The princess nodded. She felt it, too. They moved together, inching toward the back of the room. As they came upon the desk, Amarande paused, her attention caught on a brilliant sliver of daylight—in what once had looked like a solid, ornate wall. But no, on closer inspection it was actually a hidden door, its hinges and handle designed to melt into the gilded pattern and purposeful shadows of the Innkeeper’s work space.
“A door,” she whispered, chin tipping toward the light. “Stay behind.”
Sword in high guard and ready to defend, Amarande inched toward the door, pressing her weak-side shoulder against the wall, eyes pinned to the white light beyond for any movement.
Nothing.
With a fingertip, she nudged the door open a little wider and cautiously peered into the sliver of sunlight beyond.
Still nothing.
Leading with her weapon, she pushed the door fully open. The effect was blinding, and she stood there in her trusty high guard stance, blinking into the brilliance for one moment.
One moment too long.
Amarande felt it before she saw it—a vicious downward blow that cracked her stance as her injured hand struggled to maintain a grip.
She knew what to do in any swordfight—sweep the blow aside with a turn of her blade, release the pressure, return to a guard stance. But before she could do as she’d been trained, the pressure on her sword increased as something or someonegrabbed holdof the edge of her blade—and dragged the princess right through the door and into the light.
CHAPTER25
THEworld washed out into a blinding brightness. Amarande’s other senses picked up on what her vision couldn’t—the weight of other bodies surrounding her. And whatever held on to her sword was not about to release it. So the princess did the only thing she could do.
She let go.
The sword and attacker fell away and Amarande rolled into a crouch, boot knife immediately in her grip. As dark spots danced between her and the attackers facing her, a noise came from behind, then a rush of air and a battle cry.
Taillefer.
Another blink, and the picture sharpened, the edges and reality clear.
A black wolf. Her sword clasped in its jaws.
The prince barreled past and tackled the animal to the sandy ground. They rolled across the earth in a smack of bodies and a smear of black, white, and red—the garnet cloak of his pilfered Ardenian uniform caught in the wind and movement.
A woman ran after the wolf and Taillefer as they tumbled past, wailing in a sob of old Torrentian. A man was in motion behind her, running across the massive space. It was as Luca had described to her—a giant yard, free of grass, only undulating sands in shades ranging from the typical copper to flat white. Edged along the exterior fence were the inn’s open-air “rooms”—small, fenced-in campsites.
That left two attackers facing Amarande.
Another man and woman—him balding, and holding a dagger tight in his right hand. Her with both hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword. All four of them were of Torrent, eyes a golden brown and hair dark.
All teeth bared and bloody, facing her with blades just as deadly as hers.
Yet they were here. With another impossible black wolf. Stationary and defiant within the Warlord’s domain. Which gave her a sliver of hope that these people were actually exactly whom she needed to find.
Still crouched and armed with her dagger, Amarande slowly straightened. She held her free hand out, imploring. “Please, we seek the resistance.”
The balding man burst into mocking laughter. “Says the girl last here with the Warlord’s spy!”
What in the stars?She’d been here, yes, but with Osana—
A knife shot out of the man’s hand, and the princess dove to the side. She rolled to her feet, dagger out and ready. His companion immediately rushed at her, sword tip aimed straight at Amarande’s belly. The princess pivoted and flattened, and the woman crashed forward under the weight of her driving weapon. As she fell to the dirt, Amarande immediately smashed the blunt hilt of her dagger down upon the back of her skull, rendering her unconscious.
“Please! Listen to me!” she pleaded. “We don’t want to hurt you!”
“Speak for yourself!” Taillefer gasped from somewhere across the open yard. It was a wet sound—blood or saliva marring the tone. Behind it, the clash of metal.
“Look what you did to my wife!” the balding man bellowed, rushing in a wide arc around Amarande in an attempt to retrieve his dagger, which had clattered to the dirt behind her.
