Mistwood

Isabel took a deep breath, realizing that if she had thought the noblewoman was really going to attack, she would have gone to Rokan’s defense. She glanced again at the fat man next to her and hoped Kaer realized how dangerous this was. He had to be the one to attack Rokan, or she wouldn’t be able to keep herself from defending the wrong prince.

There was no way to warn him, but she needn’t have worried. Kaer clearly wanted to defeat Rokan himself. He moved as Rokan was about to ascend the throne—sooner than Isabel would have advised—shedding his magical disguise as he stepped forward and stretched out his hand. For a moment Isabel thought the sword in it had been thrown to him. Then she saw Albin standing next to Clarisse, where a tall blond man had been a second ago.

Rokan swore, and before anyone else could so much as do the same, there was a sword in his hand, too. Isabel glanced at Albin, but he seemed as startled as anyone.

Kaer leaped toward the dais, and Rokan raised his sword just in time, knocking Kaer’s blade to the side. The two blades met with a clash louder than the music, which was swelling triumphantly. The musicians couldn’t see what was happening in the throne room.

The strength of Rokan’s parry knocked Kaer’s sword far to the side, but it also threw Rokan off balance; before he could regain his footing, Kaer thrust under Rokan’s blade and straight at his chest. Rokan parried again, but this time Kaer held. The two blades strained against each other.

“You will not lay a finger on my crown,” Kaer said, his voice carrying through the hall. The music came to an abrupt stop. “Imposter!”

It took Rokan only a moment to recover. He met Kaer’s eyes and stepped back, sliding his blade along Kaer’s. He lunged. Kaer parried.

Rokan took one step back, feinted twice, and then went for a killing stroke. Kaer’s blade followed his with lightning speed, but when Rokan lunged at him, Kaer dodged instead of parrying. Rokan whirled barely in time to meet his counterattack.

Isabel didn’t move from her place at the edge of the carpet. A dozen other noblemen stepped forward, and in a split second they were no longer noblemen but northern soldiers, with hard faces and long swords. One of those swords knocked Rokan’s out of his hand, and another hissed along his neck.

The room was deadly silent. Isabel could hear hearts pounding, but her own seemed to have stopped. Rokan turned, searching for her.

“Isabel!” he cried. Ten soldiers stood between him and her, but if she had shifted into a wolf or a bear they would have meant nothing. His eyes widened, and for a moment of scathing shame she thought he knew that she couldn’t. Then one of the soldiers jerked him back around, and she remembered that she was betraying him, not failing him.

Will let out a screech and flung himself into the fray; one of the soldiers plucked him off the ground like a puppy. Isabel’s eyes found Clarisse, who was already watching her. The princess stood frozen, her face white, but her eyes gleamed as if she had just been handed a wonderful surprise. Then one of the soldiers grabbed her, and she struggled for a few resigned moments before giving up.

Kaer was talking, addressing the soldiers in ringing tones. She should have been watching, because he might be in danger. Instead she stared at the prince who had been in danger for months, who was staring back at her with the resigned horror of a man watching a long-feared nightmare come true. The soldier holding the sword to his neck was very still. She watched that sword, because if it so much as moved the soldier was dead.

It shouldn’t have been that way. In her mind a sure little voice whispered, It will be easier when he’s dead. And another voice reminded her of what she had promised: When the time is right, I will kill him for you.

Chapter Fifteen

The throne was uncomfortable. It shouldn’t have been—it should have fit him like he was born to it, like the throne in his dreams. But it was hard, and the back was not hollowed at all, and his spine kept jutting into the intricate royal sigil carved into the thick wood. Kaer ignored all that. Owain had advised him against holding a Challenge Hour, especially after he had already crowned himself a few days ago, but the duke hadn’t mentioned the uncomfortable throne.

Once, years ago—when he had still been a boy practicing with a wooden sword, when he had thought he would one day face the usurper himself—he had confessed to Owain that he was afraid. Owain had put his hand over his, closed both their hands around the sword hilt, and said, “When the time comes you won’t be.”

Owain had been right. He had been right about so many things.

Kaer angled himself away from the back of the throne. I’m really here. This has finally happened. A part of him still didn’t believe it, and that made it even better. He surveyed his throne room, seeking out the Shifter first.

But before he could locate Isabel, a stir near the entrance caught his attention. The nobles near the door drew away and stared, fluttering like a flock of startled pigeons as Clarisse walked into the throne room.

She did so with a great deal of skirt swishing and nodding, making it seem like everyone in the throne room had been waiting for her arrival. Her gown was an elaborate concoction of yellow silk, her hair twisted and held so that it fell over her bare shoulders just so. She dropped a curtsy to Kaer—holding it long enough that everyone would notice, but not so long that it seemed anything other than routine—and lifted her eyebrows at him with a small, confidential smile.

Kaer turned away to hide how amused he was and almost jumped when he found himself face-to-face with the Shifter. Isabel had approached the throne so soundlessly he hadn’t heard her and now was glowering at him so fiercely that for a moment he found it hard to breathe.

“What,” the Shifter said in a voice that didn’t sound human at all, “is she doing here?”

Kaer drew himself up. He wasn’t going to show fear of anything, he reminded himself, not anymore. Not even of her. The Shifter watched him with unnaturally green eyes, dangerous and predatory even in her demure powder-blue gown.

She still seemed familiar to him, which was ridiculous—the form she bore now had no connection to the ones he had seen as a child. But the day before, in the audience chamber, her hair had faded from gold to reddish brown, and the nagging familiarity of her face had stirred a memory that made him want badly to love her again. To be a naive young boy, dreaming of the magical creature who would always keep him safe, if he could only find her.

He propped his elbow on the arm of the throne and frowned at her. “I can’t very well keep her locked up in her room if I may end up marrying her, can I?”

She leaned back to get a better view of his face—at an angle that should have been impossible without falling over, but she seemed not to notice. “Where is Daria?”

“She’s being fitted for a gown for next week’s banquet.” Kaer waved a hand. “I saw a beautiful swath of silk I couldn’t resist buying for her.”

“So that she would have to spend all week with the seamstress?” Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “Clever.”

“Thank you,” Kaer said. Clarisse was now talking to a noblewoman in a green gown with ridiculously wide sleeves. Clarisse looked up at them, met Kaer’s eyes, and winked. Then she murmured something to the noblewoman, and the two of them headed toward the throne.

Kaer stiffened, and one of the carvings on the back of the throne jabbed sharply into his back. This was not part of the plan. He reached behind him to rub his new ache.

“That’s Lady Amri,” Isabel said without turning her head. “She’s the wife of the richest banker in Risan.”

Risan was a southern duchy on the coast; Rokan’s father had ruthlessly curtailed its trading privileges in favor of Gionvar, a rival duchy with a river harbor. The Duke of Risan had promised soldiers and money to Owain and had delivered the money but not the soldiers. Kaer wondered how much of that Isabel knew. Most of it, he hoped, if she was worth her own myth, and he would tell her the rest later. For now he merely nodded, pressing his feet firmly against the dais to keep himself still.

“My lady,” he said with careful courtesy as the two women drew close to the throne. Lady Amri swept into a low curtsy, her wide sleeves sweeping the floor.

“Your Highness,” Lady Amri said, rising and clasping her hands together. “I wanted to thank you for your gracious hospitality. This is my first visit to the capital, and truly, the reports I’ve heard are not overexaggerated. The splendor of the castle, the tranquility of the climate, the beauty of the women…” Here she bowed slightly to Isabel. Isabel inclined her head politely. Clarisse snorted.

“Thank you,” Kaer said. He waited for her to get to the point.

He didn’t have to wait long. “I must admit, there was but one disappointment. The banquet last night was marvelous, the music, the dancing, the furnishing. But I found the food a bit bland.”

Ah. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kaer said. “I must have someone speak to the head cook.”

“It may not be the poor man’s fault,” Lady Amri said. “I understand that the price of spices has nearly tripled in the past couple of years. The Gionvarian ships have not been faring well of late, have they?”

They had not been faring well because they had been attacked by Risanian-subsidized pirates, but that was none of his concern. “They have been quite unfortunate, it is true.”

The Shifter was gazing at the crowd, unconcerned by the spice trade. Kaer kept his face impassive as Lady Amri put a slippered foot on the dais and lifted one arm. There were three small brown nuts in her upturned palm. “We have fared better. This is nutmeg, the most expensive and hard-to-obtain spice in the known world. We offer you some as a gift. Ground into powder, these are worth—”

The Shifter moved in an explosion of coiled muscle and blue silk, leaping over the throne. A moment later Kaer saw a red and brown head flick out from Lady Amri’s sleeve, so fast it was no more than a blur. The Shifter knocked his hand out of the way, bending his fingers back, and the fangs sank into the back of her hand instead of into his palm.

For a split second the world froze. Kaer focused on the snake’s head, mottled and shiny, its flat round eyes gleaming. He could see the tops of its fangs, thin and white, sunk deep into the Shifter’s slim hand. Then, just as fast, the snake hissed and drew back into the woman’s sleeve.

Lady Amri stared at Isabel for a second before turning, but by then two guards were already there. Elsewhere in the throne room people were gasping and crying out; they hadn’t seen the snake, but they saw the guards with their swords drawn on the Risanian banker’s wife.

Kaer started to rise, but Isabel hissed, “Sit,” and he sat. Her hand was swelling up; already it was almost twice its normal size. Her face was twisted in pain, and he felt a surge of terror and guilt. “Are you all right?”

“I have to…” She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. After a few seconds she opened her eyes. Her face was calm again.

“Why did you let it bite you?” Clarisse asked in a tone of mild curiosity.

“Why not?” The Shifter lifted her hand, revealing smooth unblemished skin and tapered fingers.

Clarisse carefully arranged a curl over her forehead, remarkably unperturbed for having witnessed an up-close assassination attempt. “If you sensed the snake—”

“I didn’t sense it.” Isabel turned her head sharply, scanning the crowd. “I didn’t sense it because it wasn’t there until the moment before it attacked. Summon Albin—”

But it was too late. The assassin smiled in mocking acknowledgment and lifted her chin. Her face blurred, cheekbones sharpening, chin narrowing. Kaer didn’t recognize the woman who stood before them and, judging from her blank expression, neither did the Shifter.

“Don’t bother,” the woman said. “I’m more powerful than your high sorcerer.”