“Why must you go yourself?” Queen Annoura paced the luxurious confines of Dorian’s private chambers, glaring at him as his valet strapped and buckled him into the burnished steel plate and mail of his armor in order to check the fit. Dorian had just informed her that he would personally be riding out with his army tomorrow to defend the northern border against Eld. “What can you do in the north that the border lords cannot?”
Dorian cast her a sharp glance. “I can lead as the monarch of this kingdom. I can defend my people—as every ancestor who ever wore Celieria’s crown always has.”
“It’s ridiculous!” She threw up her hands, then planted them on her hips. “You could be killed! And then where will Celieria be?”
“In good hands. Your son is not incompetent, madam. He is young, but he’s been well trained, and my advisers are honorable men who will guide him true.”
“Yet he is heading into danger as well—by your command. It’s insanity!”
“It is war, Annoura.” Dorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly taming his emotions. “Dori is as safe as I can make him—and I pray the gods will watch over him—but he understands that Celieria needs us now, no matter the cost to ourselves. You should be proud of our son, Annoura. He will make a fine king.”
“And what of this son?” Annoura wrapped her arms around her still-flat belly. “Should he grow up an orphan simply because his father abandoned him to chase some fool notion of honor and glory?” She still hadn’t forgiven Dorian for once more choosing the Fey over her—or having them check her for Mage Marks without her knowledge. She doubted she ever would.
Dorian lifted his chin while his manservant strapped into place the metal neck guard that would protect his vulnerable throat from enemy blades and arrows. “Defense of those entrusted to my care is not foolish glory-hounding, Annoura.”
“Am I not entrusted to your care? Yet you leave me on a whim to fight a senseless war started by your Fey kin.” She stamped a foot. “There would be no war if it were not for them!”
Dorian held up a hand. “Marten,” he said to his valet, “please excuse us. The queen and I need a few chimes of privacy.”
The valet bowed smoothly. “Your Majesty.” He turned and bowed just as smoothly to Annoura. “Your Majesty.”
When he was gone and the door was closed behind him, Dorian lifted his hand. A faint glow lightened his palms, and Annoura knew he was spinning a privacy weave around the room. Dorian wasn’t a master of magic by any means, but the blood of Marikah vol Serranis, his ancestor Dorian I’s wife and queen, was strong enough that even after a thousand years, her mortal descendants still possessed third-and fourth-level talents in certain magical branches. Dorian’s weave could be pierced by any master of magic, but it was effective enough against the eavesdropping ears of his mortal subjects.
When the glow around Dorian’s hand faded, he turned to her. His hazel eyes—which once had regarded her with such dazzling warmth and love that she’d felt like the most cherished woman in the world—now pierced her with cool reserve.
“The Fey did not start this war, Annoura, but Celieria will finish it.” He spoke each word in a clipped voice. “The Eld declared war on my kingdom. Without warning—with the ink on their trade agreement offer still damp and their ambassador’s heels barely clear of Celierian soil—they invaded my kingdom, slaughtered thousands of my subjects, and laid waste to two of my cities in an unprovoked act of aggression. And now—” He clamped his lips shut, spun abruptly away, and marched to the window.
“And now what?” she pressed.
Dorian shoved aside the delicate lace curtain to gaze out over his kingdom. “And now it is time to show the Eld that Celieria is not so easy a mark. I do not forget their equally outrageous attack on the Grand Cathedral or the murder of Greatfather Tivrest and Father Bellamy. Such treachery will not go unanswered.”
Annoura took a breath. Long had it been since she’d seen him looking so fierce, so stern and determined. “Dorian, stop and think this through. Celieria has lived in peace with Eld for the last three hundred years. They wanted to further that peace until Rain Tairen Soul returned to the world. We have no reason to believe the Eld would ever have attacked us if it were not for the Fey. Now, once more, Celieria is caught in the center of a war between magical races. Our best and only hope is to remain neutral—let the Eld and the Fey destroy one another. Celieria’s involvement can only end in our destruction.”
His brows drew together and his lips compressed in a sure sign of rising temper. “Your senseless dislike of the Fey has impaired your judgment, Annoura. The Eld did not attack the Fading Lands. They attacked Celieria.My kingdom. It pains me that you would ever think I should allow their murderous aggression to go unanswered.”
Seeing that spark of genuine anger in his eyes, she backtracked quickly. “You’re right, Dorian. If the Eld attack Celieria again, they should be met with force. But why must you be the one to lead our armies along the borders? Surely the border lords can see to our northern defenses without you there to guide them.” She moved forward, reaching for his arms. Fingertips met hard steel. She reached for his hands, but he stepped back. “I love you. Can you not understand that I don’t want to see you hurt—or worse, killed? I want you here, safe, with me. With our baby.”
He made a sharp, slashing gesture. “Stop, Annoura. It’s not love of me that drives you; it’s hatred of the Fey. Do you think I haven’t noticed all the little ways you’ve been testing me these last months? Trying to make me choose between my kin-ties to the Fey and my love of you. I’ve had enough. The Fey are my blood kin—but more than that, they are this country’s staunchest ally. The sooner you accept that, the better for all concerned.”
“Dorian—”
“This discussion is over. I leave for the borders at twelve bells tomorrow. I am Dorian the Tenth of Celieria. It’s long past time I began to live up to the honorable name of my forebears.” He waved his hand to dispel the privacy weave and called, “Marten!”
The door opened, and Dorian’s valet stepped inside. “Your Majesty?”
“The queen is leaving. See her out; then come finish getting me strapped into this thing.”
Annoura stood there, trembling with a mix of despair, fury, and disbelief over the way Dorian was dismissing her from his presence—as if she were a mere courtier whose company had grown wearisome. She wanted to cry out for him to love her again, but pride wouldn’t let her beg—especially not in front of a servant.
She’d loved him more than she’d ever thought herself capable of loving anyone. And for a Capellan princess raised in a lion’s den of deceit, intrigue, and political maneuvering, the sheer vulnerability of forming such a strong emotional attachment had been one of the most terrifying—albeit exhilarating—experiences of her life.
And Dorian had betrayed her.
She’d loved him, given him everything, but he’d chosen his Fey kin over her, and now he was cutting her out of his heart.
Annoura drew herself up, locking her emotions—such weak, useless things—behind a curtain of steely self-control. Her expression hardened into the impassively regal mask she had spent a lifetime perfecting.
“Your Majesty,” she responded. Her tone was pure silk but without a drop of inflection. She sank into a flawless full court curtsy, so deep her forehead nearly touched the floor, then rose with smooth grace in an elegant rustle of silk and starched lace. “May the gods watch over you in the north and see you safely home again. And may victory be yours, my king.”
