Chapter
One
A DRESS FOR AN ENGAGEMENT . . . maiden roses . . . like a prisoner . . . beating wings
The day of Bryn Lindane’s engagement party was the most miserable of her life.
She’d tossed and turned all night in the small bed tucked away in Barendur Hold’s mage chambers, dreaming of terrible things: sea monsters rising from the deep, lambs slaughtered by wolves in the castle’s livestock pens, faceless ghosts hovering in her room’s corners. But of all the disturbing images her sleeping mind had conjured, none was worse than the alarming reality that she faced: Rangar Barendur, the prince who had saved her life and was bound to her heart and soul, had been sent off to war as a pretense so he couldn’t object to Bryn marrying his brother.
She woke shivering in the small room.
Rangar’s broken heart will be the real nightmare when he returns and finds me married to Trei,she thought.
Ever since she’d become the crown heir to the Mir throne—and thus had a target painted on her back—the Barendurfamily who had taken her in had sworn to protect her. Their kingdom, the Baersladen, couldn’t be more different from the Mirien, where she’d been raised. Her childhood homeland was sunshine and far-reaching fields. Rangar’s was storm and sea. Hers was manners, education. and science. His was rough living and magic. Even their castles were complete opposites. Castle Mir was all refinement and opulence, and Barendur Hold was a squat monolith where most of the castle’s residents, servants, and livestock slept together on the floor during the coldest winter months.
It had taken some getting used to, but Bryn had grown comfortable with the communal living style in Barendur Hold, even begun to admire it. Still, she was more than happy to have the privacy of her own room, small as it was. She craved the space to think, and now she had plenty to occupy her mind.
Tossing back her bedcovers, she reached for a shawl to wrap around her shoulders. Now that the first hints of winter were approaching, she could never seem to get warm. Growing up in the Mirien where the weather was always mild and snow was a rare sight hadn’t prepared her for the extreme conditions in the Outlands. She feared the worst of winter.
Then again, there was a chance she wouldn’t evenbein the Baersladen come winter. There was a throne in the Mirien waiting for her—though she wasn’t prepared to sit on it.
Someone knocked on her door.
She snapped out of her brooding reveries and hugged the shawl closer around her body. “Come in.”
The door opened for Mage Marna, the kingdom’s head mage and Rangar’s aunt. Behind her was an older woman Bryn recognized as Helna, the seamstress who had altered Saraj’s gown to fit Bryn on the night of the Harvest Gathering.
“Lady Bryn,” Mage Marna said, folding her hands together. “I’m sorry to wake you, but we have much to do to preparefor your upcoming nuptials. Helna has come to take your measurements for your wedding gown.”
The color drained from Bryn’s face.
As a girl, she’d never given much thought to what her wedding gown might one day look like. Of course, she’d assumed she’d marry a duke, as her sister had, or perhaps a baron or count, and that her royal wedding would be a formal three-day affair amid the manicured gardens of Castle Mir as was the custom.
Instead, she was practically eloping at knifepoint.
She dug the heel of her hand against the heartache that was blooming in her chest. Her poor heart had felt like a beaten and battered little bird ever since she'd been confronted with the impossible choice of love or duty, her happiness or her kingdom's safety. A voice in her head urged her to reject the wedding dress—to rejectthe whole thing. It was Rangar who had her heart, not Trei! For as noble and dashing as the eldest prince was, she had no desire to marry him. To sleep at his side every night, to bear his children. The thought alone made her blanche. But the harsh truth was, she didn’t have a choice. The Barendur family wasn’t forcing her into this marriage—her own sense of responsibility was. The only way to save her kingdom was to unite the Baersladen and the Mirien through political marriage.
“The dress. Y..yes.” Bryn tried to hide how her hands were shaking as she stood and shrugged off the shawl.
Helna approached with a warm smile, though her eyes shone with pity. Everyone in the kingdom knew of Rangar and Bryn’s romance—it had been the topic of gossip for months. So it was no surprise that the common folk were as shocked as Bryn to hear it wouldn’t beRangar’sring on her finger any longer, but Trei’s.
“There, there, my lady,” Helna said kindly. “We’ll get you a beautiful dress. You’ll be a gorgeous bride.”
Bryn couldn’t muster even a pretend smile. The last thing she cared about was a dress when her heart was being torn in two!
As the dressmaker began to take her measurements with a length of string, Bryn turned to Mage Marna and asked apprehensively, “Has a formal announcement been made yet about the wedding?”
Mage Marna continued to fold her hands tightly, and Bryn realized she was just as tense and uncertain about this change of plans as Bryn was.
The mage gave a tight nod. “Yes, word went out at first light. A wreath of maiden roses was hung in the village square—that is how we publicly declare royal marriages. We would usually send out messengers to all the villages of the Baersladen with word of the nuptials and an invitation for all who can to attend, but in this case, we’ve decided to keep the affair small. Only those here at the Hold and in the portside village will attend. After the wedding, we’ll send out messengers to announce the . . . good news.”
Mage Marna didn’t specifically mention why they were waiting to send out messengers until after the wedding, but Bryn knew. They didn’t want to risk word of it reaching Rangar, who was fighting at the border of the Baersladen. He would move mountains to ride back and stop the wedding if he heard.
“Of course,” Bryn echoed hollowly.
Helna finished taking measurements and squeezed Bryn’s shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow for a fitting.”
As soon as the seamstress left, Mage Marna paced the length of Bryn’s small room. “The ceremony will be held tomorrow just before sunset. We’ve requested that the castle tradespeople stop all other work and focus on constructing a wooden stage in the village square. The kitchen workers will bake all night to prepare for the feast that will follow the ceremony. And lessons havebeen suspended today and tomorrow for all children so they can go into the fields and gather maiden roses for decorations.”
