Sneak Peek at Queen of War & Ruin

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Chapter One – Lilias

The Howling Plains

I could almost believe this is the Howling Plains, where the dead wander until they lose all memories of their time in the living world.

From my place on the bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, I face a window that opens to the glassy surface of a lake reflecting snow-covered mountain peaks. The buzz of insects fills the room, drifting in from the world outside, and tight buds that will swell to flowers dance languidly on the vines that wreath the window frame. There’s even a white curtain that sways in the breeze. If this is the Howling Plains, well, there are worse places to be.

But I know better. I lean back on the pillow and close my eyes.

I’m not dead. This isn’t the afterlife.

And I’ll never see my father again.

The door opens with a creak. I turn, blinking as the room swims into focus. An older woman enters the room with a tray in her hands. There’s a steaming mug on the tray, next to a plate filled with bacon and biscuits. The woman’s gray hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and she’s wearing a white apron. She seems vaguely familiar, like someone I met in a dream.

“Oh, you poor dear,” the woman says.

She sets the tray down on a dresser and comes to the bed, a white handkerchief in her hand. She presses it against my cheeks, and only then do I realize I’m crying.

“It’s so hard,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Losing a pregnancy.”

I frown as I take the handkerchief from her and wipe my eyes. Memories come back to me in flashes, like the shattered pieces of a broken vase. Blayne standing over me, saying if I didn’t drink the potion, he would force it down my throat.

And blood. Looking down in horror at the blood that stained my skirts, forever ruining that beautiful yellow dress. Zarek cutting strips from my skirt, bringing me water so I could wash, until I didn’t even have the energy to do that.

The woman’s hand closes over mine. Her fingers are hard, the hands of someone who’s worked outside, and her touch is warm.

“It’s not the last one,” she says, with a soft smile. “You’ll have more babies. I promise you.”

I try to return her smile, but my eyes sting and my lips refuse to curl into the smile I know is proper. I want to tell her the truth, that I was never pregnant, that I bled for days because of Blayne and his damned potion. But then I’d need to explain everything else.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She nods, then comes back to my bed with the tray. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I start eating, and the woman fusses around the room while I finish the meal. When she turns back to me, I finally find the courage to ask the question that’s been drifting through my mind ever since I woke up to stare at the lake outside the window.

“Where’s Zarek?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s in the garden, I expect,” she replies. “There’s little enough reason to leave, this time of year.”

I frown. Another broken shard of memory rises through the murky fog of the past few days. A man on horseback, waving his hand at the valley behind him. And then introducing himself as Prince Zarek.

I try to smile politely.

“I mean,” I say, “where is the man who arrived with me?”

The woman’s face shifts, and suddenly, there’s a guarded wariness in her expression that wasn’t there before.

“He’s fine,” she replies, which doesn’t exactly answer my question. “I told him you’ve been asking for him.”

I have? I almost ask her when I said something like that, but then it comes back to me in a flood, like wine spilling over parchment. I was in this room, on this bed. The window was dark, and the woman put a lantern on the table. She washed my face and hands, and then the rest of my body. My legs, streaked with blood. My stomach, still tender and sore. When I cried, she wiped my tears and told me to rest, that things would look brighter in the morning. And when she finished, she said she would bring my husband to me.

As I fell into a dark, dreamless sleep, I remembered Blayne and the parchment he waved in front of me. And I wondered which husband she might bring.

“I—” I begin, then close my mouth. “Thank you.”

The smile she gives me looks like her heart is breaking, although I can’t imagine why. She pats my hand again, tells me to rest and regain my strength, and then leaves, carrying the empty tray with her.

I turn back to the window. Wind ruffles the glassy surface of the lake, breaking the reflection of the mountain peaks into shards of white and gray. I think about Zarek, sitting in the shadows, telling me our marriage could be annulled. And then I remember Blayne, and the way his lip curled as he told me he’s not raising the snake’s spawn.

And then something else comes to me, something so bizarre it must have been a dream.

Zarek, sitting next to me in the forest with pine boughs swaying behind him. The sun was setting, sending shafts of golden light through the trees, turning every speck of dust into a shining, dancing gem. His eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back.

And he was singing.

The fading light played across his face, and the wind tugged at his hair. He looked pale and exhausted; still, he was singing. They sounded like prayers, the soft melodies that spilled from his lips, although they weren’t any prayers I recognized.

I snort, then shake my head against the pillow as the room dissolves in a fresh flood of tears. That much, at least, must have been a dream. I don’t even know if the man I called Zarek is still here, wherever here is.

And, whatever else he might have done to keep me alive while he brought me here, I cannot imagine the snake of Vsenrog praying.

Chapter Two – Zarek

The Prince of Dungal

“Oh, gods help me,” I groan as my traitorous eyes blink open, allowing daylight to cut through my hangover and stab me directly in the skull.

I roll over, then wince as something crashes to the ground. Something hard and hollow. I squint at the floor, confirming my suspicions. It’s a wine bottle. An empty wine bottle.

Well, maybe it’s empty. I’d better make sure.

My head throbs as I sit up and reach for the bottle. I shake it, confirming my worst suspicions. Fucking empty.

With a groan, I lean back against the wall and run my fingers down my side. Someone wrapped me in bandages, an older woman with her hair in a bun, but I can’t remember a name. I was pretty drunk at that point, and she looked like she trusted me about as far as she could kick me. Not that I blame her, of course.

There’s a knock on the door. Before I can say fuck off, it opens, bringing another flood of painful sunlight.

“Morning, sunshine,” a man’s voice says.

I growl. He closes the door, then sits down by the bed. The scent of fried meat fills the air, and my stomach makes a very impolite sound. I blink until I recognize the man in front of me.

“Fuck,” I mumble.

It’s the prince, the real prince. Zarek of Dungal, the son of the king and queen. And he just happens to be godsdamned handsome.

“Yeah, nice to see you too,” he replies.

He’s smiling, but in a strange way. Like he’s about to deliver bad news. I turn to the table and see a tray with a plate and a steaming mug. Zarek follows my gaze, then hands me the mug.

Great. The true prince, the man who is technically married to Lilias, is thoughtful as well as handsome. How wonderful.

The tea is scalding hot, but I drink it anyway. The burn in my throat is a nice counterpoint to the hangover trying to split my skull and the dull ache from my ribs. Through the rising steam, I watch the man whose life I once stole.

We used to be friends, or at least as close to friends as a prince can be with a commoner. His nursemaid said we were two peas in a pod, although that always seemed vaguely like an insult.

“Agnes,” I say, suddenly, as the name of Zarek’s nursemaid comes back to me. “She’s the one who—”

My voice fades as I wave at my bandaged ribs. I don’t think I recognized her last night, not with her gray hair. And with all the wine I drank, fucking idiot that I am.

“Yeah,” Zarek replies, with that strange, tight smile. “She asked me to talk to you.”

I finish the last of my tea, then set the mug back down on the tray. The back of my mouth still tastes like wine and bad decisions, but at least the headache has settled somewhat.

“She said you’re taking it pretty hard,” Zarek continues, looking around the room like he’d rather stare at cobwebs in the corners than meet my gaze. “And, hey, I get it. It’s terrible, losing a pregnancy.”

I open my mouth to ask what in the hells he’s talking about, think better of it, and close my mouth. The prince runs a hand through his hair and then, finally, looks me in the eye.

“My wife lost our second,” he says. “We were only a few months in, but still. I know how it feels to learn you’re going to have a child, and I know how much it hurts to lose that hope.”

My mouth falls open again. I don’t know what in the holy hells the Prince of Dungal is babbling about. Still, one very important word jumps out at me. Something that my brother Petrys didn’t tell me when he whispered about the valley that holds the remains of the Kingdom of Dungal.

“Wife?” I ask.

Zarek gives me a stupid, shit-eating grin. “Yeah,” he replies. “For almost a decade now. And three children. So, you know, that wasn’t your last chance. The two of you, you’ll have more—”

I stop listening. The strategic implications burn through my mind.

The Prince of Dungal is married? He has heirs? Does this mean Dungal has allies, that it has power beyond this one hidden valley?

“Who is she?” I blurt.

Zarek blinks.

“What kingdom, I mean,” I continue. “I apologize, but Petrys didn’t mention any of this. And, hells, this changes everything. Who are you allied with? What kind of support will they—”

Prince Zarek laughs. It’s loud and sudden, and I can’t help feeling that there’s some wonderful joke out there that no one bothered telling me about.

“Oh, my old friend,” Zarek says, shaking his head. “You’ve been in the palace a long time, haven’t you?”

I have no reply for that, so I cross my arms over my chest and try to ignore the smell of the bacon on the tray.

“My wife,” Zarek says, “is Zoe. Agnes’s daughter.”

“What?”

The word comes out of me in a rush, like an explosion. That’s impossible. I remember the nursemaid’s daughter Zoe. She was a few years older than the prince and me, and she liked to walk around the palace halls like she owned the place. Zarek followed her like a puppy dog on a chain, at least until she was sent away to live in the mountains.

When I asked my mother why Zoe had to leave, she said it wasn’t good for the prince to get too attached, which was the same reason she gave when she said I shouldn’t name the chickens she kept in the yard.

As a kid, it confused the hells out of me. I only understood it years later, as I tried to survive the palace of Vsenrog by pretending to be something I never was.

“You married her?” I stammer. “Zarek, you’re a prince.”

He laughs again, softer this time. And then he meets my gaze with a sad little smile.

“No, I’m not,” he says. “You’ve heard the song, right? The Kingdom of Dungal is ash and dust.”

“But—” I begin, thinking of contracts and alliances, of a red ribbon tied around my wrists and a beautiful princess who did not cry during the wedding ceremony.

“Yes, I married her,” Zarek says. “I had a choice, you know. I could cling to ash and dust, limp to our former allies, beg for some sort of alliance. But that would have tipped Vsenrog off, wouldn’t it?”

With a dull sense of horror, I realize what he’s saying. King Malrik had no reason to think I was anyone but the rightful heir of Dungal. But if the real Zarek showed up in another kingdom, marrying another princess—

I swallow hard. Zarek shakes his head.

“Or, I could let go of Dungal,” he continues. “I could finally marry the woman I’d loved since I was a kid. I could live a life where no one would try to kill me, where I’d never have to order men to die for me. I could have a garden, and chickens, and sons that no foreign king would ever try to take from me.”

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall.

He always loved my mother’s chickens, Prince Zarek. He named them. When they inevitably ended up on the dinner table, he cried every time.

I always thought he was a bit of an idiot, honestly.

I open my eyes and smile at my prince. “You grew up,” I say.

“So did you,” he replied. “Now, eat something. I swear, they can hear your stomach growling all the way in Vsenrog.”

He stands up, and I lean forward to grab the tray.

“You would have made a good king,” I tell him, as he turns toward the door.

Zarek snorts. “I thank the gods every day that I didn’t have to test that.”

I grab a piece of bacon, shove it in my mouth, and try not to groan with pleasure. After days of stolen, half-ripe peas and tiny radishes, this is pure bliss. Zarek stops at the door and turns back to me.

“Oh,” he says. “Go visit your wife.”

I snort, almost choke, and force myself to swallow what’s in my mouth.

“She’s asking for you,” Zarek adds. “And, listen, I know what you’re going through. What you’re both going through. It’s easier to go through it together.”

Oh. The blood, of course. The potion that horrible son of a bitch gave her that made her bleed for days. Zarek must think she had a miscarriage. Hells, everyone here must think she just lost a pregnancy.

But that doesn’t change the truth. I swallow hard. The bacon shifts uneasily in my gut.

“Technically,” I admit, although the words scrape the inside of my throat, “she’s your wife.”

Zarek laughs. “Oh, really?”

“She married Zarek,” I say. “The Prince of Dungal.”

My gut seizes. Suddenly, I want to ask him for more wine. Preferably enough to drown myself.

“I’m sure Zoe would have some choice words in response to that,” Zarek replies.

“Well, legally—”

“Oh, shut up,” Zarek says, and there he is, that bossy little prince I remember from my childhood. “Stop being an idiot. You think that woman wants to see me? You think if I walk in there and introduce myself as her legal husband, she’d do anything other than punch me in the face?”

He’s smiling again, like there’s a big joke, and I’m not in on it.

“Go see your wife,” he says again as he opens the door. Sunlight floods the room once more. “Or I’m going to bring her here to see you.”

“Fine,” I mutter. “You don’t need to threaten me.”

He grins as he closes the door behind him. I don’t remember him smiling like that as a kid. Hells, his mother and father never smiled, not that I saw.

Maybe that’s what living outside of a palace does, I realize with a strange sort of pang deep in my chest.

Maybe I would have smiled like that too.

Chapter Three – Lilias

Under Your Name

“Oh,” I say, under my breath. And then I shut my mouth before I can embarrass myself.

The woman, Agnes, came back this afternoon, bringing lunch, and when I’d finished eating she told me I should go for a little walk to build my strength, only she phrased it in a way that made it sound like I didn’t have much of a choice. Would I like to go to the garden or the lake, she asked.

I said the garden, picturing the emerald lawns and elegant statuary of the Vsenrog castle. Or the smaller walled gardens of Marion, with their roses and lilacs. Agnes smiled, took my arm, and led me here.

The garden. Of course. I force my lips to twist into a smile as I stare at rows and rows of vegetables. It’s warm in the sun, and the slight breeze ruffles the leaves of plants I can’t quite identify.

The garden. For food, not for decoration.

“They’re ready to pick,” Agnes announces.

She pats my hand, then wanders off. When she comes back, she’s holding two small wicker baskets. She hands one to me. I take it and smile like I know what I’m supposed to do here. And then I follow her to a row of vines growing on a little fence.

She bends down, pulls a long, thick pod from the vine, and drops it in the basket. Then she does it again. And again. And again. I stare at her until I finally realize why she handed me the second basket.

Great. I bend down next to her. The first pod I pull takes half the vine with it, and I feel like a complete idiot. I watch Agnes a little closer, noticing where she grabs the pod and imitating her as best I can. The sun beats down on my shoulders. Insects hum all around us, and the wind shakes the leaves. Agnes moves down the row, out of my peripheral vision. My basket slowly fills.

“Hello, Princess,” a thick, deep voice says from behind me.

I jump, almost spilling my basket. When I come to my feet, my cheeks are burning. Zarek stands next to me, smiling in the sunlight, and my gods, he’s so beautiful it almost hurts. He looks at the half-full basket of pods, then back at me.

“You’re a woman of many talents,” he says.

I shrug, although my cheeks burn with an absurd rush of pride at the pile of pods I managed to collect.

“I think Agnes would like us to shell those,” he says. “Would you like me to show you how?”

“Shell?” I ask, staring at the heavy green tubes.

“They’re peas,” Zarek says, softly.

I open my mouth to stammer that of course I know what they are, but some part of me whispers that my husband would see right through that obvious lie. I’ve only ever seen peas on my dinner plate, and they didn’t look anything like this.

Zarek turns, and I follow him along the edge of the garden and to a stone bench in the shade of a massive oak tree. I sit next to him, putting the basket on the ground at our feet.

“How are you?” I ask, as he reaches for one of the pods. “Your ribs—”

“Fine,” he replies.

I snort. “That’s what you always say.”

He smiles again, and my breath catches in my throat. I remember those lips on mine, the heat, the feel of his tongue in my mouth.

“Agnes wrapped my ribs,” he says. “It’s helping. How are you?”

I turn away from the intensity of those dark eyes. My cheeks burn, and I realize I’m suddenly, horribly, jealous of the old woman who got to wrap a bandage around Zarek’s chest. I should have done that for him.

“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s stopped. The woman, Agnes, she thinks I lost—”

My voice fails. I can’t quite bring myself to say that she thinks that I was pregnant, that the blood was a miscarriage.

“I know,” he replies, his voice low. “Thank the gods the bleeding stopped.”

I glance at him, then back at the nodding leaves in the garden. I’m not raising the snake’s spawn, Blayne said as he handed the potion to me. I turn to Zarek, a question rising to my lips.

“Here,” Zarek says, holding one of the green pods between us.

I swallow the question and watch as Zarek puts his fingers on either side of the seam that stretches down the pod. It pops open, revealing a half dozen little peas inside. He runs his thumb down the inside, dropping the peas into the basket. And then he hands a pod to me.

Well, it looks simple enough.

I put my fingers on either side of the seam and tug. Nothing happens. I frown at the damn thing, then press harder.

The pod explodes. Pea juice squirts between my fingers.

“Damn it,” I snap.

Zarek grins as I flick crushed pea insides off of my thumb.

“Like this,” he says, handing me another pod.

This time, he wraps his hands around mine, guiding my fingers to either side of the pod. His chest presses against my shoulder; his breath is warm against my neck. My heart flutters inside my ribs as he presses my fingers down, just enough to make the pod yield and open.

“Oh,” I whisper. My voice is high and thin.

Zarek guides my thumb down the soft inside of the pod, pressing the peas into the basket. When he rocks back, I turn to face him. Our lips are so close. Memories rush over me, kissing under the lanterns, laughing and toasting our union, dancing together in a dozen town squares, his arms around my waist, his body pressed to mine, the long, hard length of him between my legs—

He leans back, then turns away. And the moment shatters like glass. I stare at the empty pea husk in my hands, telling myself what came next. What always came next. We’d be led to a room, the best room in the town, with a massive, elaborate bed.

And Zarek would leave the room, saying Anura should stay with me instead. Or he’d turn away from me. He’d collapse on the bed, facing the wall, or on the floor in front of the door. Once the door was closed, it was like I didn’t exist.

The kisses were always and only for show.

That question rises again, nagging at me. I take a deep breath, then turn to the man who was forced to marry me.

“You thought I was pregnant,” I say. “Didn’t you? When we got married?”

Zarek blinks, and for a moment, I’m absurdly pleased that I managed to surprise him.

“I did.”

He says the words slowly, almost like it hurts to admit. I turn to stare at my pea-stained fingers as they twist in my lap.

“And you knew about the potion,” I continue. “The one that would get rid of a pregnancy.”

He frowns. Wind rustles the leaves above us, casting shifting pools of light over the furrows on his brow and his dark hair.

“Why didn’t you make me take it?” I ask. My voice is high and thin, but I manage to get the question out.

Zarek frowns at me like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth.

“Because it’s dangerous,” he growls. “Women die from that godsdamned sludge. Look at what it did to you, and you weren’t even pregnant.”

“But,” I stammer. “If you thought I was pregnant, and you married me anyway— You would have let me have someone else’s child? Under your name?”

Zarek laughs. It’s such a strange reaction that I wonder if he’s even heard my question.

“My name,” Zarek mutters, shaking his head. “Look, Princess. I don’t have any royal lineage to protect.”

The moment on the hillside rushes back to me. The man on horseback, spreading his arms and welcoming us to Dungal. Introducing himself as Prince Zarek.

“Of course I would have claimed your child,” Zarek continues. “And I would have protected them as best I could.”

He falls silent. There’s a strange look on his face, something dark and hard, as though he’s staring into some horrible future instead of a half-full basket of pea pods. I move my hand, reaching for him, then think better of it and let it drop to the stone bench between us.

“What happened?” I whisper. “How did you end up in Vsenrog? Why does that man here say he’s Zarek?”

My voice fades, carried away by the wind. Zarek runs his hand through his hair, then turns to me and shakes his head.

“Because he is,” he replies. “I was only supposed to be Prince Zarek for one night.”

Chapter Four – Zarek

Lives Depended on Me

I take a breath, wondering where to begin. I’ve never shared this story, and it’s not easy to trace the tangled mess of my life as the snake of Vsenrog back to the very start.

“We were kids together,” I finally say. “The real prince was born a few months after me, and we were both raised at the palace. He was inside of it, and I was outside, but as a kid, maybe that didn’t make such a difference.”

I shrug, then run my fingers through my hair. It did make a difference, of course. Prince Zarek always had the final say in what we did and where we went. If he wanted something, I had to give it up, even though I was older and stronger. That was the way of it.

“When the King of Vsenrog announced he was coming to negotiate with Dungal,” I continue, “the palace was scared. Some of the other kids said King Malrik would kill us all, that he drank blood and ate bones.”

I shake my head at the memory. When you’re a kid, the whole world is terrifying. King Malrik was just as real as the ogres in the story books. Scary, yes, but somehow not a part of the same world that held chickens and chores and parents that could protect you no matter what.

“I wasn’t afraid until the day before the delegation from Vsenrog arrived,” I admit. “That’s when the king and queen asked for me. I stood in Zarek’s private chambers, with the prince, and the queen got on her knees before me and told me she wanted to play a game.”

My throat goes dry. I swallow, the memory of fear pulling the skin tight on the back of my neck.

“She was scared,” I continue. “I could tell. She was the queen, and she was trying to hide it, but she was afraid of something. She told me I would get to be the prince for a day, and wouldn’t that be fun?”

My voice falters as the memory plays through my mind. I’d turned to Zarek, expecting the real prince to voice some outcry over this, but he stayed silent. He looked scared too.

“And then the king stepped forward,” I say. I blink as the memory rushes over me. “The king had never spoken to me before, of course. But that morning he got down on one knee and looked me in the eye. He said the time had come for me to serve my country, and that lives would depend on me.”

My voice thickens; I stop to clear my throat. I can still feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder.

“Gods,” Lilias whispers. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” I admit. Old enough to play at being a man.

“Shit,” she hisses.

I shrug. “Zarek told me it was okay if I played with his toys, just not to break anything. Then Agnes, his nursemaid, took him away, and I spent the rest of that day learning how to eat like a prince,” I say. “I didn’t really understand what it meant, or why they were asking me to do this. Even at the dinner table, when King Malrik mentioned taking a hostage to ensure cooperation and the queen started sobbing, I was mostly focused on making sure I used the right fork.”

I laugh. It sounds hollow.

“When the king said lives depended on me,” I admit, “I thought he was talking about my table manners. That, somehow, armies would rise or fall based on my dinnertime behavior. So I was very focused on those damn forks.”

I turn to Lilias, smiling at the stupid memory, but she’s staring at me like she’s about to cry.

“Oh my gods,” she whispers. “They took you. As the hostage. Instead of the prince.”

I nod. “I’m sure the prince was out of the palace by then. Hells, he was probably here already,” I say, waving a hand at the garden. “The queen told Malrik that I couldn’t go to Vsenrog alone, that he should bring two of my friends, two guards in training. So I left Dungal with Petrys and Gerrart.”

“Your brothers,” Lilias says.

I nod. My eyes start to sting.

“But, your parents,” Lilias cries. “They agreed to this?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t imagine they had much choice. I wasn’t allowed to see them before I left. That would have given the whole thing away. Instead, the king and queen hugged me as I stood before the delegation from Vsenrog. The queen sobbed over me, the king looked straight in my eyes and called me son, and then the guards led me toward the palace gates as the court musicians played.”

My voice fades. I remember the guard who told me not to look back, and how I ignored him. I remember seeing my own parents, my real parents, kneeling in the dirt outside the gate as the king dragged their three children away.

And I remember the first cold tendrils of rage wrapping around my heart as I started to realize this wasn’t a game at all, and that the lives depending on this lie were mine and my brothers.

“All those years,” Lilias whispers. “How did you do it?”

When I turn to her, tears sparkle on her cheeks in the afternoon light filtering through the leaves above us. I shrug. It’s never seemed like anything special to me, perhaps because I never had a choice. I had to act like a prince, to spend every waking minute pretending to be the real Zarek, son of the king of Dungal.

Or my brothers and I would die. Badly.

“Alia helped,” I admit, smiling at the memory of the surly, scrappy girl who became Vsenrog’s stablemaster. “She taught me manners. Taught me how to ride. She never said anything, of course, but she must have suspected.”

Lilias twists her hands together in her lap, then turns back to me and wipes her eyes.

“So, you’re not a prince,” she says, in a soft, low voice. “And now, I’m not a princess.”

“That’s not true,” I reply. “You were born a princess. It’s in your blood.”

She shakes her head. “Marion fell,” she whispers. “My father is—” Her voice fails, and she hides her face in her hands. Then she wipes her eyes and continues. “They’re saying Elrick abdicated, that—”

“But that’s not true,” I say.

She turns to me. A single tear traces a path down her cheek. I almost reach for her, ready to wipe it away, but I stop myself.

“Your brother didn’t abdicate,” I continue. “Just because King Malrik says something doesn’t make it real.”

Lilias makes a sound in the back of her throat, like a sad laugh. I press on.

“Marion isn’t finished,” I say. “You have allies. The Seven Kingdoms won’t stand for this. If Vsenrog is allowed to swallow Marion, then all the other kingdoms are at risk. They’ll stand with your brother to protect themselves.”

“They think I started this,” Lilias replies. “That I left you and ran off to be with Prince Laurance in Ethiria.”

“Then we should start with Ethiria. After we tell your brother what happened.”

As the words come out of my mouth, I realize I’ve been thinking about this since I crawled into that dark little carriage to wait for my wife. Marion can’t stand alone against Vsenrog. Hells, that war is over already; Marion has a handful of Royal Guards and men-in-waiting, not an army. I’m sure Malrik has already taken the palace of Marion.

But Ethiria should stand with Elrick. Marion and Ethiria have more blood ties than a royal tapestry has threads. Together, they could inspire the other allied kingdoms to stand against Vsenrog. Especially if Lilias can convince her brother to marry into one of the other kingdoms, perhaps one of the princesses from Lisal—

Lilias laughs, cutting off my spinning thoughts.

“How in the gods’s many names,” she says, with an expression on her face that’s almost a smile, “are we going to get to Ethiria?”

I grin at her, although there’s an old, familiar ache in my chest, like a knife that was buried between my ribs long, long ago. I think of Prince Zarek, the real prince of Dungal, living in this beautiful valley with the wife he chose, and I shake my head.

“By horseback, presumably,” I reply. “I don’t much fancy walking that far.”

She laughs again, a real laugh this time, golden and sparkling in the dappled sunlight, and my gods, she’s a beautiful woman. She’ll be a splendid queen someday.

I turn away as that ache in my chest sharpens. Beyond the garden, the lake sparkles in the light, its ruffled waves breaking up the reflection of the distant peaks. In the alleyway in Marion, Petrys told me this valley is where what was left of the royal court of Dungal fled, to this tiny village deep in the mountains. He said to hold the ashes up when we entered and we’d be granted safe harbor.

I didn’t ask why he’d never told me about this place before. The answer was obvious; I was too close to King Malrik, and Malrik has ways of making people talk. This place was too important, too beautiful, to risk sharing with me.

Beside me, Lilias sighs. “It’s a shame,” she says, in a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “I could get used to staying here.”

I nod. I don’t trust my voice enough to speak.

Chapter Five – Lilias

Ruins

“Someone’s coming,” Zarek says, under his breath.

I tense, and the horse I’m riding pricks her ears, suddenly nervous. I stare down the long, rolling valley unfurling below us. We left the village beside the lake early this morning, traveling west to reach the road that will take us past Vesenrog and back into Marion.

Or what used to be Marion, at least.

I reach down to pat the mare’s neck, trying to reassure her. It only took us a few hours to reach the road. It glistens in the sun below us like a long, dark serpent.

And it’s empty. There’s nothing on the road below us but dust and wind. I don’t see any sign of travelers anywhere in the valley, which is a little surprising. The grass is thick and lush here, and so green it’s almost glowing. We’ve passed a few ruined farms, but nothing that’s still habited.

Odd. Why wouldn’t people live here, in a fertile valley, this close to a road?

Zarek is still staring at the base of the mountains. I follow his gaze, and something Anura’s mother once told me comes back in a whisper. She said there was still magic in the high places, and that sometimes, if you were very good and very lucky, you might see one of the spirits of these mountains. A creature of pure magic, darker than midnight, that moves like water over rocks.

I try to laugh at the memory, but it comes out as a snort. Anura’s mother told us a lot of stories. And I don’t seriously think my husband is staring at some magical creature, do I?

I cough. “I don’t see anything,” I admit.

Zarek turns and smiles at me.

I know who he is, now. Still, the truth of his heritage doesn’t stop him from looking every bit a prince as he shades his eyes and the points up the valley, toward the ragged edge of the pine forest that clings to the sides of the mountains.

“The dust,” he says.

I squint at the mountains until I see it. There, hanging low over the tops of the trees, is a faint cloud. It could be anything; pollen, smoke, mist. But I know Zarek is right. Someone is coming down the road, out of the mountains, and they’re kicking up dust as they travel.

“It doesn’t look like a very big group,” Zarek continues. “Large groups, they make a much bigger cloud. Still, maybe we lay low until we can see who they are.”

I nod. I’m still watching the cloud hang over the forest as Zarek leads his horse down the ridge and into the valley. There’s some sort of structure in the center of the valley, something made of stone that looks like it burned to the ground decades ago. An inn, perhaps? Whatever it was, it’s surrounded by more ruined buildings, probably abandoned farms. Maybe this was once a town?

“But where are all the people?” I mutter, under my breath.

“What’s that, Princess?” Zarek asks, turning around in his saddle.

My cheeks burn as I try to look away from the curve of his lips.

“This is good land,” I say, waving my hand at the grassy fields. “You could cut hay on it, raise crops, run horses or cattle. And it’s right by the road, so trade would be easy, even over the mountains—”

My voice fades as the expression on Zarek’s face shifts. He shakes his head, then turns to the strange burned-out inn on the horizon.

I blink. Distance has been playing tricks on me. Those charred spires of stone are far too big to be an inn.

“This was Dungal,” Zarek says softly.

I gasp, then feel like an idiot for not recognizing the obvious truth.

“Vsenrog built a toll station at the base of the valley,” Zarek continues. “Malrik had no reason to rebuild the palace, not if he could bleed just as much money out of travelers from a more defensible position. And no one from Dungal dared to come back. Not now that Vsenrog controls the road.”

“So that’s Vederill Pass,” I say, staring at the gap in the mountains.

Blayne taught me that the Kingdom of Dungal tried to block Vederill Pass, the route that connects Vsenrog to the Iron Mountains, the fabled home of the dragons and the best and fastest route to trade with the kingdoms to the north and west, at least if you’re willing to risk the dangers of the road. That story didn’t quite sit right; when I asked Elrick, he said Vsenrog wanted control over the pass and Dungal had the nerve to stand in their way.

Zarek nods. He’s staring at the mountains with a strange look on his face, like he’s trying to remember a dream.

No. He’s not staring at the mountains.

He’s staring at the ruins.

“Come on,” Zarek suddenly says. “Let’s find a place to hide.”

He presses his heels into his horse, and the gelding trots off, with Zarek bouncing stiffly in the saddle. I follow, entering the long shadows of what must have once been the palace of Dungal.

The ruins are massive, much larger than they looked from the top of the ridge. It takes us a long time to thread through the wreckage of what must have been homes and farms surrounding the castle. By the time we reach the blackened stone spires, the dust cloud rising from the road hovers over the very edge of the forest.

Zarek dismounts, then leads his gelding through what must have once been the gate to the castle’s main courtyard. I follow, walking my mare past the ruined stone arch. The only sound is the echo of hooves and boots, bouncing strangely off the blackened stone. My horse stops to examine a patch of emerald grass that’s taking over what was once maybe a garden. I let her graze as I dig through the saddlebag, looking for the lunch Agnes packed for us.

Zarek’s gelding comes to join us, dragging his lead rope over broken stone and small, hopeful blades of grass. I glance up to see Zarek walking along the shattered wall, staring at the ground.

And then he stops.

I turn away, feeling almost like I’m watching him undress. It seems horrible that I’m here, the woman he was tied to, the marriage he wants to annul. It’s not fair that he has to drag me through the wreckage of his past. Gods, I told him I could make this journey alone.

But, if I’m being honest, I didn’t want to do this by myself. And, when I turn back to Zarek, I can’t deny that some part of me is ready to sing praises to all the gods that I’m not here alone. A large part of me, actually.

Zarek stands in front of a pile of blackened stone with his arms crossed over his chest. Or, no, it’s not just stone he’s staring at. There’s a bush there too, something ragged and wild. I grab the canvas bag containing today’s lunch and walk toward him, clearing my throat so he’ll know I’m here.

“Hungry?” I ask, holding the bag out to him like a sad little offering.

He smiles, wipes his eyes, and takes the bag. Then he turns back to the bush. It’s a scruffy little thing with small, serrated leaves and wild runners covered with tight little buds that bolt over all over the broken stones. I follow one of the runners up a crack in the wall and find a cluster of delicate pink blossoms.

“Oh!” I gasp. “It’s a rose bush.”

Zarek is still smiling, but in a way that makes me think something inside of him is breaking.

“It’s my father’s,” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere very far away. “He planted it at the front door. Mother said it was her wedding present.”

My mouth goes dry. I stare at the pile of stones pushed against the castle wall. It’s the same in Vsenrog, isn’t it? Little homes built into the castle’s courtyard, places where the servants lived?

“This—” I stammer. “This is where you—”

His expression shifts, and for a moment he looks almost ashamed. Like I’m looking down on him, on the ruins of his childhood home, from my princess tower.

Gods, no, that’s not what I meant at all! I clear my throat, desperate for a way to shift the conversation, and I seize on the first thing that comes to mind.

“What was your name?” I ask.

Zarek turns to me with an eyebrow raised.

“I mean, before you went to Vsenrog,” I stammer. “Surely they didn’t call you Zarek too. Not if that was the prince’s name.”

He shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair, and then leans down over the sprawling wild rose. He cups a dried rosehip between his fingers. It’s the color of old blood.

“My mother collected these,” he whispers. “She candied them. Used them as decorations for cakes.”

I swallow hard. He’s not going to tell me, of course. Why would he?

“I-I’m so sorry,” I manage to say, although my voice is rough, like I’ve been screaming. “About your parents. Your kingdom.”

The pile of stones shimmers as my vision fills with stupid tears. I wipe at my eyes.

“Thank you,” Zarek says.

His voice cracks, and I reach for him without thinking. My fingers brush his arm, but he turns away.

“Come on,” he says, with his back toward me. “Let’s see who’s coming down the road.”

Chapter Six – Zarek

Steal a Woman Like That

They’re not soldiers, thank the gods.

Not that I was expecting any of the far-flung kingdoms beyond Vederill Pass to come to the aid of Vsenrog, but hells, with the way things have been going, I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised. Malrik seems to have outmaneuvered me in every way, idiot that I am.

I glance at Lilias. She’s watching the motley crowd make their way out of the forest and biting her lip. The rough cloak she’s wearing blends in well with the stones. If we can keep the horses quiet, this group will pass right by the ruins of Dungal without even noticing us.

“Or we could join them,” I whisper.

“What?” Lilias says, turning to stare at me.

“They’re traders,” I reply. “If we travel with them, we could pass right through the Vsenrog toll station.”

“What?” Lilias snaps again. Her cheeks darken, and she looks like she’s considering punching me.

It’s adorable. My cock pulses with interest, and I turn back to the group of traders picking their slow way down the road before it gets any stupid ideas. Three carts, pulled by three sad looking oxen, plus two horses and a dozen lightly-armed men and women in need of a bath.

We could blend in with that group. With a little luck, they’ll take us at our word that we’re just hapless travelers. And with less luck, they’ll take some of the coin the prince of Dungal gave me before we left.

“Have you lost your mind?” Lilias whispers. “Walk through the Vsenrog toll station? I thought the whole plan was to go around the toll station?”

“It was,” I reply, with a grin. “And bypassing the station would add days to our trip, possibly a full week.”

Lilias still looks like she’s considering punching me. I sigh. I didn’t want to bring this up, because the gods know she’s dealing with enough right now, but we do need to move, and move fast.

Because her brother is still alive. And if Malrik finds out the heir of Marion is hiding in an abandoned hunting camp on the Ethiria border, he’ll destroy everyone there.

We need to reach Prince Elrick first. And we need to convince him to marry someone in Lisal as quickly as possible, to put the might of Lisal’s armies behind what’s left of Marion.

“Princess,” I say, as gently as possible. “What are the odds that someone in the Vsenrog toll station is going to look twice at the two of us if we’re traveling with a group of traders?” I pause, then meet her gaze. “And we need to reach your brother. As soon as possible.”

She frowns at the road, and then looks down at her hands as they twist in the gray folds of her robe.

“Yes,” she finally whispers. “Yes, we do.”

Our horses don’t seem particularly happy with the situation. We lead them out of the ruins, walking slowly in full daylight, making sure the ragged group of traders can see us as we approach the road. The horse the prince of Dungal gave me to ride snorts and scrapes the dirt with his hoof as the group approaches. Lilias’s mare flares her nostrils in a way that makes me think she’d like to kick someone.

I don’t blame her. The closer the group gets, the rougher they look. Their clothes are patched and frayed, the horses look scruffy, and two of the three carts look like they’re being held together with twine and prayers.

They don’t look like traders.

They look like smugglers.

Which means we aren’t exactly going to blend in with this group, at least not unless we run our cloaks through the mud and swap horses. But it’s too late to back out now. The man standing at the head of the procession is watching me with a look that says it wouldn’t be wise to run.

“Fuck,” I mutter, under my breath.

Lilias snorts, and the trading caravan comes to a slow, weary stop. My horse nickers suspiciously. The man at the head of the caravan pulls back his cloak enough to reveal a sword at his side, then raises his hand. He walks toward us alone, eyeing our horses like he’s in a marketplace. I grit my teeth.

He stops in front of us, just over a sword’s length away, and rests his hands on his hips. He’s got long, greasy, pale hair, and a look in his eyes that I’ve seen a hundred times before, over back alley gambling tables and in dark corners of disreputable taverns.

He thinks he’s got us pinned, this asshole. And he’s going to try to take us for everything we have.

“Well met,” the man finally says, nodding at me and then staring at Lilias for longer than I’d like.

“Same to you,” I reply.

One of the horses in the man’s caravan whinnies, then steps forward. The man turns to bark something at his group, and a woman tugs on the horse’s lead. The horse arches his neck and does a strange little dance that probably means something to Lilias.

The man turns back to us with the same smile, but harder eyes.

“The name’s Toth,” he begins. “Is there a reason fine folks like you are standing here on the side of the road all alone?”

Fine folks? Damn it. We’re wearing the simplest clothes Agnes could find.

It’s the horses. They gave us horses that could travel fast and far, not horses that would blend in with a crowd.

“Well,” I begin, after introducing ourselves as politely as possible, “we were hoping we could travel with you.”

The man laughs, a sound that’s almost identical to a bark.

“And why’s that?” he asks.

He meets my gaze, daring me to lie to him. I’m sure he knows we’re trying to avoid the toll station. And, hells, he’s probably already figured out we’re trying to avoid attention from Vsenrog.

But, my mind whispers, we still need them. Moving through the toll station gives us time. Time that could mean the difference between life and death for Lilias’s brother and everyone else in that abandoned hunting camp.

“It’s my fault,” Lilias blurts.

Both of us turn to stare at her. Her cheeks flush, and she fiddles with the hem of her cloak.

“I— I don’t like traveling,” Lilias continues, her voice trembling. “And these mountains, they scare me. I just— I think we’ll be safer with you?”

Her voice lifts at the end, making her words a question. She gives Toth a gentle smile and all but bats her eyelids at him. Gods, if she’d tried to manipulate me like that on our wedding day, I don’t know if I would have survived.

Toth grunts and spits on the ground.

“You fucking idiots,” he says. “You thought it’d be fun, didn’t you? Running off together?”

My mouth falls open. I turn to Lilias. She’s pulled her cloak tight around her chest, making her look both frightened and amazingly attractive. Toth shakes his head.

“Let me guess,” he says, turning to Lilias. “Your new husband’s not quite the protector you wanted, huh?”

Lilias turns away. The man sneers at me.

“Fucking idiots,” he says again. “You running from her husband? Or her father?”

Damn. So much for the story I’d prepared about traveling to visit my sick aunt. If this man thinks we’re rich idiots running away together, he’s going to want coin. A lot of coin.

“My father,” Lilias replies without missing a beat. “He wanted me to marry someone else.”

Toth chuckles. “Maybe you should have, sweetheart. If your new husband makes you stand by the side of the road like this.”

He grins at me, and the bright, sunlit day seems much colder.

“You steal a pretty woman,” Toth sneers, “you better have the coin to take care of her. And if you want to travel with us, boy, it ain’t gonna be cheap.”

Lilias lifts her chin and clears her throat, looking every bit a princess. “Your horse is limping,” she declares.

The man frowns, then glances back over his shoulder.

“What in the hells?” he snaps.

“The mare,” Lilias says. “She’s limping. And your harnesses aren’t adjusted properly. You’re going to strangle your oxen.”

The man’s eyes flash with anger. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“My husband is a farrier,” Lilias says, and I have enough sense to keep my damn mouth shut. “We can help you. If you let us travel with you.”

The man narrows his eyes as he stares at Lilias.

“Farrier’s services don’t come cheap,” Lilias says, in a voice so sweet it almost makes my teeth hurt. “I’m sure that would be adequate compensation for joining your party, at least until the toll. We can’t be that far from the station, no?”

The man spits in the dirt again, and his shoulders round forward. If we were playing cards in the back of a pub, I’d expect him to start throwing punches right about now. Instead, he just grunts.

“I’ll need coin for the toll,” Toth finally says.

“We have coin,” I reply.

“Course you do,” Toth grunts. “Fucking idiots.”

With that, he turns and walks back toward his group. Lilias follows, leading her mare. I catch up to her.

“I’m a farrier?” I whisper.

“You are,” she replies. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what to do.”

“Great,” I mutter, watching the hard eyes of the smugglers as they turn to meet us.

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