Author: Leah Cypess

Isabel hooked her finger around her bracelet, rubbing the smooth crystals between her finger and thumb. “And Rokan—”

“Rokan was raised by court officials, too. But my father had time for him. Oh, yes. He was the heir. He had to be trained and molded.”

Isabel remembered what Ven had told her about the king’s ruling techniques and said, “I don’t think he molded him quite the way he intended.”

“No.” Clarisse laughed shortly. “Rokan was a stubborn brat when he was a child, even worse than he is now. But the point is that he loved my father. He might disagree with him, he might disapprove of him, but he loved him. That’s where people get their respect for tradition, isn’t it? From loving their parents? I guess that’s why Rokan has it and I don’t. It’s why he rode out to get you even when I told him it was the worst idea he had ever had.”

“That,” Isabel said, “and the fact that he’s a stubborn brat.”

She actually surprised a smile out of Clarisse. “That goes without saying. But the point, Isabel, is that I’m what you might call a realist, and Rokan is not. That’s why I’m so much better at protecting him than he is at protecting himself.”

“Are you?” Isabel said in as neutral a tone as she could manage.

“Oh, he can fight and ride and all that—my father made sure of it. But he never sees danger until it’s right in front of his face. He’s not afraid of anything.” Clarisse laughed without humor. “So I’m afraid of everything, to make up for it.”

Isabel just looked at her.

“I’m usually right,” Clarisse added. She tilted her head slightly to one side, making her hair tumble over her shoulder in a riotous wave. “But of course, you would know that, wouldn’t you?”

For once it was not a challenge. She was offering an alliance.

Isabel was dangerously tempted. In some ways Clarisse was better at this than she was; it shouldn’t have been possible, but it was true. Clarisse knew more about Rokan, and more about Albin. She was better at confusing people. Isabel could use Clarisse.

Or Clarisse could use her.

The temptation faded, leaving a faint tinge of regret behind. It was too risky. She didn’t understand the princess at all; didn’t understand her motives, her goals, the contradictions in what she said and in the ways she acted. There was no way Isabel could control Clarisse.

“You advised Rokan not to come get me,” Isabel said sweetly. “So you’re not always right, are you?”

Clarisse considered her for a moment. Then one corner of her mouth twisted upward, her cheek dimpling in what was almost a smile. “I think,” she said as she stood, “that that remains to be seen.”

Isabel watched Clarisse walk away. It was entirely possible, she thought as she rose from the bench, that she had just made her biggest mistake since the moment she let Rokan fasten that bracelet around her wrist.

Will was waiting in Rokan’s room, pouting because he hadn’t been invited to talk with him and Clarisse. Rokan stopped in the doorway, almost more afraid than he had been when he first saw the snowcat. But there was no disappointment in Will’s eyes, only anger.

“I liked her,” Will said.

Rokan clenched his jaw. When he spoke, he made not the slightest effort to control his voice and was surprised when it emerged steady anyhow. He was learning to be a king.

“I thought I knew her. I saw what I wanted to see, I suppose. I fooled myself.”

“She fooled you,” Will said. “She’s not a bad actress, is she?”

“No. She’s not. I didn’t even think she was capable of telling a lie….” His voice wavered there a bit. Careful, Rokan.

Someone coughed, and he turned to see the Shifter standing behind him. She was still wearing her tattered rose-colored gown, slashed into barely decent pieces by the snowcat meant for him. Her skin beneath the strips of fabric was whole and clean, though he had seen her flesh torn into ribbons. Her eyes were wide and intent, watching him.

It felt like a reproach. Rokan took a step back and said, “I’m not you, Isabel. I’m human, and I believed what I wanted to believe. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted her to love me.”

She blinked. Will, unhelpfully, said, “Clarisse didn’t like Daria.”

“Clarisse doesn’t like anyone,” Rokan snapped. “She didn’t understand Daria, that was all. They were too different.”

“I guess she understood her better than you,” Will said.

His tone wasn’t accusing, or sharp, but Rokan’s breath caught. He gave his brother a slow, sideways look. Will was grimacing slightly, but the expression was for Daria, not for him.

Rokan exhaled. It had to happen eventually, he knew. One day Will would look at him the way he had once looked at his father. The hero worship would drain from his eyes, and in its absence would come hate—hate because he wasn’t a hero, wasn’t worthy of worship. Sooner or later it would happen.

But not today. He couldn’t bear it today. Not right after the way Daria had looked at him, in that second before she vanished.

He faced the Shifter again. She would see him the same way for a hundred years, if he lived that long. He was not a person to her, only a king. For once he welcomed that. “Will, you should go.”

His brother scurried out of the room, giving the Shifter a wide berth. Isabel didn’t even acknowledge him as he passed. “Do you think Albin will try again?” she said.

It was a stupid question. Not really a question, then—merely a way of opening the conversation. “I don’t know. I don’t want—” He took a deep breath and stepped back again. “I don’t want to talk about it now. All right?”

“He could strike at any time. We have to—”

“Please.”

She studied him for a moment. Her eyes were dark now, like the snowcat’s, cool and opaque. He wondered if she felt sorry for him, or if she was simply assessing his ability to handle Daria’s betrayal. Did the Shifter like him? Or did she just have to protect him?

It was stupid to care whether she liked him. Daria hadn’t liked him. She had merely had to spend time with him until the trap was sprung. Perhaps duty was the most he could expect from anyone.

“All right,” Isabel said finally. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

She turned and strode from the room, the shredded garment swaying around her calves and ankles. Rokan gripped his right hand with his left, squeezing until it seemed there must be no blood left in either. Safe, he thought, before realizing how ridiculous that was. If nothing else, this night had proven that he was safer with the Shifter around than without her.

Cold comfort. He put out the lamps and sat in darkness for a long time before he fell asleep.

Chapter Eight

In her room, surrounded by green, Isabel went straight to a window and threw the drapes open. Cold air rushed in, hitting her skin and sweeping back her hair, raising goose bumps on her arms. She leaned out and stared at the courtyard far below.

If she jumped, would that do it? Would she turn into a bird in mid-fall, if she had no other choice? She gripped the edge of the sill until her knuckles were white, leaning out so far that all it would take was a loss of balance.

The wind whipped through her hair, pressing it across her face, into her eyes so she couldn’t see. She lifted one arm to push it back and lurched forward. Involuntary panic made her grab the windowsill and shift her weight back.

She should do it. Maybe when she saw the ground rushing up at her, she would shift. And then she would know how to.

What was the difference between watching the ground rush up at her and watching the snowcat leap down on her?

Isabel stepped back from the window and stood staring at it for a long moment. Outside the wind howled and whistled. She held up her arm, touched the fragile skin at her wrist, and thought stone.

Her fingers still touched flesh.

She took a deep breath and sat down abruptly on the floor. It was cold, but she barely noticed. Something in her wanted to keep trying—to think of stone, over and over, to concentrate fiercely on doing what she had done so easily less than an hour ago. But she knew it would do no good. Here, in the calm of her room, she could change her hair color and her eye color and nothing else. Only when she had to could she manage anything more substantial.

And even when she had to, she couldn’t shift as she was supposed to.

She sat on the floor for a long time, making a decision that shouldn’t have to be made. She had one purpose: to protect Rokan. The Shifter had no pride. No stupid, stubborn pride to stand in the way of that one crucial goal.

Slowly, laboriously, she got to her feet.

Ven was back in his room. She had expected to find him already asleep, but clearly he had chosen to investigate despite his exhaustion. The room stank of potions, and there were several new burn marks on the rush matting. Dusk had fallen while she deliberated, and the flickering tallow lamp by his bed cast an oddly sinister light. Somehow the dimness made the smell of potions stronger. He had his tunic half-off when she entered, so she stepped loudly through the doorway, and he yanked it back down and stared at her.

“Isabel?” He stepped toward her, his eyebrows drawn together. His voice was stronger than it had been earlier, but his tunic was stained with sweat, a dark triangular patch visible even in the dim light. “Is something wrong?”

She swallowed hard and blurted it out. “I can’t shift.”

Ven froze in mid-step. He shook his head slowly, once.

Isabel resisted the urge to avoid his eyes. “I haven’t shifted once—not fully—since I got here. Since Rokan first found me.” She hesitated, then said almost accusingly, “You suspected it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I—but it—” Ven blinked rapidly. “It doesn’t make sense. There must be a reason.”

She rested her hand on the door, covering the gash she had left with her dagger a few days ago. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Something must have weakened you.” Ven walked over to his bookcase, opened the glass door, and started rifling through the volumes on the shelves. She wondered if it was an excuse not to look at her. Surely the room was too dark for human eyes to read. “Maybe your failure was so unprecedented that it changed your powers.”

“Or maybe Albin has been doing something to keep them limited,” Isabel said.

“I don’t think that’s possible. You’re the Shifter.”

She wanted to agree with him—the Shifter’s powers should be beyond the reach of human sorcery. But Albin had succeeded before. Isabel let go of the door and stepped farther into the room. “It’s only here that I’m limited,” she said. “I could shift in my woods. I wouldn’t have survived for so long otherwise.”

“But there you had the power of the Mistwood to draw upon. Maybe that makes a difference.” Ven pulled out one book, then another, and carried them both to the table. “I’ll see if I can find something.”

In books. But it wouldn’t be in the books, because this had never happened before. Isabel bit her lip, wondering why she had thought Ven would be able to hand her an answer.

“Don’t be afraid.” He put the books down, opened one, and raised his head. This far from the lamplight, his face was hidden by shadows, but she didn’t shift her sight. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see his expression. “I’ll figure it out.”

She wished she could believe him. It was such a relief to finally tell someone who would try to help her. Even if she shouldn’t need help. Isabel swallowed hard. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know.” Of course he didn’t. He didn’t even know what he was searching for. “I’m supposed to be strengthening the wards around the castle, but I’m sure Rokan will excuse me from all my duties until—”