“Also quiet and meek and invisible,” Leisa admitted with a sigh. “It’s why they chose you. Because they thought you’d be easily controlled.”
“Thought?” Evaraine settled herself onto the closest chair and pulled her feet up beneath her robes. “I take it they no longer believe this to be the case?”
“I swear I tried,” Leisa protested. “But I did warn His Majesty that I wasn’t going to be any good at diplomacy. Or at keeping my mouth shut.”
The princess shrugged. “I suppose it’s for the best. And do you know why King Melger wants Farhall? It can’t be for economic reasons.”
“He hates mages and magic,” Leisa told her bluntly. “Once he has the power to do so without repercussions, he intends to wipe them out.”
“And does Prince Vaniell share his father’s prejudices?” Evaraine asked, her tone carefully neutral.
“I suppose the only answer I have is that I wish I knew the answer,” Leisa returned wearily. “Vaniell is an enigma. He’s as obsessed with his clothes and his parties and his flirting as we already assumed, but there’s something more to him. Something he hides. He preaches the same dogma as his father, but he isn’t entirely in Melger’s pocket, though even I don’t know what that means. That entire palace is full of secrets and hidden agendas, and, frankly, it made me itch.”
“That was probably the corset,” Evaraine said, her lips twisted wryly.
Leisa couldn’t help a gurgle of laughter. Her princess had never been quite this funny before. Or maybe they’d simply never had much to talk about before. But it was strangely difficult to maintain the proper distance when she’d spent weeks living in Evaraine’s very uncomfortable shoes.
“Do you think I should marry Vaniell?” Evaraine asked abruptly.
“I don’t believe it matters what I think.” Leisa shrugged. “And if we’re being honest with each other, it may not even matter what you think. Garimore knows we were spying on them, and they’re likely sending an army even now. It may be a matter of marriage or war, though I believe either would be disastrous for Farhall.”
“Sounds like a no to me,” Evaraine observed.
Leisa saw little point in glossing over the truth. “If I married him, I would have to kill him.”
“And Danric?” The princess’s question seemed a little too nonchalant.
“What of him?”
“You had not yet mentioned him, so I was curious.”
Leisa thought it was more than curiosity, but couldn’t imagine what Evaraine might wish to know.
“He’s gruff, overbearing, and abrupt,” she said. “Honest to the point of rudeness, but he seems to be straightforward and hardworking, unlike his brother. I suspect Danric does and believes whatever his father tells him.”
Evaraine sighed a little too deeply. “Sounds like Danric,” she said oddly. “But I thank you for being honest with me. So few people are that I find it… refreshing.” She rose from her seat. “And now I suspect you are longing for sleep.”
“Your father said I’m not to leave until I’ve received instructions,” Leisa informed her. “But yes, I’m about to fall asleep on the floor.”
“Take the bed in my maid’s room.” Coming from a princess, it was more an order than a suggestion. “I will resume my usual activities, and my servants will no doubt be ordered to return. I’ll wake you if Father sends any word.”
“Thank you.” Leisa rose from the floor, feeling only a tiny twinge of guilt as she made her way to the promised bed, yanked off her boots, and sank into it with a groan. Kyrion was waiting, but he wouldn’t expect her immediately. He knew what she’d been through on the way here and was all too familiar with being forced to go without sleep.
And anyway, he only needed her for her magic, which wouldn’t return without plenty of rest. There would be time for Leisa to wait on the king’s decision and then say her goodbyes. Maybe even time to get answers to a few of her questions before she left Farhall behind, perhaps forever.
Chapter 2
After ten years of mage-crafted bondage, Kyrion ven Athanel was not as patient as he had once been. And if one were to ask his mother, she would likely confirm that he had never possessed much patience to begin with.
Except, perhaps, when he was hunting. But without his magic, he could no longer shift to hunt, which was eventually going to be a bigger problem than his lack of patience. He was hungry, and the stupidly enormous sword he’d carried as King’s Raven was hardly suitable for chasing down small game.
The only other blade in his possession was the dagger, and he would not use it for something so pedestrian as hunting. It was hers. Her most valued possession. Her promise that she would return.
Logically, Kyrion knew it was impossible for Leisa to have reached Arandar, completed her errand, and returned this quickly, but he still chafed at the delay. It bothered him that she was gone.
For weeks, he’d acted as her shadow. At first against his will, and later…Well, by the end, it had scarcely mattered. He would have followed her anyway, though he was no closer to understanding why. Protecting her had become his goal, rather than his directive, and now she was out of his reach. Surrounded by… humans.
Deep in the forests of Eddris, Kyrion paused by the bank of a lazy, slow-moving stream and eyed the eddies nearest the bank. Were there fish in there? Without his magic, he was reduced to determining the answer by sight alone, and such weakness was frustrating.
He should be feeling relief—a boundless well of disbelieving joy. He’d given up on dreams of escape, and yet here he was, finally alone in his own head. He’d left Garimore behind forever and was free to go wherever he chose.
And still, for some reason, all he could feel was frustration. He yearned to go home, and yet, how could he return without his magic? His people had no doubt given him up for dead long ago. If he wished to regain his rightful place, he could leave them in no doubt that he was every bit as powerful as he had been when he disappeared.
Which meant that he waited.
And waited.
Stripping off his boots, Kyrion stepped into the stream, which was deeper than it appeared—perfect for a little moonlight fishing. He sank down into the water and grew still. Soon, he was just another part of the forest—a tree stump, a strangely shaped rock, or even a passing shadow.
Young river trout began to emerge from hiding and swim nervously by—unsure of him but unable to sense him as a threat. They were too small, so Kyrion continued to wait. Eventually, the larger fish also lost their wariness and drifted closer, and that was when Kyrion struck.
The sharpened stick concealed in his hand became an impromptu spear and pinned one fat, wriggling fish to the stream bed.
Dinner.
With a few quick motions, he retrieved the fish, returned to shore, and gutted it. He returned the offal to the water to be food for some other creature, wrapped the fish in clean leaves, and headed back towards his camp.
To human eyes, the forest would have been too dark to traverse, but night elves thrived by moonlight. He could see every twig, every blade of grass, and had no difficulty noting either the fisher cat watching him from halfway up a tree or the black fox that paused in its flight to sniff the air.