Mistwood

Rokan took a deep breath. The directness of his gaze strengthened his resemblance to the man in the painting, though there was nothing cold or judgmental in his eyes. He was trying to appear as regal as he could, but uncertainty was written all over him, and his face was flushed from his argument with Clarisse.

“I wasn’t able to wake you earlier, or I would have warned you. Nobody knows I went to the Mistwood. We think it would be best to keep your true identity a secret for now. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Of course not,” said Isabel, who had no idea what her true identity was. “That seems wise.”

Rokan ran his hand over his hair and clutched the back of his neck. “Oh. Good.” He hesitated again, then blurted, “I don’t actually know that much about the Shifter.”

Then you know more than I do, Isabel thought, and saw an opportunity. She gave him her most enigmatic smile and said, “Tell me what you do know.”

“Most of it is legend. An immortal creature who protects the kings of Samorna with her wisdom and magic.” He massaged the back of his neck. “When the realm is peaceful, the Shifter sometimes leaves the castle and goes to the Mistwood. Then there may be no Shifter for twenty, fifty, once even a hundred years. But when she is needed, she always comes.”

“There’s even a song about you,” Clarisse put in. “It’s very pretty, if you like the high notes.”

Isabel ignored her. Based on her brief experience, that already seemed like the best way to deal with Clarisse. She stepped closer to the door and turned sideways, so that she could be closer to Rokan without allowing Clarisse or Will out of her line of sight.

Rokan dropped his hand to his side and continued. “You left ten years ago, and at the time you were called Isabel. I was a child then, but…” He faltered and glanced at his sister. “We weren’t sure you would come back. When you left…there were circumstances.”

Running through the snow, blood trailing behind her. Tears falling, not leaving a mark like the blood, and that seemed wrong. Pain. Terrible, terrible pain…

“Yes,” Isabel said without thinking, “there were.”

Rokan straightened, pulling away from the wall. He, Will, and Clarisse looked at one another. They were afraid. Rokan and Clarisse both hid it almost well enough, but Will’s face was near white.

Rokan recovered first, leaning back gingerly against the wall, trying to act casual. “So why did you leave?”

Isabel lifted her eyebrows. “I am not going to tell you that, Your Highness.”

Rokan’s hand tightened against his leg, but all he said was, “I understand.”

Isabel highly doubted it. She changed the subject. “You were speaking of hiding my identity. How will that be possible, if people remember me from last time?”

Rokan let out a breath. “Not everyone knew who you were. For the past hundred years or so, you’ve always pretended to be an ordinary mortal—a sorceress, an adviser, once a nursemaid. There were always rumors, of course, but only a few people have ever known for sure.”

Isabel lifted her eyebrows. “Won’t there be rumors this time, too?”

“Of course, especially after your rather dramatic entrance today.” He grinned at her, and Isabel’s lips started to curl upward in response. Then Clarisse snorted, his smile died, and Isabel pressed her mouth into a straight line. “But we don’t have to confirm them until we know…until you’ve had a chance to grow accustomed to the court.” Isabel wondered if he truly thought she couldn’t tell he was lying. She only wished she knew what he was lying about. “Isabel is a common enough name. We’ll say you’re from the Green Islands, one of those merchant’s daughters whose father bought his way into the nobility. There are so many of them that no one can keep them straight.”

Isabel nodded, then walked past him and Clarisse to take a seat on the plush wooden bench near the fireplace. Some of the tension had drained from the room—or from her—and she was getting tired of standing. As she sank into the cushion, though, she remembered something else. “What about the bracelet?”

The royal siblings exchanged another look she couldn’t decipher. Were they afraid she was going to ask them to take it off? The bracelet felt comforting circling her wrist, the tiny, cool crystals rubbing against her skin.

“Nobody outside of the royal family knows about the Shifter’s Seal,” Rokan said. “It won’t give you away. Many of the women at court wear jewels, so you won’t stand out. I’m afraid you’ll have to wear gowns, too—”

“Oh, no,” Isabel said sharply. “I won’t wear a skirt I can’t walk in.”

For a moment Rokan seemed startled. Then he laughed. “Oh, those aren’t in style anymore. Women haven’t worn straight skirts for years. They’re all sort of—you know—flowy. Like Clarisse’s.”

Clarisse lifted one leg to demonstrate. Her gown was more slinky than anything else, but clearly she could move in it. Not the most practical garment for fighting in, but Isabel could manage if she had to. She nodded, careful not to let anything but resignation show on her face.

Don’t you remember me? Clarisse had said. If both she and Rokan had been just children when the Shifter left, Isabel couldn’t possibly have recognized her on sight. But Isabel had reacted like it was a normal question, revealing how little she knew about her own past. Clarisse had smiled because she had discovered that Isabel didn’t remember.

“Fine,” Rokan said. He straightened, and for a moment—with his chin thrust out and his short purple cloak flung back over his doublet—he was every inch a prince. “I’m glad you’re here. I want to be a good king, and you can help me. Your wisdom is legendary.”

Isabel smiled thinly, wondering if Rokan had sent Clarisse to ask the question. She had been right to trust her instincts and not reveal the depths of her ignorance. Little as she knew about Rokan, she was already sure he had not called her here because he wanted guidance. If he had gone all the way to her woods on the small chance he might catch her, he’d had better reasons.

Isabel met the prince’s gaze, glowing despite herself when he smiled at her. She lowered her eyes when he turned away, then raised them again to watch him go.

She didn’t know who she was or what exactly she was doing here, but one thing was perfectly clear. His safety was the single most important thing in the world, and if she had to die to protect him, she would do it without thinking twice.

But she was not a fool, and she didn’t trust him one single bit.

Chapter Three

When Isabel got to her room later that night, the high sorcerer was waiting outside her door.

She stopped several yards away from him in the dimly lit corridor. Annoyance flickered over his face as she regarded him warily, and after a second she realized why: he was invisible. She could sense the wavering outlines of the invisibility spell, like transparent flames cloaking his body, as easily as she could see him. He seemed to be a young man, but Isabel knew better; no one she had spoken to that afternoon could remember a time when he had not been high sorcerer. Nor was he particularly imposing, with a short beard and rather pudgy face. Sorcerers could make themselves handsome as easily as they could make themselves look young, but maybe in a century people got over vanity.

I didn’t, Isabel thought. I cared about my hair. She pushed the thought out of her mind. The high sorcerer crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing his formal sorcerer’s robe, red and richly embroidered with a thick white stripe running down the center.

Isabel had spent the afternoon and evening circulating around the court, first in the throne room and then at the banquet that marked the end of the Challenge Days. Rokan had been right about the Shifter’s legendary wisdom; her instincts had guided her unerringly to the most useful people, even in a court about which she knew nothing. Twice she had started a political argument between two people who hated each other, then faded into insignificance and listened while they became indiscreet. One of the things she had learned was that the high sorcerer was considered one of Rokan’s strongest supporters, and that people were afraid of him.

What surprised her now was that she seemed to be afraid of him—or at least, not quite as confident as she had felt around the other members of the court. She said coolly, “Did you come here to tell me something, or—”

The high sorcerer flexed his fingers ever so slightly. A blaze of blue fire erupted from his open palm and hit her full in the face.

The fire sizzled through her, through skin and bones and blood. It hurt. Lines of power zigzagged through her body, tiny explosions of pain trying to tear her apart. For a moment, just a moment, she thought it was going to work; she saw in her mind’s eye how her body would dissolve, come apart into wisps of mist and fog, swirl among the shadows and be gone.

Then, abruptly, it was over. The malevolent energy burst out of her, though she had done nothing to repel it; and the magic, not her, scattered into the dim shadows of the stone walls.

Before the last blue wisps had dissipated, the high sorcerer reached into his robe and flung out his hand. The knife flew across the few yards between them. Isabel caught it by the hilt, stopping the blade inches from her eyes. Her heartbeat didn’t even bother speeding up. She flipped the knife around to hold it by the blade, made a move to throw it, then tossed it to the side instead. “Anything else?”

The high sorcerer was shaking. She could hear his breath coming fast and harsh; he clearly had barely enough strength to remain standing, let alone follow up with another attack. Isabel shook her head sympathetically. “That must have been a difficult spell. How much time did it take you to create it?”

His mouth tightened. Isabel raised her eyebrows. “Oh, was it not just you? How many sorcerers worked on it, and for how long?”

He said nothing, but his expression told her she was correct. Suddenly her mind was almost overwhelmed by a flood of information about sorcerers—knowledge that must have been there all along, but that she hadn’t bothered to think about. She knew where the spell must have been created: at the School of Sorcery, an isolated stronghold on one of the South Sea islands where anyone with magical ability was trained and indoctrinated.

Isabel crossed her arms over her chest. “It must have taken a lot of power; it tingled a bit. What a waste of resources. You honestly thought one of your spells could work on me?”

“It did once,” the high sorcerer snarled.

“What?”

“Only for a second, but that spell worked, didn’t it? We sent you fleeing back to your woods with your tail between your legs. You’re not as invulnerable as you pretend.”

A sudden memory, sharp and swift. She was standing in a courtyard, in a light gray mist of rain, turning to watch an arrow fly at her from a narrow window. She reached out almost languidly to catch it. Her hand closed around the rough wood, and the arrow broke in half in her grasp; it dropped as she whirled to catch the next one, and then the next. A torrent of arrows, and she danced among them, letting them fall broken around her feet.

And then all at once her body turned to stone, refusing to obey her mind’s commands. Arrested in mid-turn, she watched as the arrow she had been about to catch went right between her open fingers; a moment later she felt a sharp, tearing pain as it thudded into her side. Another arrow went past her, and another.

Isabel heard herself scream, and took a moment to realize that the sound was just the memory, that she was still standing silent as the high sorcerer smirked at her. She shoved the memory away and faced him, though the scream still beat at the inside of her clenched teeth. She would not show weakness. Not to him.

Not to anyone.

“Well,” she said, striving to appear unconcerned, “this spell doesn’t seem to have succeeded quite as well.”