Immediately, the door was wrenched open. Amarande’s lips parted to greet him, but instead the councilor barked at the guard, “Who saw you?”
“Only my company, sir.”
“Good. Ensure their silence.”
Aghast at Satordi’s order, Amarande started, “Councilor—”
“Not here!” With more strength than Amarande would ever have anticipated, Satordi grabbed her arm and jerked her over the threshold before slamming the door.
She ripped herself free and wheeled on the man. “Satordi, I realize you are angry with me for my disappearance, but do not put your hands upon me without my consent. Though you’ve apparently announced that I am a corpse, I am still alive and still your princess. As my councilor, I expect you to treat me with respect.”
Satordi stood as tall as his wiry frame allowed. “Your Highness, I apologize. Your safety outweighs formality at this moment.”
“Mysafety? I was with a castle guard—I’m the safest I’ve been in a week. You have no idea what I’ve just been through other than you somehow believed I didn’t survive it.”
“Accept my apology or do not, Princess, we have much to discuss.”
“Yes, we do.” Amarande put a hand back on the door handle. “And I would prefer we get to it in the council room—call Garbine and Joseba immediately. Is Koldo here or at the front? We need her. Captains Serville and Xixi, too. As many strategic minds as we can get at this hour. Pyrenee is on my heels, bringing war to the Itspi’s walls.”
Satordi blocked the door. “It is best we remain here, Princess.”
Amarande’s frustration simmered over. Satordi never listened to her—princess, heir, alive, dead, his reaction was always the same. “Your quarters are lovely, Councilor”—she gestured to the sitting room beyond—“but this is highly—”
“Imperative.It is highly imperative we remain here.” The voice was a woman’s, regal and direct—but one the princess did not recognize.
Amarande whipped around, her retort dying on her lips. Standing in a doorway between living spaces was a woman with a cascade of dark hair, wrapped in a shade of blue that complemented her skylight eyes.
She was the most familiar stranger Amarande had ever seen.
The princess’s heart faltered as she recognized her own rosebud lips, high cheekbones, and strong-but-petite frame. And the stance—shoulders back, legs firmly planted, chin tipped up—that was purely hers, too. Amarande blinked rapidly as if sand had sprayed her eyes, sure the woman would vanish.
She did not.
And so Amarande gathered every ounce of the courage her father told her she had and asked a question that broke her heart as much as it gave her a new, unexpected hope.
“Mother?”
CHAPTER5
HOWmany nights had Amarande dreamed of this face? Of this moment?
Her mother, Geneva—the notorious Runaway Queen—standing before her. Not a dream. Not a ruse. Not some fuzzy figure on the edge of memories she couldn’t latch onto, no matter how hard she tried. Days ago, while escaping the Warlord’s camp with Osana, Amarande had been sure the woman in the Warlord’s tent was her mother, some unnamed feeling in her gut hinting at something her memory could not confirm.
But in this moment feeling was replaced by reality.
For the first time in fifteen years, Princess Amarande of Ardenia and her mother were in the same room. The mother who had left Amarande before her first birthday, on the same night that Luca’s mother had died.
Fifteen years.
Of wondering why her mother had run. Was it because she hadn’t loved her father, and wanted to escape their arranged marriage?
Of wondering why she wasn’t enough for her mother to stay, to fight, or to take away, too.
Of wondering if her mother was truly alive—or dead by her father’s hand as the rumors whispered, not that the princess ever believed those.
And now, in Amarande’s absence, her mother had returned to the Itspi. Was this simply because the princess had disappeared, or was there another reason that now, after all these years, this woman had walked out of Amarande’s imagination and into her life?
The princess’s reflexes were razor sharp, her body always knowing exactly what to do when facing any threat—and yet she was suddenly frozen to the spot. Her breath faltered while her heart continued to pound. As in the moment when Renard’s guards had dealt her what she believed to be a death blow, Amarande felt as if she were floatingoutside herself. Above, in the rafters, watching as a tentative smile spread across her mother’s beautiful face. Counting the steps as her mother crossed the room, flung her arms out, and embraced the still form of her sixteen-year-old daughter.
