Clouds.

As a daydreaming boy, Hadrian had done his fair share of lying in fields and imagining some as dragons or trolls to slay. He’d seen castles in the sky and towers where damsels waited to be rescued. In their puffy white and billowing grays, Hadrian had peered into the glories of his future and witnessed wonders — wonders that never came to pass. To Hadrian, the man, clouds only meant rain.

These clouds were different. Not that they appeared unusual, and they did mean rain — plenty was falling by the time they reached Brecken Dale — but they also meant something else. Only no one knew what.

It never rains during the day. Scarlett must have said it at least a dozen times before they finally reached Caldwell House. From the moment Royce drew their attention to the rain, she’d had her head craned back with a look of surprise and fear.

What does it mean? Hadrian had also asked more times than he could remember.

Scarlett never answered him.

They made enough racket racing through the dale that those who hadn’t gone to witness the homage came out to see them rattle by. Or maybe they were already out, standing on their porches and stoops looking up at the sky and, like Scarlett, wondering what was happening.

Wagner, Gill, Asher, and Clem were certainly out. Tasha was there, too, standing behind Asher and peering over the doctor’s shoulder.

“Lady Dulgath is hurt!” Scarlett shouted as Hadrian brought the wagon to a stop.

Asher climbed up as Royce and Hadrian got off. Royce hesitated a moment, looking back at the wagon and the motionless woman. Then he and Hadrian ran to the stables.

Caldwell House’s stables lacked the luxury of the castle’s, but they were still grander than any stable in Medford. The long single corridor with stalls to either side was clean and just as livable as any of the homes along the street. With the double doors open wide, gusting storm winds and the sound of distant thunder agitated the horses and threw bits of straw dust into the air.

“How long we got?” Hadrian asked, searching the stalls for Dancer.

“They have to get out of that courtyard,” Royce replied, searching for his own animal. “Get down to their stables, saddle their horses — and wait for others to do the same. The more coming after us, the longer it will take. Fifteen or twenty minutes? Maybe more. But that wagon was pretty slow.”

Hadrian spotted the white diamond and two rear socks of Dancer. He grabbed the bit and bridle hanging on a peg just outside the stall and flung the gate open. “Did you kill him?”

“The king? No, that would’ve only made matters worse. Someone used our real names, remember?”

Hadrian was having trouble seeing how things could’ve been worse, but he felt a sense of relief at the news. When faced with the question of whether to kill or not, Royce had a nasty habit of choosing the former. For him, doing so was the same as checking the grass before squatting in a forest or looking in a boot before pulling it on in the morning. Common sense, he called it — dead people didn’t seek revenge.

“Well, that’s one point in our favor.” Hadrian finished Dancer’s bit, then dashed over to help Royce, who was having trouble with his own mount because of his injured hands. “Would you have killed him? If he’d refused — if they had grabbed me?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Not sure if I should feel touched or terrified.”

“That’s your problem.”

“But what did you mean about playing chess?”

Royce appeared puzzled for a moment then smirked. “Oh, that — I literally put the king in check.”

“Funny.” Hadrian tugged the bridle over the horse’s ears, and Royce quickly slipped the bit into her mouth. “And so now what’s the plan?”

“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.”

Hadrian buckled the neck strap. “Don’t tell me we’re still playing Opposites Day. Seriously, why are we doing this?”

Royce didn’t say anything. He simply grabbed the quilted horse blanket and tossed it over the back of his mount.

Royce often ignored questions he didn’t want to answer. There had been times when —

“I honestly don’t know,” Royce said, smoothing out the wrinkles, not looking at Hadrian.

“You’re joking.” Hadrian paused in disbelief. “Are you . . . you aren’t in love with Nysa Dulgath — are you?”

“It’s not like that,” Royce said.

“What is it like?”

Hadrian helped Royce set his saddle onto his horse. “I — I don’t know . . . but there’s something —”

“Something worth dying for?”

Royce sighed. “Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?”

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When they rushed out of the stable, leading their mounts, Hadrian noticed that Scarlett was missing and Asher was still on the back of the wagon, kneeling over Lady Dulgath. A crowd had formed around them, mostly the old folk who’d stayed behind while the rest of the village headed to the castle.

“This woman is dead,” Asher told them when they were near enough so he didn’t have to yell.

Royce stopped as if he’d been hit.

The crowd had been generally quiet to start with, but with that pronouncement everyone fell silent. Rain pattered on rooftops, on grass, on the wagon, and on the people gathered in a circle. The sky cried at her passing. A silly thought, but at that moment Hadrian didn’t find it so foolish. Dulgath wasn’t like other places. Its differences lay somewhere below the mind’s ability to reason. Ever since he’d arrived, Hadrian had sensed something odd, something different, somehow out of place. As Asher draped a blanket, pulling the wool toward Lady Dulgath’s face, Hadrian felt a deep upwelling of sorrow, as if something profound was ending, something greater than a single life.

Thunder rolled nearer, and lightning flickered behind the thick clouds.

“I’m not dead.”

Asher jerked back, his face going white.

Royce dropped the reins of his horse and lunged forward, shoving his way to the wagon.

“Get me to the abbey, Royce,” Nysa told him. “I’m running out of time.”

“Royce,” Hadrian shouted, “mount up. I’ll hand her to you.”

Royce nodded, grabbed his horse, and leapt up. The crowd scattered as Hadrian lifted Nysa. The pain in his side screamed.

“Clem, Wagner . . .” Hadrian looked around and spotted the tavern boy.

Fish are good, but Gill’s the best.

“Gill! Help me lift her.”

With the boy’s help, they got Nysa in front of Royce, who cradled her before him.

Scarlett appeared, coming down from the direction of her house on a saddled black horse. “Everyone ready?”

“Scarlett, no,” Hadrian said. “You stay here. They don’t know about you. No one knows you had anything to do with this.”

“I don’t give a damn. She’s . . . I care for her far more than either of you do, and I won’t stay here —”

“Don’t have time to argue!” Royce snapped.

“Go,” Hadrian told him. “Down to the river. Cross the stone bridge, then just follow the trail uphill to the left. The monastery is at the top of the mountain. I’ll be right behind you.”

Royce nodded, kicked his horse, and trotted down the cobblestone streets, as overhead lightning warned that the storm was coming closer.

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Christopher hesitated at the stall of Immaculate, then looked down five gates at Derby, Lady Dulgath’s sleek courser. Immaculate’s, while not an awful horse or a biter, was a durable linen shirt compared with the fine damask doublet that was Derby. Nysa certainly wasn’t going to be using her that evening. Throwing open the chest before Immaculate’s stall, Christopher took his saddle to Lady Dulgath’s horse.

“Where did they go?” Vincent was shouting outside the stable, where a light rain was falling. “Did anyone see?”

A dozen men were in saddles and a dozen more were still working on it. The king himself was mounted after having a breastplate and helm slapped on him. Sir Jacobus had tried to dissuade His Majesty from coming, assuring the king they could take care of things, but Vincent was still fuming, and the rain did nothing to dampen his anger.

“They’re rogues — assassins — hired to kill Lady Dulgath,” Christopher said. “There’ve been rumors for weeks that two men — professionals from the north — were coming to kill her. It’s likely they’re headed for Gath Pass. From there they’ll try to escape by racing north to Rhenydd.”

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“Chrissy,” the king snarled. His face was furious red. His horse sensed his mood and spun, tossing his head . . . ready for the run. “Do be quiet. I need a chance to think.”

“Actually, Sire,” Sir Jacobus said, “I think he may be right. Several witnesses saw the lady placed in a wagon that went that way.”

“If they’re in a wagon, they’ll have to stick to the road,” Sir Dathan pointed out.

Vincent nodded. “If they’re in a wagon, we should catch them before they reach the pass.”

Christopher found his stirrup and swung up on Derby, who jerked sideways and turned around, bending her neck, trying to bite him.

Why do the good horses always try to bite me?

“Best watch out — the last one to do that died,” he told the horse.

He gave Derby a sharp tug on the bit and pulled her head back hard. This caused the horse to back up, which was fine because Knox was behind him. The sheriff had a less-than-triumphant look on his face.

“This is a mess,” he hissed.

“Relax, everything’s fine,” Christopher whispered back. “Just stay close.”

“Everyone” — the king rose in his stirrups — “to me!” With that, he spurred his horse forward and the race began.

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With Nysa Dulgath propped between his arms, Royce found the path. Like navigating crowds, he was also good at finding his way. He’d never been lost, not outside at least.

Because I’m elvish.

He looked down at Nysa as if she’d said the words, but her eyes were closed.

Royce had no idea if elves had a better compass than anyone else. Fact was, he didn’t know much about elves. Common knowledge held that they were less intelligent and physically smaller and weaker than men. They were lazy, avoiding work like an intelligent man avoids a bare hilltop in a lightning storm. They were filthy all the time, too. Everyone knew elves hated water. They had ugly pointed ears and sinister slanted eyes. But some generous folk also said they had better hearing and sight than men. Others — shopkeepers, mostly — maintained they were strangely quick and agile, and could steal merchandise right out from under watching eyes. Their agility led to rumors that elves were somehow related to cats. That their god had cursed a family of felines, turning them into abominations. The one thing everybody agreed on was that back in the days of the First Empire, they had been slaves, and freeing them had been as foolish as turning milk cows loose or expecting chickens to fend for themselves.

Royce did have high cheekbones and was fast, agile, and could move quietly. He could see farther than others seemed to be able to, even in near-total darkness. His hearing was also better than that of anyone he knew, but his ears weren’t pointed, and his eyes were like everyone else’s. I’m not completely elvish, Royce qualified, arguing with the voice in his head. A mix maybe, a half-breed of some sort. And he never got lost. Maybe that’s a thing.

Rain battered the leaves. It came down harder, sounding like a fast river or nearby waterfall. The volume of the shower helped muffle the sound of his horse’s hooves as she plodded up the narrow trail. Royce didn’t dare push. The path was uneven, steep, rocky, and growing slick. If she stumbled — if they fell — Royce would never get Nysa back up on the horse, not with his hands the way they were.

Nysa’s head hung limply. He cradled it to his chest, sheltering her face from the raindrops with his hood. Her chin, lips, and the lower half of her cheeks were stained red. As he held her, as he looked into her face, Royce realized she wasn’t breathing.

He touched her neck, feeling for that little pulsing thump that —

“I’m still here,” Nysa said. Her eyes opened slowly and with effort, like jammed wooden windows swollen with humidity.

“Didn’t look like you were breathing.”

She offered him an effort-filled smile. “Thank you for this.” Her voice was sluggish, cracking.

“Don’t talk. Conserve your strength.”

“Strength is fine.” She coughed and spit more blood.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Just hard to talk. Blood is in my throat.” She coughed again. A dark, almost black line drooled down her chin.

Royce looked behind. No sign of Hadrian.

He should have caught up by now.

“Royce,” Nysa said, her voice clearer. “Do you like me?”

Royce looked at her, surprised at the absurdity of the question, and decided to respond in kind. “Of course not. I always risk my life for people I hate.”

She smiled. “I mean, are you attracted to me?”

In another place and time, and with someone else, Royce would have smirked.

She’s delirious, he reminded himself. Humor her.

“Honestly? At this moment? You’ve looked better.”

She jerked and coughed again. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Most people don’t find me funny.”

“I’m sure most people don’t share our sense of humor.” She cleared her throat.

For a woman with a hole in her chest the size of a crown tenent, she was oddly lucid and unconcerned. Most people, even seasoned fighters, would be crying, begging not to die, screaming, or complaining about the pain.

“We’re short on time, so I’ll skip the formalities. Nysa Dulgath is the last of her bloodline. If she dies, the king will appoint a new earl, someone from the outside, someone like Christopher Fawkes.”

If she dies? If Nysa dies? She’s really delusional.

“I wouldn’t count on Fawkes. I have it on good authority he’ll be unavailable for . . . well, everything,” Royce told her.

“But if Nysa has a child,” she went on, “we can raise her to be a good ruler.”

Royce’s brows rose. “We? Are you asking me to marry you?”

Nysa looked up at him, her lower lip lifting, eyes drooping into an embarrassed, practically apologetic flinch. “I realize I have problems.”

“No kidding.”

“Oh — believe me, you don’t know the half of it.”

“What? You chew with your mouth open?”

She smiled again.

So odd. So very odd. How is she even talking? I’m missing something.

“Thing is — I never thought I could find anyone that I could . . . well, be with. But you’re different.”

“Because I’m part elven.”

“Yes. I know you think that’s an insult, but it’s not — it’s an incredible compliment. Look, I’m giving you the chance to become the next Earl of Dulgath. The offer comes with your own castle and an ocean view.”

And a wife with a hole in her chest. “Tempting.”

“But? There’s a but, isn’t there?”

“There is.”

Nysa glanced down at herself. “Is it the blood? I could wash.”

He couldn’t help smiling. She did share his morbid sense of humor — even while facing her own death. That won her points in his book — a book with few pages. He did like her, and his admiration grew by the minute. If not for Gwen — and the fact that Nysa’s life expectancy was akin to a soap bubble’s — he might have considered it.

I could lie. She won’t live. What would be the harm?

“I’m with someone,” he said, his tone serious, regretful. “I know what it’s like to be betrayed. I won’t do that.”

“Hadrian?” she asked.

“No.” He chuckled. “A woman.”

“Oh. She must be very special. You’re turning down a title and an estate that would make you wealthy and respected for the rest of your life.”

“She is special.”

Royce glanced behind them again. Still no sign of Hadrian.

What’s taking him so long?

“Oh!” Nysa looked up, hopeful. “You could bring her along. I won’t mind.”

Royce’s brows rose in surprise.

Nysa frowned again. “Different cultures, I suppose. Where I’m from, we don’t have marriage. People don’t mate for life.”

“People don’t get married in Dulgath?”

She offered that same apologetic smile. “Look, I want to thank you for being honest — for telling me the truth. Now . . . I have something I need to tell you. Something I never thought I’d ever tell anyone. You see, I’m not Nysa Dulgath. That poor girl died two years ago. Fell off her horse in a steeplechase accident and snapped her neck. I arrived too late. Managed to fix her body, but by then she was long gone.”

“You’re not Nysa Dulgath?”

“No.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re right — I’m not breathing. You’re carrying a dead body.”

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Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. The storm was almost on them.

“You can’t go!” Hadrian shouted at Scarlett.

She’s being so stupid!

She wasn’t. She was being brave, and he admired her for it. But that didn’t take away the pain of knowing she’d die alongside him.

Going to the monastery was suicide. Lady Dulgath was certain to die, and they’d be trapped on top of the mountain. After what Royce did, after threatening the king, there would be no mercy. He and Royce would hang, or burn, or kneel before the block, or whatever they did down there. But no one knew about Scarlett. She could continue living her life, entertaining guests at Caldwell House and sleeping in Wagner’s bed. Given enough time, she might even learn to spin and weave.

If she came with them, she’d be arrested as part of a conspiracy to murder the countess and threaten the king.

“You can’t stop me!” Scarlett turned her horse, but Hadrian caught her mount by the bit and pulled her back. “Let go!”

Hadrian grabbed her wrist and pulled Scarlett down. He let her fall, hoping it would take some of the fight out of her. It didn’t. She came up swinging.

He caught her again one wrist and then the other. She struggled, trying to kick him. He spun her as if they were dancing, making her face away and pulling her arms across her body, hugging her to him.

“You have to stay here,” he said.

“Let me go!” She tried kicking backward with her heels.

Wagner, Asher, and the rest watched. No one moved or said a word.

“If you come with us, the king will execute you.”

“Nysa is ours, not yours!” Scarlett shrieked as she struggled. “She doesn’t mean anything to you! You don’t understand!”

This was taking too long. He hoped Royce didn’t need him, but he wasn’t letting Scarlett throw her life away.

If only I could tie her up or —

The idea of locking Scarlett in Caldwell House’s cellar came to him at exactly the same time that he heard the shouts.

“The king! The king!” Someone Hadrian didn’t know was running up the street. He was pointing backward and yelling like a wild man. “Coming up the road!”

Hadrian was out of time.

He let go of Scarlett, who took the opportunity to kick him hard in the shin before leaping back on her horse. Hadrian grabbed Dancer and together they raced for the river and the bridge.

Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. The storm had arrived.

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While everyone else fought for a place nearest the king, Christopher lagged at the rear of the pack, Knox at his side. By the time they entered the dale, the rain was pouring, a heavy summer shower that, along with the growing darkness made it hard to see. Sunset was still hours away, but the clouds continued to roll in, thick and heavy. By the time the king’s party reached the village market, the sky was as dark as dusk. Wind whipped the rain that fell in sheets, making puddles on the brick. Lightning revealed the world in colorless flashes, and the following thunder rolled with a deep, long voice, making it hard not to imagine this wasn’t an ordinary storm.

Novron is with me, Christopher realized. The son of Maribor is advocating on my behalf, marking this day with portent of my victory.

Christopher saw the darkness as his personal cloak, the lightning as bursts of his mental acuity, and the thunder as the drumroll announcing his impending achievement. He was the storm, and his god was with him.

As they approached the market, Christopher reined in Derby and raised a hand, telling Knox to do the same.

“What are you doing?” the sheriff demanded. He pointed toward the king’s company, who had taken the split to the right and were riding toward the mountain pass.

“The king is on a goose chase,” Christopher told Knox as he fought with Derby, who wanted to follow after the other horses.

“What are you talking about?”

“They didn’t go that way. Nysa Dulgath is headed for the Abbey of Brecken Moor.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I heard her. It’s where she asked to be taken.” Fawkes watched the last of the king’s retinue disappear around the houses. “If anyone else heard, they didn’t listen. They think Melborn was there to kill her. We know better. He and Blackwater are trying to save her. She thinks she’ll be safe at the abbey — that she can hide up there and recover. Then she’ll return. Melborn probably expects a reward. Thinks the countess will be so indebted to him that she’ll pay a fortune, grant him a title, or give him an estate or some other prize.”

“So what are we doing?” Knox asked. Lightning flashed and in one instant revealed every strand of hair plastered to his head; rivulets of water streamed off his stubble. His eyes were angry, harsh and violent. That was the nature of the man. The truth of him shown to Christopher by the light of Novron. This, too, was a sign for Christopher, who needed such a man now. He needed an animal to help him kill, but Knox was merely a beast, something to be ridden then discarded when no longer of any use.

“We go after them,” Christopher said. “We finish that bitch. Then we’ll claim we arrived too late. Explain that they took her for ransom but she died during the trip. We’ll be seen as heroes for killing them. If we don’t catch up before they reach the abbey, if the monks witness anything, we’ll have to take care of them, too. I trust you don’t have a problem slaughtering monks?”

“Not for a worthy cause.”

Spoken like a true monster — but at least he’s my monster.

“Oh — you can trust it will be, my friend. I’ll take very good care of you,” Fawkes said even while he thought, I’ll slit your throat when you’re not expecting it and tell King Vincent you were the one who hired the rogues — that you split off from the rest at the market and, being suspicious, I followed you.

“You’d better,” Knox said.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I didn’t.”