Prologue
He awakened into darkness. Crushing and total.
The last thing he remembered was running through the snow. Panting with exhaustion. Fleeing from… something, with blood running down his arm.
He lifted one hand to check for the wound and found his fingers stiff, difficult to move. No, not stiff—encased in a rigid glove. A gauntlet.
He never wore gauntlets.
That same hand fell to his chest and encountered more armor. A breastplate. Heavy and uncomfortable.
Sitting up, he felt the weight of it pull on his shoulders, and felt the press of something even against his…
Face. Slowly, he raised both hands to his jaw, somehow feeling no pain from that recently suffered wound. No pull of stitches. Had he dreamed the chase? Dreamed the rivulets of blood down his arm?
But he forgot the question of blood when his gauntleted hands touched his face and found only hard, smooth metal—a mask. Stretching from his forehead down to his neck, where it met a gorget.
Panic swelled. He tore at the edges of the plate covering his face, but it didn’t move. The gauntlets, the chest piece—they would not come off.
He tried to surge to his feet and was met by a command in a firm but unfamiliar voice.
“Sit.”
He sat. Without thought or question.
But why? He wanted to stand. Wanted to tear off the unfamiliar cage of this armor and discover what had happened since that memory of blood and snow.
So he tried again to stand and received another command.
“Lie down.”
He obeyed.
The next command echoed not through the air but through the burgeoning confusion inside his head.
Stand and open your eyes.
And he did. How had he not realized that his eyes were still closed?
The light rushed in, dim and flickering, visible only through narrow slits in the mask that seemed bound to his face. He stood in a round room without windows. There were three tables against the wall, their surfaces fully covered with glassware, papers, books, and other tools of magic.
Yes, magic. It, too, flickered dimly all around him. Not the cool, soothing flow of life, but a harsh and grating symphony against his nerves.
Don’t move.
And then, he simply couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Even to blink.
“It appears to be working,” said a new voice—young, male, and weary. It also sounded more than a little angry. “Only I suggest you not give blanket orders like, ‘Don’t move,’ or you might find that he stops breathing and all your efforts will be wasted. Now, I did what you asked, and you have what you want, so go away and leave me alone.”
You may move, but stand still. The order released him to blink. To breathe.
“Where am I?” he burst out. “Who are you? What have you done to me?”
At least, that’s what he tried to say, but his tongue was frozen. His throat clenched, but no sounds emerged.
“I will not leave yet.” The first voice again. It was also male, but older. “You must ensure that my control is absolute.”
“Or what?” the second voice asked contemptuously.“What can you threaten me with that you haven’t already?” He sounded as if he were little more than a sulky young boy.
“The truth,” the older voice replied coldly. “I can always ensure that everyone knows the truth.”
“And who suffers more from that? Me? Or you?”
The words paused.
Then the first voice spoke again, his tone soft and menacing. “Perhaps you may think the consequences worthwhile, but will she? If you defy me, I will be forced to explain exactly who bears the blame for her suffering.”
Bitter laughter. “Yes, let us speak of blame. Let us hear how you plan to lay this abomination at my door.”
“How many times must I repeat myself? You know why this is necessary!”
“I know you’re obsessed.”
“Do as I command, or you will both suffer the consequences,” the older voice snarled. “Remember that her life and future is in your hands.”
He tried to turn. Tried to see who spoke. Tried to cry out.
He could not.
He could only wait for orders.
Could only follow his captor as they left the mysterious underground room and emerged into the light of a day without end.
That day and the next and the next. He could only wait, while horror and hatred gathered within him.
Wait, while his hands and his gifts were turned to the service of another. Wait, while life became an endless moment of threats and terror and blood, only some of it his own.
Wait, not for hope, but for vengeance.
In the end, that was the only thing left to him. His life, his breath, his reason for being. He would wait, and he would have his revenge.
Everyone made mistakes eventually.
Chapter 1
“I won’t do it.”
Leisa sank every bit of her considerable stubbornness into that refusal, but it made no difference.
The king didn’t even turn from the window, only shrugged beneath the concealing folds of his shabby, ill-fitting robe. “You will.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed, but it was the first time their argument had carried quite so much weight. At the conviction in his voice, Leisa’s grip on the dagger at her waist grew tighter, and the leather-bound hilt grew slick with sweat beneath her palm. Normally, she found the presence of her favorite weapon reassuring, but a dagger was useless in a battle like this one.
King Soren of Farhall had saved her life, so she couldn’t exactly stab him for making an absurd request. She just had to make him see that this was the worst idea he’d ever had.
“Your Majesty, you know I’m committed to protecting Her Highness, but what you’re asking isn’t a job for a bodyguard.”
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, so she rolled her eyes. As respectfully as possible.
“Yes, I know your daughter well, but I wasn’t born to this life. You need one of her ladies. Someone who understands politics and diplomacy. That person? It’s not me.”
The king turned away from the window to face her fully. “And yet, none of them can do what you can do.”
Leisa winced, both inside and out. By unspoken agreement, they never, ever mentioned her magic, even though it was probably the real reason she’d come to live in the palace in the first place.
No one knew where she was from. She had only vague memories of arriving in Farhall with her parents when she was about five. Not old enough to remember their journey, but old enough to recall the feelings of grief and terror and isolation when her parents disappeared one night, leaving her cold and alone with only a dagger for protection. More than old enough for the wound of their loss to become a scar—from eighteen years of wondering whether they’d left on purpose. Whether they’d chosen to abandon their daughter with strangers rather than raise her themselves.
Leisa was far from the only orphan in the capital city of Arandar, but in her case, King Soren had made the inexplicable decision to take her in. She’d grown up in the well-worn stone halls of the royal palace, as comfortable in the throne room as she was in the stables.
The weight of that debt lay heavy on her shoulders, but she wasn’t about to let the king cash it in for this. Yes, her magic was unusual, but hardly powerful or awe-inspiring, and magic alone wouldn’t be enough for what he wanted.