title of kings. As had the House of Denderlain in the east. But the kingdom of Sives had been shattered long ago, during the same war that had eradicated the fertile lands around Everrun and starved its people. The same war that had turned the gate of Ithrylan into ruins. Now, they were merely two noble houses fighting for their standing while they ruled in the east and the west, tearing the people of Sives apart and the country into ruin.
Gandrett got off her horse, shaky from all the eyes she found on her. She was still wearing that plain, brown dress Nehelon had gotten her, but she could have been in rags, and it wouldn’t have made much difference. Nothing was fine enough for the palace that stood before her, a row of guards, all in burgundy uniforms, shiny armor protecting their chests and their shoulders. A carriage rolled by, decorated with ornate gold patterns, and behind the lace curtain, Gandrett spotted a woman in a colorful dress, a small hat atop her curly hair, and a fan hiding everything but her eyes.
As Nehelon beckoned her forward, Gandrett’s knees went wobbly. She had been at the order for too long, and before that, she had lived on a farm, playing on the fields, not learning how to use silver tableware and pretty lace-up dresses. She hadn’t even learned how to curtsey properly.
He seemed to sense her distress and offered a hand, face expectant as if he were saying, Take it. Or I’ll drag you by the collar.
So Gandrett took it, her fingers hesitant as they touched his.
But Nehelon’s hand gripped her tightly and led her forward, forcing both their hands forward between them.
“Smile,” he ordered, his own face smooth and a bit amused.
So Gandrett smiled. It felt unnatural, and her eyes stung as she dragged one foot after the other forward until the palace had swallowed her, but she smiled.
The halls were cool and unwelcoming. Even if they had been bright and filled with flowers, it wouldn’t have made a difference for Gandrett. It was his home. Lord Tyrem Brenheran’s. Every banner on the wall, every portrait, every carving on the doors they passed spoke of the man who was responsible for her loss.
A pair of guards had joined them on their way in, both reporting to the Fae male in hushed voices and slipping Gandrett curious glances every now and then. They didn’t ask questions but escorted them up a flight of stairs, then another, until they halted at open double doors where more guards were stationed, armed with swords and spears.
They inclined their heads to Nehelon as he led Gandrett right into the great hall made of dark, polished stone.
And there he was lounging at the end of a long, dark, wooden table. The face Gandrett knew from paintings and sketches at the order, paler and gray from bad health. A man in his late fifties, popping some type of exotic fruit into his mouth, failed to heed them a look as they entered. The rest of his court did. Men and women dressed in fine clothes and frilly gowns, gold details on layers of fabrics, eyes on not Nehelon but Gandrett, who shrank under their stares despite what she had promised herself: that she would get through this, help this man she hated so dearly, and live to see her family again.
“About time,” he said by way of greeting, not interrupting his decadent snack. “My lovely wife and I were just beginning to wonder if you would ever return.” The lord gestured at the small-framed lady next to him, who glanced up with an unreadable gaze, meeting Gandrett’s then Nehelon’s.
The latter inclined his head at the lady then bowed at Lord Tyrem Brenheran. “May I present, Miss Gandrett Brayton.”
Gandrett considered curtseying, but then with the entirety of the room watching her, she reconsidered. She didn’t need to embarrass herself at the first opportunity.
“Pleasure,” she said drily, her face as smooth as she had learned to keep it in battle. Yes, her emotions were there. Plentiful. But her pride didn’t allow for any bowing and curtseying.
That man had damned her by taking her away from her family, and now he had paid to get her here. He needed her. The life of his son depended on her. And she would not bow.
Nehelon gave her a glance that suggested if she didn’t, he would knock her knees out from under her, but before he got a chance, to his credit, Lord Tyrem laughed with delight.
“Unique,” he said with a voice that reminded Gandrett of the Meister when he was about to let that wrath break her.
But Lord Tyrem didn’t get to his feet and pick up a rod. He didn’t gesture for any of his guards to lift a finger. No. He sat and watched her with amused eyes as he beckoned her to come closer.
When she didn’t react right away, Nehelon gave her a tiny push with his hand, shoving her a step toward the lord. With small yet steady strides, Gandrett walked up to him, keeping her face blank.
The lord and his court only watched her, the men with curious eyes, the guards sizing her up, trying to figure out what threat she would pose if she unleashed herself on the great hall—they had no idea that within the minute she had spent in the room, she had identified the twelve guards, apparent and disguised, and the assortment of swords, knives, and bows they were carrying. They didn’t realize that it would take her less than another minute to launch herself on the table, pick up the various silverware, and throw it at the archers at the back of the room, then roll to the other side and, maybe using Lady Brenheran as a shield, wield her sword at three guards that stood right beside the lord… She didn’t finish that game in her mind, for she knew there was one person she wouldn’t find a way around—Nehelon. His Fae speed and strength, his magic, if he dared to use any of it, would have her on the ground before she’d reach that table. And even if she knew, if she had trained for it, to kill, to protect, to fight, she had never taken a life. And she wasn’t inclined to start with it the moment she walked into her probably only shot of seeing her family again.
So she stopped close enough to reach the lord’s throat with her sword if she changed her mind, flashed the men a grin, and inclined her head at the ladies who measured her for other reasons, returning her attention to Lord Tyrem, whose gaze she held, waiting for him to speak.
Lord Tyrem’s eyes grazed over her in a way that made her hair stand.
“So you are Everrun’s best fighter,” he finally said after a long assessing silence. His eyes wandered back to her hip where her plain sword was dangling in the folds of her skirt.
“That’s what they say.” Gandrett focused on keeping that face smooth, calm. No emotions. They would only betray her. This man, she reminded herself, had paid to get her here. And horrible as that made her feel, to be someone’s slave, her unique skills—whatever they were remained a question for another day—gave her a certain standing.
The lord hadn’t protested when she hadn’t shown him the respect his position demanded. He hadn’t reprimanded her. All he did was observe as if he was waiting for something to happen.
“Is she really as good as they say?” he asked Nehelon without taking his eyes off of her.
Gandrett didn’t dare break the stare. He wanted something. And she had it. She was in a position of power even if her dirty clothes, her uncombed hair, the soreness of her legs suggested otherwise.
Nehelon’s chuckle carried through the high-ceilinged space, past the pillars, and echoed in the far corners by the stained glass windows. “Why don’t you ask for a demonstration?”
So the lord lifted a hand, causing a guard to rush close
to his side at the gesture, and he whispered something to the heavily armed man.
“Why don’t you demonstrate, Miss Brayton?” The lord gestured for the guard to step forward, and as the broad-shouldered man did, the courtiers cleared away from one side of the table as if they were expecting to get in harm’s way.
Gandrett swallowed. The guard that was approaching her in solid steps was almost as tall as Nehelon and wore a breastplate. His neck was a muscle-corded column, his features saying nothing but, Show me, little girl, how you defeat a mountain like me. He drew his sword, a fine blade singing in the half-light of the great hall, and gave her a taunting look.
She had fought his kind before. The older boys in the order were all eager to prove themselves, challenging her in training. And none of them had won. Also, none of them had been a man of forty with probably two decades of experience on a battlefield. A real battlefield.
As she drew her sword, she thought of the other ones she had fought. The ones who returned from their missions every now and then, to spend a couple of days in solitude at Everrun and to report back to the Meister to get their new assignments. They came from every corner of Neredyn—except the Fae territories—and she had defeated them all. The Meister had insisted she fight them all because she had defeated anyone else there, and he wanted to know where her boundaries were. How strong she really was, how skilled. She remembered the expressions on their faces when she had them on the floor, her sword at their throats, and sometimes, her hand had shaken, eager to drive that blade home. Not because she wanted to kill, but because she wanted it to end. She never gave in to that urge.
Gandrett didn’t need to adjust her stance to parry his first blow. She had been training to be balanced even if she were sleepwalking. His blade hit hers with a deafening crash. She used the force of the impact to swirl to the side and kick the man right in his ribs under his sword hand.
The man staggered back to the surprised ohs of the courtiers while Gandrett stood, calm like a blade of grass, waiting for him to recover.
She could have used the time to strike again and get him to the floor in one or two blows, but that wasn’t what she wanted to demonstrate. Not that she could be used as a killing machine, the way so many of the Children of Vala were, but that her strength was extraordinary restraint in battle.
It had always been the one thing that her opponents lacked. The patience to find the weak spot, the skill to parry strikes until the weak spots became accessible—
The guard barked something at her. More a cry of rage than words. He was the sort of man who wasn’t used to being toyed with.
When he pulled a knife from his belt, both arms extended with deadly blades, Gandrett stood and waited, assessing the way he shifted his weight. He was bulky, strong, yet slower than most of the boys at the order. If he managed one blow—just one, single blow—she would be out cold.
So Gandrett crouched and swirled the same moment the man threw himself at her, both hands grabbed the hilt of her sword as it touched the floor, a counterbalance for her legs as she launched them up in the air, her feet darting right between his blades, hitting him in the chest.
She landed like a cat, sheathing her sword at the same moment the metal of the breastplate hit the floor, both his blades clattering to the stone beside the massiveness of the guard. With light fingers, Gandrett picked them up and had them at his throat before he could recover from the impact.
“You’re lucky you’re wearing this,” she clicked the tip of his sword to the breastplate, “or I would have broken your sternum.” He stared at her, wide-eyed. “Or ribs,” she continued, “or both.”
Then there was absolute silence, save for the man’s panting.
Gandrett lowered the blades, took both hilts in one hand, then held out her free one for the mountain of a man. He grunted but took it and, to his credit, let her lift him without any scowling.
Her back protested as he let her haul his full weight, but she didn’t let it show. She tugged until the man was back on his feet then handed him back his weapons and turned to Lord Tyrem.
The lord was studying her with vivid eyes, as was the rest of the room.
Gandrett felt Nehelon’s stare on her but didn’t turn until the slow clap of hands from the back of the room caught her attention.
From the shadows by the door, a handsome young man dressed in black and gold strolled up to the table, his boots clicking on the stone floor, and gave her a long, deep look with a pair of curious, emerald eyes.
“There is nothing more beautiful than an artfully accomplished victory,” he said as he stopped right in front of her.
Gandrett held his stare, hand casually slipping closer to her sword.
“Oh, I am not going to fight you,” he whispered and leaned forward, close enough for his breath to touch her cheek. Then he turned on his heels and joined Lord Tyrem at the table, taking the seat across from Lady Brenheran.
Gandrett watched him settle down, his tall figure folding into the carved wooden chair, his wavy, black hair, short enough to end at the gold-embroidered collar of his jacket, dancing as he leaned back and glanced at her over his shoulder.
In the silence that followed, Nehelon prowled to Gandrett’s side and said to the lord, ignoring the young man’s stare, “Did I promise too much?”
Lord Tyrem only leaned back in his own chair and stared. It was his wife who gave Nehelon a nod of approval.
“Show Miss Brayton to her chambers,” she ordered, and Nehelon inclined his head, beckoning Gandrett to follow him. But she didn’t move.
“I understand, Lord,” she gritted her teeth at the word, “that you have paid the Meister handsomely to get me out of training early in order to help you with a mission that has failed before.”
Lord Tyrem’s gaze chilled, his features hard, making him look like an old man. To her surprise, the pointed glare wasn’t meant for her but for Nehelon, whose features hardened equally as the gaze hit him, his back straightening as if he was tensing to attack—with words rather than his swords or magic.
“It seems you’re more talkative abroad than you are in your own court,” the young man in black noted with a grin.
Nehelon and the Lord Brenheran ignored him.
Gandrett bit her tongue. What Nehelon had told her about the mission… she realized it hadn’t been for him to tell. And he had told her anyway. He had told her what the mission was and that it had been unsuccessful for several years. As for the how—it was only that detail he had left her in the dark about. That, and about everything else.
“The nature of your mission, Miss Brayton,” the lord said between gritted teeth, “is a matter to be discussed in private.”
Gandrett felt them. The eyes on her. Nehelon’s weighing heaviest of all.
Lord Tyrem clapped his hands, “Out, everyone out.”
In an instant, the courtiers were on their feet, marching for the door with variations of disgruntled expressions on their faces. Some of them awarded her a cold look on their way out.
When only Lord and Lady Brenheran were left alongside with the black-dressed, black-haired young man, Lord Tyrem Brenheran eyed her for a long moment, again measuring her as if he wasn’t done with his verdict.
“Sit,” he ordered, and Nehelon grabbed Gandrett by the arm and pulled her into a chair far enough from the three nobles that even the length of her sword couldn’t reach them. Gandrett let him.
To her surprise, the Fae male remained standing behind her, probably there to keep her in check in case she got any ideas—
“Eat,” Lord Tyrem offered and gestured at the fruit platter to her left.
With a slow hand—slow enough not to startle anyone, or trigger Nehelon’s alarm bells—Gandrett picked up a piece of the same fruit she had seen the lord had eaten before and shoved it into her mouth.
Delicious. Juicy. It was simply delightful. She had never eaten anything like it. An explosion of sour and sweet…
It was only when the young man thre
e chairs left from her raised his brows that she realized there was liquid dripping down her chin. She halted, eyes darting for a napkin and finding none within her reach.
The young man picked up a piece of cloth embroidered with the crest of House Brenheran and handed it to her with a pitying smile. “They train you well in combat,” he said, his eyes wandering to her chin then her hair, her dirty clothes, and at last, to her hands greedily clutching a second piece of the nameless fruit. “But that’s about everything they train you in.”
A low chuckle rose from behind her, and she felt the urge to turn and stomp onto Nehelon’s Fae feet.
But she cooled her temper and said with the friendliest face she could muster, “Better savage and alive than sophisticated and dead.”
Gandrett could swear Lady Brenheran was suppressing a smile, but her features smoothed the moment Lord Tyrem spoke again, “Miss Brayton.” He straightened in his chair, resting his forearms wrapped in sleeves of burgundy velvet with buttons of gold on the table. “You were summoned here for the sole purpose of retrieving my son—” His eyes darted to the side at the young man who had called him father. “—my eldest son, Joshua, from my enemies.”
Gandrett fashioned a surprised face as she pulled the napkin from the young man’s hand and wiped off the juice, hoping that it was convincing enough that Nehelon wouldn’t get into trouble. For some reason she couldn’t quite understand, she cared.
“That,” Lord Tyrem continued, “is the mission that has failed before as Nehelon has described it so well.” A cold glance at the Fae male behind her. “That is the mission he has failed at before would be the correct way to put it.”
She could feel Nehelon tense behind her.
“That’s why I made sure we have the best weapon we can in order to get back Joshua. There is a reason why the Meister picked her.” His tone was different from how he had spoken to her—neither the cold, clipped words, nor the heavy ones that had slipped him at Elste. Here, inside these polished stone halls, his voice was an intricate texture of sound and meaning. Gandrett wanted to turn in her chair and see his face, discover if it had equally changed or remained the same as what she had studied during the long journey from the priory. “I fought her at Everrun, and I can attest that she is the best. You have seen her demonstration. She can defend herself. She can fight the strongest of your guards. She—” he paused, all eyes but Gandrett’s on him, “—she even defeated me.”
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