“Two Raidt elves protecting a Cizek prince,” Doneil drawled. “No one would believe this.”
Her eyebrow twitched. This wasn’t his first attempt at small talk. So far, they’d ridden in relative silence—neither she nor the prince had spoken a word. Her flat gaze strayed to the back of Prince Nales’ head, wondering what he was thinking—though that was pretty obvious. He’d stated his opinions quite clearly in the courtyard yesterday.
He barely gave indication that he heard the comment, instead staring ahead at the road, or into the trees.
Some of last night’s irritation bubbled up through her bones.
She let out a sigh and pressed it back down. “Hell has boiled over.”
And she was uniquely qualified to guard a royal, she reminded herself. It was, after all, what she’d trained her entire life for.
Prince Nales just happened to be the wrong royal.
Bright tits. How did my life turn so upside down?
That, at least, she knew the answer to. Her hands tightened on the reins as the memory of drink-touched eyes came to her, never far from her mind. His hand grasping her elbow to bring her up short, a quick snap of bone in the dark. The Council meeting after.
Elrya.
She shook the memory off and refocused her attention on the road. It was damp, muddy in places, making the horses’ hooves suck when they lifted, but a fresh breeze tilted through the leaves and branches, and the smell of smoke, both from the castle and from the neighboring towns, lingered only faintly. Instead, the aroma of fresh grass and spring soil filled the air. Tall stands of maple mixed in with ash and poplar along the route, wetting their feet in the spring that ran close to the side of the road, their branches green-tipped with new buds. A dogwood tree stood out among the rest, its broad, blatant flowers calling to her, and an itch of magic graced her skin—along with an inward cringe.
Dogwoods were the symbol of her family’s line. And maples belonged to Raidt royalty.
She must have been staring at the dogwood too long, because Doneil noticed. And, as usual, he was far too good at drawing inference.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, switching to elven.
She let out a sigh. “That’s never a good sign.”
She turned her gaze to the dappled branches above in exasperation before settling it back on the road again, the switch to elven already giving her a clue as to what he wanted to talk about.
Ahead, the prince had stiffened—subtly, in a way a casual onlooker wouldn’t notice, but she did. Though he still stared at the road, he no longer glanced toward the trees, and she could almost feel his attention on them.
She wondered if he knew elven. He had admitted to reading a little mercari, after all, and she couldn’t imagine a person in his position not coming across it in their studies.
“Shush. I think you can get out of your bloodline contract.”
A snort escaped her. “One does not simply get out of bloodline contracts. That’s kind of the point of them.”
“It’s been done before. And you’re not bladesworn yet.”
She let out a sigh, drifting her gaze up to the tree canopy once again, annoyed this time. She had a feeling she’d be hearing his idea whether she liked it or not.
“Fai li Gioni was bloodlined and bladesworn before she left on her campaign,” he said.
“Yes, and so was Jinir the Betrayer. Look what that got him.”
“Of the two, you resemble Fai more.”
“Why? Did I acquire great mountain-taming strength while I was sleeping? Knowledge of special fey springs with which to heal mortal wounds on secret kings?” Disgust laced her tone, and a familiar wrenching made itself known in her chest. It was useless to contemplate anything different, especially when the wound was so fresh. She was already skating on thin ice from last night. Very tense, thin ice. She didn’t even bother to hide the sneer she aimed at him. “Come now, you know the Council politics as well as I. Nothing short of becoming apostate will remove me from that position—and that is something I will not do.”
His sigh was equally exasperated. “Do you really want to go back and guard that prince?”
She gritted her teeth. “The Council seems to think it’s a good idea.”
“The Council is full of fools. The royals control them outright.”
This time, she did glance around. With speeches like that, said in the open, in a forest no less—it was no wonder Doneil had decided to leave the rnari.
“You’re not bladesworn,” he reminded her.
No, she had not made that oath—not yet. No one could call her an oathbreaker and be truthful about it. But she was bloodlined, and that in itself was a promise. Her family line had been guarding Raidt royalty ever since they’d come down from Mount Sinya and split with the light—she could trace her lineage back directly to both Isplin and Verdamor, who had turned swords and taken assassins in the tumultuous early days of the Raidt. Her father was bladesworn of the king, and his father before that. Her mother had guarded both Ceciline and Hyuir in the queen’s nursery.
She’d been training all her life to match them—and she was good. A risen star among the rnari blades.
Until she’d broken Prince Tarris’ hand.
“As I was saying,” Doneil continued, drawing a flicker of annoyance from her. “Acts of heroism seem to smooth over sins. You should do a few of those. Then pretend you forgot about the whole unwritten ‘protect royalty’ expectation in your family bloodline. You know, really play up the rnari ‘protect the weak’ edict.”
“If I did that, Prince Tarris would be at the top of the weak list,” she muttered.
Stunned silence met her words. She froze, horror slowly washing over her.
The blood drained from her face, and the breath whooshed out of her. She turned wide eyes on Doneil, her jaw slackening. “I did not just say that.”
“Catrin,” He was grinning, yellow-gold eyes sparking with mischief. She could feel the glee coming off him—like light dancing from a fire. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
The blood rushed back into her skin. She dropped her head and swore.
“No one can know I said that. No one.” She narrowed her eyes up to Doneil, lancing him with a look. “If I hear so much as a whisper, I swear to Elrya’s bright tits I will end you.”
“Is this the thanks I get for all that healing I’ve given you, Twelfth Circle?” His tone began mocking, but quickly shifted into a laughing defense when she growled at him. “Okay, okay, your treasonous words are safe. I didn’t hear one whit. You are the perfect paragon of an obedient rnari warrior.”
It took all of her control not to hit him.
It was hard. He was in easy reach.
Perfect paragon. Hah. From what she’d heard in the rnari ranks, she had been one. Selfless, devoted to duty and regime, bold and proactive, never disobeying—never even questioning.
Not until Prince Tarris had cornered her alone against a wall. Not until he had pushed where he shouldn’t have.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Her body tensed as the memory slipped back into her mind. Just a light touch on her elbow, the twist in her abdomen when she realized his intentions, her propensity to not think twice and just trust her instincts, the faces of the Council after, tearing her apart—
“In all seriousness, though—” Doneil’s voice cut through the memory like a saw knife, the smoothed syllables of his elven an odd familiarity on such a human road. “—there might be a way out of your unwritten bloodline contract.”
“If you’re talking about heroism, then doesn’t doing a heroic deed for selfish reasons negate the heroic value?”
He chuckled. “If that were the case, I doubt half of them would have gotten done. Pure of heart and intention—how many beings do you think have that as their sole motivation? I’d wager sheer, stubborn pettiness is a greater motivator.”
“Unless loss of life is involved,” she said, then turned her tone lighter, as if considering, sarcasm lacing her vowels. “In that case, it could work. I am quite petty.”
“It’s true, you are. However, in all seriousness, there may be an actual way out. You know, one that doesn’t involve nigh-impossible acts—”
“Oh, come on,” she said, switching to Janessi with a glance to the prince ahead of them—they were being rude, and she’d let this go on long enough. “Enough of this.”
A farm was coming up ahead on the road, the homestead visible through the trees, three people at its side, all looking their way. A trail of gray-white smoke floated out of the chimney. As she watched, the tallest of the three broke away from the others and started up the road, their pace hurried.
Lone. Female. Farmer. Low threat level.
“No, no, hear me out.” Doneil spoke the first in Janessi, glanced to the prince, and switched back to elven. “It’s the undersworn loophole.”
“The undersworn…” Her brows drew together in confusion as she searched her mind—then shot into her forehead. A wave of shocked giddiness exploded in her chest and she burst into laughter. “Are you serious? Holy Elrya, could you imagine the looks on the Council’s faces if I did that? On old Tommin’s? Bright tits, man, I think half of them would write my name on their lavatory cob. The rnari would use it as target practice.”
By technicality, all of the Raidt were undersworn to the Cizek bloodline—an unhappy by-product of the demon-sword days. It hadn’t been obeyed or enforced in two hundred years, but it still existed, and, notably, the Raidt had not made a move against the Cizeks in all that time.
Well, no open moves, anyway.
Elves were nothing if not wily.
But the fact that it still existed—in writing, no less, which was more than could be said for her bloodline contract—meant that, technically, any of the Cizek line were as eligible for her blade-swearing loyalty as the Raidt line.
She could toss the Raidt crown prince for the Cizek second-in-line.
“It would get you away from Tarris,” Doneil said, as if reading her mind.
She snorted. “It might be worth it for that alone.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched her, eyebrows lifting.
“I didn’t say that,” she added.
“Of course you didn’t.” He shot her a grin, yellow eyes flashing with good humor. “I personally think it’s a great idea. It’d piss off the Council, fulfill your unspoken oath, and send a message to Tarris.”
“I’m not sure I want to send a message to him.”
“Oh, no, I know you want to—you’re just not sure you should.”
She pinned him with a stare. His grin only widened.
“You are a troublemaker,” she told him, switching back to Janessi.
He snorted, also switching. “You’re the one who gave me the idea. I just voiced it.”
“Some things are meant to be kept to oneself. Especially concerning certain matters.” She held up a finger when it looked like he was going to speak again. “I’m starting to understand why you’re at a human castle rather than in the Raidt.”
“What can I say? I dislike politics. And you are already doing it, even if the notion hadn’t crossed your pretty little head.”
Her stare narrowed, and his face took on a mock-sobriety, one hand rising as if to fend off an impending blow. “Fine. I’ll be quiet.”
Experience made her very much doubt that, but she lowered her hand anyway.
“I think I liked your idea of become a rnari nun better.”
“Someone’s coming,” said Prince Nales.
Up ahead, a middle-aged woman in a dark-colored homespun dress—a closer version of the figure she’d seen earlier—was walking up the side of the road toward them, the objects of her attention clear in the hesitant gaze that turned their way. It irked her that the prince had voiced her presence, as if she and Doneil had been too caught up in conversation to do their jobs properly. His tone had held a slight edge to it, as if in rebuke.
“She’s from the farmhouse,” she said, giving the woman an irritated glance-over. “There are two others, at least, both smaller.”
“Must have heard us coming,” Doneil said with a grin.
She skewered him with a glare—no, they hadn’t been quiet in the past few minutes—then nudged her horse to walk faster, soon catching up to Prince Nales. The woman saw this and faltered, wringing her hands, eyes widening obviously when she took in Catrin’s non-human looks and the lay of her armor.
With the prince leading, it had likely been easier to overlook the two elves at his back. Now, she was forced to address them. To see them.
Catrin felt a momentary pang of regret. In this part, elves may be an uncommon sight, but rnari were even rarer.
And intimidating.
That made her frown.
We shouldn’t be like that. We’re meant to protect the weak, not harass them.
Prince Nales directed his horse ahead, loosening the reins so that the gelding stretched his neck out. “Do you need something?”
His tone was warm, friendly. When she glanced over, his expression had shifted. His normal shuttered frown had vanished, replaced by a hesitant smile and a quiet curiosity that sparked in his eyes.
Shy and gentle, but welcoming. Open.
It surprised her.
The woman hesitated. Her wide eyes stayed locked on Catrin for a moment longer, then switched to the prince. She wrung her hands again, but the motion seemed more half-hearted this time, relaxing. She took a step forward, emboldened, and her tone turned up in a hopeful cant.
“Are you from the castle?”
Pemberlin, she meant, not Pristav Castle in Lorka. Not unless she’d seen the prince before—he was wearing no identifying signifiers other than a small, gold lapel pin of a sword, which could have been taken for military. In fact, if Catrin hadn’t moved forward as she had, an instinctual guarding action on her part, he would have passed for military. Upper-brass military, perhaps, with his nice jacket, quality boots, and the long black sheath of the straight sword at his side, but military nonetheless.
She’d have to remember that for the future.
“Yes,” he said. “Are you all right? Did you…” He glanced to the fields, which looked untouched, and to the house with its single stack of smoke—no demon burn like they’d read in the reports coming to Pemberlin, but that didn’t mean anything. As they were finding out, demons were disposed of in many different ways. “Did you have problems? Do you need healing?”
“You can heal? Oh, thank Abier.” The woman winced, obviously reminded of what, precisely, had befallen on the god’s feast night, but resolutely drove past it. “It’s not for me, it’s—a stranger came last night. A nice stranger,” she added hastily, catching the shift in their manner as they all stiffened. Though bandits were about as common as elves in this area, they did occur. What they’d be doing at a poor farmhouse, Catrin wouldn’t know. “He killed two of those… things. After that, we’d be happy to take him in—gods know we could use the extra hand—but he needs far more help that what we can give.”
She hesitated, her gaze once again flitting between the three of them. Protective, Catrin realized. Not sure whether to trust them wholly.
But something in their demeanor must have won out. Either that, or she was truly desperate.
“Actually,” she confessed, her voice lilting smaller. “We don’t rightly know what to make of him. He is, well…”
She hesitated, once again glancing to Catrin and Doneil, though the glance felt more inquisitive than fearful this time.
“Strange?” Doneil supplied.
“Yes. Though not in the way you are. He’s certainly strange-looking, but definitely human. Foreign.” She bit her lip, giving them another glance-over. “It’s probably better if you come see yourself. I think you’d know about these things better than I.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, the prince raised his gaze through the trees to the homestead beyond. The other two people hadn’t moved, watching.
Catrin followed his stare, frowning as she considered the woman’s words.
A foreign stranger. Like Treng, perhaps?
She almost snorted at the thought. If Treng had shown up on someone’s door in the middle of the night, they wouldn’t be nearly so calm about it—even if he did kill demons for them.
The man was a damned nightmare.
After a few seconds, the prince twitched his reins and turned his horse for the farm’s track.
“All right. Let’s have a look.”