It reminded her of the first stag she ever wrangled on Carrig, back when she was no taller than a cedar sapling. She still remembered the way her father had lulled the towering creature into submission with only the lilt of his song. The stag had bent its head to the earth, its antlers gleaming in the falling light, and Greta had laid her small, trembling hand upon its muzzle, picking up the thread of her father’s song and letting her spirit sing to the beast before her. It had watched her, doe-eyed and cautious, as Papa lifted her on to its back, careful – so very careful – and then all at once, she was astride the regal creature, riding headlong through the forest, as though all the trees and lakes and craggy hills were a kingdom of her own making.
The weaver elk was a stranger sort of beast, but its spirit had called to hers in much the same way, that same fire rearing to life in her chest the moment she mounted it.The rest – the riding and the wrangling – had been as simple as breathing.
The king had been pleased – so pleased he was grinning when she returned to him, the devastating beauty of his smile softening his chiselled jaw and making him appear even more handsome, though she tried not to notice. He had jumped at her offer to join her atop the elk, and they had spent an entirely marvellous afternoon whooping and laughing as they charged through the grazing fields together. And on the way back, he had spoken only to her, ignoring his beautiful bride-to-be as though Greta – and not the effervescent Princess Elva – was the most arresting person in that sled. As though his thoughts were as far from his impending wedding as she was from Carrig, and he cared only for the same beasts that she did and the thrill of how they ran when they were truly free.
She knew it was dangerous to dwell on those moments and how important they had made her feel, but the searing sunlight of the king’s undivided attention had kindled a new warmth in her chest that she simply could not ignore.
Even so, she refused to let the memory distract her from her work. Thanks to long, tireless hours in the courtyard, most of the beasts had been successfully wrangled, trained to heel and strike on her command. Now, it was time to teach them their most important task: the protection of the king of Gevra at all times, and all costs.
It was this next, crucial stage of training that came to occupy Greta’s mind, sending her away from the courtyard early one morning in search of the king himself. As she wandered through the palace, she came upon a flurry of activity,the servants milling to and fro with vases of fresh flowers, glittering ice sculptures and armfuls of pillar candles. She watched them go, dread unfurling in her stomach as she realized what was approaching, as fast and thundering as a weaver elk: the king’s wedding.
A cloud of melancholy settled over her, snatching the smile from her face. Shame nipped at her heels as she wandered down hallway after hallway in search of the king, wishing now she didn’t have to face him at all. Of course, it shouldn’t matter if Alarik Felsing was getting married. What did it have to do with her? The king’s heart was entirely his business, and beyond that, the alliance made sense, especially under the looming threat of war.
Still, she couldn’t help picturing the wedding. She tortured herself with images of Princess Elva gliding up the petal-strewn aisle in a trailing ivory gown, adorned with jewels and flowers and—
Stop it, Greta.
You’re a wrangler, not some lovelorn fool.
She was here to work, not daydream. She was a commoner, not a princess.
But Tor was a commoner when he won the heart of Queen Wren.
Greta nearly slapped the thought out of her head. She was half raving. It was the exhaustion, she knew, her tired mind reaching for absurd notions. She had spent too many long days and cold nights in the courtyard, running herself ragged. She had run her mind ragged, too, and now it was toying with her, filling her with opinions andemotionsshe had no business feeling.
The sight of Johan scurrying towards her, carrying an elaborate centrepiece of branches and pine cones, jolted her from her spiral.She leaped into his path, almost causing him to trip.
‘Hi!’ she said, catching a tumbling pine cone and returning it to its perch. ‘Have you seen the king? I need to speak to him about the beasts.’
Johan glared at her over a gilded holly branch. ‘He’s in the sparring room.’
‘Great.’ She blew out a breath. ‘And … where is that?’
He sighed. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you on my way to the ballroom.’
They soon came to the sparring room, which was nestled in the east wing of the palace. The chamber was grand enough to be a formal drawing room, the corniced ceilings and filigreed wallpaper suggesting it perhaps had been one once, but all the furniture had since been cleared away, save for a stately fireplace and a rack of sparring swords that occupied one wall. A leather viewing bench spanned the other.
Johan didn’t announce her, and as he scurried off with his teetering centrepiece, she guessed he didn’t want to risk the king’s ire again after what had happened in the dungeons. She knocked as she eased the door open, then froze on the threshold, momentarily struck speechless.
The king was sparring with another man who, in the blur of movement, looked just like his double. They circled one other, light-footed and quick, their swords clashing high and then low. Greta marvelled at the grace with which they parried, twisting and lunging as though it wasn’t a fight at all, but a dance. The other man, who appeared to be older than the king though not by much, wore his longer, silvered hair scraped back into a leather tie. They were both dressed casually in loose white shirts and fitted leather trousers,their boots gleaming in the morning sunlight. They were the same height and possessed the same lithe build, the king’s gaze an icier shade than his opponent’s, though both were keen and sharp.
Greta watched them, mesmerized by every measured clash and unmeasured curse that slipped through their gritted teeth.
It was the king’s opponent who spotted her fist. A quick glance, his brows lifting. He leaped backwards, out of the king’s reach, and pointed his sword towards the ceiling. A pause in play.
‘Well, well,’ he said between breaths, as he took in the sight of her dawdling, slack-jawed in the doorway. She felt his gaze move over her like a trickle of ice-water, from the scuffed collar of her blue coat to the wayward strands that had slipped free of her braid, and finally, those three pale scars on her left cheek. ‘It seems you have a visitor, Your Majesty.’
‘If you’re trying to distract me, Elias, it’s not going to work,’ said Alarik, keeping his stance low, his sword engaged.
But Elias’s eyes remained on Greta. ‘You’re new,’ he said to her.
‘Well, sort of,’ she said, thinking it might be a good idea to speak at some point.
At the sound of her voice, Alarik whirled. He cast his sword aside, raking the sweat-slick hair from his face and said, ‘Iversen.’
Elias grinned. ‘Tor’s sister.’
‘Among many other things,’ she said, eager to claim her own identity,and climb out of the box he had so neatly placed her in. ‘My name is Greta.’
