A country like Syhl Shallow.
The curtain flutters at the window, and in the distance, I see the charred remnants of another destroyed town. My throat tightens. Mother’s soldiers were thorough.
I look back at my sister. “What makes you think the prince will even grant us an audience?”
“Mother has information he wants.” Her fingers fly through the fabric. “Do you remember, months ago, when that enchantress came to the Crystal Palace?”
I do. The woman had beautiful alabaster skin framed by silken black tresses, and a gown of the deepest blue. When she first appeared, claiming to be a magesmith, Mother had laughed in her face, but the woman caused one of her guards to collapse at her feet without laying a hand on him. Mother granted an audience after that. They disappeared into the throne room for hours.
Nolla Verin and I had hung back to whisper about it. You didn’t have to be a great student of history to know that anyone with magic had been driven out of the Iishellasa ice forests decades ago. They used their magic to cross the Frozen River, then asked to settle in Syhl Shallow, but my grandmother refused. They sought shelter in Emberfall—where they were granted asylum, but later, after some kind of trickery on the king, they were all executed.
Except, apparently, the enchantress.
“Of course,” I say. “She was the last one.”
My sister shakes her head. “Apparently another survived somehow. Mother told me last night while we were preparing for our journey.”
Of course Mother told her, and not me. Because Nolla Verin is the heir.
I am not jealous. My sister will make a great queen.
I swallow. “Another survived?”
“Yes. She was seeking the other.”
“Why?”
“Because he is more than a man with magic in his blood.” She pierces the fabric with her needle. Scarlet thread flies through the white silk like a bleeding wound. “The other magesmith is the true heir to the throne of Emberfall.”
I gasp. “Truly?”
“Yes.” Her eyes flash. Nolla Verin loves a good bit of gossip. “But the prince has no idea who he is.”
What a scandal. Magic is no more welcome in Emberfall than it was in Syhl Shallow. I wonder if Rhen’s people know. I wonder how they will react.
I imagine living the rest of my life like this, learning information about warring kingdoms like a dog seeking scraps beside a butcher’s block.
I swallow again. “Does Mother know who the heir is?”
“No. Before she left, the enchantress said there was only one man who knows his identity.”
“Who?”
“The commander of the prince’s guard.” She ties off her thread and snaps it with her teeth. “A man named Grey.”
By nightfall, we are miles from the last town we’ve passed, and my mother orders the guards to stop and make camp. If we were traveling through Syhl Shallow, large tents would be erected for our comfort, but here in Emberfall, we must be discreet.
Nolla Verin and I share a narrow tent. Sorra and Parrish, my guards, have spread blankets along the ground to make a round space resembling a nest of pillows and blankets. We haven’t shared a space like this since we were very young, and I’m grateful for the chance to be close again.
My sister has already reclined among her pillows, and her eyes narrow mischievously. “These blankets are quite soft. Are you certain you would not prefer to share them with Parrish?”
My cheeks flare with heat. It was one thing to joke in the privacy of our carriage. Entirely another to say such things when the man in question stands on the other side of an opaque length of fabric. Being named heir has emboldened her—just as it’s stripped away some of my own confidence.
“Hush,” I whisper at her.
Her smile widens. “I am merely asking. It may make for a more interesting evening.”
I glance at Parrish’s shadow on the other side of the curtain, then shift closer to Nolla Verin. “I believe he fancies Sorra.”
Her eyebrows go up. “You do?”
I arrange the blankets around me carefully and force my voice to be bored, because I do not want her to needle my guards. “I have long suspected.”
I have done more than suspect. A year ago, during the midwinter celebration, I found Parrish and Sorra kissing in the wooded darkness beyond our palace. They broke apart hurriedly, stars in their eyes and a blush on Sorra’s pale cheeks.
“Do not stop on my account,” I said to them, then turned and fled back to the party before my own blush could flare.
No man has ever looked at me the way Parrish was looking at Sorra. I thought about that kiss far longer than I’d admit.
Sorra is always cool and distant, stoic and fierce like all the guards, with her brown hair bound into a tight braid that hangs trapped beneath her armor. She wears no adornments on her lean body, no kohl darkens her eyes or rouge brightens her cheeks, but anyone can see the gentle beauty in her face. Parrish is equally lean, slighter of build than many of the men, but he’s quick and skilled. Many think he is quiet, but I know he’s simply careful with his words. When I’m alone with my guards, he’s rather funny. In fact, he can often pull a smile out of Sorra with barely more than a glance.
My sister is studying me. Her voice finally drops until it is almost inaudible. “Lia Mara. Do you fancy Parrish?”
“What? No! Of course not.”
Her eyes scrutinize my face. “Do you fancy Sorra?”
“No.” I finally meet her eyes. “I fancy …” My voice trails off, and I sigh.
“Who?” She giggles and shifts closer. “Oh, you must tell me.”
“I fancy the idea of a man fancying me.” My blush deepens. “I fancy the idea of a companion.”
“Ugh.” She rolls onto her back, disappointed. “You are a princess, Lia Mara. They all fancy you.”
That is decidedly untrue. No man at court seeks a woman who would rather discuss extensive strategy or ancient mythology than display her skills on the battlefield—or in a ballroom. “I do not want a man to fancy me because I am Karis Luran’s daughter. I do not want someone’s attention because he believes I will bring him political favor in our mother’s court.”
“Well. That is all the women of our bloodline are worth to any man.”
Her voice is so practical—this doesn’t seem to bother her at all. Maybe she wasn’t teasing about bedding the prince or asking me to experience it first so I can describe it to her. Maybe my sister looks at such a thing as just another royal obligation. Something else to practice so she can be perfect.
I flop down on the blankets beside her, staring up at the darkening panels of fabric. “This is why I am far more enamored of the men in my stories.”
“Oh, I am certain those dry pages keep you quite warm at night.”
“You’re so vulgar.” I giggle and turn my head to look at her.
She makes a lewd gesture and grins. I smack her hand away, and she laughs.
I know she will make an exceptional queen, but I want to remember my sister just like this, with a soft smile only for me, no vicious determination in her gaze.
A shout echoes through the camp, followed by more yelling, and then a girl screams. A man speaks rapidly in the common tongue of Emberfall, his accent much thicker than the one our tutor has. It takes me a moment to parse out the words.