Mistwood

Nothing he said should have bothered her, but she had been rubbed raw by memories. “I don’t think you want to speak to me about divided loyalties, sorcerer. I am not the only one who served two princes.”

“I serve no prince.” Albin ran his fingers down the side of his robe. “I serve powers far greater, powers that will still exist years after this petty dynasty has vanished from the face of the world. Did you expect me to abandon my work, my records and experiments, just because a captain guard decided to overthrow a weak king? I don’t care who sits on the Samornian throne, Shifter.”

Isabel’s laugh was oddly hollow in the vast, gloomy silence. “How noble. But you care who stands next to the throne, don’t you? You didn’t stay for your records and experiments. You stayed for your rich robes and the fine food and for people who watch you with awe and step out of your way when you walk.” She took a step forward. “How wonderful it must have been for you when the Shifter was gone and there was no one to draw that awe away from you. How wonderful when the rogue sorceress died, and a raw young prince who would need your guidance ascended the throne. But then that prince went and found me, and I am more magical in my sleep than you are after a hundred spells. That’s the real reason you agreed to help Kaer, is it not, sorcerer? Because Rokan had me.”

Albin’s lips twisted. “An odd claim to make, Shifter, when he never had you at all.”

She stood for a moment with nothing to say, and he smirked at her, lips plump and smug between the dark bristles of his beard.

“You’re going to die,” Isabel said.

The expression on his face could not have altered more dramatically if she had shifted into a wolf right in front of him. “What?”

Isabel waited a full second, enjoying his fear. Then she said, “Eventually. You may be powerful, but you’re mortal. How long can a sorcerer extend his life—a hundred years, two hundred?” She knew it wasn’t even that long. “You will die, and your powers with you.”

The high sorcerer raised his hand slightly, fingers curved. Isabel didn’t think he was even aware of making the gesture, yet her whole body tensed. She was still afraid of this man. But he had no way of attacking her now, or he would have used it already.

“And you will live forever?” he spat out.

She lowered her eyelashes. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”

Albin’s fingers closed around empty air, and he looked at them in surprise before flicking his eyes back to her. Then he drew himself up, pulled his robe tightly around his body, and disappeared.

“Vanishing acts,” Isabel muttered at the dust motes swirling in the space where he had been. But the scorn sounded hollow even to her. It was, after all, more than she could manage.

She stood, staring at the emptiness of the room, a stark reminder of what else she couldn’t manage. She had made it here after the arrows flying past her had killed the king and queen, but not fast enough to save their children. The dynasty had ended right here.

Except it hadn’t. She had a chance, now, to reverse that failure, to keep the right king on the throne. The king—just a boy, then—whom she should have restored to his throne a decade ago.

She wished she had. If she had remained with Kaer, she would never have fled back to her woods. She would have been at his side, guarding him. She wouldn’t have returned to the castle a decade later to protect Rokan. She would have made sure Rokan died long ago.

And it would have been easy.

Why had she saved Kaer only to abandon him? What could possibly have kept her from his side?

She stood for a moment with the dank air moving in and out of her lungs. Then she turned and ran, through the cellars and up the narrow stone stairway. The silk of her gown wrapped around her legs as she ran; she reached down and ripped it off, flinging the heavy swath of blue silk down the stairs right before she slammed the door shut behind her. The silk fluttered soundlessly into the darkness; by the time it landed, she was already at the top of another staircase, in another hall.

Kaer was in his room—for the first time, she didn’t think of it as Rokan’s room—fast asleep. She smelled the rush of fear as he woke, and he was on his feet in a second with a knife in his hand.

“Shifter?” He didn’t lower the knife. Moonlight spilled into the room from his open window. “What are you doing?”

She felt a pang, thinking of that dark-haired boy who had never again felt safe enough to sleep soundly. But she pushed that away. “I want to ask you a question. Put down the knife.”

He didn’t move. She did, and before he had time to react, the knife was in her hand and the blade was pressed against his throat.

She met his eyes for a full second before she stepped back, flipped the knife, and handed it to him hilt first. “If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead. But I want to protect you, so you’re alive. Don’t play games with me.”

He took the knife without changing expression. Rokan could never have done that. “You want to protect me?”

“I was created to protect you. You have nothing to worry about.”

His voice was perfectly cool. “Except why you’re here interrupting my sleep.”

She took two steps back, giving him enough space so he wouldn’t feel threatened, and waited for him to sit on the bed. He didn’t. He kept his grip ready on the knife, too; she could tell by the way the air currents eddied around his stiff, trembling fingers.

“How did I get you out?”

His face didn’t so much as twitch. “I’m sorry?”

“The night your…the night of the coup. We were trapped in the laundry room, surrounded by soldiers. How did I get you out?”

“Spirits, Shifter! I was six years old and terrified. I don’t remember anything about that day.”

He was lying.

Isabel knew that as certainly as if he had blushed or avoided her gaze, though his eyes were rock steady. But if she hit him with the truth now, she would know. He was just off balance enough. She had several seconds, maybe less, before he would be as unreadable as stone.

“I didn’t save you, did I?” she said.

Bull’s-eye. He actually flinched.

“I left you behind.” She said it with disbelief.

“You weren’t yourself. You were half-mad.” The words nearly tumbled over themselves. “And I was unconscious by then. I tried to climb up to one of the windows, and I fell and hit my head. You probably thought I was dead, that it was too late. You wouldn’t have left if you knew I was alive. You’re still my protector.”

She was barely listening. He was right. She had been shifting, faster than thought, trying to think of how she could save them. There was no way she had simply left. No way she had failed…not without leaving behind so many dead soldiers she would have heard of the massacre, even a decade later.

“How did you live?” she asked.

“One of the soldiers, still loyal to my father. He smuggled me out. By the time I woke up, I was on the back of his horse.”

“How did he do it?”

“Albin gave him a spell.”

Isabel recoiled. “Albin?”

“He played both sides from the beginning. If you had managed to prevent the coup, he wanted insurance to keep you from killing him. The soldier wasn’t supposed to use the spell if the coup succeeded.” Kaer sneered. “Albin paid him well, and backed up his money with threats. It would never occur to a sorcerer that pure loyalty could count more than either of those.”

“What happened to the soldier? Did Albin kill him?”

“No. The usurper did.”

Isabel nodded, and Kaer walked to the window. Looking out at the darkness, he said savagely, “He killed everyone who could have protected me. My entire family. Anyone loyal.” He drew in his breath. “And then, after training for years to kill him, I came to do it. And found you protecting his son.”

He was going somewhere with this, but Isabel had lost him on the second sentence. “Your entire family?”

He turned around and stared at her. Isabel met his eyes, which were dark in the moonlight. “Your sister was older than you, wasn’t she?”

Kaer put both hands behind him on the windowsill, bracing himself. “You think you saved her? Instead of me?”

“Have you seen her body?”

“The usurper said she was dead.”

“He said you were dead, too.” Isabel forced herself to stay still.

Kaer tilted his head back slightly, watching her. She could hear his fingernails scraping against the windowsill. “But she must be dead. You didn’t stay with her. You went back to your woods without her.”

He didn’t want her to leave him and go running off to find his sister. Reasonable enough. And what he said was true. But still…

“How did I get her out?” Isabel wondered aloud.

Kaer shrugged. “If you did get her out, I wasn’t conscious to see it.”

Isabel pressed her palm against what was left of her skirt. “Your sister might be alive. Don’t you care?”

“We’d probably be better off if she was dead,” Kaer said. “And if she is alive, why isn’t she here? She should be trying to take back what was stolen from us. Like I am.”

“Maybe she’s happy.”

“More likely she’s dead.”

“I don’t think Rokan thinks so.”

Kaer went ash white. “What do you mean?” he whispered, though she could tell that he already knew.

Isabel dropped her hand. “You were wondering how he plans to legitimize his reign. This is how. He’s going to find your sister and marry her.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Kaer snapped. The color flooded back into his face. “Find her where? Besides, my sister is as much a victim of his family’s perfidy as I am. She’d stab him in his sleep.”

He stepped forward, watching her with eyes that were hard, angry…and afraid. She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “You needn’t worry, Kaer. You’re here, and in danger. I’m not going off to search for her.”

The split second before his nod told her that wasn’t what he was afraid of. She turned and left before he could see, on her face, that she knew what it was he really feared.

She had saved the girl—back before her mind had been wounded, when she had been supremely confident in who she was and what she had to do. If it came down to it, she would side with the princess again, even against her brother.

She wondered if Rokan had thought of that.

Chapter Seventeen

Isabel was not particularly surprised when, the next morning, she was woken before dawn by a summons from her king.

She arrived in the audience chamber to find it full of people. Kaer paced back and forth, bleary-eyed but immaculately dressed in dark green velvet. Clarisse sat on the couch with her feet tucked under her—a pose that declared, without defiance or ostentation, how unquestionably she felt she belonged there. Owain and Albin were both seated on one of the plush benches, and Daria stood rubbing her eyes near the fireplace.

Daria? Isabel thought, at first, that Kaer had made a stupid mistake. But in the few days since the coronation, she hadn’t seen Kaer make a single stupid mistake, or a single ill-considered act.

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

“We need to draw Rokan out,” Kaer said without preamble, as soon as the door thudded shut. “I’ve had enough of waiting in this stone trap for him to make his move. We need to bring him here and end it. Now.”

Owain raised a bushy eyebrow. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t,” Kaer snapped. “I want him here before he has time to prepare. Before he can bring whatever”—whomever, Isabel thought—“he thinks can help him defeat me.”