3 #2
“We would’ve been informed if such things had transpired.”
The young male frowned at me. “You believe the priestesses will tell us?” His raven curls bounced as he shook his head. “Doubtful.”
“Maybe,” I said, unsure if the priestesses would share information that might prove too sensitive or chaos-causing for their wards. “Our family will keep us informed.”
Paphin stared down at the garden. “But they said we’re not allowed to send letterleaves.”
Oh.
I hadn’t known the younglings were not permitted to write to their relatives. Unsure what to say, and feeling a little dreadful, I eased back to the herb garden’s rocky edge. Wood clacked against wood in the courtyard behind me. Chatter quietened.
Training had commenced.
A tear slid from Tyressa’s eye, and she angrily swiped her brown cheek. “I want to go home, Princess.”
“I know,” I said.
“When can we leave?” she asked.
It was the third time she’d asked me. I fluttered my fingers over the basil leaves, but the mere pinch of stress had affected my magic. The leaves rustled, darkened, yet the plant failed to rise. “When it’s safe,” I murmured once again, wishing I could tell them more.
Wishing I knew if we would ever be safe again.
Tyressa wiped her hands on the archive-issued olive-green tunic. “I never liked wearing dresses, and now I miss them.”
“I miss them, too.” After another failed attempt at making the herbs bloom—flourish faster—I dusted soil from my fingers. “What do you miss, Paphin?”
He appeared to think about it before saying, “Strawberry swirls.”
A popular dessert in Cloverleaf.
“One of my favorites,” I said. “What else?”
Tyressa said, “Blueberry soap.”
I smiled. “My new favorite is honey and lime.”
Her eyes rounded. “I didn’t know you could get that.”
“The market in Clover Corner has all sorts of wondrous soaps, candles, and even hair oils that make detangling much less painful.”
Paphin made a face. “Hair oil?”
I nodded.
“I’ve never been to the royal city.” Again, tears glossed Tyressa’s eyes. “And Mother always says I’m not old enough to accompany her and Father to Castle Cloverleaf. What if those mean wyverns burn it and I never—”
“The city is crowded and very hilly,” Paphin said, perhaps to calm the young lady. “You’re not missing much.” He then looked behind me, and his thick brows furrowed.
Conversation and cheers of encouragement had ceased. As well as the near-constant clack of wooden swords. A strange quiet had fallen over the rear grounds.
I turned in time to see a flash of silver hair and black clothing.
The Valadorn prince strode beneath the vines covering much of the stone courtyard.
Celestine, who’d taken to watching her brother and Darcen spar, retreated toward the archive’s open doors. As she did, her wide eyes met mine before drifting to the silver-haired prince, as if to warn me that he was there.
My heartbeat slowed.
“Is this not where you train?” A drawled, almost amused question.
It might have been the first words Prince Voran had spoken since his arrival.
The depth and abrasiveness of his voice made me think of sand and whiskey. Like those who hailed from the northernmost parts of Valadorn, where the old language was still used, it was heavily accented.
“He speaks,” Darcen said to the other wards.
Their answering chuckles sounded forced. Nervous.
Voran cleared the shelter of vines. He halted in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by enemies. “When necessary, though combat…” He plucked a wooden sword from the rack. “It generally speaks for itself.” Swinging that sword, he turned in a slow circle. “Does anyone wish to exchange words?”
No one volunteered.
I looked at Meront, only to find him watching me. His eyes left mine when someone broke through the small crowd.
“I will.”
Oaken Grenald.
The young noble from Moongold seemed no older than thirteen years. It showed when everyone retreated to give them room as Oaken braced several paces before Voran. Though I could only see the prince’s back, it was enough to know the size difference was immense.
The Valadorn prince was built like a mountain. Oaken was little more than a barren tree in comparison. Surely, the prince would laugh. He would refuse the daring young lord by requesting a worthy adversary.
The midmorning light made it clear his hair was more smoky gray than silver. Steel. It fell halfway down his back in a gleaming sheet, shifting as he appeared to lift his chin. “Select your sword.”
No one stopped Oaken as he walked over to the rack. No one said a word when he pulled a sword free, the cart rocking as he struggled with the weapon nearly as long as he was.
I surmised the giant prince had blocked him from view when I could no longer find Meront. Instead, I tried to catch Darcen’s gaze. Arms crossed, his attention stayed steady on the Valadorn prince.
Tyressa whispered fearfully, “But they say the wolf prince kills people. Shreds them.”
“The swords are wooden,” Paphin hissed. “Even if he was allowed, he cannot fatally wound someone with it.”
I wished I felt as certain. My imagination concocted a myriad of ways that wooden sword could end Oaken’s life. Dread shallowed my breathing as the young noble shook brown curls out of his face.
Celestine snuck across the grass to join us at the herb garden. Settling next to me, she whispered, “This cannot be permitted.”
Wood clacked like thunder.
We looked back at the courtyard as Oaken swung his sword again. Then again. Each time, he was swatted away with nary a flick of the prince’s wooden blade.
I turned to Tyressa and Paphin, and gestured to the pebbled path beside the fortress.
Tyressa rose, but Paphin ignored me—until the prince drove Oaken toward the stairs and the young lord toppled down them onto the grass. Paphin swallowed and scuttled after Tyressa down the path that led to the archives’ front and side entrances.
The Valadorn prince took his time descending the five steps to the grass.
Celestine sucked in a breath.
Again, I looked for Meront. I found him watching, unmoving as the wolf prince loomed over Oaken.
I braced.
I prepared for him to beat the young male with that wooden sword and simply call it training. But he waited until Oaken scrambled to his feet. Only to swap his sword to his other hand and deftly swipe at his ankles.
With a startled shout, Oaken met the grass again.
This time, the prince didn’t give him the courtesy of waiting. His wooden weapon rose.
I did, too. As that sword came down on Oaken’s back, I ran across the grass and rounded the courtyard.
Oaken cried out and crawled backward.
Still, no one seemed inclined to intervene.
“Stop.” I slipped down the damp incline to where Oaken lay in the clearing before the woods. “Stop it, please. He’s just a youngling.”
“I’m not a youngling,” Oaken grumbled.
Voran asked, “And that means he should be treated differently?”
Crouched beside Oaken, I tried to help him up. He ignored me and recoiled. To the prince, I said, “That is exactly why he should be treated differently.”
Oaken failed to trap a pained groan as he pushed to his feet.
Voran’s brief laugh was coarse and hauntingly low. “And this is precisely why you have already lost this war. Too much heart and not enough teeth.”
Those words ignited my anger—and drew my eyes to his.
They were fluid midnight. A blue so dark that from a distance they would appear black. With his severely angled cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a harsh jawline made sharper by its clean-shaven state, Voran Valadorn was indeed far too frightening to be deemed handsome.
My lungs tightened.
It was as if boulders filled his black tunic sleeves. Dark shadows crept from them over the tops of his hands. Tattoos. I’d never seen them on someone’s hands before, nor had I seen a broad chest taper into a waist quite like that, and his unfathomable height…
Rotting roots.
My anger dried like raindrops beneath a midsummer sun.
Fear sizzled in its wake. Bone-melting and breath-snatching, it robbed me of thought and every ounce of courage I’d had moments ago.
The prince gazed down at me with those intimidating and unreadable features. A strand of hair slashed his bladed cheek. “Would you like to take his place?” His eyes seemed to darken—his pupils widening. “Princess.”
That snapped me out of my terror-induced trance. I straightened.
Then I fled into the archives.