Author: Leah Cypess

Isabel surprised herself with a rush of real concern. “That spell wasn’t easy for you, was it?”

“No spells are easy.” He tried to smile but gave up halfway through the effort. “Better sorcerers can push the effects off longer, that’s all.”

He staggered, and she reached out and took his arm, closing her hand around the silk of his sleeve. He froze for a moment; then he kept walking, his arm heavy on hers. “We don’t understand magic at all. We can only use it, and even that only barely. It’s not meant for us. It takes great concentration to twist the human mind into a vessel that magic can flow through. And to actually direct that flow—” He shook his head. His hair was flat and limp, his voice so low and labored that Isabel had to shift her hearing to make out his words. “All these—the potions, the chants, the spells—none of them have any effect on the magic itself. They work on our minds. Force them into unnatural shapes so they can do unnatural things. It’s different for you—you are magic, in your very essence. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

The wonder in his voice was a welcome salve to the doubt she had sensed in him earlier. Yet human magic had made it past her watch tonight, just as it had ten years ago.

The Shifter did not use spells; they were designed for human minds. But she had never feared them, either, because she knew she could block any spell directed at her charge. That was why the spell tonight hadn’t been directed at her prince, or the spell years ago at her king; she would have seen those coming and stopped them in time. She had been too focused on protecting them, if such a thing were possible. She had never imagined that anyone would strike at her.

She felt icy cold. It was better when they pushed through a wooden door out into the gardens, where a few autumn flowers bloomed stubbornly among mostly leafless bushes. Her skin and blood shifted in response to the cold, so subtly that even Ven, whose arm was resting heavily on her hand, didn’t seem to notice. Not that he was in a position to notice much. As soon as they neared a wooden bench, he went for it and dropped like a stone, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“It’s so cold,” he said absently, making no move to wrap his arms around himself.

Isabel scanned the area around them, every sense alert. Medium-sized flower bushes, mostly bare at this time of year, were scattered among trees and saplings. Tiny streams curved among artful rock formations, filling the garden with the sound of gurgling water. The autumn flowers—and, she suddenly knew, the spring and summer ones as well—had subtle, almost spicy smells, nothing overwhelming. There was no space in the garden she couldn’t see or sense, no way anyone could sneak up on them. She wondered if she’d had a hand in designing the garden.

“Why did Albin do it?” she said. “He helped Rokan’s father with the coup. He has nothing to gain by turning on Rokan now.”

“Loyalty doesn’t figure much into his decisions,” Ven said, eyes still closed. “He must think the northern dukes will treat him better than Rokan would, just as he thought Rokan’s father would treat him better than the old king. Although that didn’t work out as well as he’d expected. He and Rokan’s father had a falling out only a year after the coup.”

Isabel sat next to him. “Why?”

“Rokan’s father hired a rogue sorcerer for additional protection. Albin wasn’t happy, even though he kept his title.”

A rogue sorcerer. Usually far more powerful than trained sorcerers, but that was mostly because they didn’t know the safe limits of their powers. “What happened to him?”

Ven forced his eyes open. “She died three years ago. Lost control of a spell and vanished in a spurt of white flame. They found pieces of her all over the castle.”

He sounded much less self-righteous about it than a proper sorcerer should have. Isabel was willing to bet he hadn’t been the star pupil at the School of Sorcery, no matter how talented he was. She was about to say something about that, trying to think of something worth the energy it would take Ven to laugh, when she caught a scent on the chill breeze and turned.

Rokan and Clarisse were deep in discussion, blond curls and dark head bent together as they walked down the winding path. They stopped a few feet away, right by a small stream that curved over polished rocks in a series of tiny waterfalls. Isabel approved; the steady rushing sound would mask their conversation even if Albin had planted some sort of listening spell here. It would also fill up any awkward silences. For a long minute none of them said a word.

“There’s no sign of Albin,” Clarisse said finally. Talking to Ven, not Isabel. Ven blinked at her, eyes glazed. “Or of Daria.”

Isabel glanced quickly at Rokan, but if his expression changed, she missed it. He might have been posing for the statue he would have made of himself one day. Cool, commanding, and absolutely without emotion. The waterfall gurgled as Clarisse went on. “Her uncle is in custody. He claims he doesn’t know anything.”

“Let me question him,” Isabel said grimly. “I’ll find out what he knows.”

“That doesn’t seem called for,” Rokan said. His voice was like his face, even and controlled. “I don’t think he would tell us anything under torture—certainly not the truth. Albin is the one we want—he would break under the mere threat of torture—but he’s out of our reach.”

“I never did like that man,” Clarisse muttered. She sat on the bench on the other side of Ven, using one hand to sweep her skirt around her legs and away from the ground, and shot a malicious look at Isabel. “No one with that much power is reliable, no matter how loyal they claim to be.”

Isabel kept her face blank. “The high sorcerer,” she said evenly, “is out of our reach for now. The duke is not.”

Rokan shook his head. His movements were short and jerky, not controlled at all, though his voice was still steady. “There’s no point. And he’s probably innocent. Imprisoning or executing him will only give the other dukes a cause to rally around, and torturing him won’t give us any information. I’m going to release him. I’m sure he’ll head obediently back to his duchy and try not to call any more attention to himself.”

There was a tinge of casual scorn in his voice, more like a habit than a deliberate inflection. Clarisse noticed Isabel noticing, and she smirked. “Our father did not think highly of Duke Owain.”

“He’s a fine man,” Rokan said, but the scorn was still there. “Just not capable of coming up with a scheme like this. He thinks in straight lines.”

For no particular reason, Isabel thought of the portrait in the audience chamber, the grim face and uncompromising eyes. She was sure she was hearing that man’s voice now, coming out of Rokan’s mouth.

“It was Albin’s idea,” Clarisse agreed, and scowled at Ven. “Though you seemed to recover from the shock fairly quickly. Did you suspect what he was going to do?”

Even in his stupor, Ven sensed the danger in that question. He straightened and focused on her. “No! Of course not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabel snapped. “He helped us, didn’t he?”

Clarisse leaned back. “Led my brother straight into the trap, you mean?”

Ven tried to say something, but he obviously couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence. Isabel felt a rush of rage. Clarisse was only doing this because Ven was such an easy target, weak and crippled prey.

“You should go,” Isabel said to Ven.

He turned toward her, clearly struggling to think. Fear darkened his eyes, and it took her a moment to realize that it was her he was afraid of. That hurt, though it shouldn’t have. If he had played a part in Albin’s plot, she would kill him without a second thought.

Wouldn’t she?

“Go,” she said again, more gently.

He nodded and stumbled away down the path. Clarisse twisted to watch him, then whipped back toward Isabel.

Isabel met her glare straight on. “He didn’t know anything.”

Clarisse’s lips curved in triumph. “Are you sure? Is that what you’ve been doing with him all week? Finding out what he knows?”

“What’s your point, Clarisse?”

“I think it’s odd, that’s all. And suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious of me?”

The princess’s eyebrows arched. “I’m not questioning your motives. But maybe your judgment is clouded.”

A small cascade of pebbles sprayed out suddenly from under Rokan’s boot. He turned on his sister almost savagely. “By what? His blue eyes and high cheekbones? Not everybody is you.”

Clarisse blinked, her lips parting. It took her only a second to recover. “I’m merely pointing out—”

“You’re merely spouting idiocy,” Rokan snapped. His heel made a small crunching sound as it dug further into the ground. “She’s not a human being, Clarisse. She doesn’t get blinded by emotions!”

The silence that followed was long and raw, and the murmur of water did nothing to fill it. Rokan’s cheeks were red. When he spoke again, his voice was stiff. “I think we’re done for the day. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Neither Isabel nor Clarisse said a word as they watched him leave. Then Clarisse brushed off her skirt and said, “I don’t get blinded by cheekbones. I just enjoy them. Not the same thing.”

“He wasn’t really talking about you.”

“I know. But I don’t like the way he talks about you.” Clarisse put both her hands flat on the bench, pressing down so hard her fingertips turned white. “He thinks you’re infallible.”

So he did. So he should. But when he’d said She’s not a human being, it hadn’t sounded like a compliment.

“That’s probably because I am,” Isabel said.

“You didn’t see this coming, did you?”

Isabel flinched, and was furious at herself for it. “Rokan’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for. Why don’t you just trust his judgment?”

“You know what I think?” The tip of Clarisse’s slipper drew short, sharp lines in the gravel. “I think he brought you here simply because he felt like it. Such a romantic legend, such an ancient tradition. Rokan likes romantic legends.”

A romantic little boy, Albin had called him; Clarisse, it seemed, shared the high sorcerer’s opinion of her brother. Isabel thought they were both wrong. But perhaps it was no bad thing for them to go on thinking it.

“Is that such a terrible trait?” she said.

Clarisse laughed. Something in the laugh made Isabel shift her sense of smell, but she still couldn’t make out any wine on Clarisse’s breath.

“I don’t believe in legends,” Clarisse said, “and I don’t believe in tradition. It’s tradition that makes Rokan king instead of me, even though I was born first.”

Isabel had been about to get up to follow Rokan. Instead she turned and watched Clarisse carefully from under lowered eyelids. “Do you hate him for that?”

Clarisse gave a small, tight smile, and Isabel knew that her casual manner hadn’t fooled the princess. “Wouldn’t you?”

Isabel didn’t answer. The question touched something inside her, something she couldn’t identify and didn’t have time to. Instead she said, “It’s not his fault.”

“No,” Clarisse said bitterly, “not his fault. But it doesn’t change the way things are.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “Do you know that I never spoke to my father?”

“Excuse me?”

Clarisse shrugged. “I saw him at state affairs, when I was invited to attend. I spoke formal words in court. But I never once talked to him. Not so much as ‘I want a new dress’ or ‘Rokan hit me.’ He took me from my mother so she could get busy producing a son, and I was raised by court officials and tutors. It’s not the sort of upbringing that makes you believe in romance and legends. Or in much of anything.”