“Prince Gregyor,” Tyreen said, stepping forward slightly. Recognition clear in her voice. “The reluctant prince of Igryside. There were always whispers you disagreed with your father’s policies. That you wanted to end the witch hunts but had no power to do so.”
Gregyor’s stern expression softened when he saw Tyreen, something that might have been respect flickering in his eyes. “I heard rumors you were alive. The legendary Tyreen, second of the great Marya. I thought you were a myth. I certainly saw my father lost his mind more than once for not being able to locate you.”
“I am hard to find, and harder to kill,” Tyreen responded dryly.
A ghost of a smile touched his scarred face. “Apparently so.”
Introductions were made with the stiffness of potential enemies sizing each other up. Names and titles exchanged like weapons, each side calculating the other’s worth. Gregyor’s eyes lingered on me, studying me with an intensity that made me want to squirm. I forced myself to stand still, to meet his gaze without flinching. I was a queen. I’d faced worse than intimidating blonde giants with impressive scars.
Okay, maybe I hadn’t. But he didn’t need to know that.
“The portal caster,” he said finally. “You are younger than I expected.”
I lifted my chin, refusing to be intimidated by someone who looked like he could snap me in half. “You’re blonder than I expected.”
Mal’s hand found my waist immediately, his fingers pressing possessively into my side. A clear signal:mine. Back off.
Gregyor’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile but not quite. “Fair,” he acknowledged.
He got straight to business. “My people are suffering under my father’s rule. The witch hunts. The obsession with portal magic, immortality and power. The resources poured into his mad quest while citizens starve. It has to end.”
Mal was blunt as always. “So you want us to kill your father.”
“I want my father removed from power,” Gregyor corrected. His expression turned to ice. “How that happens is up to you. I will not stand in your way. I will not mourn him.”
There was a weighted pause. A son condemning his father to death.
“He is moving now,” Gregyor continued, pulling a map from inside his jacket. “Tonight he will make camp near the Noctherion border. I can tell you exactly where.” He spread the map on a nearby table.
One of the guards spoke up. “How do we know this is not a trap?”
Gregyor looked at him directly. “You don’t. All I can help you with, besides giving you his location, is telling you my father has a secret weapon. I don’t know what it is. He stopped trusting mewith details years ago when he realized I didn’t share his vision. What I know, I know because of my spy network.”
“A secret weapon,” I repeated. “That’s vague and terrifying.”
“It is all I have,” Gregyor said, and I believed him. There was no deception in his face. Just hard determination.
So we spent the next hour planning. Gregyor spread his map fully, weighing down the corners with whatever was handy. He pointed out his father’s route with precision that spoke of careful intelligence gathering.
“Forty-three guards total,” Gregyor said. “Split into three units. Patrol patterns rotate every two hours, switching at midnight and again at dawn. The army won’t be far behind. He would probably mobilize the entirety of it. Ten thousand soldiers.”
Mal leaned over the map, his eyes scanning the terrain. “Weaknesses?”
“The northeast quadrant. The trees provide cover there, and the scouts assigned to that section are lazy. They’ve been known to fall asleep on duty.”
“How fortunate for us,” Mal said dryly. “Incompetent enemies.”
“My father inspires many things in his men. Loyalty is not one of them.”
“Mal and his best fighters will portal in,” I said, tracing the path on the map with my finger. “Stealth mission. In and out before they know what hit them.”
Casimya frowned, her ancient face troubled. “What about this secret weapon?”
“We plan around it,” Mal said. “Assume the worst. Prepare for anything. Overwhelming force if needed.”
“I love how casually you say ‘overwhelming force’ like it’s a shopping list item,” I muttered.
“Would you prefer ‘moderate force with strongly worded suggestions’?”
