Isabel eyed him for a moment, then stepped out into the hall.
He reached out. “Stop! I just said—”
Isabel looked over her shoulder, lifted her chin, and froze him with a glare. “You would dare lay a hand on me?”
His hand went still in midair, mere inches from her shoulder. Isabel turned her head and strode away, ignoring the twinge in her ankle.
Neither of them came after her.
The hall was lined with elaborate tapestries, depicting battlefields and romantic idylls in that awkward, stylized way that tapestries did, but the floor was uncovered and the stone was cold against her bare feet. She came to a stairway that curved down into a long pillared hall, and followed it without hesitation. She felt that there should be a long skirt sweeping behind her, and she almost turned to gather it up before she recalled that she was wearing riding pants. For an odd moment she was embarrassed by that.
At the bottom of the stairs was a deserted ballroom. She kept walking, knowing exactly where to go without any clear idea of where it was she was going. At the end of the ballroom, two thick wooden doors stood open, and a constant murmur of voices floated out through them.
Two guards stood at the entrance, right outside the room. They were much better dressed, and apparently better trained, than the guards watching her room. Neither so much as glanced at her as she stepped in front of the doorway, despite her bare feet and her clothes. Isabel hesitated, and her hands went to her hair.
It was a mass of tangled knots. She couldn’t remember having ever brushed it. Isabel frowned. Why should she care about her hair?
She took a step forward so that she was out of the guards’ line of vision. She raised both hands and brushed them lightly over her hair, then looked sharply at the guards to see if they had turned. They were still staring straight ahead.
She took one strand of hair and arranged it over her shoulder. It was long and silky, so blond it was almost gold. She brushed the strands carefully over the white silk of her tunic, then permitted herself a small smile as she strode through the door.
The Challenge Hour was almost over, and the court was restless and bored. Keeping his back straight so he wouldn’t have to lean against the uncomfortable wooden throne, Rokan allowed his eyes to rove over the room. A large hall of maroon and gold, with glittering chandeliers and long mirrors, it seemed crowded and small with the mass of courtiers and ladies milling about on the carved wood floor. This was his thirtieth day of Challenge-sitting, and his last. After today, any challenge to his right to the throne of Samorna would be much more complicated than a straightforward declaration before the court.
Of course, many members of his court liked convoluted routes—in fact, thrived upon them. Rokan kept his eyes moving, noting the people who had been absent for the past twenty-nine days of Challenge-sitting but were here for the last. The soldiers, not one of whom thought he would be as strong as his father; the southern merchants, who feared he wouldn’t be; the northern dukes, who had been waiting for decades for a weak king and were now hoping for him to be one. For him to fail.
I will not fail, Rokan thought, and scanned the room for his few allies. Such as they were.
His sister was there now—he hadn’t seen her enter—leaning against the gold-patterned white wall, watching everything and everyone. Like everyone else, Clarisse was sure he was going to make mistakes, but she was waiting to step in and save him from himself. His younger brother was watching him with eyes alight, and Rokan smiled across the room at him. Willard, of all the people in the room, was the only one who had never even imagined that Rokan might fail. His blind faith made his advice fairly useless, but it was nice to have someone around who had confidence in him.
Albin, the high sorcerer, was currently glaring at him—or more specifically, at the scratches on his cheek. Rokan resisted the urge to touch them. He wondered if the Shifter had woken yet—or, as Will had speculated, if she ever would wake. Rokan hadn’t noticed that she was asleep yesterday until the castle had come into sight. Its sprawling stone walls and clusters of soaring towers still impressed even him, and he had turned to see her reaction. But the wild creature holding on to him had been unconscious, her breathing so light that for a panicked moment he had thought she was dead.
She couldn’t be dead. He needed her.
Rokan realized that his fists were clenched, and he hastily relaxed them, hoping none of the constantly watching eyes had noticed. The ride to find the Shifter would have been worth it even if they hadn’t found her; just to ride for an entire morning with no one but Will. It would probably be a year or more before he got to ride like that again.
“Your Highness!”
The shock of being addressed during a Challenge Hour drove all else from Rokan’s mind, making his blood pound. He straightened almost eagerly, seeking the source of the threat.
Then the words sank in: Your Highness. This was not a challenge at all.
“Duke Owain,” he said with some resignation.
The duke coughed loudly, his distinguished gray beard masking his expression. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I must ask your leave to depart. Lady Daria is feeling ill.”
Despite himself, Rokan’s eyes darted to the young woman beside the duke, who stood with her eyes lowered and a faint blush on her cheeks. He was willing to bet Daria was feeling fine. Owain had spoken for one reason: so Rokan would give the duke’s niece a worried glance, and the court would note it.
Cursing himself for falling into the duke’s trap, Rokan said, “Of course,” and forced himself to meet Clarisse’s eyes. Her face was studiously blank. This morning she had spent an hour warning him to control his impulses.
Easy for her to say. I’m not made of stone. But despite his irritation, he knew Clarisse was right.
Rokan had imagined failing many times; imagined the consequences for himself and for all the people who now depended upon him. His father had spelled out his weakness many times: he cared too deeply, wanted too much, acted too quickly when his emotions were involved. And while Rokan had always secretly thought some of those were strengths, that didn’t keep him from recognizing that they might be his downfall anyhow. His father had drilled into him the harsh reality that being a good man and being a good king were two separate, opposite things.
Though according to Clarisse, a stubborn refusal to accept harsh realities was another of his weaknesses.
Which brought his thoughts back to the Shifter, beautiful and feral and surrounded by mist. It was still difficult to believe that she had come with them, that she was here in this castle.
A murmur rose near the back of the room, surprised and slightly scandalized, and he knew the reason for it even before he saw her. For a moment he almost believed his thoughts had summoned her.
She was walking down the maroon carpet that led to the throne, apparently unaware of the way everyone was turning to stare at her. Her hair had changed, becoming long and blond, but everything else was the same. Her wide eyes, her odd, proud beauty—and the way she was staring at him, directly at him, ignoring the crowd around her. The nobles were watching her, startled and speculative, and Rokan sat back.
It was still the Challenge Hour.
A thrill of anticipation went through him as the Shifter stopped before his throne. She was barefoot and dirty and in riding clothes, but something else about her was making the nearest courtiers edge away. It was possible that yesterday he had made the biggest mistake of his life. But the bracelet dangled delicately from her wrist. If he had done this right, she wouldn’t hurt him.
If he had done this right.
The silence stretched unbearably. He tried to clear his throat and couldn’t get his throat muscles to move.
Then she knelt gracefully on one knee but did not bow her head. Her eyes were on him as she spoke.
“Prince Rokan,” she said. Her voice was clear and strong, something he hadn’t noticed in the forest. “I come to serve Your Highness.”
A surge of triumph rose and burst within him. As he straightened, a great bell rang in the distance and every person in the hall sank into a bow or curtsy. Every person but her. For a moment all Rokan could see were the backs of lowered heads and the startling dark eyes of the Shifter, fierce and wild and trained on his face. She didn’t have to bow; she was here to serve him, but she was not his subject, any more than a force of nature could be his subject. His heart beat faster, and he smiled at her exultantly.
The thirtieth day of Challenge was over, and he was king.
An intimate group gathered in the king’s private audience chamber as soon as the Challenge Hour ended. It was clear to Isabel that Rokan would have preferred it to be even more intimate, but he wasn’t given a choice. The moment he stepped off his throne and motioned for her to follow him, Will was by his side. Clarisse had been there even before that.
Isabel liked the audience chamber, and thought she had always liked it, though she had no specific memory of it until she stepped through the narrow doorway. The room managed to be cozy and stately at once, with two vast windows and olive curtains pulled back to let light flood in. The space between the windows was filled by an ivory couch that didn’t quite fit the room but did appear to be the only comfortable seat in it. Clarisse went straight for the couch. Isabel, who had been headed there, too—where I always sit, a small, angry voice inside her whispered—stopped and focused instead on the painting above the fireplace at the far end of the room. It was a portrait of a man wearing an ermine cap, with small, narrow eyes below thinly arched brows, a long, large nose, and a short black beard. Though he had been painted in half-profile, something about the man’s gaze was unnervingly direct; he seemed to be weighing the painter’s worth and finding it wanting. It stirred a sharp memory in her, though she didn’t know who the man was.
Clarisse flung herself onto the couch, reclining on her side as if posing for a painting, her head propped up by a small hand buried in her mass of hair. Almost reluctantly, Isabel tore her eyes away from the portrait.
“Well, well,” Clarisse drawled. “That was very impolitic of you. You gave Rokan a real scare.”
“She did not!” Will snapped. “She wears the bracelet, the Shifter’s Seal. He had nothing to be afraid of.”
Clarisse raised her eyebrows. “When reason starts having anything to do with what Rokan feels, let me know.”
“Just because you don’t agree with his reasons—”
“Be quiet, Clarisse,” Rokan said tiredly. Instead of sitting, he leaned against the wall near the door, his head coming to rest against an elongated yellow tapestry. He was clean-shaven, but the resemblance to the man in the painting was unmistakable.
Four faint scratches marked his left cheek. Isabel felt a hot rush of shame. The instinct that had guided her to declare her allegiance in the throne room drained suddenly away, and with a spurt of panic she wondered what she was doing here. She didn’t belong. She didn’t know how to act, or even where to sit. And worst of all, she had hurt him.
“I wasn’t talking,” Clarisse pointed out. “Will was.”
“But you were about to interrupt him. I’m tired of arguing all my decisions with you. I decided to seek out the Shifter, and I did.”
Isabel tensed, feeling vulnerable and exposed in the center of the room. There were cushioned wooden benches at both ends of the room, but she found herself reluctant to move that far from Rokan.
“Of course, Your Most Royal Highness,” Clarisse murmured. “And how has she helped you so far?”
“That,” Rokan snapped, “is what I’m going to discuss. With Isabel.”
Clarisse shrugged. She clearly had no intention of moving.
Everyone looked at Isabel.
Isabel held her head up, swamped by a swirl of confusing, conflicting feelings. Chief among them was a fierce urge to protect her prince, but from whom?
Her prince… The possessive came to her mind without forethought, and she accepted it without question. He had summoned her to him, and she would keep him safe from any danger that threatened him. Even if she still had no idea why, or what that danger might be.