Chapter 1
Liana
A white stagstood in the middle of the clearing like a harbinger of fate. Plumes of milky vapor rose from its nostrils, while the setting sun gilded its pristine coat and wrapped the magnificent animal in a luminous cloud.
Liana reined her horse in. Her throat tightened in a painful spasm, while the icy claws of panic gripped her chest. “No,” she whispered.
They were less than thirty paces apart, yet the stag stood perfectly still, undisturbed by Liana’s bow and arrows, its dark eyes fixed on her face.
She knew that stag. She remembered the silken caress and musky smell of its coat, the hard, velvety touch of its antlers when her fingers gripped them, the raspy wetness of its tongue when it licked her tears. She had slept beside it on the bed of dry leaves for so many nights, wrapped in its safe warmth, her small head resting on its massive flank.
They went back a long way, the stag and Liana.
It was the last creature she wanted to see now.
The winter forest around them fell silent. Liana’s breath froze into a still white cloud. The pale orange sun hovered a finger’s breadth above the snowy peaks in the west. In the winter afternoon, it should’ve been sinking like lead, pulling the shimmering train of light behind it, revealing the night sky studded with brilliant lights.
Time slowed down, and then stopped, freezing the air around her, replacing it with the cold nothingness of the spaces betweenthe stars.
Liana swallowed the rising dread and took a deep breath of the deathly still air. “Go away!” she shouted. Her voice, high and resonant, shattered the unnatural chill. She spurred her horse and charged towards the unmoving stag as the sun finally dropped behind the mountains. Instead of crashing into the mighty animal, they ran through a cloud of white mist.
A lonely bird cried from the bare bough; the magic was broken. No trace of divine presence remained in the winter forest. The stag was no more than a wisp of fog, a trick of the dying light.
Liana rode on, drenched in cold sweat. This forest of gnarly old oaks—this lone, wild, wooded hill in the landscape of olive groves—used to be her refuge, her safe place. But now, as the shadows crept down the mountains and the night rolled over the winter landscape, she dared not look back.
The shard of fear in her heart moved a fraction, and the cold light glinted off its deadly edge. Gripping the reins so hard her fingers turned white, she rushed down the winding king’s road that lead from the hills to the deep bay and the walled town of Abia nesting there.
Liana’s brain writhed in panic, struggling to explain away the divine omen. It was a coincidence, an echo, surely. There was no one to see her cry among the dark, craggy hills, but still she bit on her leather glove as the salty wind tugged on her braid and froze the tears on her cheeks. Fate was catching up with her. She should have been more careful, she should have known.
She should have never let Amron out of her sight.
The walls of Abia rose before her. The massive gates were locked for the night, the torches above them lit. She paused on the drawbridge to compose herself, exhaled slowly, rubbed the tears out of her eyes. Then she whistled a short tune once, twice, three times.
“Who goes there?” A familiar voice; she knew all the guards atthis gate.
“Liana.”
“My lady, you’re late tonight.” The sound of bolts lifting and a key turning in the lock.
Cold wind howled behind her, lashing the deserted hills, calling her to turn and ride back. There was no respite for her behind these walls tonight, no solace brought by the light, warmth, or human kindness.
“I was delayed,” she said as a small door opened in the big gate. She dismounted and led the horse through the narrow opening, turning her head away from the guard’s torch. “Has anyone come today?”
He knew what she meant. “No, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She threw a silver coin to him. A spark of hope tried to ignite in her lungs, foolish and futile. No news was not good news, not anymore.
She led the horse down the cobbled street. The winter evening chased people away from the windy corners and squares, but warm light seeped through closed shutters and the smell of fried fish and boiled kale wafted from kitchens. Tall, narrow stone houses huddled together for warmth and company.
The closer she got to the seafront, the more inviting the taverns looked, overflowing with music, wine, and chatter. For a few reckless heartbeats, she was tempted, craving a distraction, a fleeting feeling of safety, but whenever her footsteps slowed down, the darkness inside her swelled and the wind pushed her onward, towards the main square, towards the palace.
She entered through a side door: another guard unlocking it just for her, another silver tossed for the trouble. She left the horse in the stable, in the safe hands of the grooms, and climbed a narrow wooden stairway. She gave a wide berth to the offices on the first floor, where busy clerks scribbled in their books regardless of the hour, and reached the private apartments onthe second floor, where another guard just nodded, accustomed to her unpredictable comings and goings.
“Any visitors?” she asked him.
“No, my lady.”
The palace in Abia had been the grand seat of the lords of Larion for centuries, an image of power and wealth conjured up in white stone, with elegant arches, high vaulted ceilings, and stained glass windows, but it reminded Liana of nothing so much as a tightly run ship, a living mechanism where everybody knew their place.
