Author: Leah Cypess

“But I can’t fly,” he said. “I’m not you. Humans can never be free.”

She had to shift away a stinging in her eyes, though she didn’t know why. “You could be freer than this.”

“I could.” He peeled the handkerchief off his shoulder. “But at what cost? I can’t sacrifice Samorna because I want to ride and love and imagine I’m free. I can be a good king, Isabel. Especially with you at my side.”

She made no response to that. She strode over to the dagger and picked it up, smelling steel and blood. “I’ll find out who threw this,” she said. “Have a healer bind your shoulder.”

She left without waiting for his reply. Even if she hadn’t known the truth, that would still have been a meaningless piece of politeness. The shoulder wound was minor, not worth her concern. She was the Shifter, and pain meant nothing to her at all.

It should have been harder than it was.

Isabel thought so every night, even though the days were hard enough. She sat in on Rokan’s audiences, she attended banquets and dances, she rode by his side when he ventured into the city, and she spoke privately with him each evening about what she had learned that day. Every time he leaned forward to confide in her or gave her one of his open, trusting smiles—a tiny needle went through her, not large enough to cause real pain, just enough to make sure she was never comfortable. He trusted her, and she was going to betray him.

Once, when they were discussing the dukes, he mentioned Daria, and bewildered abandonment flashed in his eyes. She thought, That’s how he’s going to think about me. And went on with the conversation.

It bothered her that she felt it, even though she had almost given up worrying about what the Shifter should or should not feel. But there was only guilt. No fear, no difficulty, no strain in keeping the secret. She didn’t bother to worry about whether Rokan suspected, because she knew he didn’t. She was very, very good and it was very, very easy for her.

She half-believed her own charade and didn’t spend enough time thinking about it to let herself realize how ridiculous that was. She spent her time searching for assassins even though she knew where the assassin was, spying on the arriving guests even though the danger had not been invited, making sure she knew everything that was happening even though none of it was the slightest bit important. She spent hours with each duke’s maids and daughters. She gathered hints and clues about what she already knew, as assiduously as she would have if she didn’t know it yet.

It all went well until the night before the coronation, when Rokan tried on his new robe and practiced walking down to his throne one final time. No one was with them; Clarisse had gone to bed in a fine fury, snapping that she couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over—Oh, yes you can, Isabel thought, but without really hearing her thoughts—and Will had ripped his own robe and was having it repaired. Isabel stood on the long maroon carpet that led from the doors to the dais, watching Rokan as he sat on the throne. His head was high, the ceremonial robe falling in neat folds from his shoulders to his ankles. Even without the crown, he looked like he belonged there, like he had been born to command. Then he ruined it by slumping and staring up at the canopy stretched over his head.

“I’m afraid,” he said, and Isabel raised startled eyes to his. She already knew he was afraid, but she also knew it was something he had never admitted aloud. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t really believe I’m going to be king.”

At that moment some barrier snapped, and Isabel knew—really knew—that he was right. He was never going to be king. He was going to die tomorrow, and Kaer was going to be king.

Her fingernails dug into her palms. But Rokan was watching her, a fragile expression in his eyes, so she shifted her voice steady and said, “You don’t have to be afraid while I’m here.”

“Not of that,” he said, waving off three near-successful assassination attempts as minor irritants. “I’m afraid of not being a good king. Sometimes kings make decisions and people die. I used to watch my father make those decisions and wonder how he could seem so calm. But he really was calm. He didn’t care.”

“But you do.” Isabel brushed a wayward strand of golden hair away from her face.

He gazed back up at the canopy. “I know. And what if because of that I can’t make those decisions? Because they have to be made. I’ve studied history. Nice kings are weak kings, and weak kings are bad kings. What if I’m a bad king?” He got to his feet, his eyes black as marble in the dim light, fierce and intent. “Does the Shifter help the king with such matters, even when his life is not at stake? With affairs of state, and alliances, and wars?”

This conversation was laughable, if one knew what was going to happen tomorrow. Isabel didn’t feel the slightest bit like laughing. And she didn’t know the answer to his question. But it didn’t make a difference, so…“Yes,” she said.

Rokan’s face didn’t change, but his shoulders relaxed. “That will be good. That will help. You—you can be ruthless.”

Yes, I can be, Isabel thought. And decided to say it aloud without the bitter tinge. “Yes. I can be.”

“Good,” Rokan said, and then more firmly, “Good. I’ll need you, Isabel. Even after we find out who the assassin is.”

“I know,” Isabel said, hating herself. “I’ll be there whenever you need my help.”

“I’ll be glad of it. That will make everything easier.” He smiled at her then, a wide, brilliant, unrestrained smile. She had seen that smile twice before—in the Mistwood, when he had first come for her, and outside the city when they watched the hawk fly. It lit up his face. The urge to answer it was nearly irresistible. It would have been irresistible had she been human.

She pressed her mouth in a firm, straight line.

Rokan leaned forward. “You won’t go back to the Mistwood, then? I’ll need your help for as long as I reign.” He hesitated, gathering his courage. “And…and I would miss you, if you left me.”

Spirits. What she saw in his eyes now was not a command, nor a plea, but something else entirely. A hope.

Letting him believe what he wanted to believe was the best and easiest way to fool him. But Isabel couldn’t do it, even if it would allow her betrayal to succeed beyond all measures.

She held up her arm, letting the bracelet slide down along her wrist, tinkling faintly.

“As long as you need me,” she said, “I can’t leave.”

Rokan drew in his breath, held it for a moment, then let it out. In the second before he composed his face, she saw that she had hurt him; and she told herself, Best get used to it.

All at once it hurt to be near him. Isabel nodded curtly, muttered something about checking defenses, and strode out through the throne room doors. Outside, she leaned against the wall and wished more than anything that she had all her powers. If she did, she would shift into swirling mist and be gone. If she did, she would never again forget what she was.

The Shifter didn’t feel guilt. Or indecision. Or…pain. The Shifter wouldn’t have to shift the insides of her eyelids to make the prickling go away.

She spent that night trying desperately to shift, throwing herself again and again into the image of a wolf or a hawk or a cat. Over and over, until she was sweating and gasping, her failure so intense it physically hurt. She tore at her body with her fingertips, hating the flesh that kept her caged, and then shifted the bloody skin back into wholeness. And still she was trapped in a human body, a human mind that kept circling back to things the Shifter wouldn’t have bothered to think about.

Tomorrow Rokan would die.

He wasn’t the prince, so it didn’t matter.

He trusted her.

It didn’t matter.

Clarisse would be proved right.

Even that didn’t matter.

After what seemed like forever, morning came, dragging frail pink clouds across the lightening sky. She stood by her window until the horizon turned blue, first pale and powdery, then a powerful strong blue that tore the morning clouds into wisps. Then she went to do what she had to do.

“I hate ceremonial clothes,” Rokan said. “Have I mentioned yet that I hate ceremonial clothes?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” Will said, swinging his legs over the edge of Rokan’s bed. “A minute.”

“Well, it will be good for my image in the south. It gives me that unpretentious demeanor that merchants like in their kings.” Rokan gave his robe a final tug and scowled at the mirror. “I’m counting on you to spread the rumors.”

“Then you could have just said, ‘Will, please spread rumors that I hate ceremonial clothes.’ Everyone would be happier.”

“He’s being sarcastic,” Rokan appealed to Isabel. “Wouldn’t you say that’s treason? Shouldn’t you be protecting me from treason?”

“I go after the greatest danger first,” Isabel said calmly. “Where’s Clarisse?”

Rokan’s answering grin was wistful; he had been melancholy ever since she arrived in his bedchambers that morning. Isabel didn’t smile back. She was, on the surface, preoccupied because she was worrying about his safety. The surface was well constructed. She had half-convinced herself.

Dangerous, that. But she let herself stay half-convinced, because she was used to it, and because it was less dangerous than thinking about the truth. The truth was that after today, Rokan would never grin like that again. Not at her. Not at anyone.

She watched for danger until the last second. Rokan had to walk into the throne room alone—a tradition that she remembered, or thought she remembered, had always irritated the Shifter. She stood with him until all the nobles were assembled in a thick colorful mass around the carpet that led from the doors to the throne. Duke Owain was one of the last to pass, his gaze sweeping over her without a hint of recognition.

Finally Isabel entered the throne room with Clarisse. The nobles were packed so tightly they were barely able to stay off the carpet. Isabel sniffed for fear, but all she smelled was an unpleasant mix of perfume and sweat.

“Coronations used to take place outdoors,” Clarisse whispered as they walked to take their places close to the throne. It was positioned on a slightly raised dais, and the area all around the dais was empty except for twin chairs elaborately decorated in maroon and gold. The chairs were for Clarisse and Will, but they wouldn’t sit at Rokan’s side until after the coronation. On the throne itself, nestled in the center of the maroon cushion, sat a slim golden crown. “Much more comfortable. But about two hundred years ago, you decided it was too dangerous.”

“That’s because it was,” Isabel said, and then they separated. Clarisse went to stand among the crowd to the left of the throne, Isabel to the right. Will was already there. He looked up at her and smiled tentatively. She started to smile back, realized how many eyes were on her, and had no choice but to finish the smile. It was out of character for the Shifter but better than publicly changing her mind.

She forced herself to work through the layers of sweat to whatever was hidden beneath the bustle of the room. There was steel here, invisible to the eye, but filling the air with its cold metallic scent. And another scent, less familiar but closer…

She turned her head sharply toward the man on her right. He appeared to be the Duke of Northbia, short and pudgy, but that wasn’t who he was. He met her eyes for a moment, and she thought, I could still stop him. She nodded slightly in acknowledgment, watched him return the gesture, then turned and stared straight ahead. She wondered when he would move and what he would do.

A crash of music rose from behind the huge double doors, where a group of musicians were playing under guard. She had insisted on the guard. The door opened, and the music wafted in with Rokan, stiff and regal in his black and purple robe. As he passed a young noblewoman in a dark blue gown, she leaned forward slightly, and every muscle in Isabel’s body tensed. But he walked past, and the noblewoman watched him go.