“‘I could probably line this hall with an unhealthy growth of dogwoods,’” Doneil quoted. “Seriously—what the fuck, Catrin?”

She grimaced. Not this again. “Look, I was a little busy trying not to die. Say what you like.”

She stifled a yawn. Above her, a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the tree canopy, making the dappled sunlight sway and dance. Hard to believe that, just two days ago, they had been at the edge of their lives, fighting against a demon intent on corrupting the forests’ very existence—that, even now, his fortress still stood, the corruption a sick and strange juxtaposition to this wood, the river flooding around it.

There, her woodcraft had jangled with every odd, acrid moment of it. Here, the forest seemed unchanged. Peaceful, but restless with the growth of spring.

She could see Pemberlin through the trees now, less than a mile away, white and clean against its forest backdrop, smoke from the kitchen lifting into the air in a calm trail.

It had taken longer to get out of the demon fortress than it had to get in. After the battle that had left Grobitzsnak dead and the rest of his undead legion with him, the few live demons remaining in the castle had largely avoided them. Despite her dig, they had not passed the library again, and instead had wandered the halls until they’d chased down and threatened a demon for directions. The horses had wandered from where they’d left them, but she’d expected that. Her woodcraft had started working the moment she set foot back on Gaian soil, so it had taken little time to find them. Every so often, she traded off her mare to Matteo, who had proven a capable rider, albeit trained in a different style.

On the way back, they’d spent the night at Sannya’s farmhouse. The women had been delighted to see Matteo again. Together, she and Sannya’s two daughters had gotten most of the blood and gore out of her armor and fighting wraps. She’d spent nearly an hour at the side of the washbasin with a leather strap, trying to get the grime out of her dirty sheaths.

It wasn’t perfect, but she felt better. Fresher. Clean.

And now, they were almost at Pemberlin. It was almost over.

She let out a breath and relaxed into the movement of her horse. The castle’s walls and fields flickered in and out of view behind a dense thicket of bush, bramble, and trees that lined the trail. Birds sang and rustled within it, and a small stream whispered from down the slope.

Ahead, Prince Nales glanced back. Then, he reined his horse back and circled to move at pace with her.

Her mare swished her tail.

“You plan to go back to the Raidt after this?”

Her jaw muscles clenched, already sensing where this was going.

This was not a topic she wanted to talk about.

“I’m Twelfth Circle,” she bit out. “There will be a messenger waiting for me with an order of recall when we arrive.”

Nales looked over at her, his eyebrows arching. “A messenger? Not a bird?”

If they’d sent a bird or wire, it would have arrived by the end of the vigil.

“No. My rank warrants a more official touch.”

He looked her over. She could feel his examination, shrewd, calculating, weighing the meaning behind what she’d said.

“They want to make sure you come back,” he concluded.

“No. It’s an honor.” Her face twisted. She bared her teeth. “I don’t expect a Cizek like you to understand.”

“Oh, believe me—of all people, I understand.” The fervor of his tone shocked her into looking at him. A hard, angry expression twisted his face. His hands gripped hard on the reins. “They threw you away, Catrin. It’s that simple, and that complicated.”

She stiffened up again, staring straight ahead. A hot bubble of anger fluttered in her gut.

“I have a duty, Prince.”

“Right now, that duty is to me.”

“Yes. Enjoy it while it lasts.” She nodded up the trail, to where Pemberlin’s not-so-distant white walls were visible through the foliage. “You have another ten minutes, at most.”

His gaze slid away. In her peripheral vision, he straightened, keeping his focus ahead. He said nothing for a long minute, but he kept his horse apace with hers, stewing in the silence. Behind them, Doneil and Matteo had fallen into silence, Doneil no doubt listening keenly to all of this.

Then, finally, Nales spoke.

“I know how these things work—I’ve seen it done. You’ll be recalled because they can’t afford to lose your skills, but you are still an embarrassment to the crown. Likely, they’ll shunt you into some menial, embarrassing task. More likely, they’ll pretend nothing is wrong. You’ll go back to your duty as Prince Tarris’ guard, and he’ll order you as he sees fit. I know his type. If he’s like my brother, it won’t be pleasant, nor honorable.” His gaze turned to her. “I also have a duty, and I could use a good fighter.”

“Ah, yes,” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. “I would be an excellent tool to further your family’s exploits.”

“My family already owns you,” he reminded her. “If they wanted, they could pluck you right out of the Raidt and put you to task guarding our walls.” He let out a breath. “I don’t intend to rejoin my family.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. “Then what do you intend to do?”

“Fix the gates. Seal the demons away.” His mouth twitched. A grim determination filled his expression. “My ancestor did it once. There must be a way to do it again.”

“You’re not a great and powerful demon,” she said.

“No, but there are other ways to use magic.”

She chewed the side of her tongue, thinking. “The light elves are your best bet. They have the best command of magic, and likely a good idea of what happened to the gates.” She frowned. “But they’re cloistered. They protect their cities. They won’t let you in…”

Her mouth halted the second her mind clicked into where he was going.

They wouldn’t let him in without an elf. Without her.

She closed up and shut her face down. “No. I have a duty.”

In her peripheral vision, he straightened and rolled his shoulders. For a long moment, he said nothing.

In the near distance, Pemberlin’s walls drew closer.

“I have to find out what happened to the gates,” Nales said. “I could use you—not just because you are an elf, but because the world is dangerous, and I don’t doubt that someone will be after my life before this is over, and there are precious few I trust not to double-cross me. But I won’t call you into service against your will. Please, do me the favor and at least consider it.”

He nudged his horse forward, picking up an easy canter. Her horse tried to follow, but she reined her back and let him go. They were a half mile from the castle. He wouldn’t get into trouble.

The group fell into silence. For several long minutes, only the sound of the birds, the clomp of hoofbeats, and the stamp of Matteo’s steady stride filled the air.

After a few minutes, the hoofbeats from Doneil’s horse picked up their pace. He slid into the place Nales had vacated. They rode in silence for a minute.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“Catrin,” he began.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Fine, but at least consider it. You’ve spent the last month starving yourself, punishing your body for something that is not your fault. If you go back, you’ll be right back to square one. Tarris violated your bloodline contract the moment he forced you to defend yourself. Rnari are not slaves for the royal court. Go with him. Don’t be blind over some bullshit blood oath. Take the out. I think Nales will do something much more worthwhile for your skills. You’re not bladesworn. Not yet.”

With that, he, too, urged his horse into a trot.

She watched him disappear around the bend.

It took a minute for the birdsong to return. She sat back in the saddle, trying to relax to her mare’s movements, but it was like a spring had coiled up inside of her. She gritted her teeth, her hands tightening on the reins.

A shadow appeared by her side. Matteo, his steps smooth as water. He looked up at her. In the dappled light, his eyes didn’t flash—she suspected that was only something they did during battle or at night—but there was no mistaking him for anything other than a soldier. He made eye contact and held a hand up, waving it like a boat on the water, asking if she was okay.

She chuckled and slumped back in the saddle, tilting her head back until she was staring at the canopy slowly going by.

No, she wasn’t okay. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.

They arrived at Pemberlin ten minutes later, and Matteo’s face changed from one of relaxation to one of serious and minor concern. Her gaze flicked through the courtyard, spotting Treng by the palace steps, speaking with one of the inner house managers. She directed her mare toward the tie rings by the stables, where the other two were already untacking, and slid into the spot next to Nales.

“Hey,” she said to him. “You think you can do it? Figure out the gates?”

“No, but I would like to try.” His eyes flicked over her, wary, examining her. “Are you considering it?”

At the tie behind him, Doneil went still.

Suns.

Her body stiffened. She shook her head.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t abandon my people.”

“We’re not abandoning them. We’re trying to save them.”

“Yes, it sure feels that way,” she said, her tone dry. She used the dismount to turn her back to him and let out a deep breath, sagging until her forehead rested on the saddle. “I already have a strike against me. This could ruin my career.”

“I doubt that. Most likely, they’ll want you for intel on the Cizeks. Rnari have done missions for us before.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that—paid missions, and not with the Raidt on war footing.” She turned around. “It would be easier for you to get into the Light Elves if I’m with you.”

“Yes. It would. I also receive the occasional assassination attempt. You would be beneficial in negating that.”

Her head snapped up. “Assassination attempt?”

He gave her a grim smile. “There’s a reason I had Bellfort with me.”

A coldness sucked at her chest.

Bellfort.

Across the courtyard, Treng finished his conversation with the inner house manager and strode over. She watched him come.

“You don’t have to tell the Raidt, Catrin,” Doneil muttered from behind his horse’s head loud enough for her to hear. “We can just pretend he forced you into it. He is a Cizek prince.”

“Yes. I’d get more points with my family for heavy-handedness,” Nales said, his voice dry.

“Shut up,” she told them.

“Merry and bright, Catrin li Ternadon. Please, bring me your tidings of blood.”

Treng’s accent curled around his words, cutting and deceptively cheerful, the mix of greetings a deliberate edge to his domesticity. Like usual, Severn Treng was a slash of violence against the scenery. It hung in his walk, the bright, strong stride that ate a deceptively large amount of the ground, and the smile that seemed to have an edge to it.

Mostly, it was his sharpness that gave him that edge. The man noticed everything.

He paused as he came to Matteo, stopping a pace away and giving him an obvious looking over. “And who is this?”

Catrin took a breath, then let it back out.

Where in the ten hells should she begin?

Might as well give it to him all at once.

“This is Matteo. We found him in a farmhouse on the way to the portal, where he had killed two demons on his own and suffered major injuries. We ran into a greater demon. He abducted Prince Nales, but we rescued him and, with the help of a royal fey hunting party, killed the demon and his undead horde and closed the gate.” She paused. “Matteo is an excellent soldier with a strange firearm and optical gear and likely comes from another world. We’ve tried six different languages with him to no avail. We think he speaks a variant of Gatali.”

Treng paused, digested this. He took a quarter turn and gave Matteo another, longer examination.

He asked a question, his words slipping into a seamless Gatali. Matteo answered, eyeing the other man. The corner of Treng’s lips twitched, one of his scars twisting, and he switched into a second language, his sentence longer this time.

A broad smile broke out over Matteo’s face. He stepped in, speaking faster, and Treng smiled.

“You were almost correct. He speaks Catalon. Not a variant, but with many similar words.” Treng’s expression turned thoughtful, his eyes glimmering. “Come see me later. I will speak with him.”

She let out a sigh of relief as Treng made a gesture and the two of them walked away, the speed of their conversation increasing.

Finally, one thing that had gone right.

Movement came from the castle. The side door opened, and Geneve slipped out in a quick walk, heading straight for her. She wore the same cut of dress as she had before, simple and homely, going straight down from her hips. As usual, an elegant braid wound through her hair, deceptively simple.

“Oh, thank Abier—I’ve been so worried. I—” She stopped, frowned as her attention caught on Treng and Matteo. “Who is that?”

Catrin glanced over. “That’s Matteo. We picked him up.”

“Huh.” Geneve watched them for a minute, then turned back to her. Her gaze went up, and her mouth formed an ‘o.’ “Gods, what have you done with my hair?”

Her hair. Not Catrin’s.

“Ah.” Catrin lifted a hand, winced as it came in contact with a braid of dried blood. “Well, you see…”

“Were there a lot of demons?” she asked. “Did you kill them? Avenge Bellfort?”

Ah…

“Yes.” Catrin gave her a sharp nod. “The braids served me well.”

“Good.” Geneve beamed at her and patted her pauldron. She let out a sigh. “There’s a messenger here for you. They arrived a few days back.”

Catrin’s insides froze. “An elf?”

“Yes.”

As if on cue, the main door to the castle opened. The messenger, dressed in Raidt green and definitely an elf, came out and descended the stairs.

She tensed. A flicker went through her, an image of Prince Tarris too close to her; the bored, judging expressions of the Council. The way her father’s face had tensed up from behind the king’s throne.

Already, she felt her heart race, her jaws clench up.

But it wasn’t fear, this time. It was anger.

“Is something wrong?” Geneve’s expression faltered. “Have they come to take you away?”

Her teeth ground together, watching the messenger approach.

Fuck it. She wasn’t bladesworn yet. They’d had her service. And Nales would need her to get into the Light.

Slowly, she slid her gaze until it met his. His expression was shuttered. Waiting.

“Fine,” she said to him. “I accept your offer.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She eyed the oncoming messenger, her heart picking up a beat. “I’m not swearing my loyalty to you,” she told him. “This isn’t a blade swearing.”

“I know,” he said.

The messenger was closing in. “You should probably do it quickly. Before he gets to us.”

Nales came around the end of his horse, and drew his sword in a whisper of metal and wood, blocking her sight of the messenger. “Kneel.”

She hesitated. Then went down. Geneve gave a startled gasp. “What in the stars—”

She stilled as he brought the blade to bear and tilted her head up, offering him her naked throat. The tip of his blade pressed against it a second later.

“Catrin li Ternadon, servant of the Raidt, Undersworn of the house Cizek. I call you into service.”