Amarande stood on the chamber pot, balancing on either edge. In one fluid movement, she pushed off the chamber pot, her fingers caught the loop of cloth, and her arms bent just enough to lever herself above the lip of the window. For one long moment, she held herself there, arms taut and biceps screaming, boot toes digging into the solid stone wall.
The arena—she could see the lip of the arena.
Which meant she was still in the north tower, somewhere close to the council room. Just as she came to that realization,snap.The cloth tore and before she could lunge for another grip or pull her feet from the wall, Amarande fell with a resounding thud, the back of her head bashing into the stone floor.
Amarande lay there for a moment, stars in her eyes. Anger bloomed along with a new pain running from her tailbone to the base of her skull. Faintly, she remembered what the idiot guards at the Warlord’s camp had said about her when they thought she was lying about her name:The princess has never left Ardenia. Locked in a tower the day her mother ran away. Even the spiders crawling the Hand know that.
Did her mother spark that lie? Or her father? Was it meant to keep her safe or make her father out to be more controlling than he was?
Amarande squeezed her eyes closed, sucked in a deep breath, and then got to her feet. This time, she grabbed her boot knife and stepped to the door. There was no knob, just a flat lock with all the meaningful parts of it on the other side—except the keyhole.
She stuck the tip of the dagger inside and jiggled it around. For one minute. Two. Five. Finally, she gave up. There was no way she could unlock it.
Frustrated, she moved back to the window and began to shear a thicker strip of cloth from the hem of her shift, enough to expose her bruised knees. As she twisted her torso around to hack it off at the back, she heard noises from the other side of the door. Amarande immediately stashed the knife beneath her bed and sat on top of it as if waiting patiently for visitors.
The door wrenched open, revealing the guardswoman who had escorted her into the castle and to Satordi’s chambers. “Your Highness, you’re awake.”
“Second Captain, you’re stuck with me, I see. You and your team from the gate in a special rotation so no one else knows of my existence, I presume?”
Without making eye contact, Pualo swallowed. Cleared her throat. “I am here to remove your boots.”
“I rather like my boots and would prefer to keep them. Without them, I might get a chill. This shift is inadequate. The mountains of Ardenia grow quite cool at night, even in summer.”
“My apologies, Your Highness, I will inquire about bringing you appropriate clothing from your wardrobe, but for now unadorned clothing is required.” The guard’s chin dipped as her gaze lifted. “As is the removal of your boots.”
Amarande narrowed her eyes. “Why? If you want my boots, why did you not remove them before?”
“General Koldo’s order—you have been known to carry a knife in your boot.”Ah, there it is.“If I don’t return with your boots and the knife, she will come and remove them herself.”
That was exactly what Amarande wanted. And possibly what Koldo wanted, too—a reason to see Amarande that would not be suspicious.
Koldo couldn’t truly be in an alliance with the woman who had stolen her child. Or against the girl whom she had personally trained to be a warrior—and loved as a surrogate daughter.
Could she?
“Let her come.”
CHAPTER9
ITwasn’t Koldo who came for Amarande.
No, when sound echoed through the antechamber beyond her cell door and the locking mechanism clicked free, the person who strode into the room wasn’t her surrogate mother.
It was her brother.
Amarande’s heart dropped. This could mean many things. That Koldo had ridden out to confront the enemy at the borders; or that her knife was truly an oversight, not a sign; or that this was what the general had intended all along.
Wearing what looked to be a garnet-and-gold uniform from her father’s wardrobe, Ferdinand shut the door and presented himself with a dagger at his hip and no other visible weapon beyond his utter size. There was something absolutely stunning about him in the daylight, filtered as it was through the stained glass.
Sunset hair. Green eyes. Body of a bull ox in need of a cart.
He was in every which way a reproduction of King Sendoa, and yet not. At fifteen he had already reached his father’s height, and still had room to grow. Koldo was taller than most women and some men and broad shouldered besides, therefore this was not a surprise.
But Ferdinand had not been trained by Koldo. Looks could be deceiving, and if he truly had only size as a defense he would not last long if Amarande fought to make that dagger hers.
To his credit, Ferdinand did not make pretenses. “You didn’t surrender your boot knife.”
In the time she’d had since the guard left, Amarande had been busy. She’d freed the chamber pot using her knife to hack away at the bolts that secured it to the wooden base and positioned it directly under the window. She’d heard him coming just as she hopped on the edges of the chamber pot to reach up and attempt to break the glass using the blade’s hilt. She’d had just enough time to hide theevidence—the bolts, the knife—under the mattress and sit down upon it.
