Roije continued. “They were recruiting young men to join the army by force. Father begged me to hide, said they wouldn’t know I’d ever been there. Two soldiers came to the shop while I hid in the cellar. Rumors about me had spread. Father refused to give me up so they…they killed him.” His expression hardened, taking the breath from Cora’s lungs. She knew that look. Terror meets a thirst for vengeance. It was as familiar to her as her own skin.
“Oh, Roije,” Gisele cooed, “that’s so terrible. But I’m glad you made it out alive.”
“Barely,” he muttered. “I had to take the two men out with me.” With that, he turned back to his horse and began brushing him down, a silent dismissal of his audience.
The tension was heavy in the air as the crowd dispersed. Gisele remained in place with a pout on her lips, but Maiya tugged her arm. “We should give him some space.”
Gisele cast one more longing glance at Roije before obeying. Cora was more than happy to follow, but before she could take a step, Roije’s voice called out. “Cora.”
With a frown, she turned back to face him, her cheeks burning beneath the sudden scrutiny of her companions. Gisele looked scandalized while Maiya’s expression flickered with hurt. Maiya had always held a secret affection for the man while Cora had never been close with him at all. It made little sense why she’d be the one he wanted to speak to after returning. She gave Maiya an apologetic smile and then approached him. Dread filled her stomach as a terrifying possibility occurred to her. Could his summons be romantic in nature? Goddess above, she hoped not. But why else would he single her out? It was Beltane, after all. Then again, why would he harbor romantic thoughts when he was clearly grieving?
Cora sent out a silent prayer that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his summons that had nothing to do with courtship. It wasn’t because she was unattracted to him. He was without a doubt the handsomest young man in the commune. But she knew how Maiya felt. Besides, romance was something Cora sought to avoid. Love needed to be built on trust and honesty. And for a girl with a past shrouded in blood and secrecy…
“What is it?” she asked, trying to smile but managing only a grimace.
He continued to brush his horse, keeping his voice low as he spoke. “I just wanted to tell you to be careful.”
She frowned, not sure how to respond to that. “All right.” When he didn’t say more, she took a step away. “Welcome back—”
“Avoid the villages.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know you normally stay at camp when we trade with the local towns, and…that’s smart. You should keep doing that.” He paused and met her eyes. The gravity in his expression sent Cora’s heart hammering against her ribs.
All she could think was,He knows. Goddess above, he knows who I am.
Before he could say anything more, she turned away, once again haunted by dark castles and blood. And a question. The question that haunted her mind, twisted her heart.
What have you done?
Her footsteps quickened until they kicked up into a jog, then a run, as she made a beeline for the edge of camp.
She didn’t stop until she disappeared into the shadows beneath the trees.
3
Teryn Alante, Crown Prince of Menah, tried his best not to scowl at his fiancée. It was a difficult task considering the woman he’d been engaged to for three years was publicly courting eight other men before his very eyes. It was under the guise of accord with neighboring kingdoms, but Teryn knew what was truly happening, as did everyone around him.
Princess Mareleau was keeping her options open.
Not that he blamed her. And not that he didn’t wish he could do the same. The Princess of Selay was beautiful, but he felt not an ounce of affection for her. How could he when they’d hardly exchanged more than a few letters over the years? Her first letter to him had been uncomfortably ardent while the rest were icy enough to assure Teryn they held each other in the same unfeeling regard.
He stared at Mareleau standing stone-faced upon the balcony two floors up, watching some northern prince spout poetry from the garden courtyard below. Her expression looked more appropriate for someone attending an execution than a Beltane festival. Teryn was grateful his scowl could at least be blamed on the sun beginning its descent behind Verlot Palace—home of his betrothed.
The princess’ long hair shone a silvery blonde in the waning sunlight, adorned with pearls and lace flowers, while her dress was a confection of silvery blue brocade trimmed in white fur. Her skirts were so wide, they nearly spanned the length of the balcony floor. Her parents, King Verdian and Queen Helena of Selay, stood just behind, looking equally as ostentatious. Although, come to think of it, pompous was probably a better word. The king wore a powdered wig and an overly ruffled lace shirt beneath his crimson jacket, while the queen bore skirts that were twice as wide as her daughter’s, her graying brown hair assembled in an enormously tall updo. Selay was known to be a fashionable kingdom, and if that meant ridiculous clothing ensembles and a hefty dose of snobbery, he could see why.
Teryn gritted his teeth as the prince continued to serenade his fiancée. He was fully aware that his glower was growing deeper by the moment. He’d once hoped his engagement would be dissolved before it could come to fruition, but that was before he knew how badly his kingdom needed the marriage. Back then, he would have felt only relief at seeing his fiancée entertain another suitor, but now it gave him no small amount of anxiety.
One of nine. That was all Teryn was to Mareleau now.
When he’d been invited to Verlot Palace for the Beltane festival, he’d assumed it was to solidify plans for his and the princess’ upcoming nuptials. Ever since their betrothal was arranged by their parents three years ago, the plan had been for the two to marry in 171 Year of the Hound, which it was now. So he was quite surprised when he arrived at the palace and found he was one of nine men who held the same marital notions as he. What followed was a week of dinner and dancing—occasions the princess was mind-bogglingly absent from for the most part—and now culminated in a spectacle called the Heart’s Hunt. The nine princes would read the princess poetry from under the garden balcony like some idiotic storybook hero. Afterward, Mareleau would select her three champions whom she’d then send on a scavenger hunt. He who returned with her requested prize would win her heart. It made sense for Beltane, he supposed. As for his pride…
“This is humiliating,” he muttered under his breath.
His half brother, Larylis, leaned in and whispered, “I told you she was cruel.”
Teryn nodded with a shrug. Larylishadwarned him. Several times. And if anyone knew the princess’ true nature, it would be Larylis. His brother had met her a time or two when he’d lived as a ward to Lord Ulrich, Mareleau’s uncle.
