The dagger they left behind was her only link to them, and she treasured it almost as much as she feared it. What if she used it to track them down and discovered that her suspicions were correct—that they’d abandoned her on purpose? What if she hadn’t imagined their horror at her magic? What if looking for her family only revealed how alone she truly was?
For the past eighteen years, Leisa had buried those questions by pretending she’d found a true home and a true family. And she’d believed King Soren thought of her the same way, but he’d proven her hopes to be mere fabrications. So what did she have to lose?
She would do this thing. She would do it, and she would survive, and then, when her debts were paid, she would walk away without a backward glance. In the end, alone was better than finding out everything she believed in was a lie.
But she would accomplish her task first, because Evaraine didn’t deserve to be used any more than Leisa did. The princess was more than just a tool to be traded for her kingdom’s security. She deserved to at least be respected and valued, so perhaps Leisa’s last act as her bodyguard could be to ensure that she would be well cared for in the future.
So when a gloved hand thrust itself into the doorway of the carriage, it was not just for herself that Leisa rose to accept it. It was for Evaraine too. For the both of them. Soren might choose to pretend he had never been anything to Leisa but a king, but there were some things he could never take back.
He had taught her to despise bullies and protect the weak, and that’s exactly what she would do. Even if it meant protecting his own daughter from a plan that could aid her kingdom, but at far too high a cost.
Chapter 2
A princess does not descend from a carriage on her own.
With Evaraine’s words echoing in her ears, Leisa resisted the urge to grit her teeth or wrinkle her nose and rested her own hand lightly upon the white-gloved one of a member of her honor guard. With her other hand grasping her skirts, she stepped out and down, into the full light of day, somehow without tripping over the carriage steps.
It was a small victory, but a much-needed one. Except once she was out, she wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to do next.
Ah. The gloved hand. Leisa turned to its owner, seeking guidance, and was relieved to see that Zander had taken on the role of her escort.
Tall, muscular, competent, and the leader of Evaraine’s Honor Guard, Zander was in his late thirties. There was gray in his tightly curled black hair, and a scar cutting across the weathered brown skin of his cheek, testifying to his many years of service. Despite having known the princess nearly since birth, on this occasion, he held himself aloof, and kept his opinions tightly locked behind fathomless dark eyes.
To his right was Kip—young, lightly tanned and blonde, with fierce blue eyes that screamed his anger to the world. He was too well trained to do anything to jeopardize this mission, but Leisa knew he hated the necessity of this alliance as much as she did.
He’d also been in love with Princess Evaraine for the past two years, a fact of which the princess herself was entirely ignorant.
Leisa, however, was not. In fact, he’d confessed the whole thing to her over drinks about a year ago, and now she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the way he looked at her. She felt as though she were taking advantage of him, or somehow cheating on the princess. Which was ridiculous, but then, this entire situation was ridiculous.
“Ready?” Zander whispered.
“No,” Leisa whispered back, honestly enough.
His mouth tightened, but he turned towards the steps and the palace, his shoulders rigid and his back perfectly straight.
Directly in front of them stood an unnecessarily tall man in a royal household uniform—all starched scarlet shoulders and polished jet buttons—who turned as if on well-oiled gears to lead them up the steps. Up all the steps, at the top of which Leisa could see two figures that glittered as though they were wearing most of their own treasury.
Perhaps they were. Garimore was, after all, the wealthiest kingdom on the continent, and seemed ever greedy for more. More wealth, more power, more territory. Perhaps no one else had yet begun to mutter the word “empire,” but Leisa knew King Soren had felt the weight of that possibility as he considered this alliance. Not that Melger would say so openly. Few among the Five Thrones had forgotten how their people had come to Abreia, and no one would welcome a return to any form of Imperial rule.
Leisa smothered a chill as she recalled her task here and concentrated on moving in the expected ways. Head high, steps small, displaying no strength or agility. Princess Everaine was known to be slight and delicate, so she took care to lean heavily on Zander as they ascended the steps, and forced her breathing to accelerate quickly.
But she did not stop or pause. There was only so much weakness she was willing to display in front of so many watching, weighing, judging eyes.
Particularly her potential fiancé’s.
Come to think of it, where was the man? There were only two royal figures at the top of the stairs, and as they drew closer, it was evident that both of them were older. Neither could be the proposed bridegroom, or even his elder brother, Danric, the heir to the Garimoran throne.
And where was the other man, the one King Soren had warned her about?
Evaraine’s father had attended Leisa’s “education” only once, appearing without warning while she was attempting to decipher the mysteries of the gavotte, a terrifying dance she could only pray she would not be called upon to perform.
He’d pulled her aside, looked at her with those piercing gray eyes, and handed her a tiny mirror.
She’d flinched, but he wrapped her fingers around it anyway.
“Only in an emergency, Leisa. Should your life be threatened.”
“I thought you said no one questions a princess,” she’d muttered back, wanting to drop the wretched mirror in the nearest hole and never look at it again. “Who do you expect to threaten my life?”
“There is a threat to your ruse perhaps even greater than any member of the royal court,” he said unexpectedly, looking somewhere over Leisa’s left shoulder—as if he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “He is almost always within earshot of King Melger, and they call him the King’s Raven. The royal bodyguard. He does not speak, and seems to exist only to do the king’s bidding. It is possible,” Soren admitted heavily, “that he is not a man at all beneath his mask and armor. But whatever he is, there are those who believe him to be the instrument of the king’s will in all matters regarding mages in Garimore.”
The king’s executioner was what Soren meant. The one who hunted and killed mages at the king’s command.
A pang of fear shot through Leisa as she recalled those words, and she nearly stumbled. But Zander held her up, and as they continued to climb the steps of the royal palace, she tried to surreptitiously scan the area for a dark, sinister figure. None, however, seemed in evidence, and all thoughts of ravens were soon driven out by a deeper panic as she suddenly remembered that she had only a dozen or so steps remaining before she would have to curtsy to the king.
Which curtsy was it?
Number thirty-two? No, that was for being presented to visiting royalty in her own court. Forty-one? No, not that one either. That one was only for formal state presentations, which she didn’t think this was, exactly.