Prologue
August– Night of the Ravenstone Meadow Massacre
There wasblood under his nails. Dark red, almost black, now that it had dried.
It wasn’t the first time his hands had been covered in blood, certainly, but this was the king’s blood. Geraint’s blood.
Gods. The king’s blood was still on his hands, on his torn tunic, even on his boots.
One of the arrows had caught him on his cheek, and the long cut burned relentlessly. More blood. Streaked across his face where he’d tried to wipe it off.
Just a few steps away, through the luxurious suite, was a bathing room with a huge marble bath, creamy soap, and hot water. Water that would soak away the blood and sweat and grime. Fresh linen towels. A fire to ease the chill seeping through his bones like frost spreading over glass.
A bathing room his parents had not invited him to use, and given the tension in the room, weren’t about to.
“Tor! Are you even listening to me?” Pellin’s lip twitched up, almost into a sneer.
He looked into his father’s face. A face so like his own: olive skin, full lips, dimple in his chin, and eyes the color of midnight. Eyes that were now boring into him as if they could see all the way down to the cold in his bones.
“Tor!” Pellin repeated loudly, his voice thick with displeasure and frustration.
Tor shoved his hands behind his back where he didn’t have to see the blood. “Sorry, what?”
His father brushed a big hand, heavy with rings, down the pristine fall of his tunic and then folded his arms over his wide chest, red-and-black tattoos rippling as he leaned back to glare at Tor. “How could you do this to us? Just look at your mother.”
Tor twisted to look at the elegant woman collapsed on a plush settee. Her dress was deep red velvet—perfectly matched to the tattoos twining around her forearms—offsetting her dark eyes and artfully curled black hair. She was holding a crystal flask of smelling salts loosely in one hand and occasionally dabbing gracefully at her eyes with a lace handkerchief held in the other… although he couldn’t see any evidence of actual tears.
Could either of his parents truly be suffering so badly? Really? Here in their lush apartments. Safe and warm in the bosom of the city they never left.
They certainly never scrubbed blood from under their nails. Neither Pellin nor Revna would dream of walking through mud, let alone a battlefield. Or trying to survive the horror that had been Ravenstone.
Tor closed his eyes, remembering the screams, trying—but failing—to push away the images of men falling and dying. Whistled commands breaking through the roar of battle. Carrying the king with Tristan as arrows fell in relentless waves. The king’s page staggering as he took an arrow to the chest, and how slowly the boy fell, choking and drowning in his own blood. The horrifying realization that the king was dead, and then the desperate, frantic flight to Kaerlud bearing Geraint’s body—and the incriminating Verturian arrows—back to the palace.
They’d not even been back for half an hour when Tristan stormed into the barracks, coming straight from his audience with the new king and bringing news. Their friend—former friend—Lanval had been conspiring with the Verturian princess. Together, Val and Alanna had planned the massacre of Ravenstone.
Val, a man Tor had trusted, had been having an affair with the princess, and now he’d betrayed them all. Gods.
The Hawks had not only failed Geraint, but the new king, Ballanor, had also declared them guilty of treachery by association. They were all demoted. Banned from the palace. Sent down to an obscure cavalry division. Posted far away and leaving within the hour. Lucky not to be thrown into a cell with Val.
Tor had to pack. Get clean. Saddle Perseus. Poor Perseus, already exhausted from the full day’s ride to Ravenstone and back, the horror of battle, the long, hard gallop coming home.
But first, before any of that, he’d rushed up to see his parents. He’d wanted to speak to them before he left. Wanted… what? Some kind of reassurance. Wanted the people who cared for him to tell him that all was not lost. That he would be back again someday, and that they would fight to repeal this decision while he was gone. That they would work to get him back.
He didn’t expect forgiveness for his failure or even any declarations of their love—they were not that kind of family—but they had power, and they could use it to help their oldest child.
All his life Tor had been the perfect son. He had worked staggeringly hard, excelled at all tests, joined the army as instructed, and climbed the ranks quickly and surely. He’d been everything they wanted: strategically brilliant, known for his iron self-control, and promoted to the Blues—the highest level a soldier could hope to reach. Only twice had he failed them. Once, when he chose to stay with the Hawks. And now.
Somehow, he had believed that all those years of proving himself would count for something. They had pushed him, demanded more from him, but that was how they showed their love. Wasn’t it? He had done everything they ever asked. And now, for the first time, he needed something in return.
Pellin was a senior in the Royal Brythorian Council; he could help. Perhaps intercede on the Hawks’ behalf. Speak to Ballanor about keeping the squad at the palace. Revna knew everyone of importance. She could help too…. Couldn’t she? At the very least, they could offer him their regard. Send him away with their good wishes. Some reassurance that he hadn’t lost his entire life on the blood-soaked meadow of Ravenstone.
But, instead, he found himself standing alone in the center of the room, weighed down by their oppressive hostility.
Tor let out a slow breath, struggling to find the right words to answer his father’s indignant question. Struggling to understand the anger and resentment churning through his parents—the anger and resentment directed at him.
He was exhausted, too much had been lost, and words did not come easily to him at the best of times. “What exactly did I do to you?” he asked eventually.
“You should have protected the king,” his father hissed. “You were the one who insisted on staying with the Hawks even when we told you there were better opportunities. You were the one who said the Hawks were the true king’s guards…. And now Geraint is dead.”
