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**A FISTFUL OF FIRE**

CHRONICLES OF MARSDENFEL: BOOK 1

MISTI WOLANSKI

<http://mistiwolanski.com>

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_Smashwords Edition_

_Copyright 2011_

_All Rights Reserved_

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_Tales of loathsome kings and prophesied saviors aren't so appealing when you_ ** _are_** _a royal bastard of prophecy..._

Evonalé Yunan is supposed to somehow free her grandmother's enslaved queendom, but she's merely a child, and her father is the powerful fire mage who subjugates the realm. She has therefore fled home, her half-siblings, and the father who really should've been her uncle.

Unfortunately, it's the middle of winter. Fortunately, following her mother's directions has put her in another king's hunting grounds. To Evonalé's bewilderment, that king picks her up and gives her a place in his castle. The prince seeks her out to tease and befriend.

Then one of Cook's daughters starts teaching her magic, and a scullery maid proves herself immune to poison.

Evonalé isn't the only one with secrets.
_This is a work of fiction. People, places, and events are made up; any that aren't made up have all been processed through the shredder of the author's imagination and therefore at best bear only superficial resemblance to their originals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental._

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_This work is licensed in its original format for your personal enjoyment. It is not licensed for resale or sharing by e-mail, torrent, or other file-sharing method. You may quote or share up to 7,000 words of this book without requesting written permission from the author, as long as you give proper attribution and don't plagiarize. If you have some reason to wish to quote or share more than 7,000 words, please seek written permission from the author; otherwise you could end up in violation of copyright law._

**Cover Designed by Misti Wolanski**

Fire photo © Alex France on MorgueFile.com

Hand photo © Chelsea Turner on Stock.xchng

**Year 222 of the Bynding**

_Excerpt taken from the diary_

_of the late Princess Endellion Yunan,_

_Crown Heiress of Marsdenfel_

_and Illegitimate Daughter_

_of Queen Yuoleen of Marsdenfel_

_and King Barnett of Grehafen_

[A s]light noise can be so loud. The royal amulet slipped from my mother's neck to the floor, today, and that faint sound echoed through the marble throne room. All present stared, aghast at that rejection by the Bynd, the avatar for the magic that grants command of the Crystal that binds the elves together as a race.

Eyes turned to me, heiress to the Bynd and the throne it binds the elves' Crystal to. I didn't take the Bynd and assume my place as Queen. My mother d[id]n't deserve that.

I could tell its magic wasn't seeking me as the heiress, either. It didn't seek anyone.

Murmurs started as my mother, barely score-and-seven years old herself, descended the royal dais and recovered the Bynd. She met my gaze. "That was not a passing," my mother declared, loudly enough to be heard by the assembly.

With the Bynd's chain entwined in her fingers, she held the charm up for all to view. It had glowed with a vibrant green light until the moment it had released itself from my mother's neck, evidence that Mother's magic would follow the felven way, if she ever dared work magic. "Where is the light?" she asked.

The older members of the assembly murmured amongst themselves, remembering how the Bynd had acted when it had chosen to proceed to my mother. It had glowed brighter, then, before resettling in the standard vivid green. Now, its dull metal looked like a cheap trinket against my mother's w[hite] palm.

"It's rejected the whelp," someone muttered. Herdalin, one of the older women. I flinched.

"Herdalin—"

"What else do you suggest, _Your Majesty_?" the woman snapped, defending her due critique of me. "For the Bynd to reject you and not choose another—"

Gaylen rushed in. His slight bow demonstrated that he respects the queen, even if few others do. Many find his regard for the woman he should have married more inexplicable than his willingness to marry me when I come of age. The room quieted out of deference to the prophet. "King Barnett approaches."

I flinched at the glances that then darted to my mother and me. Even if my mother had never told me of the circumstances surrounding my birth, I suspect I would've been able to guess who my father was from how everyone reacted to that announcement.

My mother curtsied slightly to Royal Prophet Gaylen in thanks, then patiently ascended the dais to return to her throne, Bynd still in hand. "Let the crown princess take her own seat," she ordered.

I obeyed and ascended to my chair to the side and a bit in front of hers, cautious with my impractical but requisite many-layered gown. The court started demanding it, and constant chaperoning of the crown heiress, after my mother's foolhardy decision and actions that produced me.

The cumbersome garments serve their purpose well, making it impossible to outrun guards and chaperones. My mother wears such garments herself by her own consent, as undue payment for her youthful actions that will likely bring the fall of Marsdenfel by my day.

_In_ my day, now that the Bynd has rejected her. By right of custom, I am now ruler, my lack of even ten meager years on Aleyi notwithstanding. But I refuse to heed that; I know I'm not ready to rule.

My mother and I had barely seated ourselves when King Barnett of Grehafen entered. My father.

He glanced over me with a slight, confused frown, and I glanced over him and noticed that he is why I am large for my age, why my eyes are so dark, why I like grey, and why I don't tan well.

When my father spoke, his tone held more haste than politeness. "I would speak to the queen alone."

If anything, the silence grew with that demand. Those like Herdalin sent wary, distrustful glances my mother's way before leaving. Others politely obeyed the request in my mother's nod without nonverbal comment.

But even after my mother nodded, Gaylen remained, watching my mother carefully to be certain that she meant it, and my mother herself told me with her eyes to stay.

"Prophet Gaylen," my mother said quietly. "Please ensure that no doors have ears."

He bowed before leaving to obey. The stern look he gave King Barnett while passing made even me flinch, and I wasn't the one who had earned it.

The stone door, made light enough to move by magic infused in the naril metal etched into the rock, still caused an echo when it closed. Mother, father, and ill[egitimate] daughter remained solitary in that hall.

My mother raised her hand from the arm of her throne, releasing the Bynd from where she'd hid it in her palm. I gasped at its glow—orange, muted and grayed, but definitely orange. Reminiscent of a fire, if you knew which type of magic my father naturally used.

"This isn't yours yet," my mother said, her tone bitterly wry. "The light should be brighter."

He came forward, stepping up on the dais. I cringed.

"Force it now, and you'll die!"

My mother's harsh warning startled me. I stared at her. She still punishes herself for her folly; she forsook her engagement to Gaylen, refused to marry at all to have a legitimate child and thereby disinherit me. I guess it shouldn't have surprised me that my mother still cared for the one she'd fallen for, even when he was making good on his betrayal.

But King Barnett stopped abruptly, expression stricken. "No, Yuoleen!" I wanted to believe his aghast tone, but the Bynd glowed its orange, betraying that he was wresting my mother's royal magic from her, abusing what power he'd been given in the Bynd's magic by siring a child with my mother and thereby becoming part of the family.

He continued speaking, dropping to his knees on the step before her throne and touching her free hand, the one without the Bynd. "Karnelcia is dead, we can wed—"

My mother's quick intake of breath was too loud in the marble hall. He fell silent. Seconds ticked by.

" _No_."

It was quiet, her response, and it took my father completely by surprise. Whether they liked her or despised her, the members of my mother's court were discreet. Word that my mother had refused to marry for _my_ sake had not reached his ears.

"No?" He stared at her, at me. "No?"

"No." My mother smiled ruefully. "I will not give your son my throne, Barnett."

"I wouldn't want you to! Darnell is Karnelcia's child; he has already wed and will have Grehafen. _We_ could have a child, could raise an heir for yours—"

"We _have_ a child, Barnett." My mother's firm court voice returned. She gestured towards me with her fingers—a faint motion, barely noticeable. "And she _is_ my scion."

King Barnett recovered quickly from this unexpected news. It is remarkably good fortune for a baseborn child, to be intentionally left a throne. From how he stared, I suspect he didn't know of my existence. "She could still be."

"I'm not marrying you, Barnett." My mother sounded tired.

He swallowed. "Yuoleen—"

"Answer me this, Barnett." She held up the orange-glowing Bynd in accusation all by itself. "If not for this, if not for the _myth_ , would you even care to make an honest woman of me?"

The pause probably seemed longer than it was. I couldn't say if he were honestly considering that question or considering what answer my mother sought to hear. I do not know the man. "I would," he finally declared, firmly.

"You would?" my mother asked, quietly. "Or you would like to think you would?"

She pulled the Bynd back up into her palm, to hide its accusing light. "I can't give this to you, Barnett. You know that."

Silence, again. Then: "You know I need it."

"You _think_ you need it," my mother corrected him. "It's a legend, Barnett. You humans' Crystal has been lost to time; leave our Crystal be."

"Lost to time? After two hundred years? _Someone_ knows what happened to it."

"Someone, perhaps. Not us."

My father's eyes actually glimmered with tears. "I wish I could believe that." He stood, bowed respectfully, and headed down the dais, down the hall.

My mother stared at her hand that held the Bynd. "You'll be forcing this magic from me, then?"

"You leave me little choice, Yuoleen."

I stiffened and looked at my mother. She nodded, resigned. "It won't have quite the effect you intend," she warned, wearily.

He didn't know, I realized with more shock than fury. He didn't comprehend what the magic he was manipulating could and would [ _do_ ].

My father ignored her warning. The stone door shut behind him, sealing my mother and I alone in the stone chamber that was as cool and silent as the royal tombs that my mother would occupy as soon as my father succeeded in his goal. I failed to not cry.

_Excerpt Discovered by Evonalé Yunan,_

_Queen of Grehafen and Princess Consort of Salles,_

_Prophesied Savior of Marsdenfel_

_and Illicit Daughter of the late Princess Endellion Yunan_

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_Missing, mistaken, and denfelvish words were interpreted  
into mountaineer by the same._

**Year 242 of the Bynding**

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

_Winter, before Solstice_

There is but one kind, my daughter. One kind, altered by magic. Magic created us, Evonalé, just as magic now binds us. Over time, depending on what spells they work, your father and his scions could even become us.

Remember this.

— _Endellion_

Cold sears my body, except for my numb feet. Those sank into the mud a while ago. The dirt pastes my tattered dress to my scraped skin. Hunger shreds my insides.

Yowling dogs draw closer. Maybe they'll find me; maybe they won't. I shiver and lean into the rough bark of the tree propping me up. Nobody likes finding whelps like me.

The howling draws nearer. A doe darts through the underbrush past me. I jerk away, to get out of the dogs' path, but my numb feet can't support me. I tumble into the mud. My lungs burn with coughing.

The dogs follow the doe's path, but they stop when they spot me. Yips, whines, and whimpers enter their noise. My arms tremble as I prop myself up.

The lead dog crawls closer to me, sniffing inquiry. He'd be bigger than me even without the thick fur that stands on edge, his ears flat against his head.

"Pups! Fall off!" comes a lad's clear voice. "That's a girl, not the doe!" The dark-haired boy's chestnut steed—a neutered he, I can tell from my angle—shies away from me. He croons to it.

The boy's mahogany hunting tunic is dirty but not filthy, and the fine fabric marks him as highborn. He's a few years older than me, perhaps even thirteen and a subadult.

He dismounts easily and _tsk_ s to the dogs. "Hush, Plun," he tells the leading dog, rubbing his fur. I've never seen that messy a hodgepodge of colors in someone's lead dog.

I cough. The bad muscle in my back pulls. I bite back a whimper.

The boy's attention snaps to me at the sound. He studies me with brown eyes that are more bright than dark. Mine can pass for black in poor light. His can't.

He moves cautiously, slowly, approaching me sidelong while keeping far enough away that he doesn't threaten me. "Plun's short for Plunder," he offers as if I'm some shy filly to be coaxed into a bridle. "Grandfather gave her to me shortly before he died." The dog's a _she_ , then; not _he_. "I was eight."

How old am I, that story asks. I close my eyes. The ground vibrates as other horses near us.

The vibrations' smooth cadence roughens as the horses near me. My godmother's here, then. That's not reassuring. She's the only faery that _might_ help me, and she won't even save me from pneumonia.

"Aidan, stop riding off without your guards!" The man's voice is firmly commanding without being agitated. "What if an assassin were here?"

The lad's clothes rustle as he turns. "It's just a girl, Father."

"And little girls can't kill anyone?" If I didn't know better, I'd have thought his tone amused. Somebody snorts.

I sense a horse's movement through the ground; feel that it reluctantly sidles forward to stop in front of me. I open my eyes to see a nobleman's frown, the man himself in a mahogany hunting tunic, his brown hair just long enough that he ties it back. He studies me with hazel eyes, and his strong jaw and nose match the boy's.

The golden circlet on the man's brow reveals that he isn't merely nobility, but he's a _king_. The highborn boy is then a prince, undoubtedly intrigued by the novelty of finding a waif in the middle of nowhere.

Highborn folk don't dirty their hands with waifs. I let my eyes close again. The numbness is climbing up my legs and will take me, soon enough. Maybe that'll fulfill the prophecy, somehow: me freezing to death, although Father's a fire mage who could save me.

Some of the people here murmur, and one voice sounds female. Something brushes my arm. I flinch, triggering another coughing fit, but I don't open my eyes.

"Kitra, the poor girl's frozen through," says the king. "Do you have something to wrap her in?"

I hear someone fumble with saddlebags. "Mayhaps a shawl or chemise." Definitely a woman's voice.

Someone else touches me. I recoil away, shuddering and coughing and whimpering with the pain spearing me with every gasp. Tears burn my eyes, forcing me to open them.

"Shh," the woman, Kitra, soothes. She smiles, her white teeth a harsh contrast to her dark golden skin. Her attire announces her foreign origins as much as her deep tan does. The short sheaths on her thighs look well worn with use. I stare at them. A woman _fighter_? Joining a king on a hunt?

Her black hair, hacked at her chin, could suit either male or female, and her tall slim body could pass for a man's if she tried. But she's indisputably female, as revealed by her current bland ensemble of a leather jerkin—no undershirt—and belted trousers, livened by her bracelet and necklace, a matching set made from something's teeth or claws.

Kitra offers me the chemise she evidently forgot to wear under her jerkin so the lacings wouldn't reveal her navel and the crease between her breasts. "Here, kitten. Wrap yourself up."

I shake my head and scoot back. I'm not stupid. I'm not giving them fodder to call me a thief.

His Majesty eyes me thoughtfully as he remounts his own dappled mare. He moves over beside another hunter, one whose worn green tunic is a coarser weave, though silver embroidery cuffs it. It's unusual, but interesting: a demonstration of wealth added the sturdy garb of someone who actually works for his living.

Silver Embroidery studies me with enough interest that he must be a good friend of the king, so His Majesty doesn't mind him having opinions of his own. "Do you have a shawl, Your Highness?"

I recoil with the realization that this woman offering me her chemise is a _princess_ , albeit a foreign one.

Princess Kitra frowns and steps over to her palomino mare. She checks her saddlebag. "Scarf...?" And evidently _scarf_ means something else where she's from, because what she holds up looks more like a courtesan's veil.

Prince Aidan takes it from her and grabs my shoulder to yank me forward and deposit the 'scarf' around me before I can dodge him. I cough hard, but he holds me up and doesn't let me fall.

Fear makes sand of my muscles. He's old enough to be picking women he wants to give the veil.

"Oh, my," Silver Embroidery says quietly, expression pained. "Aldrik." He gives a small nod my way. Ice crawls beneath my skin. His Majesty nods in return, acknowledgement that he noticed the gesture.

I'm swung in the air and set on a steed. Princess Kitra's careful, though, and ensures that I stay where she puts me. Prince Aidan murmurs something about Hind being such a good gelding. I cling to the chestnut gelding's white mane with my fingers, struggling not to fall off.

"Mount Hind and keep her astride," the king directs his juvenile son, a miniature version of himself though darker of eye and hair. He lowers his tone to speak to Silver Embroidery, but I hear him. "I might've thought her an elf-child, but for her clumsiness."

_'...an elf-child...'_ I stare at the king with widened eyes. Do I really look elfin?

I cough despite Hind's smooth gait. Prince Aidan stops often to hold me steady through the coughing fits, and Silver Embroidery and Kitra loiter behind with him.

After one fit, while I'm still blinking back tears, I look at Silver Embroidery. "Are you a bodyguard?" My voice rasps in my throat.

"No."

Nobody elaborates. I swallow another cough with a wince. "Don't the prince and princess need guards?"

Kitra replies first. "Not a princess."

...I don't understand.

"Yes, I'm really a prince," Prince Aidan says before I can ask.

Kitra fingers the dagger hilts on her thighs. "Plainsfolk don't have princesses, not the way you easterners do."

I nod as if I know what Plainsfolk even are. Silver Embroidery's wry smile calls my bluff. I flinch. Prince Aidan's grip tightens so I don't fall.

"Plainsfolk rulers aren't necessarily hereditary, but if you're the child of a Warmaster, you're a lot more likely to become one, yourself," she explains.

I frown and eye Kitra sidelong. "But you're a girl."

She shrugs, loose-limbed. "Warmistress."

"You fight and you're a girl?" A look passes among the three of them. I must've just offended her. I swallow. "Aren't women vulnerable in ways men aren't?"

Prince Aidan shifts behind me. "Er..."

"Women shouldn't learn to fight because they're more likely to be attacked?" Silver Embroidery asks, tone polite despite his sarcastic words. " _That_ makes sense."

I bite my lip and duck my head so my hair hides my face. I hadn't thought of it that way. If Mother had learned to fight, might she have killed Father instead of conceiving me?

—But Father's a fire mage. Mother was an air. Fighting wouldn't have done her much good, anyway.

As we travel, the woodlands of the hunting grounds shift into hilly farmland, with a long stone wall in the distance. The sunset behind us gives everything a rosy glow. The prince's gelding prances with His Highness's excitement as we approach his home.

I stare. It's long, the wall for this castle, far larger than Father's, and so tall! "That isn't a castle." Never mind the two towers inside, the ramparts, or its strategic position with a river looping around from the east, and the mountain-bounded hunting grounds to the west.

I feel Prince Aidan shrug behind me. "So it's a palace. Over that hill to the south is the main river, and there's a bridge over the fork there to enter Saf. Our capital."

So the river bounds the palace on the east _and_ south. I look to the north, the slightly hilly lands holding much less farm and grazeland than I expect to see. The prince follows my gaze and shifts in his saddle. "Don't let the sheep fool you," he says quietly. "That way's the most dangerous of them all."

The others have waited for us at the gate. We pass within the walls, which don't quite contain a mansion. The palace itself is huge, certainly—larger than the castles for Father and Queen Yuoleen combined—and it's surrounded by gardens and barns.

The foreign not-princess Kitra helps me dismount Hind. We leave the horses in the care of stablehands outside a large stable on the southwest of the grounds. Dogs bark just a bit north of the stable, and Prince Aidan rejoins us after leaving the hunting dogs in that pen.

The nobles disperse. Kitra takes my arm to keep me with the royals. Silver Embroidery stays behind me as I slowly follow His Majesty and his son.

A wide stone staircase leads up into the castle's main entrance, and gardens stretch to either side. The queen plods down the steps at our approach. "What's _this_?!" Her nod indicates me.

"Someone's runaway baseborn get," Kitra says cheerily. King Aldrik shoves her arm in admonishment. I shy away from the king's demonstrated familiarity with a woman other than his wife. Her Majesty even looks to be expecting.

"A girl, Mother! Plun found her!" Prince Aidan runs up the stone steps to hug his mother. Tightness grips my chest. I wish I could run to my mother.

I slowly approach and curtsy to the queen. Her Majesty studies me with narrowed dark eyes, her rosy face stern. Her rich navy gown drapes about her mildly-bulging form like a velvet curtain, edged with golden embroidery. Her caramel hair piles on her head in upswept coils.

Prince Aidan leaves us with a spindly grey-haired man who looks like he spends all his time in libraries. The prince's tutor? Silver Embroidery trails after them with enough nonchalance that he's probably following them on purpose.

Her Majesty takes my narrow chin in her palm and examines my face. She nods and releases me, but she keeps hold of one of my curls, the color of bitter chocolate.

"Proctor, fetch a cord for the girl. Waiting until she got here to bathe her, I understand, but to leave her hair down completely—"

"Please no, Majesty!" I say quickly, hoping I don't sound too urgent. Carling forced me to wear my hair up after she knew it upset me. "Mother always told me to wear my hair loose." I'll take any lashings owed for my impertinence. The tips of my ears burn as embarrassment heats me.

"Your mother? Where is she?" Her Majesty's voice drips contempt. I don't know if it's over my loose hair or over her husband finding me and bringing me home.

But my throat sticks as embarrassment's heat shifts into fear's ice, and I force the tears back. They'll use any weakness to hurt me more. Father and my half-siblings did.

"Dead," I manage, having to swallow before I can add, "Majesty." I don't want to aggravate this queen. The oft-mocked proverb 'Never cross an expecting she-dwarf' can apply to humans, too.

The king moves closer to me. I try to hide my discomfort. Her Majesty glances at him with a scowl. "Your mother insisted you wear it _loose_? Are you certain?"

I flinch. "Yes, Majesty," I whisper. What does loose hair mean in this realm?

"Well, then!" The queen briskly claps her hands. "Never mind, Proctor. We will respect the dead." I doubt she would have given me the same favor had I told her that Father still lives.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" His Majesty tucks his arm under Her Majesty's as we go up the steps.

She shoots him a sour look. "Yes, walking is absolutely fatiguing." She, a queen, speaks...wryly?

Her Majesty glances at me. "Fetch that." She waves at a nearby teacup perched at the top of the stone staircase, as if she'd been prepared to sit there all evening, awaiting the return of her husband and son. I stare at it. Mother would have sooner been whipped than wait for Father.

King Aldrik sighs. "Maitane, she needs a bath."

"She might as well do something useful on her way. Fetch it, girl."

I flinch, take the ornate porcelain thing carefully, and follow her. Her expression says she's displeased—but that might have more to do with Kitra loitering with one of the guards by a pear tree in the courtyard below. We can hear their coy laughter from here.

"What of your father?"

I jump, and some of the lukewarm tea sloshes from the cup. I gulp. Father would lash me for such a thing. My back stings in memory.

"Maitane!" The king grips my arm to steady my hand. "Don't frighten the girl so!"

" _Frighten_? How is asking about her father 'frightening'?"

"I don't know him, Majesty," I lie quickly. Both monarchs freeze. I study the ground.

"You are fatherless, then?"

I nod without looking up. "A forced child, Majesties."

The queen's gasp startles me. My back spasms; my hands slip. I try to save the cup before it lands, but there's a reason my back's so bad.

Her Majesty gasps again when her cup shatters. I stare at my feet.

As of the approaching solstice, I will have spent ten years on Aleyi; only the past weeks have been in the cold and wet, surviving on what little I've been able to scavenge and beg.

I need very little to survive. _Too_ little. As small and weak as I am compared to Father's scions, I can handle deprivation far better than Carling or Drake ever could.

Still, I flinch when the queen yells at me. I'd rather have food and shelter than be cold, wet, hungry, and waiting for one of Carling's experiments to find and eat me.

"Maitane!" the king interrupts his wife's tirade and takes my arm. "Let her be. She hardly meant to break it." He leads me down the hall with a narrow-eyed glance at Queen Maitane. "Come, child. You must be hungry."

Why does he care?

"I'm surprised you know of the...peculiarities of your parentage. Were you ever schooled?"

"No, Majesty." Mother and others taught me when and what they could, and I taught myself some from what I saw and heard, but schooled? No.

His Majesty nods, as if I've confirmed something he already suspected. Why did he expect my answer?

King Aldrik leaves his wife at her rooms with a kiss more passionate than I expected. She accepts and returns it, which startles me. Even Father's wife tolerated his attentions, at best, before he killed her.

His Majesty takes me directly to what must be a secondary kitchen, from the size. "Silva."

A tall broad-boned young woman, old enough to be married but young enough that she's probably only engaged, turns towards us while tossing her ginger-colored pleated hair out of the way. She glances at me for all of a second. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

A shorter light-haired brunette of about Silva's age in a formless grey smock openly stares at me. Her cherrywood gaze flickers to the king and Silva, and she sets aside the pot she's washing. "I'll fetch a dress. Tweak some ears for more."

Silva gives her a sharp look.

His Majesty nods at the girl. "Thank you, Lallie." Lallie curtsies and leaves. "Mind your jealousy, Silva. Lallie's better at pulling teeth for charity."

I'm careful not to stare at the king outright. He talks too informally to this Silva for her to be a servant, unless...

She might be like me. Silva is definitely older than Prince Aidan. I wonder if she ever had any brothers. I did, for a few hours, before Father found and killed him.

Silva sighs. "Sorry." She pops her neck and glances at me. "New girl?"

"Bathe her, feed her, and show her around so she can be situated before your mother gets back." King Aldrik doesn't wait for her curtsy or acknowledgement before leaving.

Silva pries a hunk of bread off a loaf and slaps honey on it. She hands me the result. "Eat. You need it. I'm Silva. You?"

I accept the food and flinch. "Evonalé." Why couldn't Mother have named me something _human_?

But Silva doesn't comment on my elvish name. She quickly tidies up this kitchen. "We call this the washroom. Doesn't get used for much else than washing the dishes, except by some of us younger folk when we cook on our own time."

"You like cooking?"

She grins, a dimple pinching her right cheek. "Runs in the family. Not my favorite thing, but I'm not half bad. I'm a better..." She frowns and shakes her head sharply. "You like to cook?"

I shrug and cringe from my bad back.

Silva's frown deepens. "What?"

"Nothing." Didn't His Majesty tell her to show me around?

"Finish your bread," she says, and as I do, she whirls about, making sure everything's picked up. Only a large bucket of suds remains out of place. When I swallow the last of my bit of bread, she studies me sidelong for a moment, then dumps the bucket over my head.

She waits until I'm past sputtering and into wringing out the wrap Princess Kitra stuck on me before she looks at me directly. "Well," Silva says with a wide smile that holds traces of forced cheer. "The head cook's out today, but she'll be back tomorrow..."

Her chatter continues while she takes me to one of the buildings outside the palace but within the walls, this one on the southeast side, closest to the nearby river between this palace and the nearby city. I glimpse a canal to the south as we approach the building's west entrance.

"Separate genders, don't worry." She swipes a towel off a shelf beside the entrance and hands it to me. I clutch it tightly as I follow. "Notice the curtain above the door. Red confirms women; blue, men. Don't go near it when it's black unless you're wanting..." Silva shakes herself as if remembering who or what she's talking to. "West side of the building's for women; east side's men. That's true for pretty much everything, here—courtyards, stables, bridal suites...

"Oh, and purple means the royal family is currently reserving it. Ten lashings for putting that one up without cause."

I stop in the doorway, seeing the fair soft skin and elaborate hair of the women in the humid room. "I shouldn't be here."

"Nonsense!" Silva snaps. She tugs me by the arm towards the gaggle of highborn girls who pointedly ignore our intrusion.

One girl of about my age glares, her golden curls plastered to her sharp-featured face like a wet cat's fur.

Ignoring the highborn with a self-assurance that further evidences whose daughter she likely is, Silva lets her own rough overdress fall to the floor and strips my wrap and rags from me before I can protest.

I squeak and dive in the washing pool by our feet to hide myself. Carling made sure to keep the skin intact when she messed up my muscles, so my scars aren't visible, but I still don't like displaying my body. Someone might realize what I am.

"Who died and made you princess?" snipes the cat girl.

"Don't start, Goldilocks." Silva has her back to the girl, so she must recognize the voice.

"Marigold!" a woman snaps, as blonde and willowy as the offending girl. "Mind your tongue!" She quickly gets between cat girl and Silva. She gives Silva a worried look. "Pray forgive my daughter, my—"

"You don't have to apologize to _her_! She's just—"

"Lord Elwyn's replacement!" Marigold's mother snaps back.

My stomach lurches, and the ice of terror and flame of embarrassment war to overwhelm me. I do not want to know which member of the royal family takes both a grown man and a young woman to bed.

Well, at least Silva isn't the king's baseborn daughter. I hope.

It's now, after Marigold's gaping at her mother's rebuke, that Silva turns to face the room. "I'm allowed here anyway, Goldilocks."

I gulp. Okay, so maybe she _is_ His Majesty's bastard.

The rest of the washing up doesn't take too long. Silva's earlier bucket of suds loosened the filth, and the baths are designed to let the water flow through them.

The water's a fair temperature, though not warm enough to help my aching lungs, but the room has a bite to it from winter's cold. I'm shivering in my towel and coughing by the time Silva's friend Lallie finds us.

Lallie's shoulders are taut from the stack draped over her arm. She drops the clothing on a bench and quickly fingers through to a walnut green blouse and oak brown pinafore.

I bite my lip while I look at them. "Um..."

Silva doesn't hear me, but Lallie notices my concern and doffs her grey smock. I blink at the blueberry blue panel centered in her charcoal-colored overdress. "Color's fine; just watch the extras." She nods at the dresses the noble girls are donning, evidently refusing to let a waif exit the baths ahead of them.

The beads stitched on the sleeves of Marigold's dress handle the light like they're glass. "An essere's daughter?" I ask quietly.

Lallie quickly hides her grin and nod behind a cough. Her brown eyes shine when she smiles. "You embroider?"

I shiver and turn away. Elves embroider. It's said that elven embroidery, depending on its picture, can ward off illness, monsters, famine, and such. I don't pretend to have that ability, but I mimicked the felven style while Mother lived. It shows in my technique.

Lallie doesn't press the question, doesn't even comment on my silence when Silva returns from fetching another towel for her hair. I don the blouse and pinafore. They're a tad big, but I'll grow into them.

Lallie scoops up the pile of dresses that remains—my shoulder twinges in sympathy—and nods at Silva. "These'll fit her right enough," she says. "I'll leave the rest in her room." She doesn't wait for Silva's acknowledgement before leaving.

Silva sees that I'm ready and takes me to the main kitchen, showing me the fires, the wood, the pots—all that I'll need to know to work tomorrow. Other girls and ladies eye me, some warily. Others twitter and give me food. Someone hands me a bitter tea that soothes my lungs.

Silva nods and continues my tour. A cloud of flour greets us in the dessert kitchen. She sneezes. "You aren't supposed to be in here."

A girl of about my age but half again my size sticks out her tongue at Silva as she slaps some sticky dough. "Shut up."

"Geddis." Silva scowls. "You know Mother—"

"I'm making her sweetbread." Geddis shapes the dough on the tray and sticks it in the large oven that dominates this kitchen. She grabs a few logs off the stack for more fuel. "She needs something to cheer her up."

A blank look crosses Silva's face—blank in the self-controlled way, not blank as in daft. "That doesn't mean you can disobey her. You aren't allowed to cook in here by yourself."

Geddis worries a loose molar with her tongue. "I'm not alone; you're here."

Silva lets out a sharp breath. "Geddis," she says. Her left thumb fiddles with the little finger of that same hand. "Quit playing semantics. You're not allowed to cook by yourself because it's dangerous."

The girl sticks out her tongue at the older girl. "And reading probabilities isn't?"

"That's different!" Silva snaps. "I don't choose that." Her glare at Geddis is more upset than angry.

"Right."

"Ask Ferrel!"

I wonder what happened to him.

Geddis looks as though she's about to say something mean when Lallie pokes her head in. "Geddis Feyim, what _is_ this mess?" Lallie glides in with a self-assured presence that would befit a noblewoman. "Your mum let you cook in here by yourself, young lady?"

Geddis hunches her shoulders. "I'm making a surprise for her."

" _Oh_." It's an acknowledgement of Geddis's words rather than an indicator of comprehension. "And your mum wouldn't whip you if you had a good reason for disobeying her, would she?"

Geddis bites her lip at Lallie's sarcasm. "She likes sweetbread."

"And you couldn't ask one of us to help you with it?"

The girl's hands shake as she seals up the jar of flour. "It's stupid. You just pretend that there's nothing wrong about this, about Father _leaving_ so—" She hiccups and gulps down tears.

" _Geddis_ ," Lallie warns quietly. "Mind your tongue."

Geddis shoves Lallie, who steps back. "Geddis!" Silva snaps. "Behave—oh!" She stumbles, holding her head and cringing. She clutches the table as if about to fall.

"Silva?" Lallie hovers nearby, but she doesn't touch her friend.

Silva shakes her head. "Just...just a spell." Silva lets herself fall on the stool Lallie pulls up for her. She shakes her head in attempt to clear it. "I'm okay."

"Ay, no. You sit right there until you stop seeing auras. Geddis, stay with her, and make sure she don't fall and break her neck." Geddis flinches. "I'll show the girl her room."

Silva looks as though she might protest, but then another grimace interrupts, and she lets her head fall forward on her arms. She groans.

Goose bumps form on my arms. Queen Yuoleen's prophet Gaylen looked like that, on his bad days. "...Should we fetch a healer?"

Geddis snorts.

Lallie gives me a slight smile, brow furrowed. "Wouldn't do no good. Sil gets like this, sometimes. Nice thought, though." She lightly touches my arm to guide me out.

I follow her lead, but I swallow and duck behind her when His Majesty approaches us. Why is he in the servants' passages?

"Where's Silva?"

"Dessert kitchen. She's..." Lallie smiles thinly and shrugs.

King Aldrik nods comprehension and sighs. "If she were just a smidgen less sensitive..."

"Then the Council would ignore her, and you know it."

"Idiots," His Majesty mutters, shaking his head, then gives Lallie a sharp glance. "Don't go repeating that, mind you."

"Repeating what?"

He smiles. "There's a good girl." He pats her on the head and continues down the hall.

"Is he..." I gulp. On second thought, perhaps it wouldn't be wise to ask if she and Silva share a father.

"Is he...?" Lallie studies me for a few seconds, then breaks into a grin and a laugh. "Oh, no. Despite what some nobles like gossiping over their tea, King Aldrik has no baseborn get."

I'm not sure how she figured out what I was thinking, but even so... "Um, Silva?" I heat from embarrassment.

"His Majesty's best friend's daughter." She doesn't sound surprised or appalled by my assumption, though, so it must be common. "And with her, well... What you see is not what you get, exactly." Her smile is wry. "But I guess that's true for most of us."

"What do I get with you?" I flinch when I realize I asked that aloud.

Lallie bites back a tired laugh with a grin. "Clever girl." My arm twinges beneath her pat. She frowns and probes the bad spot with her thumb. "Holy Creator," she whispers.

But she removes her hand. We exchange a long look.

She doesn't ask who tortured me with magic, and I don't ask how she can tell.

The next morning, a warm bed welcomes me when I wake up. It's a pleasant change from rocks and mud and cold tree bark. I yawn.

"'Morning, girl!"

I scream, then break out coughing from my lungs.

His Highness laughs. "You should've seen the look on your face!"

I quickly hide my scowl and wrestle my coughing fit under control. Letting a royal see your anger is stupid.

I pat my hair to make sure it covers my ears. The cotton shift I pulled from Lallie's stack to use as a nightdress is decent enough. I climb out of bed, rubbing my eyes.

"Where do you think you're getting yourself to?"

"Up, Highness." Is he stupid or playing?

Two brown eyebrows rise. Prince Aidan glances out the window at the predawn view. "Why?"

"I have work to do, Highness." As I speak, I make the bed. I'm to start helping Cook, today. I heard enough gossip yesterday to expect her to dislike me; she has little tolerance for oafs.

"So?"

"I must prepare for work, Highness." After fluffing the green pillow, I'm done. I turn to the small stool nearby and relieve it of my green blouse and brown pinafore from yesterday. I pull them on over my shift.

His Highness snorts. "Are you ever going to wash that?"

"Yes, High—"

"Would you stop that?"

I pause to figure out that he doesn't want me to use his title. My stomach lurches, and I pray to the Power that I misunderstood everything yesterday and he isn't the one who's newly taken Silva to bed. He's a few years younger than she is. "If you'd prefer."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course I 'prefer' it. How would you like to have the people you actually _want_ to know groveling at your feet all the time?"

Smoothing my pinafore spares me from having to meet his gaze. I suppose it sounds annoying, but he's the first royal I've known to not enjoy it.

Prince Aidan eyes me with stark curiosity. "Well, then. Enjoy your tea." He nods at a steaming mug that I didn't notice by my bed. Who brought that? Surely not the prince. "I'll leave you to your...work." He grins and starts for the door. "See you at the ovens!"

"Your Highness?" I automatically ask before catching myself.

He gives me a pointed look but doesn't scold me otherwise. "I help Cook on Praisedays." At my blank-faced response, he clarifies: "The last day of the week—today."

"You cook?" I ask in my shock. Maybe he _did_ bring the tea.

"Fortunes can change in life. A prince can be exiled, a noble lose his title." His frank acceptance that he may someday lose his rank makes me blink. "My grandfather conquered the emperor here not all that long ago. Grandfather would still be around if he hadn't taken the emperor's daughter to wife. Grandmother assassinated him when I was about your age.

"Besides, men eat. And women aren't always in a condition to cook. You think Cook works so hard on her moontime?"

Heat floods my face. I remember Melrin; whether on moontime or heavy with child, she must attend Father's pots. She's lost more of her brood than have survived. Most of them didn't _fall_ into the cooking fires.

I shudder and wince. Carling likes her experiments.

"So, see you shortly. Have a good morning." With a smile and nod, Prince Aidan leaves. Before I can reach the door, he shuts it behind himself.

I sip the tea, and it's the bitter one to help my lungs. I relish the ability to breathe more easily.

Someone also left a jug of water by my door. I pour it in the washbasin and scrub my face, ears, hands, fingernails. My bad muscles ache something awful. I move carefully so I don't trigger any of the spasms.

The mirror reflects my dark eyes back at me. My cheekbones jut out the most from my malnutrition. I'm small-framed but don't lose flesh easily due to Grandmother's blood; I'm bony, not emaciated. Small, angular, underfed. _Too_ thin, really, for a human to find me pretty, but I'm glad for that. I know where a nice face gets girls like me.

Breathe. I have to remember to breathe. No matter what they say or do, just breathe and stay calm. Don't freeze, don't cry, don't panic, and don't break anything.

If only that last one were as easy.

Flour dusts me as I fight the biscuit dough, which sticks to my hands, my pinafore, my hair.

Prince Aidan passes by with a load of newly-baked bread and winks. "Don't know how to do that, either, girl?"

I ignore him, struggling to get the spongy dough to conform into the little biscuits Cook demands I make. The somewhat slimy feel of the dough on my skin bothers me. The sensitive skin comes from my human grandfather, Mother told me. She had it, too.

I've been worse, though. Much worse.

I finally finish shaping the biscuits and treat myself to a few more sips of the bitter tea someone's keeping hot for me. I then take the raw biscuits to Cook for baking.

Cook eyes my work critically. With a scowl, she accepts the tray and waves me on to make more.

Turning to head back to my task, I trip over a table leg, falling face-first into some cake batter. Hastily I shove myself out—and stumble back into a fresh baking iron, newly greased. My bottom makes an imprint.

My attempt to leap up catches my ankle underneath a low stand, toppling both of us into the middle of the walkway, spilling a dessert tray and ripping my blouse's sleeve. Spasms spike through my back, and I can't stop gasping and coughing. Tears blur my vision.

As my body calms down, booted feet that I recognize as belonging to Silva turn around towards me, a cornflower blue skirt billowing about them. She helps me up and brushes me off, tossing her ginger-colored pleats back behind her shoulders. She _tsk_ s at my sleeve, holding my arm. "I'll clean Evonalé up."

I follow the young woman's gaze to the large-framed matron in charge. Cook's face is unnaturally red, and slightly-peppered ginger-colored curls peep out from her cap. The familiar freezing starts spreading throughout my body. When the ice reaches my shoulder, Silva shivers and gives me a scolding look.

_What?!_ Silva's fifteen, if that—she can't know what that means!

I immediately freeze entirely. Silva quickly removes her hand from my shoulder and rubs it in her skirts. "Perhaps there's something else she could do, where she won't cause such a mess?"

Cook glowers, glances at our audience of kitchen staff, and nods sharply. "I won't take a fool, Silva."

"She's just clumsy." Silva takes my still-frozen shoulder and guides me away. Her gentle prods encourage my locked knees to loosen.

Cook is reluctant to unleash her temper on me. Not that I'm not grateful, but... Why?

Once we're in a solitary workroom, Silva hands me a chunk of honeyed bread. "Eat. You need it."

Shouldn't I be working? I glance about, but I haven't seen any guards. Who—or what—patrols to punish lax servants?

Silva twists her long ginger braids into a bun. Now that I notice it, she shares Cook's large frame if not the build, though she's so much bigger than me...I suppose most would think her plump. I'm a poor judge; I'm large for an elf, while small for a human.

I'm frail compared to my half-siblings, too. I shiver, remembering Drake's kicks and slaps; Carling's 'experiments' and amusement at my magic-induced pain. I guess I'm petite, as Mother was called. Mother was more finely boned than I am, though.

A large hand squeezes my shoulder. "Now, Evonalé." Silva's voice is quiet. "You're safe here, you know. Even if Mother kicks you from her kitchens, you'll be tried at different duties 'til we find one that suits you."

Silva settles in another chair at the wooden table, drags over a basket, and pulls out parts of a quilt. She slides me a little box across the table. A small pair of scissors sit inside, with a needle, a tiny pincushion, and some thread. "Would you pick a color? I can repair that sleeve of yours while we wait."

I freeze. " _Wait_?" I whisper. Memories arise of the whip's fire and of beatings' cacophony of pain.

"For William. He's a Runner." A messenger. "He'll bring us the royal suggestion for what we try next." At my terror, she gives me a pointed look. "A task. You shouldn't work with fragile things, for example; that narrows the options, but it's up to His Majesty if he wants to set you doing else now or if Mother—Cook—should continue managing you."

The king wastes the royal time with waifs?

"I wouldn't be surprised if His Majesty comes to see us, himself... It's not as though he has much to do, at the moment, with the council out of session. The council really does do most of the law enforcement and all that, anyway, and even they don't have all that much to do because of the subcouncils..."

I stop heeding her words in confusion. These concepts of councils and leniency with useless waifs are foreign to me. Of what use are they to the king? I pry a needle and thread myself from the box. Silva's eyebrows rise as I thread the needle and start repairing my damaged sleeve while I'm still wearing it.

"Evonalé." I recoil and prick myself upon hearing my name. Silva keeps her gaze on her quilting. If she could've known about my past, I would suspect her to be trying to put me at ease. "It's a pretty name. Where does it come from?"

I shrug, for feigned ignorance is harder to disprove than an outright lie. My name is elvish, specifically the uncommon felvish dialect. _Be, my daughter_ — _my_ , not _our_. There's a reason for that. I shiver.

A wry smile appears on Silva's lips. She gives me an amused look, as if she knows I'm feigning ignorance. I freeze again. She _can't_ know! How could she—

"You don't? I would've thought you'd know." She quilts a few seconds more. "A she-elf I met as a child used to say that. 'Be, my daughter,' she said it meant."

Only in felvish!

Silva smiles ruefully. "It's terrible, what's happened to the felves...but the mage controlling them must be powerful, since the telves are too frightened to help."

_Or Father keeps his magic quiet enough that they don't realize it's happening,_ I think but don't say, shivering from the cold my fear produces; how could she have known a felf?

Her words pierce me. I start and stare at her. _'It's terrible, what's happened to the felves...'_

The felves belong to one elfin realm, and one realm only: Marsdenfel, previously ruled by Queen Yuoleen. That realm has the linking Crystal that binds elves' magic everywhere for them to share its costs and changes so they stay one race. Father's father stole that binding, the Bynd, after he seduced the young impressionable queen. Grandfather re-bound the Crystal to magically enslave that realm's elves—the felves—in Mother's day.

'It's terrible, what's happened to the felves...'

How does Silva know of it?

I slipped away from Silva as soon as I could. I've taken only what I'm wearing, a rickety knife I overheard Lallie telling one of the Runners to get replaced, and a bit of old bread due for the compost heap. It's more than I had when I fled Father.

The skies were clear when I first let myself out the little north door, creaky with disuse. Dark clouds fill the sky now.

My coughing will surely give me away if anyone gets close enough to hear it. But I've been splashing through mud and weeds and puddles for a while, now. I doubt anyone cares to waste an evening tracking down a runaway waif, particularly in weather like this. The cold makes my bones ache.

"I can't stay with them. They'll give me back to Father," I tell Fael Honovi, but my faery godmother answers by sending sleet. I shake my head and grit my teeth against the cold and coughs. Prophecy or no prophecy, I won't go back to Father. I won't.

Power forgive me, but I don't want to face the prophecy. I don't want to fight and be killed by Father or one of my half-siblings. I'd rather live.

Before she died, Mother told me to flee Grehafen, following the river Nidar, and I'll resume that. First, though, I have to find it, again, and hope I don't learn the hard way why Prince Aidan called the north so dangerous. The land's flatter than it looked from astride Hind.

If I can even find the Nidar again. I never should have let Prince Aidan find me. I should have fled when I heard those hunting dogs. I should...

My head's so heavy, and it's a fight to keep my eyes open...

I jolt awake.

The ghastly keening continues, echoing and reverberating as if in mountains despite the flat ground. Power have mercy, what _is_ that? It's coming this way.

My teeth chatter; my body wracks with coughing. I have no idea where I am.

It's worse than that. I didn't mean to fall asleep, either. I'm so heavy and tired...

My blue-tinged hands pull me enough out of the lethargy for me to gasp and try to rub some warmth into them. I whimper for help to Fael Honovi, but I can tell she isn't here as I freeze and hope the approaching magical creature prefers its meat dead.

I pray to the Power to at least make it quick. Better to die here than to be tortured to death in one of Carling's experiments, Father's games, or Drake's—

Someone clicks his tongue behind me. I can't move to turn to see him.

"Kitra!" the man calls, and I recognize the voice. Silver Embroidery.

Not-princess Kitra's reply is quick and in a language that sounds like it must be her native one as she catches up to Silver Embroidery.

She turns me around to face him on his horse, so I see him wearily shake his head. He looks thinner than he did yesterday. Sallow, even. "Sprite," he says. "We need to go before this one finds us—she's hungry."

Kitra hoists me onto the horse in front of Silver Embroidery, so I get to see her scowl as she checks on the knives she wears at her sides and yanks herself onto her own mount. "Let her come."

"Not to argue your skill with a blade, Your Highness, but this is the wrong time of month for me to face something that wants to pluck my spirit from my body. We should go before anything else takes up on our trail."

"Like your mother?" Kitra's jibe makes Silver Embroidery restrain a tremor behind me. "Ever wonder which of the rumored hauntings out here is her?"

"Do you wonder which ghoul in Skull Dune was your grandfather?" Silver Embroidery quietly replies.

Kitra catches herself mid-snarl, swallows, and shoots him a dark look. "Poor taste, Elwyn."

"You started it," I think I point out before the black overwhelms my senses.

"You stupid girl," Silva says as I wake up. I open my eyes to her frown. She pokes my arm, hitting a bad spot, and I gasp at the pain. "Serves you right, trying to kill yourself for fear of a nice young lady knowing who you are. Where else are you going to hide, hm? Somewhere where that sister of yours can scry you?"

I press myself back into the mattress at Silva's snide tone.

" _Silva_!" Lallie snaps, oddly sharp. She stands beside the open door, pointing at the exit. "Out."

Silva scowls at her friend. "Shut your mouth, Nonsire. Speak again when you can say who your father is—or even your mother would do."

I grimace in sympathy for Lallie, who doesn't even flinch. "Get _out_ , Silva. Find your uncle."

I barely know Silva, but even I can tell that sneer doesn't fit her. "Baseborn—"

Lallie steps forward and slaps Silva across the face. "Silva Feyim! Get back in charge of your forsook body before I do something we both regret!"

Silva blinks and shakes her head as if waking up. She covers the palm print blossoming on her cheek with her hands. "...Lallie?" She sounds bewildered, scared.

"Go find your uncle, Silva," Lallie repeats gently. "You need him."

Silva stumbles out as if she's groggy or dizzy.

Lallie sighs as she shuts the door behind her friend. She usurps my room's stool that Silva just vacated. "Sorry about that. You must've been in the marshes."

I swallow. "What..."

Lallie sends her eyebrows a fair way up on her forehead. "The Wailing Marshes be nasty, Pickle, and they weren't made any kinder all for His Majesty's father defeating the old emperor there. From the tales, it was a bad business all around."

I process that. "Pickle?"

Lallie's smile and the twinkle in her eye say she hoped I'd notice her choice of endearment. "I like pickles."

Her expression quickly sobers, though, and she scoots closer to my bed. I watch her, wondering if she knows about me, like her friend does. "Sprites and other haints haunt the marshes—not just haunt, but _breed_."

She pauses and treats herself to a large breath. "The young ones can't do the likes of you and me much harm, but they can ride us to let us carry them to someone like Silva, whose connections between her spirit and body aren't the tightest. Just a touch, and they can wriggle in the gap and..." She glances away from my shiver. "Well, you saw." Lallie shrugs.

I swallow. "What's so special about _me_?"

"It rode you, dinnit it? Theyn't hard to notice, once you know how. It's the eyes." She waves at her own. "The pupil takes a—an odd sheen, when someone's ensorcelled."

"What kind of sheen?"

Lallie shrugs. "Hard to say, precisely. It's unnatural, whatever it be."

I don't look at her, this maid who noticed my magic-induced injuries yesterday. "I can't stay here."

"Nonsense. Where would you go? The streets of Saf to be pimped and raped and murdered? Some realm where folk have no idea who you are and less reason to protect you when they find out?"

I swallow hard. "Who am I?"

"A king's bastard," Lallie says readily, and I flinch. "Anyone can tell that, with how you cower from the Majesties. There's a betting pool right now on which king. Your actual father's low in the bets, by the way."

"How—" does _she_ know who Father is?!

"Because I joined the betting on King Hastheem, like most did when Lord Elwyn picked him. Others follow his lead."

...Silva probably told her. Who is "King Hastheem?"

"Ruler of Breidentel, last we heard. He's notorious for trying everything at least once and leaving more than his share of brats behind in consequence."

Breidentel. Gaylen told me the reason Queen Yuoleen's realm was _denfel_ and all the others _dentel_ , but I can't remember. "You know elves?"

"Of them, yes. Breidentel used to have lots of business with Salles, but a little over a decade ago they went to seclusion. We've hardly heard from them since." She glances around my sparse room. "A fair number of folk still know an elf when they see one."

I understand her words as a warning and swallow. "I can't go back. They'll kill me. And I can't stay." She just looks at me, waiting for me to finish. "My name's too—too _special_." _Be, my daughter_ , it means, a plea and an admission of my illegitimacy wrapped into four syllables.

Lallie frowns. "What's so special about Nallé?"

"Nallé?" I repeat, but I get her meaning: As far as anyone here's concerned, my name's Nallé, not Evonalé.

She smiles and stands, pushing a tray I didn't notice closer to the edge of my dresser. Something steams in the mug. "Drink up; rest today. Nobody expects you back in the kitchens until the day after next."

"Nobody?"

Lallie shrugs and moves the stool back to where it was when she entered. "You aren't to return to work until Rayday. Elwyn said so. His Majesty heeds him about such things."

Elwyn? —That's what Kitra called Silver Embroidery. He has the ear of the king, then. It will do me well to remember that.

That same afternoon, I enter the kitchen and bury a cough in my arm. Cook isn't working today, so Silva carefully bundles up a pack of refreshment for Prince Aidan and sends me off to what she calls "the little courtyard hidden in a garden maze north of the dog kennels." I watch her blankly and ask how I'm supposed to find my way through the maze.

Silva frowns and adds another two waterskins to the load. "You'll figure it out." She hands me both a shawl and the pack. Those last two skins are for me, I presume. She nods and waves me off. "Go on."

"But—" this will take a while.

Her bland look back says _Really?_ "Scat, Nallé."

I shoulder the bag, wincing when my back twinges. Why is Silva intentionally trying to get me out of the way for the day? "I can work," I insist to the older lady who looks like she's Cook's cover.

The woman just glances at Silva and shakes her head, unwilling to countermand the younger woman. What _is_ Silva?! Nobody wants to contradict her, she freely wanders the noble quarters, the _king_ concerns himself with her well-being, and...

Actually, paired with Lallie's insistence that Silva is not a royal bastard, I think I just answered that one for myself.

I shiver at His Majesty's evident preference for teenage girls and wander off to find my way through a maze in a part of the castle grounds that I've not even seen, much less navigated. I start at the stables, and from there I follow the yips north to the dog kennels. I recognize the motley-colored Plun, who perks up when I pass the kennels, headed towards her master. She paws at the gate and whines, wagging her tail when I look at her.

I know the moment Fael Honovi joins me in whatever metaphysical realm she inhabits, because Plun lurches back, ears flat and neck fur on end, and growls. I sigh and continue towards the tall hedges ahead of me. Not only is it a maze, but the growth is even thick enough that I can't see through it despite the thinning that comes in winter.

After ducking inside and around a bend, I frown at all the plants. Silva said there was a courtyard in the middle, so it should be free of the bushes. And Lallie's already said everyone assumes I'm an elf king's bastard. Might as well use what little elven blood I have.

I reach out and brush one of the bushes with my fingertips. My skin tingles with the plants' life, dull and sedentary in the middle of winter, and I instinctually know where all the intertwined plants sit. I pause just long enough to get my bearings in what I sense, and aim for the empty square that's in the middle of the maze.

And people think elves foolish for planting their gardens gradually over several years and generations. I wouldn't have been able to do this if these bushes weren't the same age.

Clattering comes from the courtyard in the center of the maze. I increase my pace until I'm beside the courtyard entrance, then stop. Someone in the courtyard grunts with pain. I peek around the corner.

Prince Aidan rolls to his feet and attacks not-princess Kitra from behind with his wooden sword and dagger. She blocks the sword with her dagger, and his dagger with her elbow on his wrist, leaving her sword against his neck. Both freeze.

I shudder at the violence and scurry over to the stone bench to pull out the water and refreshments for them from the pack.

"Getting better," Kitra compliments him. "Need more practice."

He crouches by me and swipes a handful of dried apple while he shrugs at Kitra's words. "Father's been busy."

"Practice with the boys."

Prince Aidan shakes his head. "I'm not good enough for that, yet."

I use my trembling hands to flatten my skirt, which draws the prince's attention. He scowls. "You aren't supposed to be working today."

"I—" need to earn my keep.

"Go back to your room."

But... "Highness—"

He sighs and shoves the palmful of dried apple in his mouth. He quickly chews and swallows. "Wait a stone, would you?" he asks Kitra. "I'll be back." He grabs my arm as he leaves the small courtyard by the opposite side. He abruptly stops and sticks his head back around the corner. "You see my betrothed, please waylay her. I'll see her at lunch."

Kitra gives him an incredulous look but shrugs acquiescence.

Prince Aidan hurries out the maze, pulling me along and hardly slowing when I stumble. We almost collide with someone, and His Highness shoves me into a dead end behind him. I land hard on my side, skirt and blouse and shawl all in the wrong places. I quickly rearrange everything to cover what it should.

"Aidan! What a surprise." I hear Drake give Prince Aidan a friendly slap.

Fear chills my bones. Prince Aidan knows him? Is _friends_ with—

"Drake," Prince Aidan replies politely to my half-brother's greeting. "My apologies, but now is not a good time. Might I meet you at lunch?"

From his laugh, I know my half-brother grins as he replies, "Oh, of course! Forgive me for bothering you—I didn't realize you'd already found the beauty between a woman's thighs. I could show you some pointers, to get the most out of the wench."

"Perhaps another time."

I shudder. Drake leaves, and Prince Aidan turns back to look at me.

"Next time someone tells you not to work for a few days, heed them!" he snaps.

I gulp at the anger in his tone and shiver from cold. He resumes guiding me through the maze.

At the exit, he steps out first and looks around. "Wrap your face with your shawl."

We share a long glare. Doing that would imply that he'd taken my virtue or at least sullied it. I'm not a woman yet. "Deviant."

"I'm certainly about to be thought one. Now put that accursed shawl over your face before Carling decides to come find out what interested her brother."

With another shudder, I wrap the shawl around my shoulders, neck, and chin, bowing my head so my loose hair hides the rest of it. I look cold and unwell, not like I'm on my way to becoming a woman of ill repute.

His sour look appreciates my quick thinking even as it's irritated. "That works, I suppose." He quickly tugs on my pinafore sleeve, straightening it. I step back and flush, heat flaring through my body. He scowls and straightens his own sleeves and collar. "Come along."

I do, and he moves quickly again, but he actually slows when I trip. One noble youth whistles as we pass by. Prince Aidan doesn't like that. "The girl needs Ygrain, Hickory. Keep your mind out of the gutter!"

We make it back to the kitchens with minimal mishap on my part. Prince Aidan releases me and immediately grabs a sack and ducks back out. I stand near the doorway of the small kitchen where he left me. Silva works alone on what looks like bread.

Silva pauses. "Through the maze already?"

I tug one bit of hair that's near my ear. She slams her forehead with one palm. "Felfin! Of course. Forgot about that."

Prince Aidan returns, the sack now bulging. He hands it to me. "What part of 'Evonalé must stay in her room today' did you miss, Silva?"

Silva stares blankly at him. "She would've been fine, lost in the maze—"

"But she _wasn't_ lost in the maze, and Drake nearly saw her." He snatches a freshly baked loaf off the cooling rack and adds it to the sack as he addresses me: "Stay in your room today and tomorrow."

"And just what is she supposed to _do_ there?"

Prince Aidan whirls on Silva. "How in creation am I supposed to know how she can amuse herself?! Read? Weave? Play with one of the cats?"

I clench my jaw against admitting that I actually can read. Maids shouldn't be literate. "I can sew," escapes my lips, instead. Heat pulses through me at the startled stares Prince Aidan and Silva both give me.

"You sew?"

I'm not sure if I should be wary or appreciative of the pair's surprise and the prince's foolish question. "Yes."

Carling had me make her things after her hips rounded out and she wanted belt pouches designed to carry her spell reagents. The maid refused to make such improper things for Carling, so my half-sister killed the woman and conscripted me. I was seven.

Prince Aidan nods acceptance of my _yes_. "All right. Send what's-her-face with a basket of mending for Evonalé to amuse herself with—"

"Nallé," Silva corrects.

I shiver at the prince's dark look, and I'm not the target. Silva ignores it.

"Her name is _Evonalé_ ," Prince Aidan says softly. "Call her Nallé if you like, but I won't. She already is her mother's daughter."

I blink at him. _Nallé_ does mean 'Be my daughter', but that's not something I would've expected the prince to know, much less be bothered by. " _Vle_ —" I gulp the rest before I kill myself with my felven accent when I'm supposed to be telfin.

Prince Aidan takes my arm by the elbow. "I'll get her to her room."

Silva frowns. "You should probably get your father to—"

"What?!" he snaps. "Escort Evonalé to her room? As if _that_ wouldn't get noticed. 'Where's His Majesty?' 'Oh, escorting some king's throwaway brat who showed up on our doorstep.'"

They share a long glare that I'm glad to not be in the middle of.

Silva tosses up her hands. "Fine. Take her—but don't come crying to me if you walk into one of those mages."

Prince Aidan's returning expression is too close to a sneer to be a smile, but he tries. The attempt at politeness despite his obvious frustration puts goose bumps on my arms. What _is_ Silva's place in this kingdom? Even Queen Yuoleen's prophet, Gaylen, never forced polite deference to Father. Mother restrained her own temper more after Father killed him.

Prince Aidan pulls me by the elbow with a jerk that threatens my grip on the sack. "Come along!" he snaps.

Silva's expression goes vacant, and her eyes refocus sharply as she gasps. "Quickly," she encourages me.

I still frown at her, but I do lift my feet as Prince Aidan drags me away. What little I know of human magic comes from watching my parents and half-siblings. I fear I shouldn't be as confused by the behavior of Prince Aidan and Silva as I am.

And then, Silva's episodes remind me of _Gaylen_. Why does a kitchen maid remind me of a _prophet_?

To my relief, Prince Aidan leaves me at my door with a full sack. I do not want him to get in the habit of straying inside my rooms.

I poke through the sack while I await Lallie, helping myself to some bread and dried apples. The latter are more tart than I'm used to, but they still taste agreeable.

Lallie's a bit red in the face when she whirls in, arms loaded with two baskets. One looks to be the mending, while the other holds sewing supplies. She sets them down and holds up a small tool with a _J_ shape.

"Seam ripper," I supply so she doesn't have to, and I take it from her. "But they work remarkably well for cutting threads close to the edge of the fabric, too."

Her face is blank for a full second before she grins. "So you _can_ sew. Any good?"

I shrug. I _had_ to be good, sewing for Carling. Her mediocre servants end up corpses. And she doesn't go through Father to cause it.

"All right." Lallie plops beside me on the bed. She hands me a threaded needle and some black trousers. "The hem's already pinned. Think you can sew it?"

Yes. Lallie just has to make sure I won't ruin anything, so I start the mind-numbingly simple task. She picks out a shirt for herself. I stare at the rip. "That isn't the seam."

"No," Lallie absently agrees. She pinches the front of the blouse together for mending as she rummages through the thread box for one that'll match the clay red. Unless something's hiding in the side of the box that I can't see at my angle, she doesn't have anything.

I eye the blouse's fabric and the way it drapes in her hands. "Is that linen?"

"Believe so." Lallie shakes out the blouse and holds it by the shoulders to get a better look at it. The neckline scoops lower than is considered decent this side of the Dwaline mountains.

"Kitra's?"

Her glance at me is sidelong and measuring, but a smile quirks her lips. "You might want to drop the questions, Pickle."

I shrug. "She didn't get that rip from knife practice with Prince Aidan." They used wood.

I duck my head to my mending to avoid Lallie's long look. I'm well aware that royalty tend to take whomever they want. I just don't want that 'whomever' to ever be _me_.

I wince and blood pools on my finger from the needle, and my right hand's fingers are a bit raw from pressing so hard on the needle. I carefully work both halves of it out of the fabric. "May I have another needle?"

Lallie hands me one without comment and pulls out a skirt to fix, herself. We work in silence. "You be safest from that in the servant halls," she says as she checks my finished hem. "King Aldrik has his foremen hire decent men over skilled ones...and His Majesty isn't above patrolling when there's rumor that someone likes trouble. It helps that he..."

She purses her lips and folds up the trousers. She hands me the oddly ripped blouse and the box of thread, to see how I'll choose to mend it. I frown at the difficult project and appreciate the compliment inherent in her handing it off to me. Lallie's lips quirk when I pull out the scissors and snip the fabric to mirror the rip on the other side of the front.

"Aidan weren't the king's first son," she tells me, "but you won't hear that from no one. His Majesty found him one morning, with a scullery maid who dinnit want his company.

" _King Aldrik killed him._ " Lallie stares right at me, making sure I understand what she just said.

The scissors bounce off my bed and clatter the floor. "He killed his son?" I whisper.

"He obeyed the law. He dinnit make an exception due to who performed the crime. That's much of why so many of the nobles dislike him, I daresay."

"Lord Elwyn doesn't," I blurt, remembering how comfortable Silver Embroidery was around his king when they found me.

A dimple creases Lallie's right cheek when she grins. "Lord Elwyn be Lord Elwyn." Her gaze flickers to the blouse I still hold. "You gonna hold that all day, Pickle, or finish it?"

I swallow and comprehend that the conversation's over. Dark grey thread looks nice on the clay red, I think, to turn the rips' mending into something decorative rather than an issue of lacking the correct color of thread. Particularly if I work it in cross stitch.

Lallie pats me on the knee and lets herself out.

After two days of rest and bitter herb tea, my lungs feel much improved. I return to kitchen duty as ordered. A scowling Cook shoves a pail of seed into my hands and pushes me out the door to feed the chickens.

Why doesn't Cook have me whipped? I ruined her cake batter a few mornings ago—wrecked her kitchen, besides—and she's obviously still angry with me.

_Awwk_! A hen protests her loss of tail feathers when I step into the chicken pen.

The handle of the overlarge bucket of feed digs into my arm. I'll be glad when it's empty. I don't like animals. The bucket's weight on my arm tugs a knot in my shoulder, too.

I toss a scoop of grain with a twinge in my bad shoulder; the grain patters against the coop while falling. The hen that's now short a few tail feathers quickly pecks up some food. Some of the other hens and the cockerel join her.

The clucking rises in pitch, and soon all the chickens cluster together at the food. The cockerel rushes at me, wings open. He squawks, drawing back and bobbing forward again in mock-attack, coming closer each time.

'Animals don't like me' is probably more accurate.

Animals act strangely when I'm around. Then again, Fael Honovi does stay closer to me than they find comfortable. It's a rare creature that naturally accepts faeries; and now that no mage keeps her away, she can hinder me as much as she pleases.

The cockerel darts in for an attack. I backpedal away, awkwardly dumping the entire bucket of feed on the ground before he can slice me with his spurs. Two of the chickens rush me.

I scurry to the gate, hoisting my skirts to clamber over the rail so I don't let the chickens out. I trip, fall. Sharp pain in my neck greets my landing, first; other pains follow. The bucket crushes my ear—I yelp.

Biting my lip to keep from whimpering, I focus on ignoring the pain, the stabs and aches and throbs. They aren't bad. They aren't bad, I insist to myself. Carling has done worse to me—but that thought just makes those bad muscles decide to add to the injuries' song of pain.

Besides, now that she can, Fael Honovi will spare me anything serious...I think. She might've let me get too cold, but she won't let me get killed because of something that's her fault. She'd face trial from her own kind if she did that.

My head hurts. I struggle to touch the pain's source—yie, gently!—and find sticky wetness there and a cascade of pain. Tears escape me.

Between the dizziness and pain, I can't get up.

"Nallé?"

Lallie? A low moan escapes my throat. How do I speak?

" _Nallé_." Lallie's skirts brush me, and she kneels beside me. Nallé?

Oh, right. That's me. Queen Maitane even dislikes 'Nallé' and insists on calling me 'Nelly'. I'm not sure if she's so snappy because she's pregnant or just because she dislikes me.

And my head grows heavier the longer I lie here. The longer I lie, the heavier _I_ feel, too. I couldn't get up when first hurt; I don't believe I can move, now. That's probably bad.

"Your head," Lallie says with merciful quietness. How can a wound to the head sharpen one's hearing?

'Is it bad?' I try to ask, but all I hear is another grunt. Fael Honovi won't save me from serious harm, then. Not reassuring.

Do you hate your foundling charge that much, Fael? 'Twasn't my fault Father sought Mother the way he did.

_Mother_. That pain distracts me from the current torment that is my head and body. I bite my lip to hinder the tears. I see the flames eating her robe, tasting her flesh at their leisure.

And Father, so crimson with rage that he cared not that it is day in the castle garden, that all could see the disrobed shame of his own half-sister.

My eyes burn with tears I can't stop. _Mother!_

Summer this year was dry, breezy. The sky had rained her ashes as I fled.

"I'll fetch Ygrain." Who is that? "I'll be right back."

I hear a whimper answer Lallie. I can't bring myself to be surprised that it's me.

The tending of my wounds will make them hurt more before they can hurt less. I look forward to the distraction.

"Evonalé?"

Prince Aidan may be the only person who downright refuses to call me Nallé or Nelly. I feign continued sleep, pretend his whisper hasn't awoken me.

He pokes me. "I know you hear me."

How?

"You just twitched."

I did? Throbbing pierces my head, and most of my body is aching or worse. I want to sleep, not talk. But my body betrays me with a shiver when I concentrate on staying limp.

"That was a fine mess with the chickens." Does he expect me to reply? His talking doesn't help my head. "Cook wanted to try you on the cows next."

Cows can hurt you worse with their hooves than a cockerel can with its spurs. I flinch.

Wait, Cook _wanted_ to do it? Not anymore? I open my eyes a slit, wincing at the too-bright light, so I can see his face; his expression tells almost as much as his words.

Prince Aidan's grin widens. He shrugs. "Of course, that would've been asking them to kill you, so Father overrode it."

I'm sick enough to feel irritated that I can't tell the talkative prince to shut his mouth and let me sleep.

Then again, he may be my best source of information, since he is so socially inept as to chatter at someone with a head injury. "What..." I croak, but at least I can speak. "What am I to do?"

"Scrub my schoolroom's floor." His self-satisfaction shifts into alarm when I fight the weight in my head and try to get up. His loud "No!" makes me squawk in pain.

"That was a joke," he continues, more quietly but still not quietly enough. "You have to stay abed awhile yet."

I'm not stupid. Useless servants are expelled ones, as are ones who cost more to keep than they provide. But I can't even sit, wouldn't be able to pull myself up even if Prince Aidan didn't hold me down when I try. "I need...work..."

"You _need_ to get better!"

That, too. But I doubt the adults will let me return to full health before working. I must earn my keep.

But how can I do that when I can hardly move?

I recover the ability to move about after about a week of convalescence. Walking is slow, awkward, and painful, but it's doable. I'm young enough to still heal quickly.

My back has even stopped pulling wrongly, which speaks well for Healer Ygrain's ability that she even noticed that magically induced injury, much less was able to heal it. I doubt Lallie said anything.

_Stairs._ The bucket is heavy in my grip, and the soapy water steams. How am I to get this up without losing it or the scrub brush? The brush latches to the bucket's handle and clanks as I move; it's pinching my fingers.

I lug myself up slowly, careful not to spill too much water nor to fall, again. I silently plead with Fael Honovi to not let Silva find me. She won't like my being up today—nor will Healer Ygrain—but I won't be cast out for not working. Prince Aidan hadn't been joking about his schoolroom floor needing scrubbing: I've overheard some of the maids were arguing over who would finally perform the task, and when. It must be horrid.

Horrid is fine. A horrid floor means a lot of work for me, which is good. Work I can do means I might get to stay.

If I can get everything up these stairs, first. At least stairs aren't alive and can't hurt you on purpose. That's an improvement over animals.

A cough wracks my chest, startling me. I stumble forward, slipping and catching myself on the stairs. Pain arches up my arm.

But in catching myself, I have to release the bucket, and it tumbles down the stairs, clanging loudly enough on its way down that I feel as if half the castle must've heard it as my head rings with pain from its lingering hypersensitivity. The hot sudsy water is all over, dripping from the stone walls, flowing down the mortar grooves and the stairs.

My lip bleeds from my biting it. I won't cry. I won't—not if whipped, not even if they cast me out.

A few of the maids reach me and see the mess. Their croons of "You poor dear" hardly make me feel better. I feel hap—helpless, but hapless works, too.

Silva shows up with an armload of towels, promptly dispersing them amongst the other maids for them to clean up and silently refusing to hand one to me. Water soon drips from the now-sopping towels. Why did I try to carry that bucket up the stairs? I know I'm clumsy. I should have asked one of the Runner boys to help me.

Lallie's underdress today looks like she soaked it in strawberry syrup to dye it. She studies the mess and hands another armload of towels off to Silva. "Well," Lallie says. "At least the stairs be clean."

With my uselessness proved yet again, it's a small comfort.

The palace is very quiet at midnight, enough days later that others have relaxed their guard enough for me to escape my room again.

I'm quiet, too—silent, almost—as I pick my way through the halls, wrapped in a brown shawl Lallie gave me this afternoon when she brought me supper. My eyesight isn't quite as keen as Mother's was, but it's good enough that I can get to the cow pasture north of the east garden, despite the slight moon. I think it's close enough to a wood and a stream that linashor might grow there on solstice and equinox. I'm doing better after the stair incident, but Healer Ygrain still won't hear of me working.

The night is cold enough to make me miss the wardings Mother used to embroider in my sleeves. Even if I knew how to use magic, I'm probably too human to do that.

My stomach twinges. Mother took me with her last year to do this, despite Father's ban on harvesting linashor. She'd known Father wouldn't keep her around much longer, I think. Even Gaylen had come, giving me some freshly carved knitting needles at dawn as a birthday present.

I shiver. Grandmother's prophet Gaylen hadn't survived to see the next full moon. And Drake had burned the needles to ash by the end of the month.

The fence isn't much shorter than I am. I let myself in through the gate, sparing my still-injured head the risk of another fall.

In the pasture, a flickering light catches my eye. A firefly.

I crouch, the better to see the insect when it lights up above me. I wait. Cold seeps into my flesh.

There! I catch it and move my hand so it always keeps trying to climb up without getting there. I cup my hands around it and watch the glow.

The glow reminds me of the shiny herb that brought me here. Linashor glitters silver.

"Let me see the little tendrils, wafts lit by moonlit night. Let grow now here sweet linashor; let it reflect the moon bright!" Not that linashor tastes sweet, but I didn't design the formal petition.

It will be harder to see under the sliver of a moon that is here, but linashor can only be harvested near solstice and equinox, when the boundaries between its realm and this one have weakened. I'll feel much safer once I have some. Linashor, a powerful and well-guarded plant of a faery realm, negates active magic. A curse can be destroyed by it, and a cup of linashor tea can counter the otherwise-lethal Shadow, an illness that's controlled by magic.

I flinch, instinct anticipating a blow for that heretical thought. The Shadow is lethal. _Nothing_ can cure it.

Or so Father likes having others believe. I'd rather not know how he found the crypt that contained it. When I was two years old, I foolishly gave a family 'guest' who suffered from the Shadow a mug of linashor tea. He, a vassal who Father had intentionally struck with it, recovered from the so-called 'incurable' illness. Mother's screams that night still haunt me.

A slight glint catches my eye in the dim moonlight: a benefit of having an ornery old faery as a godmother. The faeries who tend the linashor are renowned for denying requests. I suppose that Mother was Queen Yuoleen's daughter might also influence the faeries' unusual compliance with my petition.

I shiver as I remove my shawl. Despite the cold, I need a basket for harvesting the linashor, and the shawl does that well. The faeries let me see some delicate silver filaments; I untangle them from the grass with my little fingers.

I almost smile while plucking it. I can harvest this here, without fear of attack or execution. Even if a gryphon finds me, it can't burn me alive; Mother ensured I'd be spared that threat. That was why Father killed her. But gryphons have other spells for killing.

It's cold.

I may be safe from Father as far as Prince Aidan's concerned, but I suspect Her Majesty and Cook would be too willing to give me to Father if he asked; not that anyone could keep me from him if he had a mind to seek me here. Which is why, even with the linashor, I must avoid gryphons. Entirely. Without letting anyone realize I know what I do.

Ignorance is safe to admit to owning. Knowledge is not. What you know can betray you, for you always learned it somewhere. Carling's torture taught me that. She always made sure she could justify my torment when she tested her magery on me. She's particularly vile when playing 'healer'.

A few days later, Prince Aidan laughs at me. "Oh, don't be silly! Elves _never_ get sick."

"They do, too!" I insist, automatically scanning the courtyard for gryphons. I shiver in memory of their grotesque bulbous bodies, harsh cough-cawing and awkward flight. They can siphon, pulling the life energy from the victim's body. ...At least, Father's gryphons can.

"Elves are _designed_ for living in harsh climates."

My brown shawl provides more warmth as I wrap it closer about me, sitting on the fountain's rim. "Doesn't mean they have to like it, or that they can't get sick." I sniffle. My body aches; my head throbs.

I've healed enough to move about, but with the cold I caught from the night harvesting linashor, Silva won't hear of me working again yet. She's still angry about the time Prince Aidan had to order me back to bed. Silva's friend Lallie often 'forgets' a basket of mending in my room when she checks on me, so I've worked on that when I can. Lallie's careful to keep it near empty so Ygrain and Silva don't notice.

Prince Aidan scoffs, "Elves get sick, my foot!"

"They—" I sneeze, catching myself on the rim of the fountain so I don't fall in "—get colds!"

"Elves get colds? Next thing I know, you'll be telling me they suffer from plagues and mage-curses just like the rest of us!"

"They _do_ ," I quietly protest and sniffle, but he isn't listening. He's rolling on the stones, laughing while destroying yet another tunic from his thoughtless actions. "Your Highness..."

"What?" His cross look speaks volumes. I flinch. "Don't you ever laugh?"

I don't understand the question. "Should you be mussing your garment?" I ask instead of thinking about how to answer something I don't know. I sneeze again.

"Mussing? _Mussing_?" Prince Aidan looks at his garb, the dirt and rips; it's beyond mending. He grins and climbs up the statue. His mother would have a fit to see him there.

His mother would have a greater fit to watch him leap off the statue in a somersault and land on his feet. My own stomach leaps into my throat at the sight. "Your Highness!"

"Bah!" He grins at my expression. "I made sure to learn that with Kitra there to make her wind catch me if I fell." He grabs a stick off the ground and attacks the statue with some oddly graceful moves. "On guard, ah!"

He trips and lands face-first in the fountain, but he still grins after he sputters the water out. "Not _quite_ how that was supposed to go."

I daresay not.

He shoves himself up and resumes his play. "You won't see Hickory using _that_!" he says after one move that evidently involves shoving one's elbow into the torso of a stone statue. "He thinks he's the best swordsman among we heirs. Gives him a head the size of a summer watermelon, but he doesn't think me much of a threat."

Prince Aidan bends over, picks a stone from the fountain, and flings it at the apple tree. I flinch as it strikes the trunk dead center. "Shows how much _he_ knows," the prince says, and he climbs out of the fountain.

I cringe away from him. He's determined that I know he isn't as foolish as he pretends around the other heirs, but why? What does it matter, what a foreign king's bastard thinks of him? I sniffle, avoiding another sneeze.

"Come on; it's getting dark. Let's get some more garlic from Cook for you."

Accepting his help to stand, I flex my bare toes, curling them around the plant covering the ground. I sigh. I don't care for grass. I prefer moss. Mother did, too.

After a few more days, my cold clears up enough for me to clean Prince Aidan's schoolroom.

'Elves, like dwarves, have keener eyesight than humans and prefer the dark from their generations of hiding from humans in caves.'

I stare at the page, stunned by the writer's stupidity. Hide from humans? Both kinds have keener eyesight because we didn't like torches, and magic has an inverse cost. The spells we cast for light made us less able to see in that light and more able to see in the dark. Now, after generations, bright light hurts the eyes of elves and dwarves alike. Neither of us do well in a desert.

I'm surprised to find such an inaccurate book in the crown prince's schoolroom. Does he actually believe this nonsense?

I sit to continue reading.

'Dwarves, though a rare sight, may be seen, and faeries encountered. Ware from those kinds is not so unheard-of that it cannot be found by those with the purse to pay for it.

'The most mysterious form of all are the elves' —Actually, anything that isn't a Crystal-kind would be inherently more rare than the rarest of the Crystal-kinds, because the Crystals make each group stay the same race—'whose wares are difficult to find, and much more so to own. They live in small independent kingdoms, without reliance on each other or the other kinds.'

That last bit sounds wrong, but it must be true, else Father would have control of _all_ elves. ...There _are_ more elves than Father has bound, surely?

My lip bleeds from biting it, but I'm able to keep myself from freezing too much. Oh, I hope there are more of us!

—Them _._ More of _them_. I can't let myself even think like that, not unless I want to slip and say it.

_Read._ That should distract me.

'Dwarves, by contrast, live in large familial clans in caverns, rarely coming to the surface of Aleyi'—

"...Evonalé?"

I gasp, dropping the book in my haste to shut it to return it to the shelf. Prince Aidan's voice reminds me of circumstances—I stumble back and tip over the bucket of hot suds, somehow catching it and me before we both completely topple.

At least this is the floor I intended to wash.

Determined to ignore the grit cutting into my skin, I drop to my knees and start scrubbing.

The water's blackening already! Yie! What am I to do, call for William every ten minutes to help me get another bucket up the stairs?

The water's still flowing. I glance at its trail.

The book!

I lunge to get it away from the water; slip; slide into the also-lunging Prince Aidan.

Pain explodes in my forehead, complementing the dagger of pain in the back of my head, reminded that it should probably still feel worse than a throb. I think the yelp was me.

Did he also fall?

When my vision clears, I see Prince Aidan rubbing his head with one hand and holding the book with the other. Dropping his hand from his head, he flips the pages with interest. "You read?"

I taste blood, blood as cold as the rest of me from fear. He saw me, so I can't lie; and what sort of foundling can _read_? "A little, Your Highness."

His scowl and sharp look freeze me. He scans a few pages as he flips through. "A little, you say?"

The book is advanced for someone who only reads 'a little.'

I bite my lip at my error. I don't respond, and I dare hope my punishment or whatever is to come won't be too bad. Maids shouldn't be able to read.

Prince Aidan's hand slows in rubbing his head, drops. His glance is wry as he closes the book and returns it to the shelf. "How old are you?"

"Ten, Highness." As of solstice. I bite my lip harder at his look, which scolds me for using his title.

"And you read fluent mountaineer."

His silence wants an answer. "I suppose so, Highness." Mother had taught me to read mountaineer and recognize some elvish by the first time Drake struck me with a poker. I think I was four.

He laughed. "Mother will love this."

I cringe. No, she won't. Your mother disdains me, Prince, though your father might share your laugh about it.

Father would flog me if he knew I could read. He's killed others for the same offense. He'd avoid killing me, though; he liked sullying the line of Queen Yuoleen by Mother and therefore me. And he _can't_ kill me, not yet—not if he wants Drake to be able to inherit the Bynd. Drake's older than I am, born before Father inherited the Bynd by siring me on Mother, and therefore the magic doesn't consider him one of the family.

Father's knowledge of how to enslave Grandmother's kingdom came from books. I think they must have been written in mountaineer; that would explain why Father forbade us to learn to read it, and why my half-siblings thought faery script little more than pretty designs. At least I can interpret a few of the faerie glyphs.

I shiver and hastily rebury memories of Father and Drake and Carling. I don't need to remember their sadistic play, not now.

Not ever, really. But I'm not stupid enough to wish they'll stay buried indefinitely. Only fools wish for impossibilities. Even Mother never dared wish Father would leave her be.

I shudder. Stop thinking about that!

"Evonalé!" The sharp tone and the pain it ignites grab my attention, though not enough of it to stop my shivering. "Do you like to read?" Prince Aidan asks, his tone suggesting it's a repeated question.

Fear freezes me once again. Why does he ask that? What does he want to know?

"Elves! Can't you relax?"

I jerk. _Elves?!_ What kind of exclamation is that?

"Elves," he mutters again, unwittingly confirming that I hadn't heard him wrongly. Yie!

"You're as paranoid about questions as Mari is about her hair."

Paranoid? Again, I meet a word I don't know, this time with a name. "...Mari?"

"That's right. You haven't met her." He frowns as he turns a thoughtful eye on me. "I don't think she'll like you much. Marigold, an essere's daughter. About my age, but empty-headed enough to want to marry up."

"You want to marry down?" escapes me before I can think better of it. Prince Aidan certainly isn't empty-headed, and if he thinks such of those who want to marry up...

He shrugs. "I don't have to think about it. Some betrothal that was supposed to apply to Father failed when the king didn't sire a daughter, so it applies to me with the granddaughter."

Such a longstanding betrothal would be hard to break, even if His Highness wanted to. "Do you like her?"

Another shrug. "At least I'm not _wishing_ for the dowagers who'd be willing to expand my wealth."

Father married down on purpose, but that was to keep in control, to stay the tyrant he was with the mistress of his choosing. A mistress of better blood than he!

On the mother's side, at least. Their father...

My face flames; tears blind me, and I can't stop shaking. I hate him! I hate Father!

I can't breathe. I fight to gasp while I shake, turning my tears into sobs. Control yourself!

"Evonalé?!" Prince Aidan hesitates before he touches my shoulder. It's the most princely I've seen him act.

If I don't control myself, they'll cast me out. With effort I force myself to calm, if barely. Trembling's better than shaking. "Y—your Highness?"

He eyes at the mess of water on the floor, then glances to the door. "You're disobeying Ygrain right now, aren't you?"

Healer Ygrain is the healthiest old woman I've ever met. She doesn't limp or shuffle at all, and she's at least threescore years old.

"You should go back to bed."

"I need to work."

"You _need_ to get better." Someone passes the door. Prince Aidan frowns and dodges out. "Proctor! Proctor!"

The steward, Proctor, enters and bows. "Your Highness?"

Prince Aidan rolls his eyes. "Please see Evonalé back to her room and make sure she stays there until Ygrain releases her."

Proctor doesn't move. "The girl does need to earn her keep, Your Highness."

Prince Aidan scowls. "I'll worry about what she does or doesn't need!" He grabs my arm and shoves me towards Proctor. "And what she 'needs' is to get better before she can 'earn her keep'!" Though a subadult, he is the prince, and for once he's actually using the power that comes with that.

For me. Why? Why _me_? I don't like this.

Another day, Prince Aidan pokes his head in the room where I work on the mending.

"Come see this!" The prince stops in the hall and scowls back at me when I ignore him. "Evonalé!"

I set my mending aside and obey, following him as he not-quite runs. Moving as quickly as I can or dare to, I manage the twists and turns without mishap, but then we reach the kitchens' few steps. I stumble down them, landing on Cook's bread cart.

Quickly, I shove myself off. I curtsy, intensely aware of the flour on my skin. "Forgive me, Cook—"

"You double-crossed luckless lout! Foundling of your mother's whoring!"

How _dare_ she! Mother fought harder to keep Father from siring me on her than she had to keep her own queendom! Sweat pools at my temples as fire floods my body. "My mother was weak-bodied, _not_ loose!"

I recognize the following pain and stumbling as from a backhand across my face. Cook grabs me and drags me towards the kitchen. "You foul-mouthed waif! You don't even know what you say—some soap will fix that for you!"

As if I don't! I snap at her hand and taste blood. "It's true! May Fael Honovi cross the liar of us!"

Immediately a support for one of Cook's pots breaks, sending the large pot of stew into the fire.

Cook freezes, shocked. I manage to wriggle out of her grasp, but have a torn sleeve and crooked pinafore for my trouble. Lallie sighs loudly from where she stands behind Cook, well out of the way, scrubbing a stew pot.

I must calm down. Anger only makes things worse.

Lallie pointedly sighs again, and I realize she's urging me to breathe deeply, to relax. I try to follow her advice. I straighten my pinafore, then pull a needle and thread from my pouch and repair my sleeve. I prick myself in my furious trembling, but that's good—the pain helps me calm.

After a near minute of shock, Cook glowers at me as I finish my sleeve, tugging the thread and cutting it with my teeth. " _Fael_ Honovi? What kind of _faery_ protects fatherless waifs? I've never heard of her!"

Certain faeries have earned reputations for the type of child they befriend; most people don't realize such faeries are a minority. I hesitate, then decide to mimic royal etiquette. She won't believe me. Faeries don't trouble themselves with bastards. "Fael Honovi is my godmother," I primly inform Cook.

I scurry out back after Prince Aidan before Cook can hit me with a rolling pin.

His Highness scowls when I catch up. "Where were you? —Never mind that." He takes my arm to help me down the stairs. "We haven't much time!"

Time for what? I follow him past the dog pens where his bitch Plun greets him. He absentmindedly croons at her as we pass. We pass the main stables, around a pasture, and into a smaller stable. The horse was on the ground in his stall before we arrived, so it isn't my godmother—

There's a wet foal beside the horse. _She_ , then. A mare. She's beautiful, though, utterly black.

"We missed it," Prince Aidan gripes, though quietly. He knows not to disturb the resting mare.

"Not by long, Your Highness," the stableman replies softly. "Not long enough to miss the bonding."

"I've seen horses born before." I would hide in the stables, sometimes, but not often enough for Father or Drake or Carling to realize it. Horses adapt to my godmother better than most animals, for whatever reason.

The mother and foal rouse themselves, the foal clambering to its feet to suckle.

"There's a good baby," His Highness croons. The mare flicks her ear his way but doesn't react when he quietly opens the stall. "Evonalé."

My godmother might show up and aggravate the pair. "Oh, no, I—"

His bland stare reminds me that I'm nobody to refuse. I flush and obey. He takes me by the shoulder to make sure I don't trip. He's even patient about it.

Once I'm crouched and unlikely to topple myself or anything else, he takes a cloth from the stableman and hums as he gently rubs the foal dry. The foal fast accepts the handling. "A filly."

She shares her mother's black mane and tail, but her coat's shiny brown. "She's beautiful." Father's mares wouldn't dare ignore Drake if he tried entering their stall.

"A classic champagne," the stableman says. "Nicely done, Your Highness."

"Thank you."

When does Prince Aidan have time for his lessons or duties, in between caring for his animals and harassing me? "You picked the breed pair?"

He shakes his head. "Poor Shada here belonged to...someone who saw her docility as a detriment. Fortunately, I inherited her before her old owner beat the sweet temper out of her. Took most of a year to get her over the timidity, but she's better-natured than my Hind, even—my gelding. She'll let anyone ride her that I ask. Not a good mount for new riders, though. She likes improvising."

"Many fortunate happenings came from that particular inheritance, Your Highness," the stableman says gruffly.

Prince Aidan stiffens. The mare Shada shifts her weight.

"Your brother?" Both the stableman and His Highness stare at me, which answers my question. I swallow back the chill at this reminder that Lallie said nobody speaks of _him_. "Sorry."

His Highness hums and rubs Shada's nose. "We don't speak of Henrik. I'm the crown prince, now." He glances at the stableman. "Go. I'll see to Shada tonight."

The stableman obeys his prince. I stand carefully and quietly open the gate.

"You like the filly, Evonalé? You called her beautiful."

"She is." I move slowly so I don't accidentally knock anything over and disturb the filly or her dam. "Her coat glistens."

"Little girl needs a name, doesn't she?" he croons to the filly, and I eye her.

Her coat reminds me of rowan wood. "Rowan?"

"Rowan," he repeats. "That's a good name. Rowan. You like that, girl?" Prince Aidan grins at me. "You're better at naming animals than I was. My first pet was a black cur. I called him Night." Less overused than Blackie. "You'll be a good girl for your lady, won't you, Rowan? Like your dam is?"

"She's to be your mother's?"

Prince Aidan snorts. "She's yours, Evonalé."

_What?!_ I recoil back and trip through the gate. Shada snorts but doesn't panic.

His Highness sighs heavily. He helps me out of the barn so I don't fall again. "Giving yourself another head injury won't make her any less yours. I have the papers ready and everything, just waiting for her coloring and name."

"You can't give me a _horse_!"

"Why not? She's mine to give."

I know what it bodes when a man gives such a costly gift to a lowborn woman. I swallow hard. I have six years yet before that can happen to me, but it's still inappropriate. "Your father won't like it!"

Prince Aidan blinks. "It was my father's idea." He pats Shada. That mare trusts him an impressive amount. "Give you a horse, get you to join me on riding lessons, hand you a way to make a fast exit if you need it."

My flesh crawls as it chills. "... _What?!_ " I squeak.

"You know I met Queen Endellion? I was little—perhaps four—but I remember thinking she looked more of a queen in her rags and dirt than most others I'd seen in their full splendor."

Father let Mother come here?

"You do _not_ do her credit." He re-enters the barn before I can splutter a reply.

How in creation does _he_ know whose daughter I am?!

"Evonalé." His Majesty's calm voice startles me into dropping my sewing.

"Y—your Majesty?" I daren't look at him. Prince Aidan said his father had suggested he give me the horse, and if _Prince Aidan_ remembers meeting my mother, well...Surely his father does.

His Majesty sits on the edge of the bench. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse his loose silk tunic wafting in the breeze. Cobalt blue is a good color for him. "How is the mending coming?"

I curl my toes in the grass at the odd question. "Well, Your Majesty." I've been mending dresses and aprons and blankets and...everything that other maids did at one time or another before such work was shifted to me. It's all that I can __ do—all I can do _well_ , rather. Lallie has helped me with the foreign seams I hadn't known, and not-princess Kitra liked my creative mending of her blouse enough that she gave me a few cesses for it.

"Silva said I'd find you here." He waits for my response. None. "She says you always bring your sewing out, your feet bare despite the cold, and sit here. If it's raining, you sit on a little stool, with the door open. You like the outdoors."

_Breathe!_ I remind myself when a bit of dizziness hits, chomping my lip so I don't shiver from the cold. The king keeps too close an eye on what I do. That's not good. It wasn't good for Mother when her king paid notice to her, though I'm thankfully too young to worry about it being bad in _that_ way...yet. And surely His Majesty behaves himself, if he killed his own son for not.

"I hear you like to read."

Prince Aidan must've told him that.

After a brief pause, he asks, "You like to learn?"

Do I? I unclench and reclench my toes around the grass, trying to ignore his long look.

"You sew beautifully."

"Thank you, Majesty." I like sewing. I used to help...

"Did your mother teach you?" A shudder takes me against my will. He continues before I can frame a reply. "Never mind. That was unkind of me."

Another shiver. I hate when kings feign civility. Something cruel always follows.

"You have a good eye for aesthetics, for how to make things lovely. You may even have the gift of beauty."

The gift of beauty—the ability to bring out the beauty in others, more common in plain woman than comely ones. Getting myself noticed isn't safe. I swallow and concentrate on containing the internal ice.

"A handmaid with that ability, or even a hint of it, would suit Claiborne."

Claiborne?

He smiles gently at my confusion. "The princess," he clarifies. "She may not yet be born, but Her Majesty and I are certain as to her gender."

A faery probably told the Majesties, or a prophet. Some people with faery ancestry can prophesy.

"I hear you don't like the gift I arranged for you."

Rowan. I swallow. "It isn't appropriate, Majesty."

"True." I'm not sure if it makes me feel any better about the gift, if even King Aldrik admits it's excessive. "But she's yours, nonetheless. Make sure to spend time at the stables; you'll need to be the one to train her. And you'll need to learn how to ride, for that matter."

I lurch up to bob a curtsy and plop back down before I fall. "Thank you, Majesty," I mumble. What does he want from me?

For now, I need to finish the sewing. Just a few more stitches to finish this scarf's seam. It's hard to concentrate, but I manage it despite His Majesty watching me. I fold it up and put it in my basket, ready to pull out an apron—

"Come with me, please."

I grimace with the streak of ice that pierces me at his words, and I obey. Now I'll find what he wants. I swallow back the tears as best I can, but one forms, frozen solid in the corner of my eye. I pry it out with a grimace.

We pass others, other maids, servants, a noble or four, all watching curiously, one lord with the slight contempt I know well. I keep my head down, trying not to trip while almost wishing that I might fall and get hurt again so I can't fulfill His Majesty's whim, whatever it is.

His Majesty positions himself a bit behind me as we go up some steps, ready to catch me if I fall. The strange behavior troubles me and keeps the ice from thawing as I wish it would. If he touched me now, he'd know for certain what I am. _He_ would know what my emotion-based temperature means.

Prince Aidan's voice comes from a room we approach. "Eight times seven: fifty-six. Eight times eight: sixty-four. Eight times nine: seventy-two..." His Highness quotes the multiplication tables. "Eight times twelve..."

Our entrance distracts him into speechlessness, and I quickly add the numbers. Eighty plus sixteen..."Ninety-six?"

The silence lengthens. All three—His Majesty, His Highness, and His Highness's tutor—stare at me in blank surprise. I flush and swallow, abruptly remembering that Carling wasn't taught math. Human females usually don't learn it.

His Majesty smiles, then. "Eight times twenty-four?"

"Um..." It's a command, so I obey. Eighty plus eighty plus thirty-two. "One hundred..."—sixty plus thirty-two—"ninety-two?" Or, I now realize, I could've just doubled my previous answer. Oh, well.

King Aldrik raises an eyebrow at the tutor, a reedy balding man with glasses, the spindly scholarly man I'd noticed on my first day here. "I'll expect you to train her the same you would any noble son."

The tutor opens his mouth and shuts it a few times before managing to say, "But Your Majesty...She is neither a son nor a noble..." I can't help but worry when the king gives the tutor a long look. "Not a son, at least," the tutor corrects.

Alarm spears me. I'm not a noble child!

...But I _am_ of high rank. Sort of. Supposing I ever should've existed in the first place. Which I shouldn't have. Curse Father, I _shouldn't_ have!

His Majesty's expression solidifies into stern politeness. "Evonalé will receive the best training you can give her, or I shall find a replacement of fewer prejudices. Do I make myself clear, Woad?" This brand of kingly behavior, of threats, is more familiar to me.

Mister Woad winces and bows. "My apologies, Aldrik, but I'm not certain that I could train her to maximum efficiency...within the limits." What limits? What did I miss?

"Do as best you can," His Majesty allows with surprising generosity considering his previous demand and Mister Woad's use of the king's given name. "And Silva will assist you."

...Since when did maids help tutors?

Prince Aidan perks up. "But—"

"No," the king interrupts his son's protest.

"You won't let her teach _me_ anything!"

...And what knowledge could Silva have that Prince Aidan covets? Sewing? The thought sparks a threatening giggle, which thaws me. Mostly. Even _Geddis_ sews better than Silva. Lallie tends to sneak things out of Silva's pile _before_ Silva gets a chance to work on them. It's easier than fixing her messes.

"You aren't Evonalé," His Majesty says simply, tweaking his son's nose. "And you need to learn how to do things properly before learning how to cheat."

...Cheat?

"Just _one_ tracking spell?" His Highness's fourteen-year-old voice is excruciatingly annoying when it whines.

Silva knows _spells_?!

"I doubt she knows any of those," Mister Woad comments.

"She does; she told me so."

King Aldrik considers that. "Bring home your first deer, and I'll let Silva teach you a tracking spell."

"It wasn't my fault the dogs found—"

"Aidan." The king's mild yet firm voice halts his son. "Bring home your first deer, and I'll ask Silva to teach you the tracking spell."

Silva being a mage explains a lot; that would give His Majesty cause to stay on good terms with her. Is Lallie one, too?

His Majesty nods at Mister Woad. "Carry on."

Prince Aidan quickly fetches me a chair to sit at the table with him. He grins. " _You_ 'll teach me some magic, won't you, Evonalé?"

"She certainly will not," Mister Woad says dryly. "But she will write down her multiplication tables as far as she has memorized on your spare slate."

His Highness finds the slate and some chalk to hand me. Mister Woad watches me steadily, waiting for me to start.

I lack a choice, short of defying His Majesty. I start writing.

**Year 243 of the Bynding**

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

_Autumn, during Harvest_

The Creator of Aleyi saw that four large groups had formed from how magic affected its users and gave each group a Crystal that bound their magic together, causing magic's use to affect the group as a whole, rather than each individual receiving the full effect of using magic.

Each Crystal-kind has since found its own way to limit its Crystal's effect on its kind. The elves' is our bane.

— _Endellion_

Leaves rustle in the wind; farmers harvest their crops. I'll have been here a year this winter.

I used the few cesses I got from Kitra to convince Runner William to whittle a set of knitting needles for me. I save others' tips, and Lallie and a few others have paid me in money or yarn to teach them to knit or embroider. The embroidery is especially popular, since not many common folk do it in Salles. Most of the maids titter over my skill when they think I can't hear them.

Except for Silva, who ignores it. Lallie acts as if my ability with knitting and embroidery should be expected and teases any woman who dares think she can rival me. To hear her describe it, I could knit a bedroll around her, never mind that she's better than me at planning out a lovely design before she even starts a project.

I hold up one embroidered piece of mine that others find particularly appealing and stare at it in the midday sunlight.

It's a picture of my grandmother's throne room. I've never actually seen it, but Mother used to describe it to me, what it looked like before her father took Marsdenfel as a vassalage. I shouldn't have made it, really. Any well-versed scholar might recognize it for what it's supposed to be. Marsdenfel's marble royal halls are the stuff of legend.

I glance towards the fire. It burns brightly on this autumn day, keeping the worst of the cold away from me and the baby in my lap. Princess Claiborne came a bit early, and she's still too small. I'm mainly a nanny to watch her and fetch the wet nurse when needed.

There's a knock at the door, and Prince Aidan and his tutor enter for today's lesson. Mister Woad lets the prince carry his own books, to Prince Aidan's glee. "Claiborne's asleep, I trust?"

I carefully get up and lay her in her nearby crib. "Yes." I detour to the fire on my way to the small table the tutor usurps for lessons. The embroidered cloth readily ignites and burns. I will not risk my life for praise.

"What was that?" The prince watches me with puzzled amusement as I approach the chair he readies for me.

"A wall hanging," I admit, but add, "It had a flaw."

"Couldn't you have fixed it?" He looks disappointed.

"Not without destroying the cloth." I would've had to rip every single thread from that cloth—yes, much easier to burn it. _Much easier to burn_ ... Was that what Father had thought of Mother?

The thought paralyzes me. I don't do my mother credit, His Highness has said. Am I then _Father_ 's daughter?

"Evonalé!" Prince Aidan snaps his fingers before my face. He grins when I jump. "You're daydreaming, again."

I return his smile weakly. Sweat beads on my forehead, for now I am warm, too warm from the burning that comes from shame. I quickly go and open the window.

When I sit back down, the prince eyes me with a puzzled frown. "What was that for?"

"It burns in here." The book falls open to where we left off when I pick it up.

Prince Aidan laughs. He finds me dreadfully amusing. "I wish it did that for me as often as it does you."

I've wondered if I should use my meager wages to buy ginger to hide in every castle nook. But from what I know of Fael Honovi, she would probably retaliate by attacking _me_ , her godchild, at the first chance I gave her. She loathes ginger.

No, it's much better to let people assume I've some strange blood than to get on a faery's bad side—particularly _that_ faery's. Idle curiosity can't hurt me that much. Salles is nice in that respect; gossip is considered the natives' business, and not something to share with those from other kingdoms. People assume I'm telfin, anyway. I avoid speaking elvish, so my dialect doesn't betray me as felfin.

Mister Woad enters with his lecture books and pushes his spectacles up his nose. "We'll start with history, today. Nallé?"

I grimace. History's harder than learning to handle horses. The lessons regarding the other Crystal races—elves, dwarves, and faeries—sometimes contradict what I already know, and little of what he teaches us regarding mages matches with what I know of them. I spent my first several years tortured by them.

I suppose not all mages are as cruel as...as Father and Carling and Drake. I'm not that foolish. But cruel mages are more real and more dangerous than the books admit.

"Nallé!"

The tutor's sharp tone yanks me back from my mind's wandering. History. "Yes, Mister Woad?"

"What did the elves do with their binding Crystal?"

I flinch and ransack my memory for the answer _he_ gave me. My jaw tenses, but at least my loose hair makes it less noticeable. I learned young how to control my tone of voice. "The Crystal's binding power was rebound to a single kingdom, so anything done to it would reflect on that single...realm rather than all elves. It was in King...Liathen's day," I add before he can ask, while I remember to pronounce it improperly as _Lee-ah-theen'_ instead of the felvish _Lee-ah'-then_.

"Aidan: dwarves and faeries."

"The dwarf lords convened, left their heirs in charge, and took their Crystal to dispose of it somehow, without telling anyone what they were planning to do. It's assumed to have worked, since they didn't return.

"Faeries worked together to nudge their Crystal into a dimension that even the strongest of them could barely reach." His Highness's voice is terse.

Prince Aidan gets a bit cross sometimes during lessons. He doesn't like that I, a girl four years his junior, have many of the same lessons he does. He forgets that I've been borrowing some of his schoolbooks at night to study when the mending is light. It's not the most interesting thing to do, but it's a useful excuse for staying up if I can't plea the sewing, and it keeps me up long enough that I don't wake 'til dawn. With all the plants about, I don't need much sleep.

"And humans' Crystal, Nallé?"

I shrug with forced nonchalance. "It got lost somewhere with all the wars over it." Humans, the most populous of the kinds, never reached a majority consensus for what to do with their Crystal. Or, at least, if the leaders reached consensus it had displeased enough of the population to cause a rebellion. Which happened. Multiple times.

There are other peoples, but these four Crystal-kinds are the standard, the largest and most well-known groups. Even gryphons don't have a Crystal, though they're the largest minority. I think.

Mister Woad nods acceptance of our answers. "Each of the four kinds have some shift in their calendars related to their Crystals. Our shift in calendars marks when the Crystals appeared on Aleyi."

Actually, the human calendar is twelve years late, from when the first great leader of the humans united his kind through it, but I close my mouth before Mister Woad thinks I might know something I shouldn't. Like that flaw in the human New Calendar.

Mister Woad now abruptly turns towards me. "Names of the dwarf lords who left?"

"Urish _én_ ..." I stop and flush, burning with embarrassment's heat. That wasn't the right language. And he hasn't taught that, yet.

Mister Woad watches me with the unnervingly nonchalant manner he gets sometimes, as if he doesn't care what I answer. "Urish of?"

"Of..." I can't translate it. "I don't know."

"The dwarves have nine major clans with numerous subclans. In a strict translation, the dwarves are 'of' their subclan and 'from' their clan, but we usually use 'of' to refer to both. We name dwarves with their subclans, except for leaders' families, for whom we substitute the clan names instead of their subclans'."

Yikes. I think I prefer the simplicity of _én_ subclan, _é_ clan.

I swallow and glance at Mister Woad and Prince Aidan as Mister Woad continues the lecture. Neither realizes that _én_ is specifically felvish. Thankfully.

A week later, I glance again at my slate to make sure I read my assignment properly, so I don't waste any paper or ink. Silva insists on written explanation of why mages should avoid using magic to heal or hurt others.

The first is common sense: healing someone else harms or kills the caster, unless the caster happens to be an earth mage who's attempting to return the patient to his natural state.

Using magic to hurt others actually strengthens the mage, but at risk of getting addicted to the rush of magic. Some good mages, forced to war to protect their loved ones, have committed suicide or handed themselves to enemies for execution rather than let the addiction control them.

Now, to write all that down with sufficient specific examples. I sigh and prepare my quill—

"Evonalé!"

I wince at Prince Aidan's interruption. Fatmah will need me to watch the princess in a few minutes, and I need to finish this before then. I've spent much of the last several months learning about human magic and how its four affinities affect human mages. Silva has hinted that I might start spellcasting tests, soon, to learn what kind of mage I am.

Humans have four affinities: water, fire, air, and earth. Earth mages tend to have a bit of dwarf in the ancestry; air mages, faery; and water mages, elf. Or so's the theory. Silva says her father's never found anything to verify it, but he's never found anything that directly contradicts it, either. With my human blood, I likely have an elemental affinity along with the plant-based elf one that I already use.

Prince Aidan pokes in the doorway, his face glowing with exertion behind his grin. I've not seen much of him lately, with several earls visiting with their children. His Highness has needed to occupy them.

He grabs my hand, prying my quill from my grip as he yanks me out the door. "Come along; quickly, now! Before they get here."

"I'm—"

"Come!"

I twist my arm loose from his grip and follow, slowing his rapid pace on the stairs despite his impatience. He scowls and drags me swiftly into one of the hallways that I avoid on my own. I'm not nobility.

"Lallie!" When the prince calls her, Lallie peeks her head out from a closet. Prince Aidan asks me, "You like blue, right?" At my nod, he pushes me towards Lallie. "Four minutes."

Lallie sighs but acquiesces, shutting the door to leave him in the hall. "Not paid enough to put up with this," she mutters.

She goes to the closet and pulls out a nice blueberry blue dress—not noble pomp, but nicer than what I've had so far—and hands it to me. "You better change. He'll order you directly if you don't."

She's right. The prince's odd whims aren't many, but he likes enforcing them. I change swiftly.

"Who will watch princess Claiborne?"

"Fatmah will find someone, don't you worry." Lallie quickly braids my hair somewhat, just enough to guide it from my face, without revealing my ears. "Probably me, putting me late getting home to make Pey dinner, besides," she mutters, but I don't think she meant for me to hear her complaint.

"Thank you."

She tugs the braid straight. "You'll be a pretty little lady, Nallé."

I stiffen and chill, though I manage to avoid actual ice. I don't want to be pretty. Pretty wards of rich men have struggles enough, but to be the _prince_ 's choice of a playmate? Adults _play_ , too, though the meaning of the word changes with puberty.

No. His Majesty would not allow—not allow _that_. I am safe while he reigns, so long as Father or Drake don't find me. I will sooner flee than be a man's mistress and continue my father's baseborn line.

And where, exactly, would I be able to flee?

Prince Aidan returns as promptly as promised, and I feel out of place in my new dress, the simple sort of fancy that Silva and other maids tend to wear on feast days. I usually just make sure my pinafore's clean. At least the bright blue's a tad faded. A castoff from someone's sister, maybe. Probably.

"All right. This way."

His grip is firm enough that I'm not sure if I could wrench free if needed. I hate that—that and how much attention he pays me. We stop.

Prince Aidan inclines his head towards a doorway. "If you please?"

Please...? "Enter?" A noble daughter of about the prince's age lounges in a padded chair staring at I don't know what. Nothing, evidently.

"No, I want you to stand here like a dolt all day for the nobility to stare at." His tone is distinctly irritated. He eyes me, then calls, "Lallie! Do you—"

Lallie swiftly comes our way with a bundle in her arms. She bobs a bit with a straight face. "I live to serve the whims of Your Magnificence."

I blink at her sarcasm. He rolls his eyes and shoves me through the doorway. "Marigold, this is Evonalé."

Marigold studies me with a languid look that seeks a reason I'd be worth introducing to her and fails to find it. "She's just a servant."

I study her small cattish features and golden blond curls. Have I met her, before?

Prince Aidan stiffens, expression cross. "Evonalé, please instruct this young brat how to embroider."

That almost rouses Marigold. "I am no whelp!" she declares with an indignant haughtiness. The glass beadwork on her sleeves catches the firelight. Oh, the essere's daughter whose mother scolded her for aggravating Silva my first day here.

The prince's studiously blank expression I recognize as mimicked from his father. "Nor is Evonalé."

He doesn't know that. People assume I'm that telfin king's bastard, but nobody's ever asked me.

Prince Aidan turns back a bit and nods at Lallie, then nods towards Marigold. Lallie follows his direction and untangles her bundle. "You will—"

"I'm occupied." Marigold returns to her lazy empty stare.

He glowers. "You _will_ learn embroidery from Evonalé."

"A lady need not trouble her hands with work—"

Smack!

We stare at Prince Aidan. I've known him to get frustrated, but...?

I can't make myself move. Lallie somehow manages to slip out without attracting Aidan's notice.

"Can you not hear yourself?!" he demands. "You want to marry up, above your station, and you downright refuse to learn anything that could _help_ you get a good husband. And refusing a direct order from your prince?" His glare doesn't seem to affect Marigold, who looks still aghast at being struck. "If you want to marry into another kingdom, you had better learn to hold your tongue!"

His scowl turns concerned. "Now, you'll do as I say, and learn embroidery from Evonalé, or I'll—I'll tell all the other princes you're a whore!"

We both gasp. "You wouldn't!" she says.

Prince Aidan still glowers. "What has your tutor _taught_ you?"

Marigold stares at him, bewildered. " _Tutor_? I'm a woman."

" _Girl_!" he corrects sharply. He grabs me and yanks me forward. His grip is stronger than he likely realizes; this will bruise.

"Evonalé reads two Crystal languages, quotes Aleyi's history, does her squares, _and_ can do what else is 'proper' for a girl!" Prince Aidan pauses. "Well, if you ignore cooking. And dusting."

He releases me abruptly; my ankle twists as I stumble. I bite my lip and blink back the few tears. I don't want to know what my prince's reaction would be if he saw them, if he just slapped a girl of presumably better blood than mine.

Presumably. I flush at the reminder.

"If you protest one more time—"

"A lady need not—"

Is she stupid?!

"Creator bind you!" he snarls.

I cringe at his curse. "Your Highness—" Yie! What have I done?

He whirls to glare at me as I burn from shame. I falter and mumble my apology.

" _Aidan_!" The king's voice arrives before the man himself does. He's probably been working with his horse, considering the linen of his tan tunic and coffee brown trousers. He still wears a garnet-studded gold circlet as a crown. His Majesty turns to me. "Instruct Marigold in embroidery." He glances at Marigold. "Who _will_ accept the lessons."

Marigold opens her mouth as if to protest again, but she proves that she owns a morsel of sense by shutting it. I find the embroidery supplies Lallie left and edge over to a chair near Marigold with them.

The king's stern gaze returns to his son. "Come."

Prince Aidan sullenly follows his father out.

When Prince Aidan asks me to fetch Silva a few days later, I scurry to do so, glad to have an excuse to avoid having to teach Marigold how to thread a needle for the tenth time this week. I find Silva in the scullery with Lallie, and the chambermaid Rees is treating Silva to an earful.

"If I'd a cess for every waif that uncle o' yo' took in t' that school o' his, I be a queen. Mercy he c'n keep that school runnin', all them charity folk he got—makes it all the more 'spensive for we pay-folk. I've a mind to disown me brother as a charity—"

"Rees!"

I sidestep out of the head matron's way as she comes to collect the wayward maid.

"The blue room, Rees—lay it out." Morgana glances at us audience to Rees's monologue and snaps, "Silva! Leaving your mother short of help in the kitchen, indeed! Lallie—" raises her cup of water, and thus escapes all but a glower.

"I've a new job in town," Lallie tells Morgana nicely, but something tells me that she knows full well that this information will only make Morgana more upset. "Cook said we could visit together before I move out of the castle."

Morgana scowls. I'm deemed worthy of naught but a sneer, but I curtsy anyway at the lady's attention. "Matron Morgana."

My acknowledgement only makes her sniff and flounce after Rees. The following silence doesn't last long before Lallie breaks it with a Rees mimicry: "I's can break more rules 'n the king tongue than yous can."

Silva hiccups on her cup of water and falls into a laughing fit. I don't see what was so funny.

With Silva still occupied by how funny she finds Lallie, I swallow and ask, "Why _does_ the king use mountaineer as the tongue of the realm? Don't you do more trade by sea?"

Lallie shrugs. "No azzen me. I's juz a shop girl."

That sends Silva into another bout of laughter. Hiccups and incoherent something enter it, too. Lallie sips her water. When Silva keeps laughing, Lallie toes her with a booted foot. "You still together, Sil?"

I frown. Accusing a friend of insanity isn't nice. But before I can protest, Silva breaks into, "Ferrel-silly goes willy-nilly while sis goes dilly-dallying in brainland..."

_What?!_ I gape at Silva's nonsense, but Lallie just frowns as she sips her water. She pauses and looks at her cup. She puts it down and takes up the water jug the two friends have been sharing.

Lallie sniffs it, then hands it to me. "This smell funny to you?"

...It's _water_. "Funny how?"

Lallie shrugs, still frowning at the giddy Silva. "Your nose be better than mine."

I grab Silva's cup and sip it, the fresh coolness soothing my tongue and throat it goes down. "It's good spring water," I tell her. "The honey's a nice touch."

"Honey." Lallie's completely still.

"...Don't you taste it?"

Smashing of the pottery cups answer me. I grab for the jug to save it from Lallie's abuse and miss. "It's good water!"

"Bespelled," Lallie mutters, with another frown at Silva. "Fetch Ygrain? There's a good gal."

I swallow. "His Highness wanted Silva..."

Lallie sighs. "Nothing for it, now. His Whimsicalness will have to wait."

I flinch at her flippant reference to Crown Prince Aidan. "But—"

Lallie looks at me. "Nallé, pickle, do it _look_ like Sil's in a condition to humor our adolescent prince's whims?"

I swallow. "No." Tears enter Silva's laughter. And hiccups.

Lallie hikes her skirts and twists them so she can tuck them in the belt the matron and Cook always scold her for wearing, since she isn't a plains barbarian. "Ygrain? Now? Ambrosia's bad for anyone with faery blood."

Or with faery godmothers, for that matter, and I have the budding lightheadedness to prove it. I close my mouth firmly before I say as much. Bastards and common folk don't have faery godmothers.

Lallie steps around Silva and places a cool hand on my forehead. My disorientation lessens. She crouches by her prone friend with a nonchalance at her bared legs that I suspect she learned from not-princess Kitra, who visits regularly. Lallie settles herself on the floor by Silva, holding her friend's head on her lap with one hand and using the other to support herself with the stone floor. "Quick, please. Sil's not far from counting as a full."

I blink at Silva. "A full?" faery? _Cook's_ daughter?

"Evonalé," Lallie repeats with a calmness that doesn't sound feigned. " _Now_."

I back out of the storeroom and hurry towards the healers' ward. I pause. If Lallie's right about Silva being part faery and reacting to ambrosia, she'll need a mage, not a sage, no matter how good of one Ygrain is.

And Ygrain _is_ good, to have noticed the magic-induced scars and injuries my body bore from Carling's idea of fun. But even then, she must have used a mage to unravel the spells that blocked me from healing properly.

I doubt Ygrain keeps a mage on staff, and I know she isn't one, herself. People willing to risk insanity and actually use magic tend to have something...odd about them.

The honey tingles on my tongue from the water. I can understand why Silva might've thought little of it—with the visiting nobles, many are contributing native delicacies for the feasts—but Lallie reacted as if she hadn't been able to taste it. Even an earth mage, naturally tolerant of poisons, can still taste them. Unless...

I stop, suddenly cold with goose bumps forming on my arms.

"Power that _is_ ," I say softly. If Lallie's powerful enough that her magic purges unnatural substances from her body by _reflex_ ...

I shake myself and continue. King Aldrik isn't stupid, nor his son. They'd notice if gossip hinted at an earth mage in the castle—and hire her as such, no doubt. Lallie wasn't paying attention, or maybe she can't taste. That would explain her poor appetite. I'm too used to Grehafen, where father intentionally uses mages as his personal drudges to demonstrate how powerful a mage he is and discourage any would-be heroes from wanting to try to dethrone him.

I rub my face. And pray to the Power that Ygrain has a mage readily available.

My heart lurches in my chest at Ygrain's expression when I tell her Silva's drunk ambrosia. Professionalism promptly chases away the shock, but that panic remains too long for me to believe her calm when she regains control of herself.

"Has His Majesty been informed?" she asks briskly, moving quickly to add different things to her healer's pouch, but I can tell at a glance that she doesn't have anything that'll help against magical poison.

I bite my lip and pull my pouch of linashor from under my skirt. Ygrain freezes when I offer her a pinch. She looks at it, at me, then back at it. "What is that?" she asks, but her tone says she knows full well what it is.

"It's supposed to negate active magic." The 'supposed to' is a lie. I know it works. I think it'll only affect ambrosia poisoning if somebody's guiding the ambrosia, though—and not many mages care to mess with that kind of magic. Sending magical illnesses and poisons to specific targets has a tendency to backfire unless you're more careful than reckless, and mages interested by that kind of magic tend to be more reckless than careful. Father mainly maintains the spells his uncle set up before Father killed him, though I know the concept of using magic illnesses and poisons as weapons fascinates Carling. "That's what my godmother says, anyway."

Ygrain studies me. "You have a faery godmother."

I've already told Cook and a kitchen full of maids, so it's not like I'm hurting anything to nod. "Fael Honovi."

She considers that, then nods. "She has a reputation for meddling with elfin royalty, I believe." Specifically felfin.

"That's one way to put it." Mother once said that Queen Yuoleen's elder brother had not been the kindest man alive, but he'd died with suspicious abruptness after ordering one of his chambermaids beaten for coming with child out of wedlock, despite her lack of consent in the conception.

Ygrain takes the pinch of linashor I offer her in the palm of her hand, and carefully puts it in a clean little vial. "Think this will work?"

Silva easily succumbed to the sprite last winter. I shudder. "Yes," I hope, but I force a smile on my face when Ygrain looks at me.

Because I just realized that those pitchers that held the water were decorated with felven designs. If the linashor does work on Silva, Father or Carling put the ambrosia in the water.

Ygrain brews the linashor into tea to give to Silva. She adds a bit of basil and limeroot. I don't ask why, and she doesn't offer a reason. "Go alert His Majesty of his prophetess's condition."

I stare at her for a long moment before what she said sinks in. Silva's a _prophetess_? So that's what Lallie meant about Silva being close to a full faery. That isn't good. Prophets are notoriously unstable. Even Gaylen would get...odd...sometimes.

And that's why she reminds me of Gaylen.

Finding King Aldrik, though, is difficult when a fair number of the nobles and upper servantry refuse to speak to me. I find Marigold resting in a common room and wonder how she avoids getting fat. She wrinkles her nose at the sight of me. "Go away."

"I have a message for His Majesty," I say first, before anyone ignores my request for "Do you know where he is?"

"Do I look like a prophetess?" Marigold snaps.

I bite my tongue against admitting no, she looks like a dunce who enjoys sitting around heeding palace gossip all day. "Have you seen him?"

"Hold your tongue and mind your own business," Head Matron Morgana condescends to say to me. "Your message can await His Majesty's leisure."

"It's urgent."

Her smile pretends to humor me. "I'm sure."

"It's from Ygrain."

Morgana's expression betrays her incredulity. "Ygrain's perfectly capable of sending a Runner when there's an urgent message."

"There wasn't one available!" I snap and flinch. That won't help. I take a deep breath. "It's about Silva."

"Finally come with child, has she?" Morgana murmurs in too loud a voice for any listener to not accidentally hear it.

"No, Morgana." I slip past an entering noble girl and hurry back to the kitchens before the head matron can have me stopped. Cook works today, and so does Geddis. I find them alone in a dessert kitchen. "Have you seen His Majesty? I need to tell him about Silva."

I wince at the blank looks given me by Cook and Geddis. They already dislike me. The news I'm about to give them won't help. "She's in the scullery—well, she was. Ygrain might've moved her. But she drank some ambrosia."

Cook draws a sharp breath. Geddis squeaks and drops the tray she holds, spoiling a batch of cookies.

After a few deep breaths, Cook returns her attention to her baking. "His Majesty is hosting performers in the ballroom this afternoon, I believe. Let him know I'll call AMaC."

AMaC? I nod anyway and scurry off. The ballroom has the group that Cook described—yie!

I duck against the outside of the doorway when I see Father. Holy Creator, help! Are Carling and Drake here, too? I look for them and press against the stone wall.

One Runner my age, William, comes and slows as he nears me, before entering the ballroom. "Evonalé? You have a message?"

I swallow before whispering, "I need to speak with His Majesty."

William nods. "I'll alert him." He heads into the ballroom before I realize he used my full name. How does he know it?

Will Father hear him use it?

I gasp at the thought and scurry away from the ballroom, needing to put as much distance between me and Father as possible. I yelp when somebody grabs my shoulder. "Nallé," King Aldrik says, kindly not acknowledging my fear. "You needed me?"

"Silva's drunk ambrosia," I blurt. "Ygrain's giving her some linashor tea, but—" The words die in my throat at the mild surprise in His Majesty's mien when _linashor_ entered my sentence. I flush. "Linashor only works on active magic. I don't know what works on passive magical poisons."

"A powerful earth mage," King Aldrik says dryly, "assuming you can find one who hasn't already been assassinated. Yes?"

That 'yes' is for William, who bows to "Your Majesty," and inclines his head towards "Evonalé."

King Aldrik stops William there with a raised hand before he can say more. "What did you call Nallé?"

William frowns. "Evonalé, sire. Isn't that her name?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Esseressa Marigold of Sourwood said Nallé was shortened from Evonalé just this morning, when Princess Carling of Grehafen mentioned that her bastard cousin Evonalé had fled a year ago and she hoped the girl was all right."

King Aldrik grips my arm firmly before I can flee at those words. "Marigold told Carling." I shiver at the ice in His Majesty's voice. "How would she know that?"

I cringe when he asks _me_ that. "I didn't tell her," I squeak. I'm not that stupid.

"William, fetch Aidan, and ask Kitra to occupy Carling. Where's Silva?"

He's addressing me, again, so I answer, "I don't know if Ygrain moved her, but she was in the scullery."

King Aldrik drags me along by the arm with a long-strided lope. I have to trot to keep up with him. I wouldn't have the breath to protest or ask questions If I wanted to. We reach the scullery faster than I would've thought possible.

"Your tea worked," Ygrain says directly to me when we enter. "She'll be all right. Lallie doesn't think she drank much of it." Lallie smiles weakly, rubbing her temple.

"What about her?" I blurt. I flush when they look at me. "Lallie." Lallie flinches before she relaxes and shrugs. "You drank more of it than she did!" And my headache's been gone for a while, I realize suddenly.

"I'm not mostly faery," she retorts and dodges the hand Ygrain aims for her forehead. "I be fine. Creator as my witness. It's just a headache."

"But you didn't taste—" the honey. The words freeze on my tongue at the exasperated look Lallie gives me. "...A—anything unusual?" I amend.

"I dunno. I was thirsty. Not paying much attention to the quality of the water, then."

King Aldrik and Ygrain both give us bland looks, but they accept the odd conversation between we young folk with aplomb. Ygrain finishes packing her things back up. His Majesty studies Lallie. "Even so, you should probably be evaluated, to be safe. AMaC will have to come anyway for Silva. I'll ask them to send someone who's rated for pure humans, too."

AMaC? I remember: "Cook said she'd call them."

His Majesty nods. "Excellent."

"...What is AMaC?" I squeak.

"The Association for the Magically Creative," he says as he leaves. Ygrain follows him. Both ignore my bewildered expression.

Lallie sighs. "The faery loony bin." She stretches, bones popping faintly. "With how many crazies they have, AMaC alone employs probably a good third of the faery workforce. Some think as much as half." She crouches by Silva and picks her up in a calf's carry with a grunt.

I stare at the sight of a woman carrying another who's half again her size. "I can fetch a manservant."

She smiles tightly beneath the strain and shakes her head sharply. "Move," she gasps, and I get out of the doorway. "Come?"

She walks down the hall more quickly than I would've expected her to be able to from her red face. A few servants stare as we past, but more snigger. I overhear some quips about Lallie only being fit for scullery work, but more about Nonsire's dwarf sire that her harlot of a mother was so ashamed to admit to bedding that she put the baby on an orphanage steps and fled. Some are worse. My own face is red before we make it to Silva's suite in the servants' wing. The suite larger and better than mine, but...

"Shouldn't a King's Prophetess have better provisions?"

Lallie sets Silva on her bed and drops to the floor, panting for breath. "I...hate...doing that," she gasps, when she's regained a bit of air.

I wince. With how others responded to her demonstration of something odd in her ancestry, I don't blame her. "You don't look dwarven." She hasn't a trace of the female ear-hair, and she isn't nearly stocky enough.

"I'm not." Lallie shakes her head. "Oh, I dunno who my parents were, but I'm definitely not dwarven. Silva thinks I might have a bit of Shifter in me."

My breath freezes in my lungs at that. _Shifter_? "Shifters are sterile," I say in a small voice. Using magic to transform yourself into something else would doubtless be a lot more popular if it didn't cause sterility and more than a few health issues.

She shrugs. "That's what I thought, too. Lord Elwyn says the faeries have a few cases on record when the Creator granted fertility to a Shifter, but the children never inherit the shifting. They're just a bit...strange."

"Like able to carry someone half again their weight through kitchens, up stairs, and down several halls into a room?"

"Sil's a bit heavier than that, Pickle." She puts her head between her knees. "I hate doing that."

"Why didn't you fetch help?"

"Because nobody else can put up with her in their head when she goes loopy. Her filter's terrible."

I stare.

Lallie grins wearily. "How's your arm?"

"You healed me," I whisper. _Lallie_ healed my magic-induced scars. Not Ygrain.

She shakes her head. "Nonsense. I's juz a shop girl. How..." She rolls her head to face the doorway. "Hello, faed. I'd stand to curtsy, but I'd likely topple and spit up all over your fine coat."

The man's aristocratic features wrinkle together as he frowns at Lallie. He glints in the bit of sunlight coming from Silva's window—from his black hair, to his white headband and shirt—even his pale tan skin, and vivid green trousers and coat and eyes. I think the only thing about him that doesn't glint are his scuffed black boots. "You are the friend who also drank the ambrosia?"

Lallie waves her hand. "Eh, I's fine."

The man ignores her protests and my presence as he places the back of two fingers to Lallie's temple. "I'm Faed Nirmoh. Your name, Miss?

"Lallie Nonsire Cobbleson, my lord," she replies briskly, languid disorientation abruptly gone as she recoils from the man's touch. He doesn't press the issue.

I curtsy because he's a faed—a male faery. Faed Nirmoh notices me, then. "No need to curtsy to me, princess."

Heat flares through me. "I'm not a princess."

His eyes flicker to something behind me, as if someone's there. "I see."

Fael Honovi. I bite my lip. "I don't know why she attends me," which is true. I'll never inherit. By-blows don't inherit—Mother excepted, but Queen Yuoleen ensured Mother would be accepted.

He shrugs and turns to Silva. "Fael Honovi does as she pleases." Faed Nirmoh touches Silva's temple with the back of two fingers. He frowns. "How did she get here?"

"Fael Honovi?"

He shakes his head. "Silva Feyim."

I blink at Silva's still body. "Um..."

"I carried her," Lallie interrupts, arms crossed as she studies Faed Nirmoh. I'm not sure if she's not liking what she sees or if she's just leery of faeries in general.

Faed Nirmoh's expression reveals his reconsideration of what Lallie is. "Air mage?"

Lallie's thin smile doesn't answer that one way or the other. I cringe and wonder why she's so eager to get on a faery's bad side.

Faed Nirmoh, though, returns the smile and nods sharply. "I see. Well. Miss Lallie, Miss Nallé, if you would. A damp cloth, please. Your friend's filters need some work." That's kinder than Lallie had put it, though I'm still not quite sure what 'filters' are. I go to fetch the cloth.

Geddis launches herself at me when I enter the main throughway headed towards the laundry. "How is she?!"

I cringe at her screech. "The—the AMaC person's with her now, I think. He wanted me to get a damp cloth."

Geddis stumbles over herself to get me one. "Will she be okay?"

Her puffy face and red eyes prove the question's sincerity. I swallow and speak quietly. "Ygrain thinks so. Some tea she tried helped,"—meaning somebody had been guiding the ambrosia's effects—"and Lallie drank more than Silva, and she's fine already." I hope.

I hurry back to Silva's room, a bit surprised that Geddis doesn't follow me. Faed Nirmoh takes the cloth from me and puts it on Silva's forehead. He avoids looking at Lallie, which makes me wonder what's passed between them while I've been out.

"How old is she?"

I wait for Lallie to supply her friend's age, but she ignores the question and leaves the room. I swallow and guess, "Eighteen?"

He nods acceptance of my answer. "You may go."

I hesitate. "Don't you need a chaperone?"

His expression's closed, as his grass green eyes study me. "Send her sister in."

Geddis still waits at the end of the hall. She eagerly scurries to her sister's room when I ask her to chaperone her sister with the faery. She trips on the edge of one chipped stone in the walkway.

I freeze mid-wince when I turn back to return to my room. Carling watches me with her own pale green gaze, expression thoughtful as she absentmindedly tugs on a sleeve that comes just shy of fitting properly. "Hello, Evonalé."

Surely she hears me swallow. "...Carling," I squeak.

My half-sister sniffs, not wrinkling her nose in disgust, but quickly as if to clear her nose. She gives me a companionable smile. "Cold season coming in."

That confirms that she set the ambrosia for Silva. She only speaks to me civilly when she wants something. "What were you thinking?" I ask. She's ambitious, not stupid. She won't hurt me with the faery up the hall.

The smile drops from her face. "The king will do much for his cook's daughter."

"She's his..." I let that trail off, flinching when I realize what it sounds like, but it's better for Carling to think Silva the king's lover than his prophetess. Particularly when I suspect the reason she checked was to figure out what she could get away with against _me_.

She nods acceptance. "I'm still going to kill you."

My mouth goes dry. "Before Drake forces a kid on me, I hope."

Carling grins, actually showing her teeth. "That's the plan."

"If you can't have the Bynd, he can't?" She would have to have a child with someone directly in line to inherit the Bynd to be able to access it. Unfortunately for her, the only eligible male is Father.

"Something like that," she agrees. Her eyes flicker to the hall behind me. "Pity you didn't drink it, yourself. You could have stumbled out a window."

I ignore that threat, since there's nothing else I can do with it other than admit that I did drink it and am perfectly fine despite it. "Are you going to tell Father?" that I'm here.

She tugs her sleeves again with a frown, and my stomach twinges in sympathy for the poor fool who messed up her overdress's wide sleeves. "Tell my father what, Nallé?" she asks mildly, and leaves with the sedate glide deemed proper for ladies.

I release the breath I hadn't even realized I was holding. That's a relief.

Yes, Carling still hates me for what I can inherit, and yes, she's still going to try to kill me, but she won't tell Father or Drake. Silva will be fine, and Carling will have a care to avoid revealing my location to Father.

Both of those give me great comfort.

"You've never been in Saf?"

Prince Aidan's tone suggests an order's about to follow my "No," I've not been to the capital. Marigold sprawls languidly in her usual lounge chair, evidently exhausted from the excruciatingly strenuous embroidery introduction I've given her for the fifth time since Father and Carling left Salles two days ago.

Since I'm putting my embroidery tools away in my bag, I hear rather than see Prince Aidan approach until his boots are in front of my face. "Never?" he presses. "In the past year?" I glance up to see him frown. "Where do you get your knitting things, then?"

"Others bring them back for me." I have little wish to go into the city a short ways from here. A shudder makes me drop my scissors. I've heard too many stories about the dangers of city streets.

Once Father's gryphons brought back the remains of a young man after they'd been through with him, a traitor or some such person. I'd been whipped for letting the...pieces...splatter my dress. I've not worn linen since.

I have little wish to know any more of how cruel others can be. Life here, in Salles' castle, provides all the danger of exposure that I could wish. Royalty, nobility, servants I _understand_. I even understand my half-sister, who'd rather kill me than let Father find me.

Prince Aidan has said nothing as I've finished reorganizing my bag. I hop down from my chair and grab the bag.

"You must have some savings," he says finally. "You don't own much."

How much I save of my cess a week is none of his business. Anyone can sew. To receive a bed, bath, meals, schooling, and a stipend in exchange for work anyone could do—mending things and minding a baby—is generous. When you add my filly, Rowan, it's obscenely so.

A heavy sigh from Prince Aidan grabs my attention. "Fine." He brushes imagined dust from his thin beer brown tunic. "Let's go to town."

I'm expected to watch Princess Claiborne in a few stone. "Your Highness—"

" _Now_ ," he orders with a grin, but a glint to his brown eyes say he means it no less. "It's the first day of the Feast of the Fathers!"

I've not heard of this. I swallow. "I'm supposed to watch the princess soon."

"Your shift can wait. Fathers' Feast won't." Prince Aidan leads me out. "The Feast of the Mothers and Feast of the Fathers alternate every two and a half years," he says. "Fathers' Feast comes in autumn, near the harvest, and Mothers' is in the spring, near the planting."

"The first and last days of this Feast are the only ones girls should see," he continues. "At least, that's what Silva says, though she doesn't include herself in that. I've heard one good Fathers' Feast rakshi can make a strong man reel!" Prince Aidan frowns. "Father won't let me try my first rakshi 'til after I'm of age...and then I'll have to wait two more years for the Feast."

In my confusion, I ignore the rest of his prattle and look forward through the open gate towards where I know the city of Saf lies. The inflamed swell of the land hides it, but instead of the usual reassuring browns and greens, vibrant splashes of other colors interrupt the scene atop the hill.

I blink. The colors—banners and what must be tents, I see now, in the process of being erected—are still standing and increasing. Florid colors, clashing in a gaudy mess only culturally preferred by "Dwarves?"

Prince Aidan laughs. "Of course! Who did you think..." He frowns at me. "That's right. You haven't seen the city. I guess you don't have reason to know."

To know what?

His frown transforms into a grin with an ease I know bodes discomfort for me. "Come on; you can use a new dress."

_Don't freeze_! I order myself as I follow his command. Prince Aidan's fourteen to my ten; he wouldn't think that of me, not yet.

Nonetheless, his desire to buy me a dress sets a precedent I don't like. It would be improper enough by itself, but together with his inordinate concern for me it might mature into something I won't like, if it continues.

I won't let it.

"Hey-ho, to our mead we go..."

I edge closer to the grass avenue's far side, avoiding the huge tent of a vivid purple hue that evidently serves as a...place that serves mead, according to those inside.

Prince Aidan gives me a mischievous grin. "Don't worry; they won't get drunk 'til tomorrow."

I don't like not knowing words. Oh, I've heard _drunk_ bandied about on occasion, but with less explanation than _hangover_ , which I only know is unpleasant and comes after having too much spirits.

"This first day, let the mead come slow..."

Even more disconcerting are the dwarves about, prepping things, wandering idly, or hurrying around. Many look too...comfortable to be visitors.

"It's mostly the native dwarves now, but the visitors will be coming throughout the day and night." He smiles at my startled look. "Certain old wards in the castle from Emperor Vance make it...dwarf unfriendly."

"Emperor Vance?"

"Perverse ruler my grandfather conquered—with help, thus my little betrothal issue. Emperor Vance created the Wailing Marshes. Sort of. Any traitor to the emperor would have his closest female kin captured and...abandoned in the marshes with her children's remains as her only food. Or so the tales say."

Other than that sprite who grabbed Silva last year, I've heard tell of the marshes, whispers of magic and haints. I'm glad Lord Elwyn and Kitra found me so quickly, last winter.

Prince Aidan's voice is bland. "Some claim he kept those without children in his harem until they had one, but Mister Woad says his father was too picky in his women for that."

Wait—Mister Woad was Emperor Vance's _son_?!

"...Enough of that grim topic. Come on!" He tucks my arm under his and drags me towards the strange large tent.

Under the tent, sturdy tables and chairs fill much of the area, and a short stout woman serves drinks. No hair comes out her ears, so I doubt she's a dwarf.

His Highness drags me toward a long tall piece of wooden furniture that doesn't quite seem to be a table. People sit before it on stools, and behind it...

"Silva?"

She glances over at my squeak but continues serving a customer, a dwarf like most in here. "Can use the quen," explains her work here.

Finished with whatever she was pouring, she comes to us. "Here for your taste of Father's Feast?" Silva asks His Highness. She smiles widely as she rubs a glass clean. I remember her reaction to the ambrosia just last week and wince.

"Evonalé, too?"

She eyes me critically at Prince Aidan's question. "A few sips, perhaps. The smaller you are, the more alcohol affects you. May be why elves are particularly susceptible."

I jerk back from the bar, but Silva ignores me.

She swiftly goes to serve some customers and returns with two small glasses of mead, glasses of the same type that I see a nearby human drinker using with his beverage—whiskey, I read on the bottle when Silva fills his glass. I think the steward Proctor likes that. His wife Morgana complains loudly to Cook whenever he gets a bottle. Aidan's glass looks as full as the human's yet untouched one, but mine has a quarter the amount.

"Take it in small sips, and keep it in your mouth for a few seconds if you want the best flavor," Silva advises. "Roll it on your tongue."

"I'm... allowed?" I'm a servant, not some nobleman's daughter out with the prince for a bit.

Silva gives me a pointed look to answer my question; would she have given it to me if I weren't? Then she returns from bustling over to help another customer.

I pick up my little glass carefully and eye the dark golden liquid.

Prince Aidan lifts his to his lips, but puts it back down before he sips it. "What kind is this?"

"Top of the house, as suits Your Highness," Silva states with a wry humor, considering her own rank above the crown prince until he comes to his throne. Prophets of the King can wield much power.

The nearby human downs his whiskey in one swallow and gestures with his hand, pointing at his glass and nodding at Silva. She refills it while continuing to Prince Aidan, "It's white tea and blackberry, for both of you."

"Giving a maid our top—"

"Robin," Silva says sharply, stabbing the large woman serving tables with a marble-stern look that I've never before seen her use. "Do _not_ insult."

Robin pales with a quick step back. She returns to serving other tables.

The human man with the whiskey laughs. "Who owns this tavern?"

Silva turns her stone-hard look to him. "Robin. Scorn her and meet my wrath, if you so please. But I would not advise it."

"And what of scorning you, dear lovely?"

But Silva is on the other end, serving others who had gestured for her. I don't think she heard the question.

"I wouldn't recommend flirting with her," Prince Aidan replies for the absent Silva. He sips his mead.

I follow suit and am as surprised by the sweet tang as by the following bite on my tongue. A delicate nuance of flavor that I also don't know combines with the sweetness.

"She's engaged."

I choke at Prince Aidan's words. " _What_?!" Embarrassed heat flares through me when I realize I said that aloud. I start to sweat.

" _Hush_!" Silva snaps as she takes up the human man's empty small glass instead of filling it. "And you've have enough." Her gaze narrows on him as he starts protesting. "The drunken part of the fest starts tomorrow. Drink then as you like, but I won't have you lose your head before these two scions."

I jerk at her words. "I'm not..." My voice is too weak. I swallow. "I'm not a scion," I protest with much less strength than what I want.

Silva purses her lips. "Of course not." She turns unfocused eyes on two men who stagger in. "No drunks in here, today." Her pleasant voice isn't loud, but it pierces the tent. "But do return tomorrow."

Without acknowledging her words, the men stumble back out, lurching into each other with crazy-sounding laughs.

Robin approaches Silva, still looking after the men. An awed smile lights her face. "Did you—?"

"Yes," she responds tersely, while preparing a drink for another customer. "I _am_ a mage."

"But you didn't focus anything!"

Silva taps her temple and smiles tightly, physically turning the shorter, heftier woman around and giving her a little shove towards the table. "Concentrate, Robin. Concentrate."

Spells can be worked solely by concentration? "That's not what it said in—"

"If it's in a book, it's true, is it?" Silva keenly states as an error of reasoning. Her false smile softens. "No one knows everything, Nallé, and we always 'know' information that we'll later learn is mistaken if not outright false. That's true for everyone."

I stare at my mead to avoid her look. That explains some of things, like why Mister Woad gets some aspects of other kinds right despite the textbooks being so _wrong_.

A larger sip of mead soothes me, my muscles loosening slightly though I'd never realized they've been tense, have evidently been tense for as long as I can remember.

Perhaps two more sips remain in my glass. I intend to enjoy them.

On this last day of the Feast of the Fathers, the grumbling and gossip among the various castle servants has lessened. It's unusually quiet, today. But perchance it only seems that way; the past five days of drunken festivities have been loud.

I've glimpsed Silva bustling around this week, but rarely. Even Lallie's helping Cook in the kitchens.

Only on the second day did Silva pause before me and add to the basic pleasantries, "What spell did I use on the two drunkards for them to respond to my words?"

Since she said nothing aloud when she cast that spell, I saw nor see no way of knowing what it was. "How can I know?"

Silva smiled wryly, then. "That is your assignment this week. You know I wouldn't handicap myself. Determine what spells I could have used and their effects on me. Deduce from that what spell I used."

Five days of pondering that question when I can, and I'm no closer to the answer than I was from the start.

The current quiet soothes me, though, after the ruckus of the past week. Claiborne sleeps this afternoon, and I've finished the last batch of mending. I watch the leisurely lurching of the few distant people wandering around the tents.

I take a book from a table, one of Silva's that I'm borrowing. Maybe somewhere in this text on magic will give me the answer to my assignment.

"Your Highness," I say to irritate him when he attempts to sneak up behind me. Annoyance is one of the few things that I've noticed can distract him from his ideas.

"You're still getting a new dress."

"I don't wear dresses," I object as I attempt to continue reading, smoothing my dark grey pinafore with one hand before fingering my blouse's lighter grey cuff.

He huffs. "You can't wear pinafores forever!" he protests. "You're eleven years old—"

"Ten," I softly correct.

"Fine, almost eleven. Geddis is eleven and a _maid_ ," he adds before I can protest, "and _she_ wears dresses."

"She's part faery," I gamble, wagering that Geddis is Silva's full sister and not half.

"Geddis is no prophetess," Prince Aidan scoffs. "Silva's the only one who takes after their fath—" He stiffens with a jolt, startling me into looking at him, and he glances around quickly. We're the only ones here.

He moves closer to me. "You didn't hear that," he says quietly, his brown eyes intent as he meets my gaze. "Understand?"

I chill but don't completely freeze. I've never heard tell of Silva's father, not even in gossip. That it's a mistake to mention him makes me think she's _someone's_ bastard. But whose?

I do understand what he means by the question: I'm to ignore the topic. "There was something to hear?" I obediently reply, face blank.

Prince Aidan relaxes a little, but not enough to lose his furrowed brow. He twists to look around, sighs, and goes to the window.

He's silent a minute, then speaks with a calm quiet. "I was still a toddler at the time, but I remember when Lord Elwyn lost his estate. The Council majority found the loss fitting and fought with my father over giving the family place in the castle. A minority would have given Attare Elwyn the money to pay the newly-developed tax that targeted him for a horrific penalty."

He turns towards me and gives a puzzled half-smile. "But...he...refused. Refused to accept the aid that would let his family keep its status."

His smile widens. "Ah, but the estate means little to Lord Elwyn, when he can claim support from the king for _what_ he is. The tax struck him for that, because others were jealous of his great fortune, that he served my father as prophet and held a title of his own. The tax passed through my father's purview only because the majority required it as part of another law that we needed at the time."

Prince Aidan shrugs, still smiling. "Silva may be required to work harder than suits her blood station now, but she'll get more than its worth upon the return of Elwyn Elf-friend."

The title makes me jerk, and Silva's book plummets to the floor. Prince Aidan gives me a quick smile that says he had meant to startle me with that statement.

What I don't think he meant was to confuse. I know the title Elf-friend can only be given by a coalition of the rulers of at least three elfin kingdoms, to someone who has helped them greatly, and such a title does not pass to heirs. What could the former Attare Elwyn have done to earn him that title?

And why won't such a coalition come aid my—

...My _mother's_ people, I mean. Not mine. I'm no masochist, to seek tortuous death in an idiotic attempt to fulfill a prophecy that might've only been a possibility, not a true prophecy.

Anyway, Carling will surely kill me first.

His Highness takes Silva's book from my hands and puts it aside. "Come on," he insists. "You still need a dress. You're tutoring _nobility_ , now. You need to look the part."

"What I have is fine," I insist. If he persists in his foolish coddling, it will at least be over my objections. That, at least, might prevent the precedent from developing too far.

"Fine for working in, yes. They are _not_ fine for feast days and festivals." His tone has gained the sharp tone that means he won't stand for argument. "Come."

I grab an embroidered cloak of mine and obey.

Prince Aidan doesn't try to make sure the guards stay with him as he drops out of the carriage to finish crossing the bridge into Saf the quicker way, on foot. I stay close to him as we enter the city's northern gate. Two guards trail along behind us.

I pull my cloak's hood again to make sure it hides my face in shadow; I don't want Father to find me because I'm careless. Few people are out, but many of those who are squint and moan as if light and noise pain them.

"Hangover Day," His Highness quips with a smile. "Many have hangovers, and many who don't at least pretend to out of respect for the holiday." His smile widens. "Actually, for the ones without hangovers, the constant ruckus of the past week give many people migraines. Though those who did indulge in the holiday are paying for it now. Those who haven't killed themselves, I should say."

From his tone, I know he's not kidding about the suicide. "Killed themselves?"

"Too much rakshi, whiskey, mead." He shrugs. "It can poison. Kill you."

We pass through a small courtyard with a guardroom just beyond the gate, then continue straight down the wide cobbled street, bypassing narrower alleyways. Clean stone buildings line this street—North Main, I notice on a sign—and Prince Aidan guides me quickly down the walkway.

One building's sign has a pair of shears: _Trelanna's Trimmings_.

That name doesn't sound good. When Prince Aidan tries to lead me in, I stop at the door and glance again at the sign.

Prince Aidan laughs. "It's how she keeps her business _down_ ," he says. "It's still swelled so it could easily be more than she can take, if she isn't careful. She studied in the faery school of sewing, before they realized she was merely a sage and kicked her out."

Sages know how magic works; mages actually use it. With what using magic can do to a person's sanity, sages are much more common than mages.

He grins and gives my arm a quick yank, causing me to stumble into the tailoring shop. "She'll probably be interested in adding a few of your techniques to what she knows." The guards follow us in.

"Lallie!" I'm startled to see the former scullery maid manning the counter. I know she said she had a new job in town as a shop girl, but I didn't expect to see her here. Saf is big.

She looks up abruptly, and her expression of schooled politeness shifts into pleased surprise. "Nallé!" she says warmly, but her cherrywood eyes dim a little upon seeing the prince. "Your Highness," she greets with quite a bit less warmth.

"What's that?" A woman sticks her gray-and-blond head out from behind a mannequin. "Ah, Your Highness!" She pulls out her bulk—fat, rather than frame, and tastefully outfitted in a red-laced grey two-piece designed to fit rather than pretend she's smaller than she actually is—from behind the shelves.

The woman offers a small curtsy. "You've not outgrown your frock coats yet, have you?" she asks, worry coloring her tone.

"No, Miss Trelanna." Prince Aidan speaks with more respect than he is wont. "Nallé needs a dress for two months out, when she presents Claiborne..." He smiles slightly at Miss Trelanna's nodding. "I suppose Silva's told you of Nallé?"

The nodding continues without pause, Miss Trelanna's flabby chin jiggling. "Yes, yes. Nallé. Ward of King Aldrik, felvish name, all that." She waves dismissively as I jerk from her comment on my name. "Needs attire for her duties in front of the Court, does she?" Miss Trelanna hasn't stopped nodding, so her chin hasn't stopped jiggling, either. "I can do that."

"Thank you, Miss Trelanna."

"Can Lallie do it?" There's an awkward pause after my rushed question. "I'd rather Lallie do it."

"Miss Trelanna does all the clothing ordered from the royal treasury. Order your own dress if you want the girl to do it."

"Her name's Lallie; she—"

Lallie catches my eye and shakes her head with a smirk. ' _Another time_ ', she mouths.

Prince Aidan edges towards the door, and Miss Trelanna snorts in good humor. "And now you want to leave the girl here while you go study the hunting dogs, no doubt."

"I do breed them," Prince Aidan replies. He does?

"Mm, yes. I remember that you started that...two birthdays ago, was it? Right when you were old enough." She waves a pudgy finger in her prince's face. "Mind that you don't lose your father's funds, now."

"No." Prince Aidan's agreement oddly lacks his common good humor that has dominated the rest of his conversation with the tailor.

Prince Aidan nods at one of the guards. "Stay with Nallé."

He leaves me to Miss Trelanna's measuring.

I don't wait for the prince before returning to the castle with the guard. I thank him and head to the small stable for the young ones. Rowan's not quite a yearling yet, but I like brushing her down.

Rowan snorts to see me. I filch a handful of oats from the treat bag. She eats them carefully out of my hand. "There's a good girl."

She snorts and looks up, nostrils flaring as she sniffs the air. Then she ignores my godmother and returns to the treat. "Good girl," I croon.

Rowan tosses her mane and lets me brush her down. I hear someone enter but don't turn around.

"Well?" Silva asks tartly.

I start, Rowan flicks her tail, and I nearly topple us both over. "Silva?"

"What spell did I use on those two drunks?"

My mouth turns dry. I focus on Rowan's shiny brown coat to keep me calm. "I don't know."

"Guess." The prophetess's firm tone means she will harbor no alternative. "Begin with the possibilities that you know I didn't use. And tell me why you know I didn't use them."

"Magical persuasion," I instantly reply. The first spell most new mages think of to handle sticky situations, it's also one of the most foolish. "That would lower your ability to persuade people without using magic."

Many a rash mage has made himself require magic to convince anyone of anything. At least this particular spell doesn't drive the caster mad; more thoughtless alternatives cannot make the same claim.

Silva nods once, sharply. "Continue."

I think quickly. "Forcing the drunkards to hear you would have lowered your ability to be heard by people in general. Mental clarity for them would have negatively affected your own mental clarity..."

I feel like I'm rambling.

"Clearing their drunkenness would have made you more apt to become drunk, and they were still lurching when they left...And inserting the thought to leave into their minds would lower your own, um..."

"Charisma," supplies Silva.

I nod, pretending I know what that means. At least she's understanding me, I think. "Was it a memory impression?"

"A memory impression?"

"Did you press the memory of the meeting into their minds? It would just make you harder to remember."

An odd look twitches over Silva's face before she resumes her clear, amused smile. "Clever thought, but no." She waits a minute before asking, "Is that all?"

I nod, overwarm from the heat embarrassment brings. I've spent most of a year learning about magic, and I can't even figure out what spell Silva used to send those two sots away of their own accord.

Rowan sticks her nose on my neck. I jerk back and realize I must've felt too warm to her. "Oh! Sorry, girl!" She nuzzles me again. Maybe she's just making sure I'm okay.

Silva supplies, "You came close, but it was a bit more intricate than the options you were considering: momentary clarity of a _drunken_ mind."

I frown. "But wouldn't that...?"

"Give my mind intermittent fogged moments when I'm drunk? Yes. But that would require me to get drunk. Which would require me to drink too much alcohol, and I don't drink it at all."

Oh. That's clever. By specifying such a precise spell, Silva gave herself a negative side effect that need never appear. Even if she someday decides to have some liquor, she'll just have to be even more careful than most people to make sure she doesn't drink overmuch. From what I've heard, drunkenness can lead even people without Silva's self-granted handicap to do some incredibly stupid things.

_But..._ I turn to look at Silva. "Wasn't that a dangerous spell to make? What if you'd been distracted before weaving the _drunken_ in; that would have been a regular momentary mental clarity spell, which would've messed up yours."

Silva smiles more widely, her eyes glinting pleasantly. "That is a risk," she admits, "and one inherent in any use of specific magic. Some mages prefer avoiding the danger altogether by limiting what they cast to their specific skills.

"A felf might limit his use of magic to using plant life to fuel the magic in, say, a spell to test the soil's fertility. A water mage might choose to use magic for nothing more than conjuring and controlling water."

"Most people avoid the mess altogether by refusing to practice magic, even if they know how to use it. Such sages are perfectly capable of casting spells and can teach others to do so; they merely choose to not use magic themselves for reasons of their own."

I nod slowly. That makes sense. People like safety.

"Back on-topic, some specific spells you can weave in a particular order to minimize the risk, though 'drunken mental' really isn't as fun as it sounds." Her expression suggests that she's encountered it, either through experience or observation. "It's a good idea to always use concentration aids whenever you work magic, to avoid a dangerous miscast due to distraction."

"You don't," I point out.

Her smile turns wry. "A bad habit on my part." She scratches her cheek. "Maybe laziness, too. Faeries as a whole have concentrated so much to be able to access their magic that it takes very little work for one to pull on his magic, today. I take after my father some in that."

I start at her mention of her father. For a moment, I try to respond as if I heard nothing, but then I realize that such a response will betray my knowledge of what Prince Aidan had so adamantly said I never heard. "Your father?"

"My faery blood comes from his side of the family." Silva's tone isn't dismissive, but it is direct and concise—a tone that says that I really don't need to know more.

"Where is he?"

Her look turns sharp, examining me for a long set of seconds. "...Somewhere." She looks away. "Somewhere else," she says quietly.

What? I blink. "Why did he leave?" I realize how that question sounds and how Aidan reacted. "Is he coming back?" I ask to cover my first impulsive question that I don't want to know the answer to. He left when _I_ came.

Silva meets my gaze then, and goose bumps form on my arms. Her eyes get a quality that's dreamy yet focused—prophets' eyes. I remember the last time I saw eyes like that.

_'She is you, Evonalé!'_ Gaylen had wheezed, fighting for breath through the Shadow that took his life only days later. _'The one I spoke of...who will free us...is_ you _.'_

"Someday," Silva says with her direct conciseness, and she then glances at Rowan behind me. "You'd better take care of Rowan before she gets offended." She leaves.

I sneak another peek at the sheet of paper tucked in the pages of my textbook so Silva thinks I'm reading the lesson. Lallie's sketch is more interesting. It shows the style of the dress Miss Trelanna is making and how it will suit my body type. We worked together on it, and Miss Trelanna happily let me offer my own input.

It's still fancier than I like, but Lallie had whispered that she'd see what she could do to sabotage it. The sleeves will be left clear for me to embroider, myself. Miss Trelanna rather liked my cloak.

Notes cover the drawing, and it's interesting to see how a particular seam will fit. I never learned to work with sketches. I wonder how closely the sketch and dress will parallel.

Silva glimpses the sheet and gently pulls it from the book. "Miss Trelanna does good work. You'll see it soon enough."

That reminds me of how much the tailor spoke of Silva while measuring me, and what Prince Aidan said of the tailor and the faery sewing school.

"Is Miss Trelanna a relative of yours?"

"My aunt, yes." Silva smiles. "My mother's sister; Father met her at the faery school, and they became friends enough that Trelanna introduced Father to Mother."

...Lord Elwyn studied _sewing_?

"Geddis worked for Aunt Trelanna, helping with errands and such, before she became old enough to work in the castle kitchens, and Lallie works for her now."

"Old enough?"

"Ten."

_What_?! How can this be? "I wasn't yet ten when I first worked in the kitchens." Not quite yet, anyway.

"No, you weren't."

Perhaps Cook introduced the rule after I caused such a nightmare for her, and I just forgot glimpsing Geddis around before I was banned from the kitchen. Head injuries can do that.

But if the rule is newer, why won't Silva say as much?

I'm confused. But Silva doesn't look like she's going to answer any more questions.

The next morning comprises of the princess wailing.

"Princess Claiborne!" I insist. Since the crown prince is the primary heir to the throne, calling another heir 'highness' would be inappropriate unless I wanted to deliberately insult Aidan. I'd rather not be on the receiving end of his...palm.

Avoiding titles of obeisance also happens to make the princess more apt to listen to me for instructions like 'Stay away from the fire!' Perhaps it's improper, but I wouldn't know much of that. Drake and Carling are both older than me, so I never saw how servants handled their infancy.

Considering Father, I daresay anyone who failed to protect them was tossed to the gryphons. And that my half-siblings if not our father disposed of any who attempted to reign them in.

Not knowing propriety seems to be a good thing here, at any rate. King Aldrik approves—I _think_ he means it when he smiles—and Prince Aidan tonguelashes me when I _don't_ do this. And Princess Claiborne obeys me.

More or less. Some days are better than others.

_Keep a calm tone_. I rub her back as I rock her. "Talk nice, princess." She hiccups and starts wailing anew against the nap that threatens to take her whether she wants it or not.

I sigh. "Princess," I warn half-heartedly, noticing Fatmah in the doorway. Claiborne's nurse, here to relieve me of the princess while I go to my lessons. I hand off the tired screaming baby to Fatmah and head out.

Prince Aidan meets me at the schoolroom's doorway, offering a slight bow and arm. "May I escort Miss Evonalé to her seat?"

So he's in a mocking mood, today. I curtsy. "No, thank you, Your Highness," I reply and scurry past him to sit down before he can grab my arm, anyway. I hide a smile at his irritated scowl. He _hates_ when I use formality, making it just payment for his teasing.

Mister Woad enters as Prince Aidan returns to his seat. The tutor breathes as hard as if he's run through the stairwells.

Odd; he doesn't run. Running isn't acceptable behavior for someone of his station. Mister Woad is nobility by birth, son of the emperor who ruled Salles before Prince Aidan's grandfather conquered it. That makes Mister Woad brother to the late queen mother, and therefore His Highness's great-uncle. Despite his birth, Mister Woad had aided invading would-be king Jarvis with information that he could not have gotten otherwise. Some keep watch to this day, expecting some curse to grip him for his betrayal of his father.

"Are you all right, Mister Woad?"

He coughs a little. "A minor chest complaint," he explains with an unusual slight wheeze. "It'll pass." Mister Woad waits for Prince Aidan to be seated, then says, "Today, we'll begin with math."

Even his breathing trouble doesn't hide his voice's waver. Most believe girls needn't know math. As a rule, Mister Woad agrees, I think, but King Aldrik's insistence that I be taught as well as a son keeps him from acting on that preference.

I barely listen to the lesson, my mind wandering over...things. Carling's tried to kill me a few times. I wonder how she'll attempt it now.

I've been told that I'll overthrow my Father's line, but what does anyone know? I can't be the only line from the prophesied ancestress. I'm baseborn.

Gaylen _knew_ things, though...I may not like what he prophesied about me, but he still was the Prophet of the Queen for Queen Yuoleen. He even foresaw his own death, which I have always thought downright cruel. Father had his uncle set the Shadow on him. First, he slept a little longer than usual; then, his breath wheezed—

_Wheezing._ Carling likes magic-controlled illnesses. My eyes snap into focus on Mister Woad. "Have you been sleeping more than you used to?" I demand.

Mister Woad frowns and cleans his spectacles, displeased with my interruption. "The old often do, miss. Now, back to the lesson—"

" _No_!" I rush to the door. "Iyacona—"

I stop. Iyacona is the elf-nurse in Father's household. I whirl about, biting my lip. I walk slowly back towards him, forcing myself to remain calmly factual, that he will listen to me. "Do go see Ygrain, sir. You're ill." I look again at Mister Woad's eyes, now recognizing the grayish tint—the shadows—in the eyes. I'm right. "It's the Shadow."

Both of them stare at me...as if they've never before heard of the Shadow! What have I brought on this kingdom? Carling should be trying to kill _me_!

"The Shadow..." whispers Mister Woad, brow furrowed. "You've seen it, before?"

So they have heard tell of it; they've just never encountered the illness. I nod firmly, as my eyes dart around, expecting a gryphon to leap from the shadows at me—to attack me, to rip me to shreds with its claws. If Carling controls the Shadow, she should be strong enough to steal some of Father's gryphons.

"We've never had any cases of it here, before," Prince Aidan says uncertainly. "Are you sure you're sure?"

" _Yes_." There is no mistaking the eyes. A cold knot settles in my stomach.

And from that single case, the outbreak begins.

**Year 245 of the Bynding**

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

_Late Autumn, after Harvest_

Some say the Shadow is an illness, no different than others that might attack a populace. Some say it is a curse directly from the Creator Himself.

In truth it is no plague; it is no curse. A group of faeries created this gruesome parasitic cousin to linashor and omurk. They created it to kill by destroying a victim's magic.

And kill it did: them.

— _Endellion_

The other servants think I'm part faery! I _must_ be faery, they say—why else would I be granted linashor when its guardians refuse others' requests for it?

I bite my tongue. In these two years, the Shadow has decimated entire villages in Salles, striking the once-wealthy kingdom hard as trade has dropped, except for the dwarf allies. No dwarf has caught the Shadow.

The too-little babe Princess Claiborne was among the first to go. She and Mister Woad both refused to drink tea of any kind. But when King Aldrik likewise fell prey to the Shadow, he accepted the linashor tea I offered him. He survived his illness. And thus the rumors started.

It has been two years since the Shadow began—a fitting amount of time, considering it can take a year for the magical parasite to progress in a bearer. The magical illness presumably does the bidding of whoever controls it, but a powerful hand must constantly guide it for that to work. If legend can be trusted, it killed its own creators.

Father's use of the Shadow has always been pointed, limited to a carefully-selected few to keep the duration, the progression, the passing of it all under his direct control. The Shadow as it's hit Salles...

I wonder how Carling lost control. She's usually better about recognizing and heeding her limits.

With my charge and my tutor gone, I often find myself wandering the sick wards with my meager offerings of what little linashor I've been able to harvest at equinox and solstice.

Ygrain tried to quarantine me like she did Silva—faeries are particularly susceptible to the Shadow; because they created it, Mother had guessed—but I think King Aldrik overrode the healer, because she's stopped trying. The parasite isn't hard to cure if you have the means to fight it.

Many mornings, as the sun rises, I face the northwest and curse the man who found the Shadow and dragged it from its long-forgotten crypt. I curse him and his get. By that, I curse myself.

And I'm the target, I know. _I_ 'm the one the magical parasite seeks. I can feel it, sometimes, drawing at my strength if I'm away from plants. It's Silva's lessons that have made me notice; I can _feel_ magic now, _feel_ the elf in me that pulls on plants. It seems to strengthen as I age, but I suspect that's an illusion from my growing awareness of it.

May the Power bind Carling! If she wanted to kill me with the Shadow, couldn't she have at least done it properly? Father or Drake have surely noticed this.

She commanded the parasite to seek me before she released it; she neglected to give it boundaries. It snatches everyone it can as it seeks to kill me, and I...I can fight it.

Should I?

Perhaps it would be better not to, I think as I sit on a windowsill for some fresh air. If I let it catch me, its goal, it should stop killing anyone else. Perhaps, for Queen Yuoleen's kingdom to be freed, I, the last in a line born of her guilt, must die.

"Take me, then!" I whisper into the wind, aware of the magic that seeks me. It wants _me_ , not the others it's catching and murdering instead. "If I must go—"

"Go where?" Prince Aidan interrupts my thoughts, surprising me for once. "Are you sure you're feeling all right, housemaiden?"

A maiden of King Aldrik's house—not quite a servant, but not quite a ward, either. Even His Highness seems confused about what exactly that makes me.

I pull more hair over my ears. "I'm fine, Your Highness." He governs Saf, now; he has from his ascension to manhood at his sixteenth birthday. I myself work with the women in the sick wards, but only because the other children refuse to put up with my clumsiness or my ornery faery godmother. I have a few months before I'll rate as even a subadult, at thirteen. The divergence is comforting.

The prince still looks a little pale from his own bout with the Shadow, but otherwise he seems fine. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" I'd rather pursue this line of questioning than admit I asked the Shadow to kill me.

"Wear your hair like that. Wouldn't you be more comfortable with it out of the way? I know that friend of Silva's could braid it so it still hid your ears, if you're that worried about them."

Lallie. I haven't seen her for a good year, now. I hope she lives. "I prefer it loose," even if it implies that I'm loose of morals, as well. Father forced me to tie back my hair so others could see my ears and know my place in his household, but that brings back memories I prefer avoiding.

"Why not?"

He knows this. "Mother always told me—"

"But _why_?" He laughs. "Why so mysterious, so quiet, so..."

"So what?" I ask sharply, sounding angry, but honestly more afraid than anything else. _Don't say 'So elfin.' I'm not an elf!_

Prince Aidan shrugs and drops the topic. He comes closer to me and squints out the window...Trying to see what I'm looking at, perhaps. "...It would be pretty if you put it up, you know."

I study him sidelong. Such comments remind me of Mother, of her abuse.

I force myself to turn away. Most kingdoms' nobility scorn royal heirs who marry outside their class, insisting that only legitimate nobility can properly raise legitimate nobility. A prince could bed all the girls in his castle, and most noblemen wouldn't notice or care, but Creator forbid he honestly marry her!

Aidan has often demonstrated his contempt of even such socially acceptable philandering. He cannot want _me_ , not for marriage. I don't—my baseborn blood tie to Queen Yuoleen doesn't encourage him, surely?

But then, every so often an unconventional monarch, often male, breaks the rules and weds a commoner, to the detriment of his kingdom and status. And Prince Aidan is unconventional, that's certain.

And _betrothed_ , I remind myself. I almost smile, but it doesn't make it to my face. Since he _can't_ marry me, his fondness will likely lead the way I don't wish to go. People change their minds about their beliefs. Aidan might change his—or his protest of womanizing now might be a cover for his ready-made plans. Elves help me!

"Yie!" I cry, covering my face and physically fleeing from the thought. What am I thinking? _Elves_ help me? I _am_ elfin!

Aidan starts, twirling after me. "Housemaiden! Wait!"

I ignore him, my still-clumsy feet carrying me down the hall. I don't hit anything, though. I've learned to use my hearing to help that.

Outside! Life! I'm suffocating in this stone!

I hear my name in others' whispers. I struggle to wake, but my eyelids don't want to open.

Finally, I get them to do my bidding. Why am I in my bed? Why am I not outside, reveling and reviving in the life of the plants around me?

"I thought she looked pallid," I hear Prince Aidan say. "She said she felt fine. I never expected her to collapse."

_Collapse_? Did I really— "No! It's too early!" I struggle against my rough bedclothes. I should have _years_ yet before—

The prince's hand on my forehead stops me. I can hardly breathe for terror. I feel his fingers move more of my hair over my already-covered ears. My blood freezes. What does he know?

Prince Aidan abruptly withdraws his hand as if stung, blinking dumbly at me.

"Your Highness?" A spindly young peasant woman I recognize as a nurse from the sick wards comes forward. "Are you all right?"

He feels his hand with his other, as if making certain the cold hand's nerves are working properly. He gives me another look, this one horrified. He wipes his hand on his linen trousers. "She's freezing already!"

" _Already_?" The young woman busily checks my skin. "Elves help us—you're right!"

Freezing _already_? I stare at the ceiling. Prince Aidan's interruption came too late, then.

The Shadow's found me.

I smell tea. It smells bitter and medicinal and like someone's been in the linashor I've passed to Ygrain. I turn my head away from whoever's offering it.

"Stop the self-pity and drink it!" Lallie's voice snaps.

I turn and focus on her in my surprise. Her cherrywood eyes are more dark than bright as she glares. I'm not sure if her cap-sleeved dress and laced-up boots are burgundy or her usual black, in this light. "...Lallie?"

Lallie sits perched on stool by my bed, hands folded in her lap and ankles crossed. "No, I'm Silva, come to intentionally expose myself to that cursed parasite that would gladly latch on and kill me. Drink the tea, you foolish girl, before the Shadow kills you."

"It needs to." I can be honest with her.

"Do it?" Lallie's still— _too_ still—as she watches me. She should be cheerful and teasing and prodding me out of bed to drink the tea.

Her dress is burgundy.

I close my eyes. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Not your fault my Peyton killed himself to save me!" she snaps back. She stops abruptly and takes a long deep breath. "Sorry." Silence lasts for a few moments. "He dinnit do the best job."

"Are you...?" I look at the tea beside her on the small table by my bed.

"Still infected? No." Her smile's bitter. "No. I'm perfectly fine. Recovered, healthy, young, with a good figure." She swallows. "Many a woman would think herself blessed, in my position. I even be a widow, so I can do all sorts of improper things without anyone nagging me about chaperones."

I cringe. I met her husband once. He was a nice cobbler with a bit of _something_ other than human in him. He'd smiled and joined in when Lallie called me 'Pickle'.

Lallie's tone darkens. "Now drink that forsook tea, Evonalé Yunan, before I dump it down your throat."

She can't be serious. "I'm who it's trying to kill," I confess.

"So let it try, and fail, and give that witch sister of yours a tsunami of magical whiplash."

Lallie's scowl is harsh; she loved her husband dearly.

"I'm sorry."

" _Stop. Saying. Sorry._ " Her voice is far too violent for her to be so still. Goose bumps form on my arms as my body chills. "Drink the tea, Your Highness."

What?! "I'm not a princess!"

"Name another who can inherit Marsdenfel."

Mother's dead. "I don't know" of anyone else who's descended from Queen Yuoleen.

"Well?" Lallie lifts the tea from the table and offers it to me. "That leave you next in line when your father dies, Princess."

"I'm baseborn."

"So was your mother. So's Elwyn Elf-friend. So am I, probably. I can't speak for their spouses, but my Peyton wouldn't have minded were my father a scoundrel and my mother a prosti."

"You're _common_." I don't intend that meanly, but Lallie's eyes narrow at me as if I did.

"You of all people know _that's_ unlikely."

Noble girls tend to leave the evidences of their indiscretions on orphanages' doorsteps, but evidently that's not what Lallie's referring to. What information do I possibly have about her that others don't?

As I stare blankly at her glare, I remember what I know about her that she hides from others. "You're..." an earth mage, a strong one. I shake my head. "But how is that proof that you're not common?"

"I'm immune to poison. Not resistant— _immune_. That alone means I'm likely montai. And they choose rulers by how much magic they can control."

Montai? "...Those are the people that used to be here, between the Nidar river and Marsdenfel?" And Emperor Vance's water mage family had slaughtered them and built the palace on the bit of montai lands that hadn't become a haunted marsh from the fighting.

If Lallie's a montai, many of the haints in the marshes were her ancestors. I wince.

I remember another rumor about montai, that the Creator destroyed them because so many of its people were Shifter abominations. "Oh. You're part Shifter, too."

"You have your family trying to kill you. Imagine that multiplied across everyone worried about Shifters and earth magic and heritages that belong dead."

"No wonder you keep your head low."

She smiles tightly, then hands me the tea. " _Drink_ , Evonalé. And if you think I'm joking about the threat to force it down your throat, I can outmuscle a human man. An elfin girl don't hold a candle to that."

I stare at the mug. "You really think it'll work out better for me to live?"

Lallie shrugs. "I'm no prophetess." Her expression is a shadow of her former cheerful nonchalance. "But I'm not letting you demean everyone who's died by dying with them."

...I'm not sure that makes sense, but a dizzy spell hits as I try to figure that out.

"Drink, Evonalé Yunan. Now."

I do.

I hear quiet footsteps enter, the boots ringing peculiarly like only Prince Aidan's do thanks to something he does to his soles. I clutch my stiff brown sheets to my neck to cover my chemise. Me in my underclothes is not a memory I'd like the prince to have.

"Why did you run, housemaid?" He stands in the doorway connecting my bedchambers to the dead princess's suite. "What do you think you hide beneath that hair?"

"Go away!" I glare at him. I'm only twelve, after all. I needn't fear any indecency from him. Not yet, anyway. Not for four more years.

_Elves aren't women until sixteen._ My heart skips a beat at the reminder. I don't want to turn sixteen!

My fear must show on my face, for the prince looks worried and takes a step forward. "Are you—"

"Get out!" I grab something—my brush, I think—from the small table beside my bed. I wave it in what I hope is a threatening way. Why is he in my room? "Leave!"

Prince Aidan looks surprised at my ferocity. I'm surprised, myself. I would never dare do this to Drake. I know he isn't Drake, but...

Confusion follows his surprise, then his face crimsons. "I didn't mean—" He clears his throat. "That is, I'm not here to...I have no intention of..."

"I don't care!" I sound more like the child I am, now—which is good. Remind the prince of my youth.

"Whatever is the matter, housemaiden? You aren't to fever yet, are you?"

For my reply, I let my hairbrush fly at his forehead.

He ducks and catches it. "For being ill, you have a good aim!"

I get out of bed, wrapping my sheets around me as I do so. My chemise may cover as much as my pinafore, but I won't risk sending his thoughts that way. "I'm not ill, anymore!"

And I'm not. The tea tasted worse than it smelled, but it worked, breaking the Shadow's active magic so it could no longer ravage my body, and snapping the magic Carling guided to have the Shadow attack me.

It should lessen in Salles overall, now that it lacks a specific target to draw it here. I hope. Surely Carling didn't lose control of it completely. She's many things, but I've never seen her incompetent.

Prince Aidan scowls at me, pointing at me with my own brush. "You're deathly pale. Thin, too—well, thinner than usual. Are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

I cross my arms, moving to the window. I brace myself against the snapping wind, promising a winter storm come a few weeks early. "I'm not hungry." Not for food, though in a way, I _do_ hunger, craving plant life. A lack of plants can kill a full felf; I'm not sure why I'm so drained by it, myself. I'm more human than elfin.

"Father's been worried about you."

I do not acknowledge him, leaning into the wind, now; breathing deeply to catch the fresh scent of impending rain and the magic-felt tang of hibernating plants...

He comes beside me, squinting, again. Why is he so interested in what I see? "...Would you like to take a walk outside?"

"I would." I keep my arms crossed, not hiding my childish displeasure. Let him think me a child.

He leaves my chamber for me to don a pinafore and shrug on a robe. He then returns and takes my arm, gently guiding me out into the hall, using caution on the stairs, unlike his usual teasing. My nurse sees us, looks alarmed, but does nothing. She will not cross the prince.

In the courtyard, I pull myself away, walking slowly to the bushes I like sitting in. I reach an arm out—a trembling arm—and grip a branch, pulling myself into the bushes' hard embrace. I lean my head against one woody stem, feeling the comfort of the plants' slow soothing hum of their essence, wanting to fall asleep right here...

"I thought you wanted to take a walk," a puzzled voice intrudes on my haven.

Prince Aidan. I've forgotten him already! Yie! Where are my wits?

I peer out of my enclave. "I'd rather remain here, if you don't mind, Your Highness."

Why does he look at me like that? It makes my heart stutter. I know I'll be a subadult in a few months, but I'm still a child.

After a few seconds, which take forever to pass, he leaves me.

"Housemaiden!"

I jerk awake, tangling myself in my bushes, but feeling better for my nap. I hastily free myself as my nurse hands me a piece of bread with butter. My clothing sticks to me from the cool damp air.

"Quickly!"

I take the meal and eat it quickly as she explains. King Aldrik demands my presence in the grand hall. Apprehension grips me. What can he want?

I hurry to my room—take care on the stairs—and hastily change into my court dress. I think Prince Aidan snuck Miss Trelanna extra instructions for this one; it's an unusually vivid green for a maid, and I distinctly recall requesting a more appropriate brownish. But the square neck and slight tailoring make it simple, at least. I neglected to add embroidery so it would stay that way.

As I head towards the grand hall, Geddis scurries past me with a bucket of hot suds. "Your tea, too!" she says quickly. She's fully human and needs no quarantine, unlike her sister. "His Majesty insists."

Oh. I thank her and fetch a teapot and set some water to boil. As I await the whistle, I wonder who's fallen prey to the Shadow, now.

It doesn't matter. I take the teapot as instructed. Geddis follows me with teacups, since I'm still not to be trusted with trays.

As we enter the grand hall, I see a man of King Aldrik's age on the center floor, his weatherworn clothing of richer quality than would be expected from its wear. Something strikes me as familiar about him, but I'm not sure if it's his style of clothing or the man himself. I walk carefully on the ramp that leads downwards, towards the man and the king. Aidan's there, too.

Movement catches my notice as the man unrolls the scroll he's showing the king and prince. I choke on a scream. The teapot shatters on the floor. Everyone looks at me by the time I've yanked off my shoe.

Not one of Father's minions! Not here! Not _in_ here!

" _Gryphon_!" I shriek, flinging my shoe at the ledge just past the trader.

The ledge looks empty to sight, but my shoe hits the magically cloaked thing with a _thud_. I've already sent my other shoe after it, and when it hits the gryphon the creature reveals its grotesque self. It coughs, lifting itself from the ledge and lunging at me.

"Foolish child!" it cackles as it gathers its magic. "The fire on you!"

"The fire doesn't have me!" I retort—that's why Mother died—but this particular gryphon can siphon, too. I feel myself weakening as its magic grips mine and yanks.

I pull life from the plants that line the grand hall's walls; they wilt and die. There aren't enough of them for me to overpower the gryphon's spell; I stagger. "Fael Honovi!" I cry out. _Don't let it call Father! He'll—_

And a large stone falls from the ceiling and crushes the gryphon. One set of claws stretches towards me from underneath the stone, twitching and shimmering as it shifts into a human hand.

I'd wonder about that, if it weren't so hard to breathe. Life still drains from me, and the plants are gone. I fall to my knees, gasping.

Someone drops beside me. "Yie! A siphoning!"

_'Yie'?_ I force my eyes to focus on the someone, the trader, who uses the elvish exclamation. His hand on my forehead is cool, and he meets my gaze directly.

"Release her," he whispers, and I feel outside magic attack, bind the spell that has webbed my life. Strength enters me, now, faster than it's drawn away. The siphoning weakens, fades...

The man, the trader, moves aside, but not before I notice the motif embroidered over his heart. " _Elv_ ' _shutor_ ..." I hear myself mutter. Elf-friend.

King Aldrik takes the man's place. He brushes my hair from my damp forehead. "Nallé?" he asks quietly. "Was that enough?"

I fall unconscious before I can answer my king.

I feel someone lift me, carrying me slowly from the hall and... _outside_? The sharp wind is refreshingly cold. The fresh scent of the soon-to-come rain clears my head. My eyes snap open as Prince Aidan sets me gently on a bench.

What was he doing, carrying me? How long have I been asleep? From what I can judge of the sun, it's been hours.

"Are you better, housemaiden?"

I begin to answer; yawn instead. I swallow and politely reply, "Some, Your Highness."

For once, my use of his title doesn't annoy him. He looks too relieved to care. "Are all gryphons that..." Aidan searches for a word. "Revolting?"

"As far as I know," I reply. I remember the hand that appeared on the corpse, and I shiver. What was that? It was as if...

As if at death, the man reverted to his natural body. As if Father had created the grotesque normal form and forced his gryphon to hold that body. As if a gryphon might look no different from anyone else—might _be_ no different from anyone else—until one day, he has the misfortune of meeting a mage who has mastered the particular spell that binds him. He—or even a long-forgotten ancestor—miscast a spell with enough power that whoever can control that miscast spell can control anyone bound to it, too.

Prince Aidan nods, still watching me with a frown. He looks away, then stiffens back into a proper noble demeanor. "I'm glad you're awake. Perhaps you could help me with something."

He pulls out the scroll the trader had been previously showing he and his father and unfurls it a little bit. He hesitates, turning a little red in the cheeks. "I wasn't exactly paying attention when Elwyn was translating this. Could you help me read it?"

" _Me_?" I laugh. "How could I..." I remember my incident with the gryphon. And he had heard me say 'yie' the other day, like the strange man.

Wait—" _Elwyn_?!" That was why the trader had looked familiar.

Prince Aidan nods. "That was Elwyn Elv'shutor." He looks down. "He came to visit. He doesn't often get to see his family, and never for long."

Why is he avoiding my gaze as he says this, as if it's my fault? How could it relate to me? Lord—er, former Lord—Elwyn has had these trips since before they knew me! I remember Prince Aidan's request. "How can I help you read the scroll?"

Prince Aidan shrugs. "You have a faery godmother. You obviously know something of the other kinds."

The link surprises me. I have never considered using that. Fael Honovi is unorthodox. I can say she's taken me for visits to foreign places, or taught me elf history, or any number of the things I truthfully learned from—

"May I see?" He shows me the scroll. I manage to limit my reaction to a cheek twitch. That script... _Mother...burning—and ashes in my hair._ I blink back tears.

"Handmaiden?" the prince asks gently.

I pretend to have something in my eye. "It's nothing," I say quickly. "Just some pollen."

Pollen? In winter? To distract him from further questioning, I shake my head. "I know enough to tell you this is felvish." _And written by Mother._ "But I can't read it."

Mother was too busy teaching me other things that would keep me alive to risk teaching me one more thing that would cost my life if Father learned of it. He allowed elvish to be spoken but never written. I've never before regretted that I couldn't read my mother's primary tongue. I clench my hands into fists so I don't snatch the scroll from His Highness's hands.

Prince Aidan looks disappointed. "Can you read any of the other kinds' languages?"

"A few faery glyphs. I can mostly recognize the scripts." And speak a little dwarven and fluent felvish, but I'm not about to tell the prince that.

"Oh."

Foolish of me to fabricate that pollen, to give him reason to scrutinize me as closely as he does.

After a moment's silence, he continues. "I've seen your embroidery work. You have excellent taste. You have the gift of beauty, housemaiden."

I flush. Have I given myself away? Bearers of the gift of beauty are rarely comely themselves, unless they're elfin. Some sort of odd effect from vain mages of other kinds using magic to keep themselves from gaining weight.

I self-consciously put more hair over my ears.

Prince Aidan doesn't comment on it, for once. He draws a breath. "I miss Mother."

I miss Mother, too.

"And I wish my sister could have lived. She would've enjoyed my Subyear ball, in a few years."

Salles, in good humor, celebrates the eighteenth birthday as 'Subyear,' making fun of those kingdoms who have that age as the age of majority. Salles offers submajority at thirteen, with adult status granted at sixteen if the child has been responsible with his submajority. If the courts prove he hasn't, parents can legally keep a child as a minor 'til his scoreyear.

To accommodate the prince, I consider the now impossible concept of his sister attending his Subyear ball. "Five...would...would have been young for that, Highness."

"You were younger than that when you first learned to read." I don't reply, and he quickly continues. "But you're right—that is a bit young. Perhaps seven?" He turns to me.

"I would have thought _twelve_ more appropriate, Your Highness."

The prince shakes his head, still unusually unperturbed by my obeisance as he continues with the hypothesizing made morbid by its impossibility. "That would be too late. Seven. My Scoreyear ball. You'll have to be there to honor the memory of both women." He briskly wipes his hands on his tunic and leaves.

_Too late for what?_ I wonder. Then I don't care what he meant when I realize: by the time Aidan is twenty, I will have reached sixteen.

The fire cackles in the workroom fireplace. Geddis dances lightly around, happier than usual thanks to her father's visit and the receding Shadow. "The fire on you!"

After that cackle, Geddis laughs at my startled jerk, which further rips the blouse I'm trying to repair. I'd heard her coming, certainly, but I didn't expect her to mimic the gryphon.

She laughs again at my wide-eyed look. "What kind of spellcasting is that?" she scoffs. "That's no spell. His years as a bulging bird must've sent his mind a little—" Geddis motions ' _crazy_ ', still grinning.

_She_ 's the crazy one! Sweat beads on my palms as my body temperature rises. "It's a _curse_!" I snarl at her foolish ridicule.

Geddis starts with her own surprise at my response, her bewilderment revealing that she had expected me to share her good humor. "But I asked Father and Silva, and that's not a spell—"

"It's a key." No, not the spell. The spell—a curse—can only be woven on a nine-day-old infant, but once bound, the child is slave to the binder for life. Anyone with key access from the binder can trigger it.

Grandfather had successfully bound a number of young elves on accident, back before he'd found how to use his stolen control of Yuoleen's kingdom to his advantage. He'd toyed with the spell for years before he recognized it for the curse it was. The accident was that Mother was bound, along with every elf of that kingdom whose ninth day after birth fell during one of his practice sessions.

I don't hate Grandfather as much as I once did. He was power-hungry, not cruel. Mister Woad taught of a myth that the Crystal-elves—Queen Yuoleen's kingdom, Marsdenfel—knew where the human Crystal is.

When I consider what I know of Grandfather, that fits his actions. He didn't have the best intentions, but he probably didn't have the worst ones, either. He must have been bitter indeed when he realized how his intended legacy would unravel, as Father killed him to take Mother. I can pity Grandfather.

There is no excuse for Father.

"...A key?" Geddis asks finally, revealing her ignorance.

A prophet for a father and prophetess for a sister, and she doesn't know this? I hear the residual anger in my own voice. "An activator. A trigger."

"Oh." She looks uncomfortable. "What does the curse do?"

I swallow. "Burn. You." I concentrate on pulling out the ruined stitches from the blouse to prepare the garment for restarted repair. "It burns you away to ash at the caster's bidding." My voice sounds funny even to me.

An apologetic look from Geddis meets my glance. "Oh," she says, with an embarrassed smile. "I'll fix that." She shrugs. "My fault it's so torn up, anyway."

The internal heat remains in my veins. I don't trust myself not to lose my temper. She's not the best at sewing, but I can always fix it later.

I hand her the blouse and head outside. The cold temperature and languid plants will cool me, calm me. I need to cool down.

The Shadow took only a week to leave Salles after I broke free of it. Silva's happy enough to see and scold me. "Focus, Evonalé."

I _am_ focusing, but I don't protest Silva's command. My eyes closed, I feel the magic and mentally reach for it, trying to grasp the wafts of energy I can sense.

"Evonalé!"

The sharp tone makes me jerk and open my eyes. Silva's scowling. "Your aids."

The motions that aid a mage in concentrating. Silva spent months teaching me various ones, dancing, hand movements, drawings, words, faery runes...The only one that doesn't distract me is an odd foot-tapping technique. I don't know where Silva found it. I don't think I want to know.

Losing concentration while working with magic is extremely dangerous. I hardly want to end up a gryphon, myself.

I restart the process, making sure to follow a foot-tapping pattern to anchor me while we test my ability to access my magic. I mentally reach for the wafts of magic and grasp a suddenly-solid rope.

My surprise almost makes me drop it. But I clasp it more firmly, instead, clinging to the silky phantom rope that throbs in my mental grip. I get lightheaded and realize I've forgotten to breathe.

I concentrate on breathing while holding pulsing magic that makes me feel sleepy. I breathe slowly until I feel the tingling get too uncomfortable, then release it all.

My muscles feel like jelly. Silva catches me when my knees buckle. It's hard to open my eyes to look at her.

The prophetess smiles tightly. "This is unfortunate."

That awakens me more than anything. "What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing." Silva sets me down in a chair, since my legs still won't hold me. She goes to the fire and casts another log on it herself rather than calling for a servant, though the fire really doesn't need it.

She stands facing the flames for a minute, then looks at me with quirked lips. "It's what you did right." She turns away again and adds another unnecessary log. "Or rather, how you did it."

I don't understand. How else could I have gripped the magic? "What did I—"

"We'll have to start testing spell types to determine what affinity you inherited from your human blood. But I suspect—" She uses a poker to stir up the flames. "It won't be hard." After a pause, she adds, as if realizing she'd forgotten to say, "Not with your ten-second base grasp."

Ten seconds?! I held it that long?

And that was my first time. It will only grow longer with practice.

I stare blankly at the fire that she insists on making bigger than necessary, that she...

Ice creeps through my veins when I realize what we're going to do next. Something that I might actually be able to do. " _No_."

Lallie would've noticed my chill and commented on a draft. Silva's oddly blank expression doesn't look the least bit surprised or confused. "It's all right if you're a fire mage, Evonalé." She shrugs. "It's not a pleasant affinity to own, not with your heritage, but it can be useful for self-defense, at least."

I'm frozen. All I can do is stare. She knows whose child I am!

"Warm yourself."

King Aldrik knows, too; he's even had me taught like the heiress I would have been—assuming I ever came to exist—had Grandfather not bound Queen Yuoleen. He knows Queen Yuoleen named her illicit daughter, my mother, as her heir. That's why he took me in.

"Warm yourself, Evonalé."

They know what Father would do to them if he knew they shielded me, and they protect me, anyway.

"Warm yourself!"

She _knows_ , and she asks this of me?

" _No_!" I snarl, blood burning, mentally backpedaling until I grasp the magic again. I use it to mentally yank the fire inwards on itself, preventing it from grabbing more needed air, and it suffocates.

Silva watches the fire die and doesn't attempt to stop it. She looks at me, face still blank. "That was interesting," she says pleasantly.

I glare, hardly daring to let myself realize what I've done. I still burn with my shame and anger. _I can control fire?!_

I _am_ like Father.

Tears fall. "No!" I protest, but I know it's useless. "I'm _not_. I'm not—" I can't stop myself from sobbing.

Silva doesn't hug me, she doesn't pat me on the back; nothing. She watches me and lets me cry. "To have your natural skill in magic is a burden, Evonalé. And to be a _fire_ mage..." She shakes her head, sighing. "I regret that is the case, but I'm sure the Creator has a reason for it."

By the Power, if I'd known this years ago, I could have stopped the curse...Could have saved Mother!

"Unlikely." I start and stare at Silva. She smiles wanly. "I'm sorry. _That_ time of month."

That time of..."Oh." Any faery or prophet shifts out of phase on a monthly basis, I well know. But evidently Silva's shift in phase isn't physical; instead, her mind shifts into different probabilities, letting her hear thoughts that, under different circumstances, would have been spoken.

But..."I thought you said Hearers go insane."

"We do." Silva's brow furrows, and her jaw tightens. "Some of us faster than others."

Silva has an unavoidable marriage to insanity. I blink back tears. I don't want her to go mad!

"I avoid people, this time of month. It helps. Notably less pull on my mind."

"That's not fair."

Silva's answering laugh surprises me. "Fair? I hardly expected to hear _that_ complaint from you." She chuckles some more. "Fairness doesn't exist, Evonalé, and thank the Power for that. If He were 'fair', none would spend eternity with Him. We're all too ugly."

"But you shouldn't have to go insane."

"Why not?" Silva's frank reply surprises me. "For all we know, future Hearers might have better lives if I can serve well as Prophetess to King Aldrik without having to hide my condition.

"Or maybe my example might help another Hearer who wants to avoid the insanity for as long as possible." She swallows and continues in a forcibly cheery voice, "And Ferrel's a warning for what spells to avoid."

_Ferrel?_ I want to ask, but from Silva's expression, I don't want to do that to her.

She falsely perks up. "An incredibly drunk man attacked Mother one evening when Father was away. Ferrel messed up and cast 'drunken mental', without the 'clarity'. It...permanently indisposed the attacker, but the bad logistics sent Ferrel over the edge. He never recovered." She forces a quick smile. "We were eleven."

'We were eleven'? I look at her blankly, then gasp. She's a twin!

I then catch myself. "Oh." Magically inclined twins have more power than most on Aleyi, each one's magical skill augmenting the other's skills. But if separated, each twin loses more than half of his ability.

I swallow. "He's..." I don't want to do this to her.

"Dead? Possibly. Nirmoh took him to a chapter of the Association for the Magically Creative, and I've not heard of him since."

"Magically...Oh." I remember where I've heard that before. "AMaC."

She nods once. "We lose our sanity easily." Silva's wet eyes and forced tone belie her still staid expression. She's afraid? "Nirmoh's one of the ones who helps keep the loonies from ripping Aleyi to pieces."

"Nir—"

" _Faed Nirmoh_ ," she corrects me quietly.

A faery. Of course. "Your beau?" The name sounds familiar.

A slight smile appears on Silva's face, then, and her eyes brighten. "You'd like him. He's very...quiet."

My head hurts. "Does he know..." I can't bring myself to finish the question. Silva accepts that.

"About my not-so-little problem? Of course. His line of work helps me, since he can share information that's been learned about Hearers through the centuries. For example, it's highly unlikely that I could kill someone, even without magic, and escape with my sanity. A magical duel would be asking for an early induction into AMaC."

I swallow. She's trying to distract me, but it's not working very well. "Does he know about...?"

"Your family? Probably."

I can't look at Silva. "Who else knows?" I whisper.

"Hm."

That doesn't sound good.

"King Aldrik and I, of course, and Fael Honovi. Father." She pauses. "A few others have likely recognized you or figured it out." Lallie, for example, though I'm not sure why Silva doesn't mention her.

"Aidan?" My voice wavers.

"He...hasn't been told," Silva says carefully. "But I'm sure he's guessed some. And I believe Father told Aunt Trelanna.

"Speaking of my aunt, she still praises your embroidery. She's in need of an extra girl, if you're interested in working for her."

They've known about me all along. I still have trouble comprehending that. They know the danger, know I'm likely why the Shadow came to Salles—that I'm why Queen Maitane and Princess Claiborne _died_ —and have kept me despite it all. _And help me._ "...I like embroidery."

"We'll work on that, then." Silva smiles. "Magical embroidery; it'll likely be difficult for you, with your fire strength, but you did fight that life-curse like an elf..."

She winks. "Have you never found it strange that non-elves don't try to weave spells into their embroidery? They can't, not without hammering their own personal magic into the thread. Telves avoid it, too, because they connect with animals and generally prefer protecting creatures instead of slaughtering them. Felves pull the magic from plants. Kills the plants, but... Well, I think you understand me."

"Other kinds _can't_ make magic embroidery?" I never knew that.

"I think dwarves theoretically could, if a dwarf mage had interest in such things." Silva's eyes crinkle at the edges. "It'll be hard to learn it," she warns. "I can't do it, myself, and you'll likely be inclined to include fire in the working. Charred fabric doesn't sew well."

I shiver. Magic likes using the caster's strongest skills. Water mages are fortunate, able to drench something while working a spell and therefore not hurt anyone. For fire mages, it's notoriously difficult to work magic without burning _something_.

I'll fight the urge.

Now Silva pats my shoulder. I realize that if she'd tried to touch me before, she likely would have burned her hand on my skin. I flush.

"Magic isn't a great blessing, Evonalé," the prophetess says quietly. "If you want to stop studying it, I'll understand, but that won't change anything. I can't afford to let you stop. Not if you want to live."

I chill, finally understanding why King Aldrik has insisted I learn magic. Carling already knows where I am, and Father or Drake will one day track down who interests Carling so much in Salles and therefore find me. They _will_.

"No," I agree. "I'll learn."

What good it will do me, I don't know. They've studied magic for far longer than I have.

But they won't expect me to know magic, much less to be a fire mage like them. That unexpected element might save my life next time I meet them, and it might aid me if—when—I have to flee Aidan.

I hate cold, anyway.

Another piece of fabric goes up in flames in my hands. I hiss in frustration, adding it to the bucket of ashes by my side. My hands' discomfort is quickly soothed by the autumn breeze that flows through this castle garden. At least the flames don't burn _me_.

As a practicing fire mage, now, fire doesn't hurt me easily. It doesn't _want_ to hurt me. I guess that's the one benefit to taking after Father in that way: his normal execution by burning won't work on me. Probably. I think. My charred pinafores attest that my own immunity doesn't get inherited by my clothing, however. Replacing them is eating into my savings.

I pull another scrap from my basket, rethread my needle, and try again to pull the magic from a nearby weed into the image I'm stitching into the fabric. The weed shrivels and dies. The gardeners have laughingly said that I should be moved to work with them; it would make weeding so much easier.

The Runner William sits on a bench a bit away from me, whittling. That is, he _was_ sitting there. I'm startled to notice him standing close to me, watching me work.

"That doesn't hurt you?"

"No." It's uncomfortable, but I don't burn, myself. I wait for him to continue, to finish whatever reason he watches me. He doesn't respond, and I conscientiously return to my embroidery attempts.

I'm on the next piece of fabric when William asks softly, "Are you all right?"

I give him a long sidelong look. Why? "...Yes."

He shuffles his feet. "You just..." He looks away. "You seem...unhappy."

I'm a too-pretty girl with a lethal prophecy looming over her head who only recently learned she's a lot more like her undesired family members than is comfortable. Why _would_ I be 'happy'?

The flames suddenly consume this fabric scrap. I squawk and drop it.

He stomps the fire out for me. I remember that he doesn't know about me, that it's only the royalty and those with faery connections—and maybe the nobility—who know whose child I am. I make myself smile with my "Thanks," though it doesn't last long on my face.

If he doesn't know who and what I am, he'd have no reason to think me a poor prospect, either. Twelve isn't too young for him to notice me as a young lady who catches his interest. Worry spikes me at the way he watches me.

I fumble with my materials, to try again—but I'd rather not continue under William's watchful eye, and this isn't something I can try inside. "I—I'd better go in," I stammer. I can mend. I'm sure someone's found something else in need of fixing since I caught up with the stack this morning.

I pack up my things and head inside. When I'm out of William's line of vision, I run. More space between us is good; let him see some other pretty girl to like instead of me.

_Please?_ I silently ask the Creator of Aleyi, not that I petition Him much. Who am I to ask things of Him?

But this isn't for me; it's for William. He needs someone safe to be fond—

I collide with someone and stumble through a closet door, body ramming into the shelves and ears ringing as things crash to the floor and the door slams shut.

I yelp from the sudden pain in my tailbone when I land hard on my bottom. I stay seated for a minute, catching my breath.

Then I tally the damage: mainly pottery shattered, thankfully, so it's less valuable things. Cuts and scrapes adorn my limbs and face, and my dress will need patching. That's something I can mend, if nothing else is yet in need of it.

I force myself up despite the sharp ache in my tailbone. I grit my teeth and walk to the door.

It's locked. Wonderful.

" _Hello_?!" I call, banging on the closet door. "The door's locked; could someone let me out, please?"

There's not anyone on the other side that I can hear. I sigh, deciding I might as well clean some of this up while I'm in here. It's not like I'm as blind as a...well, as a human, in the dark.

I take the broom down from the far wall and start sweeping up the mess.

My stomach growls.

I start at the sound and topple from the upside-down bucket I sit on, and I fall into one of the closet shelves. Again. The bucket adds to the clamor.

I hear footsteps come toward this closet. I lurch for the door and drop to the ground, squeaking from the pain that knifes my tailbone. Blinking back tears, I pull myself to the door.

Before I can resume my pathetic pleas for release from this accidental cell, I hear an unfamiliar male voice say, "Silva, fetch the keys, would you? There's someone in here."

Footsteps leave, a few minutes pass, footsteps approach, keys jingle, and I eagerly clamber out the door as it opens. "Thank you," I say, meaning that one. I've missed at least dinner, and some of my cuts throb with threatened infection.

Silva stares at me, speechless. I heat from embarrassment at my probably horrid appearance.

The man wears a plain brown tunic and trousers, with a leather belt, boots, and headband. The headband barely keeps his ear-length black hair from his bright green eyes, and overall, his clothing's nothing fancy. Nonetheless, he seems...shiny. But that sounds silly. He stares at me in obvious confusion. I've seen eyes like that. Have I met him, before?

"How did you..." And then he shakes his head, evidently thinking better of asking how I ended up stuck in the closet. He turns to Silva, nodding a little towards me. "Does that...kind of thing...happen often with her?"

My temperature keeps rising.

Silva turns her still-widened eyes on the man. She chuckles nervously. "Not that...dramatic." Her smile vanishes. "Usually."

"Ah."

The chill of worry quickly overwhelms the heat of embarrassment to bring my body to a more normal temperature. I'm not sure if Silva's afraid or anxious, but I've never before seen her either.

The man then surprises me when he strokes Silva's cheek with his thumb and draws her close. "He'll be all right," he says gently. "Your father has practice dealing with petulant courts."

"But—" Silva sighs, suddenly looking more exhausted than anything else. "I miss him."

He takes her hand and kisses the back of it, then rubs it with his thumb. "I know."

I think that was the official unwelcome. I move slowly only because I'm quieter that way and less likely to trigger another me-centered mishap.

"Nallé?"

Okay, so Silva still wants my company. I turn back towards Silva and her—er, friend. Isn't she engaged? "Yes?"

She looks from the hallway to me. "How'd you end up in the _only_ servant storage closet in the least-traversed part of the castle?"

"I...ran into someone?" I try to ignore the man's rising eyebrows. "It happened so fast, I—"

The man bursts into laughter. Silva smacks his arm. " _Nirmoh_!"

Nirmoh? I've heard that name—

My eyes bug out when I realize where I've heard it. " _Faed Nirmoh_?" I squeak. A faery? The man who I'm speaking with is a _faery_?!

Silva looks to Faed Nirmoh for how to respond to that. He ignores it, looking instead into the closet. He shuts the door firmly. "You don't know an unlocking spell, do you?"

A faery just spoke to _me_?! "...No."

"I can't do them." Silva's voice is quiet.

What? "Why not?"

"Unlocking spells are complicated. You have to both...loosen the fasten and yet simultaneously keep the mechanism secure to an equal degree to avoid personal side effects." Faed Nirmoh's smile is kind. "The magical dichotomy can trigger insanity in high-risk cases."

And Silva's beyond a high-risk case—she _will_ go mad, eventually. "Oh." But then..."So faeries have to be careful with it, too?"

Pleased surprise flashes on his face. "Yes." He sends a lovingly appraising glance Silva's way. "Silva said you were quick-minded."

"At least there's something quick about me," I mutter. I may run quickly, but that does little good when you invariably stumble or fall at some point while running.

Faed Nirmoh laughs, and even Silva chuckles. I manage to smile a little.

"Would you like to learn to unlock?" he asks, abruptly serious.

I'm not stupid. I know that's dangerous, that every time I cast such a difficult spell, even in practice, I'll risk overreaching my abilities. Casting a spell too powerful for you to control is very bad for your health. "What kind of magic is it?"

"Earth or metal. Dwarves tend to isolate more specifically the item they're unlocking. Some master felfin mages can cause a wooden latch to return to life long enough to obey them...if they have another plant at hand with enough vitality to power the spell."

I'm nowhere near a master mage. And I have a feeling that King Aldrik wouldn't appreciate my burning of doors in the practice.

But it would be foolhardy to refuse the faery's offer. "All right." I would rather avoid getting stuck in another closet.

**Year 247 of the Bynding**

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

_Winter, before Solstice_

Of all the kinds' arts, the ancient elven is the most elaborate. Once, our best artists were mages, casting spells to discover stories and art in their dreams.

But such use of magic always costs, and it cost us our ability to create in our dreams. We dream what happens around us as we sleep. What is not true, what has not happened, we cannot dream.

— _Endellion_

"Your stitches are too loose," I say with as much calm politeness as I can muster, to the spoiled noble-born girl who's barely learned the basics of embroidery over the past few _years_.

Rather, Marigold's learned them well enough, only so she can intentionally do them wrongly. She's still convinced that she doesn't need to learn embroidery and that someday King Aldrik will come to his senses and relieve her of my presence. And this despite she and other noble girls hiring me to pretty up their dresses, since I reached subadulthood.

She sniffs. "Mend it. That's your job."

"You don't _mend_ embroidery." I struggle not to snap at her in my irritation. "Mending is for seams and hems, to keep clothing wearable. Embroidery either works or it doesn't."

"If that's beyond your skill, you can just say so. Or wait—maybe you can't admit it, since mending is all you're good for, after all."

"At least I'm good for something," I retort. "You can't even embroider a simple pattern."

"My lordship won't have me do such things."

I laugh outright. "You're not worth an essere, never mind an attare!"

Marigold shrieks indignation and rushes me, wielding her needle. I stare at her. "Marigold, _mage._ "

She doesn't react to those words—I grab her wrist so she doesn't stab me in the eye. But I'm an elfin-small girl, and Marigold's blossomed into her womanhood; this isn't going to last for long. Doesn't leave me much choice, really. I could mutter some rather distasteful things about this.

The fire comes easily, heating the needle 'til Marigold yelps and drops it, her fingers singed.

William abruptly shoves the noble girl away from me. "Better hope His Highness doesn't hear about that," he says sourly. I stumble; he grabs my arm to steady me. Once I'm secure on my own feet, he releases me and bows slightly per Runner protocol before delivering a message. "His Highness would like his favorite jerkin now, if you're done mending it. He's in the courtyard."

Prince Aidan wants me to take him his jerkin _now_? A subadult girl taking an adult man his clothing in public? I rub my cheekbone. Well, at least it's overgarb. "Men's?"

William nods and winces, obviously aware of the impropriety of His Highness's demand. "A word of advice? Take your sewing basket with you. It'll keep most from getting the...from thinking you..."

From thinking that I'm there to proposition for a lover. Which is precisely why I've never entered the inner courtyards in the four years that I've been here and therefore have no idea how I'm going to find Prince Aidan now. "Thanks."

"I'm on a Run to His Majesty, too."

So he can't help me by showing me the way. My avoidance of the inner courtyards means I don't know which one I'm going to have to enter, now. "East or west?"

There's a pause, revealing William's surprise that I'd know that little of the courtyard setup. "East."

I nod and pick up the embroidery from another failed lesson.

"Oh, Nallé." I wait for what he wants to say. "Watch out for stray weapons."

I flinch, knowing full well that he's only telling me that for fear of my natural clumsiness. "Thanks." But I think he means it nicely, so I soften my sarcasm with a nervous smile.

I quickly return my embroidery things to the sewing room and grab Prince Aidan's jerkin from the pile of completed mending. I pick up my knitting bag from near the door; it's easier to take with me than sewing.

Thus armed, I head for the men's courtyard. I wonder if King Aldrik would let Prince Aidan's command stand if he knew of it.

Well, that's a moot point, now.

Near the entrance to the men's west courtyard are a few young women of poor repute. I keep my knitting bag and the prince's requested jerkin over my arm and walk quickly, even as I search for His Highness. I sidestep the young noblemen as I search, unlike the hussies.

The hussies pause, flirt, curtsy with skirts raised far too high and chests dipped far too low, and try to catch the eyes of men they, uh, like. I don't. You would think that particular detail would make it obvious that I don't want what those girls do.

"Sweetheart," one particularly false-looking man croons. To me.

"No, m'lordship."

"I'm sorry?" he asks.

"I am not 'Sweetheart', m'lordship. You must have me confused with someone else." Before the laughter can grow beyond its faint beginnings, I quickly ask, "Where is the prince? I am told he is in this courtyard."

"Well!" The man feigns offense to hide the actual offense he feels and struts around his circle of friends; they laugh. "Perhaps we are told that he has no wish to see you, my dear...What did you say your name was?"

They think I'm here to proposition the _prince_?! Enough of this. "I didn't. Prince Aidan sent for his jerkin, and you _will_ tell me where he is, that I may deliver it to him."

"I _will_ tell you? Else what, fair 'maiden'?"

I don't respond to that insult other than to raise my chin and intensify my glare. " _Guess_ ," I say coldly, easily—too easily—drawing life from a nearby flower patch to form purple magic-fueled fire behind the leech. His friends gasp and draw back before he turns to see it, and when he does, he takes a few quick steps away while cursing more harshly than he ought in front of a subadult girl.

"Who _are_ you?" the man demands.

A mage, obviously. I let myself smile faintly, swallowing back the disquiet that _this_ must be how Father feels, how Grandfather and Father and Carling all seek power by the strength of their magic. It's easy to make others heed you when you terrify them.

"Prince Aidan?" I ask again. If this nobleman doesn't already know of me, then my identity is none of his business.

"'Kory!" comes the voice of Prince Aidan himself. I immediately release the fire; it vanishes. "It's your turn! Come, now; you're not afraid of a little spar—" He enters the ring, sees me, and stops, shifting his grip on the sword he carries. "Hickory, Attare of Richden," he says in a low, warning tone. "What's this?"

"This wench is threatening me with—" He turns to point at the fire, notices that it's gone, and turns back to His Highness. "I was doing nothing that she didn't ask for by coming here, and there was a fire, right here—"

The prince wearies of Attare Hickory's defensive and indignant tone before the sleazy nobleman runs out of words. "Nallé?!" he asks sharply.

I curtsy—properly, mind you—and stand erect. "I brought your jerkin, as commanded, Your Highness. The young lordship persisted in offering unwelcome attentions."

"Really?" Prince Aidan approaches Attare Hickory, circling him, the still-lanky eighteen-year-old prince sizing up the filled-out nobleman some years older.

"No harm done," Attare Hickory insists with some worry. From the way he glances between the prince and me, I daresay he thinks the prince wants me to himself. I'm not certain Attare Hickory isn't right.

"Would you agree to that?" Prince Aidan asks me. "No harm done?"

The crown prince defending the honor of a baseborn castle maid. Despite my discomfort, I can't help but be amused. "Well, I don't think the flowers would agree with that assessment."

"The flow..." He follows my gaze to the patch I killed, and he gives a surprised laugh that quickly dies. "'Kory," he says, voice still tainted by surprise. When the attare looks at him, the prince strikes him in the face.

"Come," the prince tells me as he promptly leaves the circle.

I glance at Attare Hickory as I do so, not exactly displeased that his nose is broken to mess up his perfectly groomed appearance, but still. "Was that necessary?"

"The men like him shouldn't bother you for the rest of your years here," he says with a smile and a wink. "Believe me, you're not the first."

Not the first maid he's defended from the other noblemen? Who else would need..."Geddis?"

He nods. His hand on my arm directs me to stop outside this other ring. He puts his sword on a bench and takes his jerkin from me, pulling it on. He then retrieves his sword and nods at the bench. "Have a seat. Knit."

I do so, and he steps into the ring for a sparring round against someone I half recognize, in that I know I've seen him around but I couldn't name him if I tried.

As they lift their—dulled, I hope—swords to a starting position, I focus intently on my knitting. I've actually never seen swordplay. Father doesn't value it, preferring to use magic for his battles. The only ones that use physical violence are Father's gryphons, and they...

They have claws. Which they use. Which I've seen enough of that I don't want to watch this.

Some of the young men watch me, their eyes expressing their curiosity over what I'm doing here. So I try not to flinch too much as the distinct sound of metal striking metal begins—tentative at first, then stronger, with bursts of speed.

Prince Aidan's grunt makes me look up despite myself, in time to see the swift ending of the spar. I stare and blink, certain I missed something; none of the men have noticed anything odd. Prince Aidan good-naturedly lets the other young man who had just had a sword at his throat pull him up.

He comes to me, stretching his shoulders as he does. "Refreshing! What do you say, Nallé; would you like an escort back inside, now?"

"Why did you..." His quick look is of surprise more than command, but that's only because he didn't expect me to notice.

I'm a _mage_ ; I've spent a few years teaching myself to mentally multitask so I won't drive myself mad by using magic. Does that make me more observant than most people, too?

As I pack up my bag and head out after His Highness, I think about the little bit I saw. Prince Aidan isn't a fool. He has reasons, presumably good ones, for why he acts as he does.

But he _released_ his hilt, let himself be disarmed. Why would he let the other man win?

I sit outside in the courtyard maze on this clear cold day, letting the plants block the wind that would make the winter day frigid. I use my fire to keep my fingers limber as I work on some embroidery orders I have due by New Year's.

Silva scowled when I expressed my intentions to work outside, but she's too busy to protest, since the kingdom's recovery from the Shadow has brought back the trade and visitors. Many visiting dignitaries demand to meet the Hearer who escaped a bout with ambrosia with her sanity intact.

All the tall bushes used to make the maze are very much _alive_ , so they comfort me as I work. I brought water and some jerky and bread with me. Sometimes I shiver before I remember to heat myself up again, but it's an otherwise comfortable arrangement.

Comfortable, that is, until after noon passes and Prince Aidan enters the little courtyard. I glance at him; he starts at finding me here. He sees the basket at my feet, the box of needles and threads, and the pile of completed projects folded neatly beside me on the bench.

Prince Aidan hesitates, but he sheathes the sword he bears and decides to join me despite the lack of chaperone. "The bushes are good for breaking the wind."

I shrug and finish a white bullion along the yellow collar of Marigold's dress. I mentioned to her that yellow was not an advisable color to wear with her golden hair, but she glared and accused me of trying to make her look terrible when I suggested she wear red. She'll just blame me when the yellow gets her laughed at and say I never should have made it if I knew how horrible it would look. She's done that, before.

Marigold's mother makes sure I'm paid well for my trouble. I think she's sorry that King Aldrik still has me give Marigold embroidery lessons once a week after four years of the girl refusing to learn from them.

When I look up, Prince Aidan has come around and stands in front of me, studying what I'm sewing. "Do you ever prick yourself?"

"All the time," I reply lightly, lifting the dress by the shoulders to check my work. It's as even and neat as I could wish. I fold it and add it to the completed pile. "Do you often let other nobles win when they spar with you?"

Aidan's friendly expression blanks. "I beg your pardon?"

I give him a pointed look as I pull out the next order, shiver, and heat myself back up. I coax my inner fire to spread to Aidan, too, to heat him—but it touches his magic and goes out. I blink, startled as much by that evidence that he's actively using his magic as by the sharp look he gives me.

Oh. Guess he's keeping his magic under wraps, then, like his actual level of skill with a sword. "What's your element?" It isn't fire, whatever it is. His magic doused mine—earth, maybe?

Aidan keeps his polite expression as he pulls his sword from its sheath and twirls it in a maneuver I know he does to keep his wrists limber.

"I was just going to warm you up," I tell him. "I wasn't going to burn you."

He doesn't respond to that, just watches me before turning and going through his sword exercises. I watch him for a few seconds before returning to my work. "Do those trousers have hems, or are they already at full length?"

He stops mid-move and looks at me. "What?"

"Your trousers are too short," I comment, cutting a length of dark green thread to embellish a crimson bodice. "If there's no hem to be let out, you need a new pair."

Aidan looks down at his pants, studying how the leg falls. "These are too short? They hit my ankle."

I nod. "They need to cover it."

He sighs, sheathes his sword, and plops on a nearby bench. "Where did you learn to be so observant?"

Neither of us say anything when I start the diamond eyelets Marigold's mother wants on the bust of her own red satin gown. "Carling's most polite right after she fails to kill someone. Father tilts his chin when studying you if he's a hair's breadth from beating you. Drake..." I decide I don't wish to describe my half-brother and shudder. I've heard that Drake and Carling practice their killing spells on Drake's baseborn get.

Aidan's eyes close. He draws a slow breath. "You learned it first to survive your family, then."

I shrug. His sympathetic tone makes me uncomfortable.

"Some families are discontented with my family's foreign line. I'm my father's only heir. I'm a lot safer from assassins if I'm presumed to be hapless and therefore easy to dethrone."

I blink at his abrupt forthrightness. I hadn't actually expected an answer. "Your family's foreign?" Wait. I knew that.

"Grandfather was a foreign conqueror, and Mother was from the Pardys islands. The only Salles blood in me is from my grandmother." His lips quirk with wry humor. "Emperor Vance's daughter. She killed him."

_Him_ being? "...Her father?"

Aidan snorts. "My grandfather. She wasn't happy about marrying him. Father's first action as king was to preside over his mother's trial." He smiles at my blankfaced shock. "And you thought your family was messed up."

"My family _is_ messed up," I retort. It even has the murder, though Father was the one to murder his parents because they wouldn't let him have Mother. And then Father killed Mother after all, and Carling wants me dead.

Well, better that Carling gets what she wants than Drake get what _he_ wants. I shiver.

Aidan scans me, and he scowls. He abruptly perches on his knees beside me. I jerk and bury my needle well into my hand. I yelp and blink back tears from the pain.

I flinch when Aidan takes my hand and smoothes out the skin to see where the needle is. He grimaces. "Sorry." He tugs the needle out and applies pressure to the puncture in my palm with his thumb. "That has to hurt."

I glare at him through the tears. "You think?" I manage to squeak. My attempt to yank my hand away fails. "Do you mind?"

He smiles a little and raises his thumb away from the puncture before dropping my hand. I study it and the wound that's not bleeding. I frown. "What...?"

Aidan smirks and flexes his hands, and I suspiciously reach into my magic and poke at the wound. Something's already there, and it doesn't want to move so I can cauterize it. I frown at my hand.

He covers it with his. "Don't. Let it heal from its own scab. Burning it will only make it scar more. There's no reason to mar yourself like that."

He must read the suspicion in my stare, because he scowls and leans back. "Look, I'm sick of pretending I'm stupid, okay? We both know you're King Darnell's bastard and will draw men's attention when you finally grow up. Yes, you're a servant now, but you won't always be."

"And what will I be?" I snap. "Your mistress?"

Aidan flinches and pales. "Creator help me, I hope not."

"You _hope_ —"

"So I don't think I'd mind marrying you," he snaps back. "Is that a crime? William's open to the possibility, too. I suppose you snap and scold and flee him, too?"

I can't make myself move from my seat. "Yes," I admit.

Aidan raises his eyes to the sky. "Creator, help me," he prays in exasperation. "What is _wrong_ with you, Evonalé? Do you have any idea how many noble bastards would give their maidenheads to be where you are?"

"That's what worries me," I mutter.

"Oh, holy Creator." Aidan doesn't even try to follow me as I manage to shove myself up and flee. At least, I don't think he does.

Rain paints my hair to my face, and mud oozes between my bare toes. The sky was clear until I fled Aidan. I'd wanted to saddle my mare Rowan, but Fael Honovi was nearby and upset the horses too much.

She's still nearby, I wager, and I look at the sky. "Would you rather I be his mistress?" I ask Fael Honovi, and in reply she turns the rain cold. I shiver and glance around for something to burn.

The trees are gone, I abruptly realize, and I'm not sure when I left them behind.

Creator, please tell me I'm not in the marshes. I meant to go just enough north with my west to avoid the dwarven passes.

A wailing starts promptly after my quick prayer, and I groan. Yie. I'm barefoot and without a horse to flee a haint. Either I find my way to safety on foot through the marsh, or I have to stay up all night and use my magic to protect myself from possession. Fantastic.

I mentally grip the magic around me, but magic has been used far too much, too strongly here. The feedback from the latent magic forcibly tied into these marshes quickly gives me a headache. It's unpleasant, but at least I can defend myself.

I stumble in the mud, my usually uncanny night vision negatively affected by all the magic. Or maybe that's just a side effect the budding migraine.

Of course I fall on my face. I cough, spitting the mud from my mouth. And the rain had to stop now that it might've actually been useful. After digging my fingers into the cleanest part of my skirt, I wipe the dirt from my eyes and look up.

A wisp darts towards me from my left, and I yank the fire that dwells in my own magic to burn it. The flame's purple due to its purely magical fuel until it ignites the wisp and turns orange. The wisp promptly leaves.

Wisps are the appendages that sprites use to test their prey, so I don't apologize. I raise my chin and hike my skirts as I slowly circle, seeking the sprite that sent that wisp.

I whirl around as magic surges near me, and I smack into a faceful of water. I sputter and cough on it.

"How did I know I'd find you out here?" Aidan asks from astride Teivel. "Never mind." He clicks his tongue to Teivel to get him to kneel, and he offers his arm to help pull me up.

I look from Teivel to him. "That's your _stallion_." Aidan gives me an exasperated look. "You know what people will think if ride him!" I add hastily before he interrupts.

"Well, that'll certainly reduce the interest you get from anyone else if they think you my mistress, now won't it?" His tone bites with irritation. "You don't trust me; I've gathered that. Fine. You're the one who ran into the middle of nowhere where you're very likely to end up hurt as well as sick. Now get astride so I can get you home before something worse befalls you than that pneumonia."

I squint against the wet hair and water in my eyes. "I don't have pneumonia."

Aidan mutters something I can't hear, then sighs. "Just get up, will you? I know you can handle yourself, but I'd rather be gone before another sprite shows up."

"Then go." I take a few steps towards him, wagering that he came from the direction of the castle. "I'll walk."

He mutters something else, loud enough that I can tell it's likely uncomplimentary even though I can't tell what he said. He hops off Teivel and leads him by the reins. "Come along, then."

I look away from him and squint out into the night. My head hurts. "No, thank you," I tell him. "I think I'll stay out here."

Aidan curses audibly, this time. "Evonalé—" He stops himself and scowls at me. He then shakes his head and turns away. "Fine. Try not to get yourself killed." He mounts his stallion and doesn't look back.

I stare after him, surprised that he's giving up that easily. But I have little desire to kick a gift horse in the mouth, and I...

Notice just how many wisps are coming out to play. Yie! " _Aidan_?!"

He stops Teivel but doesn't turn. I splash and stumble through the mud to reach them. I keep myself from falling by grabbing Teivel's tail. The stallion snorts but doesn't kick. "There weren't near that many wisps a moment ago."

He clicks at his stallion, and I don't protest this time but climb up behind him. He waits until I'm secure before he has Teivel get up. "The more magic you have, the more powerful a host body you'd give them," he says nonchalantly.

I pale and shiver and don't let myself freeze because that wouldn't be kind to the horse. "So using magic _attracts_ them?"

He snorts as we head back towards the castle at a pace that's more leisurely than I'm comfortable with, with all the wisps, but I have to trust that Aidan knows what he's doing. He isn't stupid. At eighteen, he's been an adult for two years.

"Vicious cycle, that. The only way to counter them is with magic, but if they know you can use magic, they're more likely to target you. Some trackers swear by letting the creatures ride them until they get back home, trusting that they'll keep enough control to get there and the mages they have back home can handle whatever haints they pick up while out tracking."

I gulp. "I—I wouldn't do that."

Teivel pauses in one step as he seeks sure footing. Aidan leans away from his mount's motion, which pushes me the same way. "Me, neither," he says.

The castle appears on the horizon before I gather up the nerve to say "Thanks. Can you drop me off outside the wall?"

"I'm still escorting you in."

That will still give others the wrong idea, but not as much as me riding his stallion would. "Fine."

Aidan is right. I do end up with pneumonia. I embroider my commissions while sitting on a stool in the stable because it's almost as warm as the kitchens and doesn't have Geddis trying to knock me over. "How did you know I'd get pneumonia?"

He glances at me from where he grooms Teivel. "You had fluid in your lungs."

...Listening for such signs of illness is the job of healers, not princes, and certainly not crown princes. With his work of managing Saf and hobby of breeding hunting dogs like Plun, it's a wonder he has time to work with his horses, much less associate with me or learn things that are unnecessary for his station.

"Would you like some more tea?"

He is _not_ playing servant for me, nor is he ordering one of the others to fetch something for me.

He smirks at the look I give him and puts up the brush he's used to groom Teivel. "More tea, then." He heads out.

"Wait!" I call, triggering a coughing fit. Aidan waits until I've gotten control of it and can say hoarsely, "Don't fetch anything for me, please. You know what people think already."

"You aren't even a woman yet," Aidan points out, and it's a detail I'm well aware of and that I thank the Creator for every time I catch him studying me. "Anyone who thinks _that_ thinks of me as a deviant more than they think of you as defiled, and most believe I'm making you comfortable with my presence so you won't think anything of me making you my mistress when you reach your majority—assuming you're a woman at that point. And we both know you will be."

On that birthday, yes. Unfortunately. Elfin girls become women on their sixteenth birthday. It looks like it's painful, but admittedly the women who I saw experience it were doubly worried about Father or Drake finding them old enough to play with. That alone might've been what made them wail.

Aidan sighs and draws up a bucket to sit near me. "Should you be working on those while sick?"

"I'll wash them before delivery," I say primly. "Shouldn't you be judging between irate property holders from Saf or something?"

He flinches and leans back. "No, I've taken the week off. Hopefully the wait will make at least a few of the petitioners rethink how much they _really_ want what they're harassing me for."

"That bad?"

He rolls his eyes. "Okay, you have a reasonably wealthy old man die who was a noble's younger son, so he had to build his own fortune as a businessman. He did well enough, though not better than a clever _essere_ might gain from his lands.

"His three sons are all Daddy's boys and are doing well for themselves with their own money. So the man leaves his entail to his daughter, to give her a dowry, since she can't work without losing prospects."

"And the sons are contesting it?" I guess.

"Precisely! Because how could she _possibly_ know how to handle all that money...Never mind that the poorest of the three sons has perhaps double his late father's assets. Their sister is a _woman_ and can't possibly manage her own estate by herself, because everyone knows that women can't handle figures."

" _Can_ she do math?"

"She can cook. I certainly hope she can do the math for that herself and didn't need to ask for help with it." He realizes how his words sound and grimaces before explaining, "She brought a pie to the first hearing in apology for wasting my time."

"Not a bribe to encourage you to rule in her favor or anything."

"No. Well, maybe." Aidan shrugs. "She's engaged to a stablemaster, I think."

"The stablemaster?" I frown. I thought our stablemaster called himself a bachelor and proud of it.

" _A_ stablemaster," he repeats, and I realize he doesn't necessarily mean the one in his own employ. "He works for an inn. One of those enormous ones that's popular with visiting merchants." He stretches his shoulders. "I haven't verified it, but I think it's actually an inn her eldest brother owns."

Oh, that will go over well with her brother. I wince. "Does he know of her engagement?"

He shrugs again. "Not really my business either way, is it?"

"It could influence the way you handle the ruling, though, couldn't it?"

Aidan snorts. "If I were inclined to meddle, but I'm not. Who she wants to marry and how she wants to convey it to her brothers is her business. Who inherits their father's estate is mine."

"...And her marrying _down_ doesn't influence your preference to give her the inheritance at _all_."

The cross look he gives me says that he recognizes my reference to his disdain for women who primp themselves to marry up. "Her father willed it to her, Evonalé. It's hers. I just have to set it in stone before her brothers will accept that."

"And if there hadn't been a will?"

"I would've split the estate traditionally. That's what would've been wanted—it's the traditionalists who can't imagine that anyone would possibly want to do things any other way."

I eye him, wondering if he's trying to tell me something else by telling me things that are really only the business of the governor of Saf—him. But he eyes me back, brows raised in a silent ' _What?_ ' "Why are you telling me this?" I ask directly.

He frowns, studies me, and shrugs. "Making conversation with a friend?"

My laugh doesn't sound right. "Friend. I'm not a friend."

"Yes, you are."

"I shouldn't be. Crown prince and baseborn castle maid? No, no, that's not—"

"Who else would I be friends with, Evonalé?" he interrupts quietly. "One of the noble children whose families will be seeking reasons to dethrone me as soon as I get it?" At my look, he rolls his eyes. "My grandfather _conquered_ Salles. My father had to prove himself to keep his crown, and he was known to be an expert swordsman. Whereas I'm generally deemed an unfortunate impediment, too politically and militarily inept to get away with continuing my father's evenhanded enforcement of the law."

"Why let them think that? Why not—"

"Reveal just how capable I might be as a ruler and give enemies reason to seek my assassination before I can get the crown and the protective wards inherent therein? I think not."

Salles doesn't have protective wards for the heirs? I eye him. "Your father has to die for that, too."

"...No. I marry, then I get Father's job and he gets mine, per the agreement with that new constitution everybody ratified three years ago."

"...Then someone assassinates your father?"

Aidan's snort is probably intended as an incredulous laugh. "I doubt it. You've obviously never seen my father in action."

True. I remember something I heard years ago. "Lallie told me...you had a brother."

He dons the polite mask he wears when holding nonsensical conversations with his fellow aristocracy. "Forgive me; what did you say?"

"Never mind." My swallow sticks in my throat, and I feel an itching as my peppermint tea wears off. I pack up my work into my basket. "Pray excuse me, Your Highness."

"Wait—I can call Geddis to fetch you more tea," he says quickly, but I don't heed him. I leave to fetch it for myself.

I bury my fingers in my thick pumpkin orange yarn. It's an ugly color, but that's why the yarn was so cheap. The weather's turning cold, and I need a sweater. This little second-story workroom is generally used by Runners, so the head matron Morgana doesn't think to look for me here when she wants to harass me.

William sits on a stool, whittling something for the nice girl from Saf he's come to like.

"Your Highness, a moment of your time."

The brisk winter day brings the nobleman's voice clearly through the window. I'm not sure which noble it is.

"Yes, Essere Carraway?" Prince Aidan's firm tone comes easily through the window.

Marigold's father. I flinch. He doesn't like me, and maybe he's finally figured out who originated the order for his daughter to learn embroidery from me and wants to have it overridden.

"Your sweater's unraveling," William says.

I pick it back up and notice that I've dropped several stitches. I shake my head as I recover them. "Thank you." I force myself to be more careful.

"I _must_ protest!" Essere Carraway whines.

"Protest what?"

"Your deportment towards the housemaidens!" Essere Carraway's voice expresses extreme distaste. "One in particular. My daughter must take _lessons_ from the wench, Your Highness. I will not have my daughter taught by a—"

Prince Aidan's mind has evidently followed the nobleman's line of thinking faster than I have. "By a _what_ , essere? A telfin girl?"

Essere Carraway gulps loudly enough for me to hear it. He tries again: "I know she is of lesser blood—"

"Hold your tongue!" I shiver at the harshness in the prince's tone. "If you insist on speaking so foolishly, it would do you better to say naught at all."

"You would do well to mind your own tongue, Your Highness. I am no dotard. I speak on behalf of much of the council when I remind you of your place. What will your betrothed think when she hears you prefer another, and the preferred a _servant_?"

"I hope she minds," mutters Prince Aidan before snapping, "You and the council would do well to mind your own business! If you expect all your sons to act so—so shamefully, small wonder men fear letting their daughters be servants."

"Of course they fear for the comely ones. And your little...friend...certainly is that."

I quietly set my yarn and needles down, and I step over to the window and peek out. Aidan's tense posture suggests that he's glaring at the nobleman, though I can't see either man's face.

Prince Aidan glances my way, and I duck out of view. He huffs, and I hear his boots hit the cobblestones as he strides towards his dog pens.

His vehement reaction to the expected accusation confuses me. It doesn't surprise him, surely? I return to knitting my sweater.

"Good evening," I say politely to Prince Aidan when it becomes obvious that he's not about to interrupt my knitting needles' clacking.

My sweater is working up well, promising to be about as warm as it'll be ugly. Even the pretty diamond-patterned fabric I'm making thanks to the double seed stitch doesn't change the sweater's ultimate lack of appeal. Perhaps I should have paid the more for a nicer yarn.

Prince Aidan stands awkwardly. He shifts again where he stands, a bit away from me but still near the fire, and replies, "Evening."

He's usually not this reticent. Perhaps the nobleman's accusation earlier this morning has made him rethink how he treats me. The silence resumes 'til I near the end of a row.

"I think I'm going to vomit."

I don't glance at him. "There's a bucket behind the door." He's not really sick. He's just mocking my knitting. Or more accurately, the sweater I'm making.

"That color is disgusting."

I end the row. "It was cheap. And it's warm." I pause before bothering to start the next row of stitches, recognizing from Prince Aidan's sidestep towards the fire while watching me that he's about to continue speaking.

"Might I show you something?"

That question concerns me. What might he want to show that he, the prince, must _ask_? I try to frame a response.

In the time it takes me to think, he evidently decides to not care what I answer. He takes my right hand while taking away my knitting from the other. He has the decency to put it carefully in the basket so it doesn't drop any stitches, which can easily ruin a project in very little time.

"Oh, come along!" He yanks on my hand, gently but still strongly enough to pull me up. Then he grins and takes off running, making me stumble along behind. I wince at the long-suffering looks other servants give the eighteen-year-old prince as he drags me behind him.

At least he slows up the stairs. I still trip, though, and split my lip on the stone floor in my fall. I blink back tears as it stings and my left wrist hurts sharply from having to catch myself.

"Proctor!" he calls. "Some ice for the lady!"

_Lady?_ I'm not liking this. I try to pull my right hand away, but he keeps a vice-like grip on it, still grinning a mile wide. Does he have no one but me to tease?

He shoves me into a room. "Put that on, and don't come out until you do!" he warns.

I sigh at the too-familiar jest. He's learned something from the nobleman's earlier abuse of my reputation, surely? His teasing doesn't help.

...Unless he'd _rather_ I be thought his mistress?

The thought makes me shudder. I don't let myself think through the implications of that, and I turn my attention to obeying his command.

The dress he referenced hangs atop a mannequin. It's a familiar-seeming foreign style, but I don't look too hard at it as I change into it. It doesn't fit quite right. I fold my dress and put it neatly on the back of the single chair in the room.

As I leave, I catch a glimpse of myself in the stand-up mirror behind the door. I freeze. Am I really—do I really look that... _regal_?

I've known for as long as I could remember that my parents were royalty. I've never suspected that someone might guess my parentage at the sight of me.

I'm still frozen when Prince Aidan appraises me. "It's perfect! Doesn't fit right yet, but you should fill out on your sixteenth birthday—am I wrong?"

I only stare at him.

"You need something for my Scoreyear ball. You'll pretend to be a faery godmother."

"A _faery_?" Is he mad?!

"You know a lot of foreign lore. Everyone will love it. Here's the ice for your lip."

I use it, mind racing about how to get out of this predicament..."But I have no faery blood. True faeries might take offense."

He frowns at me. "You have a faery godmother, Evonalé. They wouldn't take offense at you. "

The prince is right. And he probably got the idea to begin with simply because some of the more superstitious castle servants still think I am one, at least in part. But still...

"Why a faery? Pardon me, Your Highness, but I'm but a housemaiden, and not even a part-faery one at that. Let one of Elwyn's daughters—let Geddis—play faery."

Prince Aidan eyes me thoughtfully. "...That would be more appropriate, perhaps." He shrugs, smiling a bit. "I still like my idea, more."

"I believe His Majesty and his prophetess would prefer mine."

His smile widens a little. "True." His brown eyes twinkle as he eyes me. "It _is_ a nice dress, though, isn't it?"

Now I look at it—it and its crisp wrinkleless fabric of pale blue, beaded with sapphire at the hems. High-necked and modestly cut, the fabric even the backs of my small hands. The flowing skirt and its train somehow lack air resistance when I take a step.

"This _is_ a faery dress!" I gasp. I'm not sure I believe it, though; so I clap—twice briskly, and it magically reshapes for a perfect fit at that standard command. "Yie!"

The prince grins. "Your faery godmother told you about that, too?"

"Yes, Your Highness." I bow my head to hide my blush as heat flares through me. I mustn't call attention to myself like that! And 'yie', again! How many non-elves say that? Yie!

He waves at the door to the room I'd found this in. "Well, go change. You need to start planning what you'll wear, though."

"I have two years, Your Highness."

Prince Aidan pointedly ignores my intentional reminder of his station that unfortunately also acts as a tease. "And, since you refuse my suggestion, you'll doubtless want to make your own _gown_." His face is straight as he makes his order. "A gown with a bodice—you're too old for pinafores."

I prefer my pinafores. I keep my eyes on the floor and curtsy. "I understand."

He heads away, and I turn towards the changing room.

"Oh, and housemaiden." I look over my shoulder at him. "Feel free to play with the style. Telven garb would become you." He nods and strides off.

_Telven?_ A shiver travels my body. Even if I knew what telven garb was, I think not. It's too risky, and with Grehafen allied to Salles, my family will be at that ball.

The benefit to having peppermint tea and garlic soup as a meal when I'm ill is that I can't taste enough to fully appreciate the utter clash in flavor. I might get a faint enough sense of the flavors to experience a slight increase in nausea, but little more than that.

Unfortunately, Ygrain also commonly prescribes them for people mildly enough unwell that the tongue merely adds a slight color to foods. If there isn't any nausea to augment into vomiting, the taste conflict makes me wish there were.

Geddis sets the tray with the tea and broth and bread beside me on the bench. I catch a whiff of the foods prepared for me and grimace, nearly damaging the tension on the embroidery I'm working on for Miss Trelanna. I keep working.

Geddis taps her foot for a few seconds. "You need to eat," she sing-songs in her 'I'll-go-tell-Silva-if-you-don't' voice.

I pause long enough to meet her gaze. "I'm busy." I resume working. "I'll eat when I'm done with this motif." Something pilfered from elsewhere, preferably, but that's none of Geddis's business.

She huffs and leaves, sure to complain to Silva on her way back to the kitchens. I finish the motif, then eat a little of the bread after dipping it in the garlic soup. I leave the tray by my embroidery bag and head towards the dog pens.

Aidan sees me almost before I spot him. He nods my way while he plays with his dogs, rolling on the ground and ruining a tunic after a fashion that I don't believe I've ever witnessed another nobleman do while following the very respectable pursuit of dog breeding. I linger well away from the pens so Fael Honovi doesn't upset the dogs.

It doesn't take him long to extricate himself from the many dogs, something I've heard praised as a sign that he trains them well. None try to dart out the gate, either. Even the people I've heard scoff at his tactic of playing with the animals will begrudgingly admit that his animals heed him better than most do their trainers.

I'm not exactly comfortable hanging around Prince Aidan like this, but he sympathizes with my plight of not being sick enough to be able to down the ill person's fare. He goes back behind the pens and returns with a tray bearing two bowls of stew. One he gives to me with a bow. "M'ladyship."

I pointedly don't react to his jest as I take the stew and eat it readily. "Thank you." It's difficult, forcing myself to relax enough to accept his teasing as he claims to intend it. I've tried reminding him that I shouldn't be his friend, but that only makes things worse.

He shrugs. "All that play makes me hungry. Not as young as I used to be."

I look at him with incredulity before I snort at his intended irony. "You dally far too much." I fear my grin hinders him from realizing that my accusation is serious.

But "Only with girls I like," he replies, and my amusement vanishes.

I finish my stew quickly and return the bowl to him. "Thank you," I say with a curtsy, and quickly walk away.

Aidan huffs. "Oh, come, now!" He hurries after me. "Evona—"

"Thank you, Highness, but I'd rather not have Attare Hickory proven correct as to my availability for certain pursuits."

He sighs loudly and long enough that I'm sure he's rolled his eyes. "'Like', as in, 'like their company', not 'lust after'...You're not even a woman yet; that would just be wrong. I tease Silva's friends, too; even the married one."

"Lallie," I remind him tersely. "Her name is Lallie. And her husband died of the Shadow, _years_ ago."

Aidan's flinch is the only acknowledgement of his gaffe. "I even tease _Geddis_ —"

"Then maybe you should confine your banter to _her_ , Your Highness," I say formally enough that even he gathers that I'm trying to add the distance that for some reason has always been lacking between us. "I'm sure she provides more lively repartee than I do."

My glance back catches that he stops, expression incredulous at my suggestion. "I..." For some reason, he can't seem to grasp why I'd rather he dally with Geddis than me. "I'm not going to flirt with _Geddis_ ..."

Before he can continue, I've left him behind. I walk quickly back to my embroidery, barely hopeful that he'll agree with my idea. Geddis is the prophetess's sister; people wouldn't assume the worst if he paid attention to her. I, on the other hand, am no one, and therefore fully available to gain a reputation as a woman who shares her bed.

I sigh and pick up my now-cool tea. I easily conjure some fire to heat it.

Something's wrong when a baseborn maid understands certain aspects of propriety and court protocol better than the crown prince does.

**Year 248 of the Bynding**

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

_Winter, at Solstice_

It was the wars' fault. When men fight, women often pay for it as subjects of the violence. Our mages soon learned to protect girls by magically accelerating or delaying their shifts into womanhood.

This ultimately cost us womanhood's variability. For every she-elf, it comes swiftly on the sixteenth birthday. No magic can change that, now.

— _Endellion_

Finally, I finish the edgework on the last dress in my pile and put it aside. My fingertips ache from all the needlework. Solstice—and the human New Year celebrations that accompany it—overloads seamstresses with orders.

Last-minute demands for alterations and adjustments for the festive attire have meant that not only am I helping Miss Trelanna while my castle duties wait, but Lallie, Geddis, and even Silva work with me.

Silva winks my way while she pulls her own needle through her fabric swiftly, without magical aids. She seems oblivious to the detail that her aunt made sure to give her tasks easy enough that even she can't mess them up. "The pile's nearly done, at least."

"Good, good," Miss Trelanna declares. "Everything will be done by morning for clients to pick..." —her eyes narrow at one of the pieces in Geddis's pile, which she takes and examines— "...up." She scowls at her niece. "What did you do to this seam?!"

I glance at it and flinch; Geddis forgot to turn the fabric wrong side out before she sewed. The sixteen-year-old woman blinks back tears. Her fingers are more red and raw than mine; she's also been working on her household samplers for prospective husbands.

Without commenting I take the trousers from Miss Trelanna and commence removal of the seam Geddis had put in, carefully keeping its alignment with pins and chalk. Trelanna's been having me do embroidery and repair for decorative parts of garments, not actual alteration work. My fingers aren't nearly as raw as Geddis's.

I recognize the size and cut of the trousers with a practiced glance. They look like..."Are these Prince Aidan's?"

Silva quickly hides a wry smile and shakes her head at Geddis's startled expression. Her aunt isn't so polite. "What, you in the habit of seeing them off his body?!" she snaps.

I jerk, the trousers falling from my hands as I flush and heat from embarrassment. "No—I mean—not—"

"Prince Aidan's clothing is often in need of _mending_ , Aunt," Silva interrupts wryly, calmly continuing her stitchery, though the muscles by her eyes tighten, and she twists the ring on her left little finger with the same hand's thumb. "I've told you not to heed gossip."

Miss Trelanna huffs. "Hard not to, when everyone's chattering about His Highness's not-so-new mistress."

My temperature soars further. I feel sweat start to form on my back.

"He doesn't have a mistress, Aunt." Silva's tone is studiously bored. I recognize it as the one she uses when nobles insist on believing certain 'expert' predictions over Silva's prophecies. "Assuming he did, it would be Nallé, and he hasn't misused Nallé—"

"So certain," Trelanna scoffs.

Lallie snickers, startling everyone but Silva who probably foresaw it. "He's _alive_ , ain't he?"

Trelanna frowns. "What does that have to do with—"

"Fael Honovi?" Lallie asks.

Geddis begins laughing hysterically, Silva rolls her eyes, and Miss Trelanna actually has the grace to look embarrassed. "Oh, my!"

I slowly pick the trousers back up, pretending that I'm not considering their reactions. "You know her?"

"Please. She's barely sane enough to _not_ be—"

"Geddis." Silva's soft interruption nonetheless sounds a bit tart. I remember the prophetess's unavoidable future date with insanity. "Our father is good friends with Fael Honovi. She...protects certain individuals."

Queen Yuoleen and her line. ...At least, the illicit lineage that ended up being her line. As far as Fael Honovi protects anyone. Fortunately, people gossip enough about Fael Honovi's homicidal tendencies that they tend to forget who she's homicidal for.

"Faed Nirmoh—" Silva's beau, I remember "—keeps an eye on her." Silva finishes the seam she's sewing, knots her thread, hides the end, and snips it. "How's that seam coming, Nallé?"

I return to the work, my fingers managing the familiar task with innate ease. But they're slick with sweat, and that makes it more difficult than usual. I concentrate on lowering my temperature back to normal, despite my embarrassment. Despite the shame that gossip has placed on me.

Miss Trelanna clears her throat. "I...apologize for my prior rudeness," she states. That doesn't change what the gossips say. And that she herself so easily believed them even though she knows me.

"Lemme kiss it and make it all better," Lallie mocks, shaking her head at the looks Miss Trelanna and I give her. I'm not sure that I like this side of Lallie. "Of course, Nallé must absolutely forgive your indiscretion, since you had no idea what you were doing..." She snips some stray threads and rethreads her needle.

"That's not what I—"

"How many gossips did you contradict, Trelanna, when they stood in your store primly shredding an innocent girl's reputation?"

"I—" Miss Trelanna sighs. "I suppose I should've done more than ask them to keep their tongues on what they know and not assume."

Quiet resumes as we continue working, Geddis even more slowly than before to make sure she stitches properly. The shameful gossip has probably destroyed any marriageable reputation I had, true, but that isn't what bothers me. I never had any real prospects to begin with. Not with my parentage.

Miss Trelanna's admission that she shouldn't have believed so readily is probably as much of an apology as I'll get from anyone. "Thanks," I say. And I mean it, as much as Miss Trelanna meant her apology.

Lallie's comments make me wonder..."Do you really think..." I remember the night I fled Aidan, and I force myself to finish my question. "Do you really think that Fael Honovi would...kill...His Highness if he..."

"If your godmother didn't, his father would," Silva says briskly.

I flinch. And then Aidan would be yet another person to die because of me. Because of the prophecy that makes others protect me.

So many people have already died because of me. Gaylen. Mother. Queen Maitane. Mister Woad, Princess Claiborne, and the other victims of the Shadow, like Lallie's husband. I _owe_ it to them to die, to disallow others to be killed due to who and what I am.

But not too soon. Too soon, and I won't be able to destroy Father's control over Marsdenfel. That's what I have to do; that's how I'll die. Gaylen foresaw that I have to be the one to free the felves. To do that, I'll have to recover the Bynd, the necklace-held spell that keeps the elf Crystal tied to Queen Yuoleen's relations. Somehow.

Unfortunately, in all the visions he had of it, Gaylen never thought to write an instruction manual.

I finish the trousers and take a few more items from Geddis's pile. Her fingers look awful.

My birthday's tomorrow, on Solstice. Prince Aidan's Scoreyear ball will be a month after that. He's called it in honor of his late sister and others who fell prey to the now-gone Shadow. His Subyear ball honored his mother.

I've overheard the servants of visiting princes and rulers murmur about his unusual faithfulness to the dead. Some think it a good thing, a sign that he'll respect old ways and traditions when he becomes king; others think it foolish, or worry that it could lead to an interest in dark magic or necromancy. (Though any sage knows that necromancy rivals alchemy in its ineffectiveness.)

My gown is all but finished—a few places like the hips and bust have been left unsewn, that I may finish them to fit once my form matures.

I will be sixteen tomorrow.

I've been granted the day off. To rest because I've been working too hard, Silva says, but it's a shallow cover. Everyone at least suspects me of being elfin; any normal girl would have matured some by now. I haven't. But after tomorrow, when I leave my rooms a woman and no longer a girl...They'll _know_.

I don't want to grow up. I don't want to be hurt as Mother was.

Silva sent me to bed hours ago, but I can't sleep. I'll sleep tomorrow, as my body changes in a day like the other races do over years. That day's slumber will be dreamless, Mother warned me. Warned—for it is through dreams that elves are made aware of what goes on around us while we sleep.

Mother never knew that I'm not elfin enough for that.

My dreams are human: memories and fears given life. The nightmares of being a _queen_ — _his_ queen—are the most disconcerting. That isn't possible.

A faint glow comes from the mild moonlight. I stand in it, comforted. I look up at the moon's crescent and know instinctively it is nigh midnight. Soon we will have a new moon. I'll harvest linashor while I can, tonight; when I'm a woman, the faeries will heed my request far less often. Fael Honovi won't have any legal leverage to coax the linashor tenders to give me their crops.

This morning I noticed that an apple tree sits close to my tall narrow window. Well, I've noticed it before; but only now that I dare try it.

I use my bed to step onto the windowsill. I'm small enough to fit without stooping or squeezing too much. I look more like I am eleven than fifteen.

I turn slightly, careful with my footing, bracing myself against the windowsill. I stare at the ground, which looks so high up from here. I can barely walk down steps—and here I am trying to climb out a window! I'm a fool!

But when I look a few windows over, I can see the glimmer of light from Prince Aidan's lamp, from where he awaits me in the hall. I cannot go out the other way, not without him noticing.

I don't want to face him, tonight.

I'm slow, careful as I crouch and grab the apple tree's branch. I grip the branch tightly— _too_ tightly, I realize when my white-knuckled grip gives out.

I bite back a cry and land hard on the cobblestones; they bite my skin. But scrapes won't kill me. I scramble behind the apple tree's trunk, to hide myself.

The window creaks open. Light pours into the courtyard from his window. It moves, looking for _me_.

I hold my breath as it illuminates the tree. Can he see my silhouette in the lamp's light?

After a few seconds that take forever to pass, the light is dimmed, and the window whines shut.

I let out a heavy sigh. He knows I'm out. He must. I can only hope he'll respect my obvious desire to be left alone.

I hurry out to the field where I usually harvest linashor. I scramble over the fence and focus on plucking the filaments.

"May I join you?"

I look up sharply. Prince Aidan stands, silhouetted in the moonlight. I hide my frown. I didn't want his company tonight, not the night before I'll become a woman, not with what people already think he does to me.

When I don't reply, the prince assists me with the search for the filaments. There is very little out tonight. I must...

Dizziness overwhelms me. I sway and drop forward on my knees. Mother never told me I was born at night!

He catches my arm. "Evonalé?"

Everything fades to black.

I am now sixteen.

_Black. White. Grey. I half-recognize the empty hallway despite the haze and lack and color that harm my view. Etchwork decorates the walls. It's far more tastefully expensive than anything Father had in Grehafen, yet the elaborate work itself doesn't match anything in Salles._

_Though I feel like I know this place, it's not in a good way. The icy cold of Terror holds me in her claws, and I'm not sure that she shouldn't._

_I look both ways down the hallway. I can't see far thanks to the fog, but I don't hear anyone, either. Silence greets me but for my abnormally loud breathing and heartbeat that resound in my ears._

_It's as I realize what I hear that I notice the faint thump-thump! of another heartbeat beneath my own. Or am I that infant heartbeat?_

A moan awakens me, and I realize that the sound is also me.

Parts of me feel burned, others frozen. Yie! The itching! Even the unnerving strangeness of the dream must be dismissed with how bad this is.

"It's all right, miss," I hear one of Ygrain's nurses say. "You'll be all right."

"I _know_ I'm all right!" I snap, pulling myself up. I see her nasty peat-filled poultices on my scrapes and cast them off. I can't stand peat. Nor could Mother, actually.

She tries to stop me, but I don't let her. I show her the blistering rash from under one of her poultices, and she covers her mouth with her hands. She blinks back tears. "Oh! Forgive me! I didn't know!"

"Most don't!" I tell her through gritted teeth as I get the last of them off. That I'm allergic to peat isn't something I like advertising. I limp to my washbasin and rinse of the reacting parts of my skin off.

I glimpse myself in the mirror.

My face has changed already. In the mirror I see that the nurse still cries into her hands for hurting me, for triggering my allergy. I risk a look at my ear.

I comb my hair back over it with my fingers. It's not as bad as it could be, but it's enough. I will never be able to pass as a human with my hair up. Never.

"You can leave," I say briskly, trying not to let my voice crack. My complexion is as clear as ever, curse it. Curse it and my body's characteristic sixteen-year-old shift. Will the whispers reach Father? "I can manage myself."

The well-meaning nurse nods sadly and leaves, still teary-eyed. "I'm so sorry, miss—I—"

"Didn't know, I know," I interrupt. "Go on. They're only rashes."

Once she leaves I sit on my bed and stare at them, wondering if I know any spells that will help. Peat rashes, yie! I've forgotten how bad they are!

...Or are they worse now that I am sixteen?

I don't want the answer to that. I examine my form in the mirror, fear clamping my chest. Drake would be elated to find me, now.

I am a young woman.

The month after Solstice and my birthday passes quietly enough, though I can't stop myself from keeping an eye out for gryphons.

My nerves are no better now that Prince Aidan's Scoreyear ball is at hand.

"A _ball_!" Geddis squeals, rushing and screeching and dancing around me, depending on what she wants to do each particular moment. "Can you believe we're to attend a _ball_?!"

"In your case, most certainly not," I comment, brushing some flour off my sleeve. The castle kitchen was so overwhelmed when preparing for this affair that even _I_ was drafted to help.

"I'm an oh, so-elegant _faery_ ," sing-songs Geddis as she pretends to drift gracefully around this small courtyard area, narrowly escaping a run-in with a bush. "I'm a..." Her voice trails off as she eyes me. "Don't you have something to wear?"

"I wasn't going to wear it to the ovens. Would you wait while I get it on?" I direct her to a bench. "And do avoid screaming anyone deaf, please." Don't ask me who thought it was a good idea to have the same girl taste test _all_ the desserts. We're both sixteen, and therefore adults, but you wouldn't think it of Geddis to see her, right now.

I go to a nearby room where I left my gown. I pull it on, still unused to my newly mature body. I chose to make the colors opposite of the faery gown, mimicking the design, too. I made it a poorer version, since I cannot—at least, dare not—claim any connection to special blood. Cotton fabric instead of magical; thread knots instead of sapphires. Though I've omitted the high neck and train.

When I return, Geddis sits as I left her, her erratically swinging feet the only sign that she's had far too much sugar, taste-testing desserts. I let out my breath and guide her towards the ballroom. I'd feared Prince Aidan might have been waiting for me, instead of Geddis. I haven't seen him since my birthday a month ago, though I'm sure he's the one who returned me to my room.

And now I am sixteen.

The prince is twenty. Next year, he will wed his betrothed and bring her back to the castle. I hope she isn't as cruel as my half-sister, Carling.

I walk in as gracefully as I can. From the corner of my eye, I can tell that I do better than Geddis, who trips on her way in and gapes at the wealth surrounding her. I burn with embarrassment for Silva's sake. Surely Geddis knows better!

Silva stands near Prince Aidan, likely discussing royal matters since she is the Prophetess of the King—and then Geddis runs their way, attracting their attention. I almost back out through the doorway.

Silva accepts her sister's ecstatic attentions with little sign of her irritation besides the one-handed toying with the ring on her left little finger. She and Prince Aidan exchange a respectful nod, and he leaves her with her sister.

And he comes towards me.

I quicken my step after Geddis. Prince Aidan catches me around the waist, turning me around and guiding me towards the refreshments. "Silva can manage her. Come along."

I obey, avoiding the glances many of the guests send our way. If even I know what the gossips say of me, surely Prince Aidan does. And here he further feeds the rumors. The guests give me a wide berth and knowing looks, not even considering the possibility that their presumed knowledge is false.

The prince does not release me until we reach the wine table. He pours half a goblet for each of us. "Here. Drink."

I raise mine and take a tiny sip. The alcohol nips my mouth, but I know it'll help me relax a bit, avoid doing anything stupid like freezing in fright. I take some more—

And sputter it back in, for the goblet reflects a face I have only seen in my nightmares for these past few years.

"Drake!" Prince Aidan guides him my way. "Meet my late sister's former handmaiden, Nallé—"

I drop my goblet, red wine splashing and staining only my gown, since Prince Aidan is far enough away and other nobility avoid me. The prince comes to my aid, but I'm more concerned about Drake. "I beg your pardon, most honored sir!" I hastily say, head down as if I'm worried only about the mess I am mopping up with my skirt.

I look so much like Mother—surely even he could recognize me from my face!

From the corner of my eye, I can tell that Prince Aidan looks from me to Drake a moment, then back again. "Nallé, you know I've told you to be more careful."

"Forgive me, Highness. I—I...I'm doing better!"

His hand cups my shoulder. I suppress a shiver. "I'll get some rags. Will you walk with me, Drake?"

Drake pauses before replying, giving me a suspicious glance that I pretend not to see. "Of course." I listen for more. "My sister had a serving girl clumsy like that, once. The girl couldn't appreciate a good home and abandoned my sister to the slaves' care. I can't imagine the whelp was taken in anywhere else..."

I stop listening and keep cleaning. Drake used to relish telling tales twisted to somehow make me to blame—particularly during those rare moments when Father was amiable towards me. Those times never lasted long.

Prince Aidan, of all people, gets on his knees beside me and mops up the last of it. He helps me up in my wine-soaked gown. He eyes me critically and shakes his head. "This will never do. Come."

I have little choice but to obey. "I—I'd rather retire to my chambers, Aidan. I cannot stay in this."

"I suspected something like this would happen." He opens one of the servants' concealed doors and leads me down the small hallway. "So I took the liberty of—"

His arm lashes out and grabs me before I can run. "Oh, don't be silly." I struggle, but he holds me tighter and manhandles me into a little room, locking the door behind him. "If you insist on being troublesome, I'll change your clothes for you, myself."

"Yie—no!" I cry, wrapping my arms around my bodice. "Please!"

He sighs and turns so his back is to me. "Just put that on." He sounds tired as he points to something behind us. I whirl about and gasp.

"Put it on, housemaid."

Glancing fearfully over my shoulder at him, I hastily strip myself of the soaked blue gown and pull on the silvery one he demands. He remains with his back turned.

My new gown is of elven fabric. Authentic, by the feel of it. The mermaid skirt billows out to the floor at the bottom, allowing me to walk barefoot.

The simple style does not betray the fabric's makers, though the shimmering almost scale-looking quality of the skirt might. The sleeves end at my wrists, and the neckline droops between my shoulders, the bodice designed to resemble seashells. Made by elves who are friendly with the undine, then? Probably telves.

"And, of course, you cannot be a lady if you do not play the games." He hands me a mask, designed to complete the masquerade. It's of good quality. I look at Aidan. He must've planned this all along, for me to attend his ball as if a lady.

"I won't wear this."

"You will if I order it. Must I?"

I shiver and blink back tears, the tears of fear turning to tears of pain as my temperature freezes them in my eyes and I have to pry them out. "Please," I make myself ask. "Don't give me to them."

" _Shh_." He smoothes my hair and sets the mask in place. "Of course I won't. That's what all this is for." I could almost think him friendly like his father at that, but then he lifts my chin with one hand. "Don't you see?" he asks quietly, smiling slightly. "They would never expect us to hide you under their noses."

_'Us.'_ Is His Majesty also behind this plan, then?

"I—I _can't_!" I gasp. He gently takes me by the shoulders. "I can't do this!"

"Evonalé." His expression is sympathetic but firm. "You don't have a choice. You know they'll be sending the gryphons through the castle shortly to look for 'Nallé.' Silva can't block them, not without attracting too much attention. And Fael Honovi—well, that would give your location away if she got involved, now wouldn't it?"

He knows everything. Tears still form. " _I can't_ ," I whisper, my skin crawling from his touch. Is _this_ what I must chose, Drake or Aidan, my half-brother or my...prince? Am I doomed to prove the gossips right?

Better to prove the gossips right than to be in Mother's place. I flinch at the thought. But I can't do this, can't go consciously nearer to _them_!

"Yes, yes, you can come out. You must." Aidan goes and unlocks the door. "I always thought you reminded me of someone," he says lightly. "Come out when you're ready."

And he leaves me alone in this dress.

When I finally gain the courage to obey Prince Aidan's command, the dances have begun. He acknowledges me with a nod as he sweeps by, _Carling_ , of all women, in his arms!

I gasp. Drake, Carling...He _knows_ what they are! Does he know the woman he dances with nearly destroyed Salles by the Shadow?

"Prince Aidan is a fine young man, don't you agree?"

I nearly faint at Father's low voice, but I cannot afford for him to notice me. I am an adult, now, and vulnerable to curses. I turn and find Father addressing _me_. Yie!

"Of course," I murmur politely, speaking softly enough that I sound in control of my voice. I am terrified. Prince Aidan must've known he would be here, too, and probably that I look too much like Mother for my own good. Why else would he have given me a mask?

Father stands with his arms crossed, the same heavy crown on his head that I remember being thrown at Mother, one evening. He doesn't even hide the Bynd he wears around his neck. That necklace, made of the magically infusible metal naril, his father stole from Queen Yuoleen. It gives him undisputed and magically-enforced authority over the elves of her realm. The orange tunic he wears melds well with the grey-orange glow of the Bynd.

His auburn beard and pate are well trimmed, and he lacks the mustache I remember. "He will be my son-in-law by Midsummer's Eve of next year. I am looking forward to the union of our families."

Aidan's betrothed is _Carling_?!

I freeze blank-minded for a long moment before a perplexed glance from him snaps me back into thinking, and thinking quickly. His comment demands a response.

Oh, yie! What would a princess answer? ...What would... _Carling_ ...say? "Of course you are. It is always gratifying when children keep to their parents' promises."

_Yie_! That's too much like Mother!

I glance around, spotting gryphons by each of Prince Aidan's guards. I pretend not to see them, though. My mask might be fooling Father but it will not fool them. ...Will it?

I know so little of gryphons. I won't risk it. But I tentatively grip the magical threads around me in case I need a quick fire.

Father is watching me, amused. "You've heard the rumors. They're wrong. My daughter's handmaid Endellion took her own life, casting herself into a bonfire when I refused to take her, my half-sister, as mistress."

" _Liar_!" How _dare_ —

Yie! What have I done?!

Everyone is frozen, even me. I can barely breathe, watching Father, eyes wide beneath my mask.

Father looks startled. His lips curl up as if he's not sure to laugh or be angry. I sense the Bynd pull towards me. It prefers me, a blood heir, over him, the owner by coercing an heir. I can't let him notice it! I must speak!

But my tongue freezes within my mouth— _Yie_!

"My lady, I've _asked_ you to please keep your godmother's declarations to yourself." Prince Aidan grabs my arm and guides me away. I stumble, the gown's seemingly delicate fabric straining at my shoulder. "I know she's loud, but—

The little door closes, and we're back in the servant hall. He removes my mask and wipes my tears from my cheeks. I try to turn my face away, but he doesn't let me.

"They're not that bad people, really, housemaiden."

I gape at him. Can he really believe those lies? My blood freezes, again... _I_ freeze.

He grins at me. "Just power-hungry."

I restore my mask. "Hungry for more than power, Your Highness," I say quietly.

The prince frowns. "What do you mean?" He turns and comes after me as I head down the hall, but he doesn't stop me. "—I'm serious. I want to know."

My knees give out as I break into sobs. He catches me, letting me cry against him. I cannot pull myself away, though I try. Feebly. I feel him shiver to touch me. My tears leave rivulets of ice behind.

"Why—why _Carling_?"

His sigh rumbles in his chest. "Her grandfather helped mine conquer Salles. Carling won't hurt you. You're under my jurisdiction, not hers."

"No, she'll only call the Shadow again!"

He stiffens. "...That was her work?"

"And when _that_ doesn't work, again, she'll curse me!" I retort, a little stronger—strong enough to sob on my own legs with my back against the wall, anyway.

"Curse you?!"

But I continue quickly on, not stopping to answer him, my voice's pitch rising. "And then Drake will come to visit one day and—and—" I choke "—me, like Father did _his_ half-sister and—"

"Housemaid!"

I keep babbling. "—And then when I don't let him curse _my_ daughter, he'll put the fire on me like Father did Mother—"

"Housemaid!"

"—And beat my baby until she runs away—"

" _Evonalé_!" He shakes me—then crushes me against his chest. "No one will harm you," he murmurs in my ear.

Terror takes over. I slap him. He staggers back and releases me. "'No one will harm you'?!" I shriek. " _You're_ the one who wants me for your mistress!"

Prince Aidan looks as if I've...I don't know. Told him I'm having his child? "...I _what_?!"

"You don't want anyone else to have me, and you—" My shoulder shivers. I wave at the silver mermaid gown. "Treat me like I'm _yours_!"

"But you—you're my _friend_!"

The frustration in his voice stops me from fleeing. I don't look at him.

"I'm trying to take care of you, Evonalé. I remember the little girl my dogs found when they should have been after a deer." I hear him approach. I jump when his hand brushes my side. "I remember the first time I saw you grimace from...nothing. And then, those scars...Who tortured you?"

I turn myself away from his hand. "I—I don't know what you're talking about." How did he learn of those?

"Ygrain told me," he says quietly. "Silva had to help her when you fell over the chicken fence; she couldn't determine what was wrong. Your injuries weren't natural. Only magical torture could cause scar tissue to form that way. Who hurt you?"

"They all did." I'm not fool enough to believe him when he says he doesn't want me. "Carling, mostly," I admit to be honest. "They're all fire mages. They took control of the Crystal-elves in my grandmother's day," _because of my grandmother's naïveté._ I speak stonily, and my eyes on him well suit my tone of voice.

"Do you know why?"

I turn away, arms crossed. I don't reply.

"Housemaid—" He catches himself. "Evonalé, _please_. If you know...I want to help."

An ant crawls out of a crack in the floor. I watch it scurry across the stone. "You cannot help my people."

"But—"

"You _cannot help_ —is that not clear?" I interrupt before he can convince me otherwise.

Prince Aidan watches me few seconds and nods slowly. "It is clear, Your Highness."

I chill further at his words. "I'm no princess."

He sighs and returns my mask to me. "Of course not." He looks up the hall towards the ballroom. "Now if you'll come, our dance is waiting."

"I can't dance."

"Then we'll have refreshments together. If you avoid them now, it'll only make them more suspicious."

I scowl at him, though he cannot see it for my mask. Slow-footed to show him my displeasure, I obey.

"Had any more declarations from your faery godmother, My Lady...?"

"Of the Sea," Prince Aidan answers for me to Drake's question, his voice full of court amusement that I wouldn't have guessed false if I hadn't known it had to be. "Surely you can see _that_ much, oh Master of Comic Relief?"

I can't help but snicker at the realization that Drake's costume is of a jester. I wonder whose idea that was; it strikes me as something that he'd find distasteful. He probably lost a bet with Carling. He usually does lose to her.

"Well, better a costume as a jester than no costume at all."

"I have a costume." Prince Aidan keeps one hand at my elbow, blocking Drake from sweeping me onto the dance floor unless he wants to utterly affront his host. I nonetheless keep myself prepped to snatch my magic. Concentrating on my magic makes it hard to focus on what's going on around me, but the comfort of its security is well worth the distraction.

"Back in your rooms doesn't count, Your Highness—"

"I am wearing it."

I sip my punch—I decided against trying the wine, again, since it stains and I can't handle much alcohol, anyway—and eye him sidelong. The realization of what his costume is makes me choke from my surprise both at his choice and at my failure to notice it earlier.

Prince Aidan doesn't wear a royal tunic but a sturdy travel one, small sections of magical embroidery on the lapels combining to provide an overall protection against the elements.

But the clincher for his costume is the symbol etched above his heart, the one that calls him 'Elf-friend'—or, at least, that _would_ call him that if it weren't done improperly. Considering what an insult it would be to the elf kingdoms for him to wear the full symbol without having earned it, I think the mistake was intentional.

"Ah!" says Prince Aidan. "My Lady of the Sea has named me in her mind; will she do so aloud, as well?"

"Elwyn _elv'shutor_ " _Elf-friend_ , I reply in fluent elvish, knowing it will help my role as an anonymous noblewoman with an obnoxious faery godmother. The goddaughter of a wacky faery can be expected to speak a little of the four major languages, and can be excused for having a felvish accent. "Father of Silva _bau_ Faed Nirmoh." Silva, Faed Nirmoh's fiancée.

Drake doesn't look the slightest suspicious or surprised by my elvish. I feel myself smile. I've missed speaking that.

"Your pronunciation is astounding," Drake compliments me, and my smile vanishes.

"Faery godmothers," Aidan says for me with a wry grin. "And hers is quite the gossip."

"That so? Which one is she?"

"Lady..." I know Aidan knows this answer, but he pretends to think. "I can't remember at present. Would your sister mind if I...?" He nods at me.

A chill spikes me as Drake laughs. No, Carling wouldn't mind if Aidan prefers another. She'd relish it—encourage it, even. An absent husband would leave her freer to pursue her other interests, namely magery, figuring out how to rob her elder brother of his kingdom without her father blocking her, that sort of thing.

"Oh, no! I can say most definitively that she will not take affront _whatsoever_ you choose to do with your lady of the sea." His impish grin says he means that entirely.

And I know he's right. Unfortunately.

As Drake's eyes scan the crowd for another pretty lady, some negative emotion flashes over Aidan's features before he resumes his court politeness. "Shall we dance?" he asks me.

"I can't dance."

Aidan glances at my gown. "I suppose you can't, with that skirt." As if I could dance in _any_ skirt.

He notices someone across the room and tucks my arm under his, relieving me of my cup of punch and handing it off to a passing servant.

"I was drinking that."

He ignores my protest. "At least pretend to be enjoying yourself, please," he mutters at me as we head that way.

"What's to say I'm not?"

"Because I know you," he insists, intentionally touching my arm. He promptly removes his hand and briskly brushes his fingers with his thumb. "And your chill suggests that you really, _really_ dislike being here."

I scowl at him, not that he can see it with my mask. "You know why." He told me once that he met Mother.

He sighs, freeing his arm from under mine for a moment as he rearranges his jacket to provide more of a barrier between his skin and mine. "Of course I do, you silly girl. You make it so obvious, with your, shall we say, _bodily effects_ ..."

Heat overtakes me when I realize what he's doing. "Please stop."

He frowns. "Stop...?"

I swallow. "Flirting, Highness."

He waits a few seconds as if expecting me to continue, then a bitter smile replaces his frown. "I'm a young, forcibly-betrothed prince. I'm expected to flirt with whatever _lady_ is on my arm. To do otherwise would announce..." Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. "...Undue interest. Surely you know that much of court protocol."

I flinch. His flippant references to my birth burn more than idle gossip. "How would I?!" My words sound unduly sharp even to my own ears.

We reach Aidan's goal, Silva and the man beside her. It takes me a long moment to recognize Faed Nirmoh. I yank my arm away from Prince Aidan. "F—faed," I stutter and curtsy before the faery.

He bows graciously, just as he did a few years ago when he rescued—er, recovered me from that locked closet. "Your Highness."

I'm not imagining the smirk I glimpse sidelong on Aidan's lips before he quickly drops it. I stammer my protest. "I—I'm not..."

Faed Nirmoh nods at his fiancée, kisses her hand, and turns and takes my arm to guide me towards the refreshments. Whereas most people actually dance at a ball, I seem to be eternally guided to the refreshments. A hint that I need to eat more, maybe? "I'd hoped I'd get a chance to talk to you."

A faery wanting to talk to a quarter-elf royal bastard with a prophecy looming over her head that she'll somehow instigate the destruction of three fire mages with a regiment of gryphons at their disposal, while all involved attend the selfsame ball. Somehow, I doubt his desire is to pay a social call on Queen Yuoleen's granddaughter.

I swallow back the acrid taste coming up my throat before I shame Prince Aidan any more than I already have at this Scoreyear ball of his.

"Silva says you do unusually well with magic for someone your age."

Yes, I can work with magic a lot more easily than is normal for a sixteen-year-old girl. I blame my father who-was-also-my-uncle for that. Sweat drips down my face.

He hands me a glass of chilled water, not looking at me. "You know you can't stay here when the crown prince's betrothed becomes his wife."

I shudder. Of course I know!

"Where will you go?"

"Where _can_ I go?" escapes my lips.

Faed Nirmoh pauses and looks at me. His bright green eyes steadily remain on my face. "Salles has many resources, allies. You expect to be able to hide once Carling has them at her disposal?"

I shrug. I don't like this conversation.

"You know you are the redeemer of Marsdenfel."

"How?! What am I supposed to _do_? I can't even make biscuits without turning the kitchen into a battlefield!"

His smile is amused. "Well, if we knew the answer to that, we wouldn't need you, now would we?"

I want to slap him; _he_ isn't the one with an impossible prophecy looming over his head. "I—"

He takes my cup from me and sets it down, then takes my hands in his, ignoring their heat. "Trust the Creator," he says gently. "He's decreed this; He'll make it work. Maybe a battlefield kitchen will be precisely the opening one of the old guardians—" protectors of the court, the elfin knights "—will need to strike. The Creator has a reason for all this."

"Easy for you to say," I mutter. "You're not stuck between two princes who want you as mistress and their sister-fiancée who wants you _dead_." Remembering that he _is_ a faery stops my wonder at my free tongue with him. He's probably magically encouraging it.

Faed Nirmoh draws a sharp breath. "Aidan doesn't want you as his mistress." I just look at him. He frowns. "He wouldn't do that to you."

"That would be difficult after I'm dead."

The honey-skinned faery hides a smile. "That may be the Creator's will." He watches me thoughtfully. "You'd prefer that, wouldn't you? It would make it...easier. No future, no beau to worry about..."

I laugh before I can contain it. " _Beau_?!" I can't stop it; it's too funny, this faery talking as if I might actually have an opportunity for a legitimate husband, children.

Me. Child by incest with an illegitimately-born mother. Have a _legitimate_ family. Right.

I gasp sharply, aghast hiccups entering my laughter as I realize that a _faery_ is the one saying these things. A faery. A prophet. Oh, may the Creator help me! "I—I'm not..." Silva approaches and takes her fiancé's arm away from me.

"Aidan would wed you, were he free," Faed Nirmoh says quietly.

That bites, the fear and ice grabbing hold of me as I'm again reminded that Prince Aidan likes me more than is proper for a prince to like his servant. "Don't flatter me!" I snap. Even if Aidan _were_ so inclined to wed a bastard whelp as myself, his father would never allow such a union that would harm Salles—and if his father didn't block it, I know the Council would. _I_ would.

I look around the ballroom. Aidan stands near Carling, again, and I can see from his posture that he really doesn't want to be there. I bite my lip. It would be strange for me to avoid her, the betrothed of the prince who hosts this ball.

As I force myself towards them, I overhear Faed Nirmoh tell Silva, "I should not have told her that."

And Silva answers with a smile in her voice, "Yes. Yes, you should've."

**Year 250 of the Bynding - I**

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

_Spring, at the Elven New Year_

Once you have been affected by magic, any children born to you can inherit that effect. This is true for effects both good and bad.

Curse magic is terrible, needing only vaguely defined victims to harm. If curse magic worked like the rest of magic, that harm, too, would be inheritable.

Fortunately, but for the ninth day after their birth, children are immune to curses.

— _Endellion_

I often find new clothing, now, draped over my stool when I return to my room for the night. Usually it's something practical, like a chemise or an apron; occasionally it's a blouse or skirt. Once I found a set of trousers. Aidan said I'd find them easier to run in than a skirt. Somehow, I doubt many others would appreciate the joke.

Sometimes, the gift is a simply elegant gown worthy of a rich noblewoman; another jest I'm sure others wouldn't like. He never speaks of these, but I know they're from him. I can smell his mild cologne in the fabric. They're always modestly cut, of human style, but I don't wear them or let myself think too much about what he means by them.

I'll be dead soon enough. As spring turns to summer, Prince Aidan will bring his wife home from Grehafen.

Carling will kill me, preferably before she tosses me to our brother's mercy, but she has too much self-control to make me think she'd settle for that. Maybe she'll coax Aidan into abusing me, instead, since we've grown up together. She'd find that amusing. A few months, that's all I have left.

I can do nothing. Faed Nirmoh was right—fleeing would invoke greater harm than I've already brought to Salles.

I'm beyond sick of others dying because of me; I'm weary to the point of numbness. I'm not sure that's a good thing. From the frowns I've received from Faed Nirmoh the few times I've seen him in the past few months, I think he'd agree with that assessment.

Not having a say in anything comes with being a lowly maidservant. I am controlled by those with power, with influence—not with spells, perhaps, but through the power of my masters' arms.

Aidan has made this truth most obvious. He doesn't hurt me, true, but he can force me to obey him. He dragged me somewhere I didn't want to go and had me change garments in his presence. He could've watched, had he wanted.

Even the many gardens about the castle can no longer soothe me. I work the sewing, as I have for years, preparing for the wedding.

Sometimes William sits nearby with his whittling, but more often Aidan watches me as he does now. I don't know why. He doesn't speak to me in here. He only watches my work.

He seems disappointed as he watches me embroider he and his betrothed's names into a bedsheet. Why? Did he expect me to be a lovesick fool and hide my own there, too?

Even if he does somehow bear the hope that Carling will die young, leaving him to marry a woman of his own choosing, he will not always wait. When he grows decrepit and dies, the she-mage will be merely graying. If Carling lets him live that long.

And by the time Aidan has reached the natural end of his life, I'll have been long dead, myself.

In finishing the bedsheet, I slip and prick my finger. Immediately the prince takes my hand and presses the hurt finger, stopping any bleeding. He suppresses a quiver at my now-normal chill.

He cups my hands in his as he faces me. "Housemaid," he gently begins, then shakes his head. "No... _Evonalé_." Regret fills his mien. "My father...will speak with you."

Nothing more comes from his lips, though I wait for it. Am I to be dismissed from Salles before the wedding? I pick up my sewing, put it away, and take my leave.

King Aldrik cares little for finery or freshening for his presence, even when it is ostensibly to show respect. I proceed to him directly from my mending.

My entrance, quiet and unobtrusive as it is with me letting myself in to stand by the door, nonetheless interrupts the debate over the glass taxes between King Aldrik and Marigold's father. I curtsy, head bowed at the nobleman's glare. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I'll wait outside."

"No," says the king before I can do as I suggested. "Carraway, leave us." The nobleman's sense of having been insulted doesn't keep him from getting up from his chair and obeying, though he does nudge some books off a bookcase as he passes me. I pick them up and put them back.

Once we're alone in this room, His Majesty seated at a desk that happens to carry in weight as much paper as it does books, silence reigns for a long minute. The fire sputters, half dying due to some servant's poor laying of the wood. Air cannot flow among the logs, so the fire smothers before it can even light properly.

His Majesty notices where I look. "Bit chilly in here, isn't it? Please, come. Sit down and see what you might do to help with the fire."

_Magically_ , I don't need him to specify, and I obey. The purple of magically-fueled fire shifts to orange as it forces the logs to light.

One of the kitchen maids—Geddis, actually—stands by the door with a tray. His Majesty signals her in to pour us tea, and Geddis likewise hands us each a little plate with some bite-size sandwiches on them.

"Thank you, Geddis."

Her smile quickly falls with a nervous glance at His Majesty. The tray shakes a little in her hands, and she draws a deep breath. "Anything else, Your Majesty?"

"That will be all. Please inform Proctor that we're not to be disturbed."

Geddis bobs but doesn't curtsy with her full arms. "Yes, Your Majesty."

She leaves, and King Aldrik sips his tea. He pauses, and motions to me. "Please, eat."

"It's unbefitting my station, Your Majesty," I say quietly. I'm not hungry.

He gives me a long look, then looks around, a bit sad. "Eighteen years ago this summer, your mother sat there." He eats a mini-sandwich as I process that. "I was supposed to marry her, you know."

That, I hadn't thought of. But if King Aldrik had originally been betrothed to Grandfather's daughter...My mother was his only daughter.

"But her father lied to mine, told him no daughter existed. So I married Maitane." His voice softened. "She was a fine woman, in her own right."

Courtesy demands I express my own sympathies. "She was."

"Evonalé, you realize that I know precisely who and what you are. You are no titleless foundling; if you had been I would have left you in a reputable orphanage, but I would not have taken you under my personal care. You are a princess."

I shake my head. "No..."

"Your mother was heiress to Queen Yuoleen. You were her only child that anyone knows of."

"Who never should have existed, Your Majesty."

"It makes no difference."

I'd like to see him try to convince his council of that. "My father was my _uncle_!"

"It _makes no difference_ —not to the spells bound to your family!"

After that firm declaration, King Aldrik calmly eats another mini-sandwich. "You are the child of Queen Yuoleen's heiress; her crown is yours by birthright, and reinforced by prophecy."

A prophecy that's more likely to result in my death than this royal bastard's miraculous ascent to a throne, but I don't correct him. He doesn't want to hear it.

"You will retrieve your crown."

I smile politely. Whether I play along now or sullenly refuse to let him believe his silly fantasy, I'll be just as dead in a year. I can afford to indulge him this much. I take a sip of tea.

"You must go with my son to Grehafen."

I choke. By the Creator, not Drake! Creator-that-is, don't put me near Drake!

"I trust you will aid my son in offering them every discourtesy."

It's several still-panicked moments before I process " _Dis_ courtesy?"

His Majesty's stern visage refuses to offer any hope of negotiation or alleviation of these demands. "I daresay you know your father and his scions well enough to judge what would cause serious affront."

For the first time since Prince Aidan's Scoreyear ball, unwanted tears threaten to fall. Mother called them that: _your father and his scions_. The tear freezes painfully in my eye from my temperature.

He gets up and goes to one budding plant beside one of the many bookcases in this, his library. He plucks one blossom, sniffs and fingers it. His back remains towards me.

"You'll share that knowledge with Aidan. I'm sure some clever way to hide you will come up between the two of you, while preferably making Carling loathe him. The marriage can only be broken by mutual consent."

Then he turns back my way. "This betrothal must be dissolved."

There's only one answer I can give to that. "...I understand, Your Majesty."

And, perhaps unfortunately, I do. Carling isn't a safe wife to own.

After an hour in Aidan's old schoolroom thinking of ways to offend my offensive family, Aidan speaks up. "You really think Drake will try to take advantage of you?"

I yelp as my needle plunges into my hand from my jerk. " _Now_ it speaks."

Aidan ignores my sour tone. "But you're his sister."

Pressing the needle wound firmly with one hand, I turn from where I sit near the fire with the sewing and give my prince a long look. His expression is confused and disgusted at the idea. "I know," I remind him.

"You don't really think he'd..." Aidan swallows uncomfortably. "His own sister?"

" _Half_ -sister," I correct, releasing the pressure. My hand still hurts. Maybe I should use duller needles. "And yes."

"But you're _siblings_. It would be like me...Claiborne...Ulgh."

I sigh crossly. "It would amuse him," I say loudly, fumbling as I try to return to my sewing. My hand hurts too much. I fling the cloth from me with a huff. "It's like a family tradition, all right?" Yes, I _really_ wanted to admit my incestuous birth aloud to Prince Aidan, to the man who I've been told would wed me, if he could. As if I'll even live to marry.

"Tradi..." Aidan's confusion fades into pale-faced disgust. The white tint of his skin turns almost green. "Because your father...your mother. His...sister." He nods. "Right."

"Half-sister." I don't point out the futility of this effort to plan if he's taken this long to realize the importance of it. "That didn't sound like an idea."

Aidan springs to his feet and paces madly. "Look—it's not—I'm—" He takes a few swift turns around the room before he turns on me. "I do have _one_ , but you'll...lose it, go off, positively hate it." He continues pacing. "I just wish I could think of something _else_ ... _Something_ would have to irritate Carling enough to want to call this wedding off."

I think of this kingdom's wealth, size, strength, and allies. It's an advantageous match for her. "No, probably not."

I don't think Aidan means to be as threatening as he looks when he whirls on me at that statement. " _No_?! Nothing?!"

He comes closer, eyes wildly moving around as he thinks. "I guess you're right. I could bring my own bastard _son_ and his mother with me, and that accursed witch wouldn't care."

I blink. "You have a son?"

"No!" Aidan snaps and abruptly moves away, again. "So. We're left with keeping you alive. Huh. A way that you couldn't be noticed—Makish _take_ them, I can't think of anything else! What—"

He actually notices my lingering wide-eyed shock at his curse. Few dare name the gatekeeper of the netherworld so lightly. It's dangerous. As in, worse than offending a faery, dangerous. The Creator has been known to let that head daemon have his way with those who treat the high things lightly.

Aidan's jaw works as if trying to rid the mouth of a bitter taste. Small wonder, after what he just said. " _What_?!" he demands.

I glance at my sewing and quickly decide against trying to get more work done as we brainstorm how I'm to travel to Grehafen. I roll it up to put away. "What have you thought of?"

He huffs and shakes his head sharply, resuming his furious pacing. "You won't like it."

"What is it?" For once, I'm the one pressing for an answer. It's almost amusing.

His sigh is frustrated as he comes to me, grabbing my hands. I'm still, unresponsive from my surprise. He massages my hands for a few seconds but seems to realize that isn't helping and drops them. "Drake saw you as a serving girl. Nallé."

I wait for him to continue. He doesn't. "...And?"

"We're to show them every discourtesy." He stops again.

"...So?"

"You could..." Prince Aidan clears his throat. "You could go veiled. —Drake's horrible with face—"

He catches me as I fall off my chair. I bite my lip, ashamed of my tears as I rock in the reflexive ball I've curled into. I swallow hard, instinctually panicked at the thought of going _veiled_.

"Evonalé—"

" _I know_ ," I manage to whisper between my sobs.

"You can't let them recognize you. This way, they'll avoid even looking—"

" _I know_!" I choke out. Just when I thought my reputation couldn't be sullied any worse. I fight panic's ice. "But...but you won't...?"

"Of course not!" Aidan looks aghast and insulted that I'd even suggest that he'd make the veil a truth. "It'll just be for show."

I try to believe him. I do. A whimper escapes me, anyway.

He wraps his arms around me and strokes my hair. He murmurs in my ear. "Calm down. Please, we need to think through what they'll think of this—"

"They'll _think_ what anyone with half a brain would! Yie, even _Marigold_ knows a veil denotes a master's mistress!" My voice doesn't snap as I wish it would; my throat's too tight. I barely squeeze out the words.

"No!" He makes me look him in the eye. "Not here!" His brown eyes blaze with—with something I can't—won't—read. He holds me fast for a long moment before pulling me close, putting his chin on my head and rocking the still balled-up me. "I wouldn't do that to you, your reputation."

"You've d—done an awful lot to me," I tell him sourly, loathing the persistent fear that makes me stutter. "And my reputation can't get much worse."

He stills. I listen to his heartbeat and wish I could make mine settle like I hear his do. "You don't really want to do that."

"Do we have much choice?" I ask. "Is it normal for a betrothed prince to pick a mistress while _on the way_ to his wedding?"

Even I know it's noticeably suspicious. And that's how things would appear, if I conveniently started wearing a veil while accompanying him to Grehafen for the wedding.

I shiver as Aidan's fingers toy with my hair. "Your Highness..." My attempt at a light tone falls flat.

He abruptly drops me and moves away; I land on the stone floor with my hands and knees. I bite back the squeak and stare at the floor for several seconds before I turn to look at Aidan.

The prince looks ashamed and appalled, but also frustrated and angry. "Forgive me!" he says, likely more harshly than he intends.

I sit up slowly. There's another reason he doesn't like his idea, I realize, another reason he would rather implement it for as little time as possible. "You..." I can barely get the words out. "You...fear..." His flinch tells me I'm right. "Your resolve?"

He peruses me with his brown eyes. There's a long pause before he responds quietly. "I'm a man, Evonalé. And you are no eyesore." I heat at the compliment. "Any man..." He turns his eyes away. "Extended close quarters, contact, _pretending_ to be...that way..." He shakes his head. "It's a temptation, Evonalé."

My skin crawls as fear's ice streaks through me. I swallow. "If it helps, Your Highness..." He reluctantly looks at me. I shrug stiffly and try to keep the tone a light tease. "Fael Honovi would probably kill you if you tried to force the issue."

It takes him a moment to process that. Then Prince Aidan breaks into a bout of chuckling that graduates into laughter. I manage to relax and smile some at the sound.

But the tension returns when he comes back over to me, takes me by either shoulder, and has me stand up. "Thank you, Evonalé." His warm tone shouldn't surprise me, but it does. And then—

He spears my cheek with gentle kiss. "I—"

I hastily shake my head; I can't stop what he thinks, but he mustn't confess _that_.

He understands. "...I should go."

My mouth is dry as I close my eyes. I can't pretend anymore that he isn't fond of me. Faed Nirmoh was right in what he said of the prince. My death will not be easy for him.

I hear him leave.

It takes barely a fortnight to prepare for the farce. I've...behaved normally, as best I can. Ygrain and a few others have asked me if I'm unwell, so I daresay my best is a poor job.

"William's making a cooking spoon for his bride!" hoot some of the other Runners and servants. If William were an elf, he'd be able to fry an egg on his skin, with how red his face is, right now.

Even I smile a little. For them. Some will feel guilty enough about my lot once I'm dead; I don't need to add to their pending burden.

Silva laughs with them and gets a few good-natured teases of her own. Everyone knows her wedding is some day in the next year, but I have yet to find someone who will admit when it is to be.

I can't bring myself to laugh with them. Things are going to get uncomfortable for me very quickly, very soon, and I'm not looking forward to seeing everyone's expressions when that happens.

A bottle shatters on the door's frame. The laughter stops as everyone turns. The room's tension catapults when _Silva_ leaps to her feet in alarm. "Your Highness!"

The universal anxiety helps me act as if I don't know what's happening. I hope to the Creator this works. Carling detests physical violence.

The prince stumbles in as if drunk—and from the smell, I daresay he's at least partway there. "Can you not... _shut_ your mouths?!" he grumbles, his glower focused on me.

Guilt and worry pierce me at Silva's frantic glance my way. Silva doesn't know?! "Your Highness—"

Aidan comes my way. Silva tries to interfere. He shoves her aside. I wince for Faed Nirmoh's sake, then realize that I should say something, too.

That's when others start realizing what's happening. Cries of "Your Highness!" and "Get his father!" don't give him pause.

I cry out as he yanks me off my seat by the hair. He shakes me and shoves me down in time to deck William. "You little _wench_!"

I choke on tears. He yanks me up—I squawk from another strike. "Y—your Highness, I—"

"Taking advantage of my father's good graces, threatening him with your faery godmother."

He grips me by the back of the neck and shakes me. "You made her up, didn't you?! You little baseborn—"

I think that if this weren't staged I'd already be screaming. " _Your Highness_!" I shriek, hoping I sound like I'm begging. "I—I don't know what you're talking about; she's not made up; she's..."

Another fist grabbing my hair to pull me up interrupts me; he wraps his arms around mine. I writhe and twist and squirm, to no avail. The only one older—larger—than the prince in this room is Silva, and she's groaning from I don't know what.

I'm shocked that she doesn't cast a spell, but maybe she doesn't know any defense ones that would work properly within a group of people. I realize that I should probably be pulling my magic, too.

_He said he'd handle that_ , I remind myself, not reassured. I struggle to grab the magical threads with my mind while fighting physically. The purple magically-induced fire appears behind him, and I mentally jerk it towards his back—my magic hits _something_ —

I screech from the pain that explodes in my head. His arm moves downwards to get a firmer grip on me, around my waist. The half-drunk Prince Aidan drags me out of that room.

So that's why Silva was groaning. It takes _me_ 'til halfway down the next hall to recover enough from the pain to continue my necessary fight and screams.

I flinch at Prince Aidan's grunt when one of my flails strikes him. But he still holds me fast.

With a quick prayer to the Creator, I draw a breath. " _Fael_ —"

His arm in my mouth halts my screech, and he whisks me the rest of the way to his suite, aided by my reflexive curling up. I grimace the apology I can't say and chomp down on his arm.

"Curse you, wench!" He tosses me on the floor. I scramble to my feet, trying to look frightened and not relieved that he still blocks the doorway.

He's glaring at me. I'm not acting when I try to flee around him when he steps towards me.

That just ends up with me in his steadfast grip, again. I squeal and struggle and strike him and start to fear that this might be getting too realistic.

"Highness! Highness, _please_!" I consider conjuring another fire for all of a second before deciding against it. The headache still lingers from the last one.

I hear myself shrieking as he drags me through his suite. He flings me into his bedroom and slams the door closed behind me. I fling myself at it, but I fail to open it before he locks it. "Yie, no!" I cry. "Aidan!"

He leaves. I scream and pound the door. My hand bruises. The window's glass breaks easily, but it's too high up for me to climb. Blood pools from my hand and bare feet from the shards.

I whip around, scanning the room for another route to escape. The plants lining the walls don't help—I need to stay tense to keep up the pretense, not relax.

I pause upon noticing a full-length mirror beside his chiffonier, the carved and polished wooden frame matching the chest of drawers.

Why such a large mirror? Aidan isn't vain.

But that distraction helps me calm enough to remember the unlocking spell Faed Nirmoh taught me.

And we did _plan_ this.

I hear no one nearby; I can only suppose that Aidan locked the door to his suite, too. I lean against the door, away from the broken glass. I slide down the door to my knees, exhausted.

As sleep takes me, I realize Aidan's flight bodes poorly for our idea. He wasn't supposed to leave. If he didn't trust himself around me in that incident, how much worse will it be when we are stuck, together, for days on end?

I shiver. At least, whatever happens, I won't have to survive it for long. It'll soon be over. And I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that I've done whatever was possible to try to free him from Carling. At least.

_"What? Not tempted?" Drake laughs with perverted amusement. I writhe, fighting to free myself from the grip he has on my arm. It hurts awfully; bruises form._

_In the colorless haze of the dream, I can only tell that the figure chained to the wall has been a prisoner for a long time. The quiet voice is male. "Hardly."_

_"When did you last see a woman, Liathen? Don't tell me you don't find her at all appealing."_

_"I am reminded of my mother."_

_I shiver, recognizing the tone of Drake's laugh. The pain will start soon._

_A bit of fire breaks off from the torch on the wall, white in this bleak monochromatic cell. It slowly moves towards me. I should move away, I know, but I feel myself falling forward, towards it—_

Falling backward wakes me up.

As my mind catches up with me, I feel Aidan catch me. "Evonalé?! Are you all right?!" I shake my head to clear it. That dream was a bit stranger than usual. I've had vague images of that prisoner before, but that was the first time I'd heard his name. Liathen. Like King Liathen, forefather to Queen Yuoleen.

Then I realize I'm in Prince Aidan's arms, and I fling myself away. My forehead hits the bedpost; I yelp.

After a few seconds of white light, my eyes focus on Aidan. He looks aghast, half-risen to come to my aid. "I'm sorry—forgive me—I—"

" _You didn't tell Silva_?!" I blurt, furious at what I know the prophetess will now think of him. "Did you not tell your father, either?!"

"Father did know; he's the one who gave me permission and means to do this to begin with. Fael Honovi respects him...as much as she respects anyone. Who isn't faery. Or as old as she is."

"And Silva?!"

"Faed Nirmoh said not to tell her, that it would work better if we didn't."

I growl. "As if she's not going to try to break me out of here."

He hesitates. "Right." His discomfort soars. "Which is why Father advises we go on a bit of a sabbatical..."

_Alone together_ , I know he's not saying. "And you'd rather risk an angry prophetess after you."

Another pause. "Yes."

"Because you don't want Fael Honovi to kill you." I almost regret my harsh tone when he flushes, but only almost. It's good for him.

He clears his throat. "You...believe that's all. That hinders me. Your godmother's protection?"

I bite my lip. No, I don't, but he can't afford to _like_ me, not like this. But I know what killing his fondness for me can cost me.

What does it matter? Let me have reason to fear him. It won't matter for long.

"What other reason can you have?" I finally reply.

"A little _respect_ for a woman I care—"

Enough of this! "You _shouldn't_ care!" I snarl. "You can't afford it! I—"

"What, because you have some prophecy hanging over your head, I can't—"

"I'm a _bastard_ , Aidan!" I snap in exasperation. "Born on the wrong side of the bedsheets? With an _uncle_ as my father!"

"I _know_ ," he replies coldly. "You think you're the only family with cause for shame in the closet? That doesn't matter, what your father did, what your grandmother did. Those aren't your actions."

I poke him in the chest. " _Crown_ prince," I remind him. "Who will rule if you don't?"

"And there's a little betrothal looming over my own head." Though sour, he doesn't block his voice from being wry.

I hide my relief that at his apparent comprehension. He can't afford to care for me, not unless he wants to die. "I don't want to hear any nonsense about you 'caring' for me, again. Understand?"

"It's not..." He frowns, brow furrows as he avoids my gaze. Prince Aidan nods in resignation. "I understand, Your Highness." His lips quirk at my glare.

"And I'm not a princess."

He draws a quick breath and slowly releases it. "Of course not." He goes to the far corner, away from the broken window and the chiffonier, and pulls up two short stools I hadn't previously noticed. There's no way to leave from that side of the room. He graciously offers one stool to me.

My hands and feet remember to start throbbing and stinging from the bruises and cuts. "Thank you."

He's gone for only few minutes before he returns with a large bowl of steaming water and a towel. He sets them down on the floor by my stool. "For your feet. I sent to Ygrain for a plantain poultice."

That herb actually helps me, unlike peat. "Thanks." I watch him cautiously as he takes a seat, himself. I recognize the politely nonchalant court face he wears, and I pay attention for hints of his true emotions beneath it.

The water feels so good, soothing as it helps work the glass out of my feet. I sigh heavily and relax. "Thank you," I say again.

He shrugs, still watching me. Then he looks away and rolls his shoulders in a stretch. "So, did you have something else to scold me about, or should we discuss where to take this foolhardy plan from here?"

I start, jostling the bowl as my temperature also rises. I hadn't realized I was _scolding_ him, scolding my own prince! "Your Highness—"

"Don't apologize," he interrupts, weary. "You didn't like Silva's ignorance. That was at her fiancé's insistence. She also has to come to Grehafen, and..." He pauses, obviously unsure if I should know this or not. "Being a Hearer makes her more susceptible to having others hear her mind, unfortunately."

I stiffen. I hadn't even thought that perhaps Father or Drake or Carling might be able to access others' thoughts. Of the threesome, Drake's least likely to have studied it; and I'd bet more than a quen that Carling _has_ the ability. "Is it believed...?"

He shrugged. "It's a possibility."

I shiver. "But what of us?" _Wait..._ I stare at him in remembrance of his inexplicable magic-based trick, earlier. "What was that...shield that you had earlier, blocking Silva and me from...?"

Prince Aidan smiles. "I thought you'd never ask."

I blush and look away as he starts to unbutton his shirt. "Highness..."

"Just the collar," he says in quiet reassurance. I look back up to see him duck his head and pull a chain from around his neck. He shows it to me, draping it across his palm.

Something about the chain... _feels_ ...strange, like when I was in the Wailing Marshes. There's magic in this metal. "Naril?"

He nods sharply. Only that rare metal can have magic fused into it. Few have the skill to metalwork naril, and very few of those aren't dwarves.

"It's a shielding charm. An advanced mage can work around one, but if they don't know you're wearing it..."

The shield would bring me that much more time to defend myself before one of them killed me. But..."Me?" What of him?

"You're the one with the probably lethal prophecy dangling over your skull."

I give him a long look. He keeps his court mask. He knows I'll likely die, and he still fosters his fondness for me? Has love made him foolish?

—No, don't think that. He doesn't love me. He can't.

"You're the _prince_ helping this whelp fulfill that prophecy," I quietly remind him.

"Who is well-allied enough that they have a vested interest in keeping him alive, at least until he brings his... _wife_ ...home." He says _wife_ as if the concept disgusts him. Carling likely does.

In a swift movement, he takes the chain and drops it over my head to land around my neck. I gasp at the initial contact, startled by the buzzing sensation that steadily diminishes as it adapts to my own grounding in the magic surrounding me.

I try to avoid heating from Prince Aidan's too-close contact. One of his hands rests on my shoulder while the other brushes my cheek. He drops his hands when I flinch away, and he touches the chain on my breastbone, instead.

"This will only shield from magic aimed _towards_ you, not at you directly," he warns. "And even then—"

"They can work around it, once they know it's there." It will not block nothing that specifically calls me by name. Once they recognize me, I'll be on my own entirely. "I understand."

It could have been worse.

As I stare at the shredded fabric, the strewn furniture, and the utterly destroyed balcony, I force myself to remember that. I'm not sure I _want_ to know what spell or spells Silva used.

_Tried_ to use, rather. She's been unconscious for the past two hours. Faed Nirmoh doesn't look worried, though, so I'm pretty sure Silva's ignorant attempt to 'free' me from Aidan hasn't cost her sanity.

I stoop to right one upended stool, but Aidan's slight headshake catches my eye. I stop and straighten slowly into my now-customary anxious slouch. Keeping myself cold helps with the acting, though it also makes my cut feet and hands hurt more.

I notice William's glare at Aidan and flinch. It shouldn't have surprised me, with the lax attitude of Salles' rulers, that _servants_ show their fury at and contempt of the crown prince for his presumed abuse of me.

They shouldn't, though. Showing your ruler you hate him...it's not right.

The other servants help me a lot, now. My work's usually done by the time I find it. When I _do_ find it. They apparently relish sending me on lengthy searches throughout the castle, to keep me away from Aidan.

Then there are their pitying looks. I avoid them.

Ironically, the nobles have taken Aidan's violence as proof of my prior innocence. A few avoid me from embarrassment, but others—most—treat me civilly.

And a few of the noblewomen treat me with even the tad of friendliness some think due concubines. With the noble families' common marriages of convenience, not a few prefer their spouses' use of alternative sources of, ah, comfort.

Not that I'm even a concubine—if my situation were true, I'd at best be an unwilling mistress. Concubines have contracts, and their families are reimbursed for their daughters' infamy. And a concubine's children by her lover receive some financial support, even after the contract ends.

Upper middle-class women and lower nobility are concubines. Poorer girls are mistresses and prostitutes—rarely courtesans. Most courtesans are girls like me, baseborn children of the court who decide to take the only high-class position available to our type of girl.

And in all this mess, there's Lallie, who now works thrice weekly around the castle and gives me a little secretive smile or wink when I see her. Geddis avoids me from discomfort, but I sometimes catch a glimpse of her confusion as she sneaks a studying look at Aidan.

That at least those two have realized that something very different must be happening for the prince to be alive gives me as much concern as it does comfort. Surely it will occur to Silva, too. I'm surprised it hasn't already.

Or has it, and might she have intentionally attacked in a way that it would be as ineffective as much as it seemed legitimate? The prophetess can be devious, when necessity dictates it. Anyone who doubts it need only watch how she manages the nobility who scorn her.

Not that their scorn of her makes much sense. Even if her father were exiled, Silva's status as Prophetess of the King should be unaffected by her family line. Something else must make them hate her so, but what? She is no baseborn waif, but some now treat _me_ , the crown prince's presumed mistress, better than the king's own prophetess. It makes no sense.

Sometimes I wonder how much I don't know about the people around me, but I try not to think about it much. If I haven't learned it by now, I doubt I will before Drake or Carling kills me.

Or I kill myself. I don't consider that possibility much. It's frighteningly tempting. I don't want to face Drake's abuse, but if that somehow ends up freeing Grandmother's people...

What right do I have to rid Aleyi of me without fulfilling the prophecy, and without doing what I can to make sure Aidan's own life isn't cut short by a treacherous wife?

And I suspect, as poorly as Aidan is certain to take my pending death, my death at my own hand...would not be good for him.

I feel awkward as I stand in the room, servants milling around to pick things up, but I, the cause of the mess, am banned from helping as surely as if Aidan had slapped me for trying. Not that he's ever actually hit _me_. I'm disinclined to give him opportunity.

"Evonalé!"

I jerk back and trip at his unexpected sharp statement by my ear. William catches me and glares at Prince Aidan. I squirm a little, but he still holds me fast, moving me away when Aidan reaches for me.

The prince's angry expression makes me flinch, again, when I notice it. William pulls me behind him. "Haven't you done enough to her?!" he demands. "You've betrayed her trust, _hurt_ her terribly, destroyed her prospects—"

My too-loud, hysterical laugh interrupts William's irreverent and foolhardy tongue-lashing of his prince. I never had prospects, and I know the tone of my laughter reveals it.

Others' confusion quickly sobers me. Servants aren't stupid. They've known there's something odd about me, just not what. My laugh, my revelation that I never expected to marry, has likely already confirmed to the faster-witted ones that I'm a royal bastard. Any less of a father, and I would not have needed to flee my native kingdom.

Properly, I'm what nobles mean when they say "child of the court." Probably. I'll find out at Marigold's next embroidery lesson after she hears the gossip. I'm sure she and her father won't mind the chance to deride me.

I hiccup once, still fighting the urge not to laugh again at people thinking that I, a baseborn whelp with a death sentence as surely as if I stood on the executioner's platform, had actually hoped to marry someday. Sure, I've known they expected me _to_ marry, but that they'd thought that I would _want_ to marry had never occurred to me.

"William." Aidan's voice is stern despite the low tone. "Step aside."

"You two-faced—"

I yank myself from William's grip before he can hang himself and shuffle to the side, away from William, but not towards Aidan, either. Of all I learned from Mother, I never would've thought that this would be of use. That's one place where my background has prepped me well. I know how a stolen woman can be.

"Will—" That's too secure. I swallow and make my voice waver. "Will Silva be okay?"

"Ah, let's use our _minds_ , shall we?" Most people think of this particular tone of Aidan's as condescending. Very few realize it's his tone for when he longs to knock some sense into the pompous idiots of his social stratus so the social rules can be _sensible_ but realizes there's nothing to be done for it.

Then again, very, very few have seen him actually slap a girl.

His forced calm makes a stroll of what would otherwise be pacing. "Silva's beau, Faed Nirmoh, has been attending her. Faed Nirmoh's job is analyzing and containing insane mages. Silva has an unfortunate appointment with insanity at some point in her future, but as her beau has not declared her in need of containment, I am _certain_ she is well. Enough."

A sigh escapes more lips than mine, but I think I'm more reassured than anyone else is by Aidan's statement. Another reminder that I'm the only one present who knows he is—that we are—acting.

I'm exhausted, which helps me not notice Aidan's approach and therefore wince when he grips my arm. Everyone watches me; I shake my head with the determined awkwardness of someone who'd rather be hurt than get others hurt, and duck behind Aidan. They'd intervene, help me, if I asked.

Not that I can. I _can't_ ask it of them. Though the gossips now probably wag their tongues, declaring me a masochist.

Would it be wicked for me to ask the Creator to speed me to my impending death? I weary of living.

A week later, I squirm as I stand by Prince Aidan's bags, waiting for some of the castle menservants to come take the luggage to the carriage that'll carry us to Grehafen.

_Silva doesn't know._ And she'll be riding with us. We will have to keep her thinking what she does, thinking that Aidan's forcing me into being his mistress, that I'm terrified, that he has a yet-untamed violent and temperamental side...

Without spending enough time together to want to make this farce a reality. Aidan likes me enough that the idea's appealing; he's said as much.

This is going to be an exhausting, nerve-wracking, hazardous trip, and not just for me.

Aidan comes in and looks around, checking once again to make certain we've forgotten nothing of import. His light skin takes on the grey hue everything else does from my veil.

The veil is actually rather comfortable—or, at least, it would be except for what it signifies. I don't want to consider how much Aidan has used of his own royal allowance to buy my clothing. He holds a bag of things he's evidently packed last-minute.

I shiver when he looks at me, feeling exposed in my risqué grey gown despite the long boots and gloves that at least cover most of what the dress fails to.

I'm still not used to the high skirt that threatens to show my knees, as harlots' do, or the sleevelessness of the dress but for the wide shoulder straps. Despite the gloves, my shoulders are still left bare. Even Carling would think this improper for a maiden to wear, and she's grown up around the bad examples of her father's mistresses.

"Are you ready?"

I nod; my single bag sits among his. I try to avoid thinking of why.

He likewise nods in response, distractedly, and starts heading back to the door to probably go check on the horses again.

"Silva will be in the carriage with us," I blurt.

That stops him. Prince Aidan pauses before he turns towards me. "Yes?"

"How will we keep the...act like...make her still think...?"

A smile tugs his lips. "She won't expect me to...take my fun along the way, with her in the carriage. That's why she is sharing our ride, in fact; she insisted on accompanying us instead of traveling in her own." Which some people of the old school still think more appropriate for a promised maiden. According to the stories that gossips tell, philanderers usually seduce naïve young women while traveling.

No matter that the man already has a mistress—he can easily take the other who rides with them. Never mind that Queen Yuoleen's fall came during a horseback ride turned picnic.

"But when we stop to sleep—"

"Yes?"

I remind myself that his sharpness isn't from anger. "I should probably have a few bruises the next day." We'll be taking a leisurely week for the nigh eighty-league trip.

He flinches. "You don't expect me to inflict that?"

It's good for him. He's too protective of me. "Yes."

Aidan's brown eyes are wearied as their owner stares at me for several seconds. "One stop," he agrees in resignation. "I'll only cause it once."

"And take liberties?"

" _Power_ —" He swallows the curse as he stomps away. It takes him a good minute to resume control of himself and return. "Hold your hand, touch your shoulder, all right. I've done that before. Arm around the waist, perhaps. But we are not sharing a bed."

I stiffen. "Of course not!" I'm not fool enough to think that a safe behavior for a man and a woman who wish to avoid intimacy.

"And I'm _not_ kissing you."

That could harm the credibility of our charade. I pause and consider my response. "What quality of mistress I must be if my master won't even—"

My face in his suddenly-there hands halts my tongue, my mouth abruptly dry. _This is better_ , I repeat firmly to myself as I fight back the internal chill and icy tears.

"Why do you fight so, Evonalé? Why fight so strongly for something you don't want?"

I keep my face as impassive as I can while the uncontrollable cold tears run one at a time down my cheeks, his hands, to moisten the cuff of his sleeve.

He scowls at my refusal to reply, stroking my cheekbone with this thumb. "Whatever you do in this game, _don't_ play temptress," he murmurs. "That's not one of the roles we've established."

And he doesn't trust himself with temptation if I entice him, I assume. The knowledge makes my stomach churn.

Some small part of my mind realizes I could use that to my advantage if I ever need to escape Drake's abuse. There are ways to ensure that a child will likely be by one lover and not another.

My stomach twists within me at the thought. No. Royal bastard by incest I might be, but I am not a harlot.

But if I can't avoid it entirely, I'd rather be used and have a bastard sired on me by my old friend than by my half-brother. Aidan wouldn't brutalize me. That thought has more appeal than I like admitting, even to myself.

He still holds my face in his hands. I examine him, the temperature conflict between fear and embarrassment from my thoughts now keeping me at a more normal temperature.

I step back, just enough to pull away from him. "Highness?"

"Yes, Evonalé?"

The way he looks at me makes my stomach jerk in yet another direction. It's wrong, those thoughts. Aidan's going to be hurt enough by my death. I'd be a horrid person to intentionally add more guilt to that.

I shake my head; William clears his throat from the doorway. "Pardon, Highness." From the tension in his mien and voice, I doubt he means the apology. "I'm here to fetch your bags."

And the act continues.

"Come in."

William gathers the last of the bags in this one trip. He tries to step between me and Aidan, to separate us, to give me space away from the man who's evidently abusing me. Aidan doesn't allow it and takes my arm. With a glare at his prince, William leaves the room with his load.

Maybe I should check the food; I wouldn't want one of the well-meaning but misled servants to attempt to assassinate Aidan. His grandmother killed her husband, King Jarvis by poisoning.

I follow, carrying a small one of my knitting on one arm while Prince Aidan escorts me by the other arm through the castle to the carriage.

I say 'escort,' but he keeps a firm grip on my elbow. I mutely let him pull me along, letting myself be slow, labored; bent. I shuffle my feet, avoid others' gazes; flinch away from Aidan's gaze.

From others' responses, I'm apparently doing very well in my imitation of Mother, of the girls I saw when I was small who had caught Father's eye. Some relished his attentions. Most didn't. A fool could realize that Father was no man that a woman would want to marry, for her own sake.

Now I just need to convince myself that entire façade is a good thing.

_The colorless haze, again—this time without walls. The fog is the walls; the rope whip snapping towards me is the fog, insubstantial yet solid. My cry is soundless when it slices my side._

_I panic at the injury to my stomach. I curl up to protect it as best I can. But much of it remains uncovered; too much. Its bloated size hinders my feeble attempts to shield it._

Thump-thump! _I hear faintly, beneath the sounds of my own panicked heartbeat and ragged breathing._ Thump-thump!

_I can't escape the fog, but I scramble onto my feet and stumble away, fleeing the whip. Fog-ropes lash out and bind me, trapping me. I writhe uselessly against the bonds, a whimpering cry for help all that passes my lips. Anything else I try to say doesn't make a sound._

_In the same moment that my unborn child kicks my insides, I hear_ him _calling for me._

I jerk awake and automatically lurch away from Aidan, who whispers in my ear. His quick, firm grasp of my arms keeps me from landing on Silva, who sleeps across the aisle on the other bench. The carriage sways as it travels over the stone road, already starting its incline to cross the Dwaline Mountains.

"Evonalé," he whispers again. His fingers brush a lank bit of hair from my forehead, and I realize my damp chill. "Are you all right? It sounded like a—"

"Elves don't have nightmares," I interrupt. I hate these dreams—one more evidence that I'm Father's daughter, not Mother's.

Even the faint moonlight is enough for me to see his slight smile. " _We_ do."

"I'm not a human."

"You're not elfin, not really," he unfortunately has enough sense at this late hour to be able to notice and point out. How, I don't know. "If not human, what are you?"

I flush, grateful that his eyesight isn't nearly as good as mine in the dark, though irritated by his alertness. "I never said I wasn't _human_. I said I'm not a human."

"But you're not an elf."

"No," I agree.

"So my question remains, 'My beloved daughter.' If not a human, if not an elf, what are you?"

That's a question I have to think about before answering. "Both. Neither. _Not_ either."

"Oh, _that_ makes it a lot clearer."

"Call me a mage, then!" I snap. He's far more awake than anyone should be who hasn't slept in twenty hours. I'm worse off, and I've caught a short nap. "Though summoning a simple inn to sleep in is beyond me."

Aidan leans back, carefully keeping himself as far from me as he can, considering the confines of this carriage bench. "I'd rather not submit one of my subjects to our...situation."

"No, leave that to _another_ king to deal with."

He shrugs. "Another king's subjects would be expected to come up with silly rumors about a traveling prince and how little or much he likes his mistress. _My_ subjects, however, know me well enough by reputation that I'd rather not submit our little play to their observational skills or gossip."

I stare blankly at him for several seconds while my tired brain sluggishly untangles the sentence. He actually gives his subjects credit for brains. "Oh."

Aidan settles himself into sleep. "Let me know if you need anything—some water, a snack, a—" He frowns in irritation. "Oh, you know me well enough to know to ask." He puts his head down.

He's too intelligent, I realize, feeling sick. Too observant. Carling wouldn't dare risk letting him live, not long, maybe not even as long as she'll let me.

That danger gives me even more reason to break him out of this mess.

Silva awakens with a restrained moan, which wakes me up. She stretches a little, hampered by the confines of the carriage, though she has more space than we do, since she has a full side to herself. In my grogginess, it's not hard to pretend I don't see her keen examination of me by early morning light.

My teeth chatter, aggravating my headache. Making myself cold while traveling through a mountain pass probably wasn't one of my better ideas.

"Good morning," she says finally.

I look at her dully. She shivers from the cold and continues with the depressingly cheery front, reaching over me to mock-punch Aidan in the upper arm. "Morning, Highness. Let's enjoy the sunrise while stretching the kinks from our backs!" She reaches for the rope to alert the driver that we desire his attention.

"No," Aidan says softly.

Silva narrows her eyes at him. "Aidan..." she warns.

He lazily meets her gaze. "If you wanted space, you should have taken your own coach." He shifts and wraps his arm around mine; I flinch at his unexpected touch. "We'll enter Dwaline-Het within a few hours. We'll spend the rest of the day and the night there."

I flinch again. Dwarves. And I never have been able to remember which of the dwarfdoms is which, even to know which ones are on rock and which are in it. I'm a bit better acclimated to climate extremes than a normal human—or even dwarf—thanks to elves' tendency to live in wastelands. A dwarf might notice that. They're used to living between where humans prefer and where only elves can thrive.

My chattering teeth bite my tongue, reminding me that I'm too cold. Maybe I could make myself sick; that would keep anyone from thinking that I can handle the cold a little overwell.

But in less than a week, I'll need all my faculties in my family's presence. I should warm myself.

I know enough about dwarves to know that using magic is a bad idea. Even dwarf sages are uncommonly skilled at detecting the residual traces magic leaves after use. That Aidan's new mistress can use fire magic is not a rumor I want to reach Father. Or Carling.

That leaves the natural methods for warming myself up. It'll be a few hours before we reach a fire, and I'm cold enough that waiting would be unwise. That leaves embarrassment as means for making my temperature rise naturally.

Embarrassment. I'm stuck in a carriage across from my magic tutor and beside my prince. What could I...

Oh. I start to warm even from the idea, but thankfully I'm cold enough not to blush easily. I bite my lip, hoping Aidan won't notice as I eye him sidelong. I'm a good enough seamstress to guess how he has to be shaped for his clothing to fit as it does—I've mended it enough to know it well. And I made those trousers.

I abruptly gulp down a squeak and flush, extremely warm, body shaking and teeth chattering thanks to the abrupt temperature change. The others give me odd looks; Aidan even reaches for my forehead. I jerk away from his hand, eyes shut against the too-vivid imagination I didn't realize I had.

Considering how Aidan must look beneath the clothing I've made and mended for him wasn't such a bright idea. Men of Salles don't wear undergarments.

"Rakshi, Mistress?" asks the she-dwarf who's serving us breakfast.

I shake my head. I'm having millet enough in the porridge and bread to want to try it fermented.

That King Aldrik gets along well with dwarves and their candor doesn't surprise me. What does is that the other nobles of Salles do well enough that the Dwaline dwarfdoms and Salles have long had a good relationship. And part of dwarves' candor is calling people as they are—or in my particular case at present, presumed to be.

Those presumptions also mean that I'm to be treated fairly and well, but if I speak while Aidan's talking, I'm to be ignored. Or so the precedent from earlier this morning suggests.

I don't quite understand all the nuances, but evidently that the concept behind the terms _mistress_ and its dwarven equivalent don't quite connect. That Aidan and I have been assigned different rooms lends to that impression.

A small serving maid, slightly less stocky than most and her skimpy ear hair neatly braided and tied with ribbons not nearly as garish as most dwarves prefer, refills my glass with water. I decide to try to use some of the very limited dwarven that I can read. " _What is mistress_?" I ask quietly, no doubt slaughtering the pronunciation.

She's startled at my addressing her, startled still more by my undoubtedly horrid attempt to speak her language, and stares at me for a few seconds before bursting into a smile. "The mistress is the lord's personal...maid," she explains and quickly refills Aidan's glass of water, too.

" _Thank you_." That much, at least, I've been able to pick up in properly-pronounced dwarven this morning.

I watch the young maid, unusually small-framed and tall for a dwarf, as she fills everyone's water. She moves with an odd awkwardness, too; not clumsy, but she concentrates as she moves.

She smiles often and offers cheery comments, heedless of the differences in class between her and those she serves. Charla, I hear her called. I'm a surprised that I understood enough dwarven to understand her answer.

But then I recall her answer, and I chill. Her reply hadn't been in dwarven. She'd spoken _elvish_.

Aidan reclines on the couch. "Nice people, the elders of Dwaline-Het."

I fight the internal chill as I draw the water for Aidan's bath for him. It doesn't leave much energy for replying. "Mm."

He looks at me sharply. "Evonalé, are you—" Aidan stops suddenly, comprehension flashing over his face, and he laughs long and hard. "Charla?" he asks, when he gathers the breath to manage it.

I frown, irritated that he couldn't have warned me if he already knew of this. I pour the water into the basin. "She speaks elvish."

"Constantly." He takes a few deep breaths. "She _is_ elfin. Even felfin, I believe. Her father was a refugee who died back when the Shadow first broke out in Salles a few years ago. Her mother is a halfling, human and dwarf, so she's more elf than anything else and likes emphasizing that for certain visitors."

"Like you."

He shrugs. "Salles is notoriously accepting of other kinds." His eyes shine as he struggles not to smirk. "And she's made more likely to use it with...encouragement."

I stare at him, trying to figure out what he's not telling me. He pointedly winks.

I scowl at him, not that he can see it behind my veil. "Thanks." I take up my knitting.

"Where are you going?" he asks as I turn the door handle.

I curtsy with mock politeness. "I'll be sitting outside while you bathe, Your Highness."

He looks from me to the water and back. "Oh," he says. "I thought..." Aidan shakes his head and comes my way, not finishing that sentence. "You go ahead. I'll check the market; maybe they'll have something for sale that we can use."

"Me?" I ask with enough incredulity in my tone to remind him of my station. "You're—"

"Someone with skin a great deal less sensitive than yours. Use the cursed bath." He gives a quick, false smile, and goes around me, removes the door handle from my hand, and closes the door in my face before I can frame a coherent reply.

"So..." Silva asks that evening, a gentleness softening the sharp tone of her curiosity. "What's this I hear about us taking a detour south?"

I give her a blank look while I knit on my nightgown. Grehafen is northwest. From Dwaline-Het, due north and south are only more of the Dwaline Mountains; Salles is southeast. Southwest is the Redskin Plain, named such due to the 'skin' of red earth that covers it, and for the reddish color of its famous horses.

She reads my silence correctly as cluelessness. "Charla congratulated me on Prince Aidan having promised to help the most notorious hermit around. He evidently relishes making people miss their appointments."

I flinch. That doesn't sound good. "South as in back to Salles or south as in the Redskin Plains?"

Silva pauses. "South as in 'nearing Breidentel'." That name sounds familiar. She explains, "Kingdom on some of the uppermost Dwalines."

_Elves_. I stiffen. That's why I recognized it: it's an elvish construction.

...Actually, isn't that the kingdom whose royal bastard gossip purports me to be?

"From what I've heard of him, the hermit himself might even be elfin, at least in part—"

"He isn't," interrupts Aidan as he enters. "Some kobolds stole some naril he had; he's not as young or limber as he used to be, so he needs a bit of help getting it back."

He pauses. Silva watches him with an odd expression on her face. "Honestly, by the looks of him, I'm not sure he ever _was_ limber, but that's irrelevant. If he's part anything other than dwarf, it's part giant."

A minority kind that grows unusually large. But..."Kobolds?"

Aidan nods sharply. "Yep."

I give him a long, blank stare. He doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't—I've forgotten the veil I'm wearing. "What's a kobold?"

Silva chuckles, suddenly more relaxed than she's been since my state as Aidan's presumed mistress started. "Little nimble creatures that like shiny things for their nests. Often take valuables. Some people even train the critters as thieves."

"So they're animals."

Aidan pauses. " _Yes_." He swallows noisily, and when I look at him I notice that he's just barely restraining himself from laughing at me.

I just look at him over my knitting.

"Why are we helping him?" Silva asks.

Again, a pause; then he shrugs and goes to a nearby table and pours himself some rakshi from the carafe there into one of the provided cups. "He needs it."

Silva frowns. "I'll rephrase that: what is he going to give that's going to help you against King Darnell and his legitimate heirs?"

I stare at her, thankful for the veil and its ability to hide that I'm staring. Unfortunately, Aidan loses his composure at that. He gapes. "Y...I thought you thought...I mean..."

"I did so think, up until, oh, two minutes ago." She glances between us. "You converse far too easily."

My fault. "Yie."

" _And_ you may want to watch your elvish interjections."

Sound sticks in my throat. I swallow and nod.

"He says fire mages can burn spells, including curses," Aidan blurts. "When I said I knew a fire mage, he said he'd be willing to teach my friend if I did him a favor. Per popular gossip, he's disinclined to admit to others what he does for those who help him."

Silva's look at him is mild. "I heard that he likes making people miss appointments."

Aidan shrugs. "That, too, but that should help. A standard lack of eagerness for the wedding, to be expected in a situation like mine."

"Will he provide separate rooms for the two of you?"

He chokes on a gulp of mead. "If it comes to that, she's bunking with you."

Silva grins, looking happier than she has in a while. "No argument here."

**Year 250 of the Bynding - II**

ON THE WAY TO THE REALM OF GREHAFEN

_Early Summer_

Spells leave traces behind, prints. A practiced mage can often identify when magic has been used, even if they don't recognize the signature of the mage who worked it.

No matter how carefully a spell is worked, how well it is hidden, it can still be found.

Magic is never anonymous.

— _Endellion_

"Ulk." I swipe chunks of mud from my face and clothing. Silva wasn't kidding when she called kobolds 'nimble', and nimble I most definitely am not. Silva's faster and more sure-footed than I am, and she's easily twice my size.

The kobolds might not be sentient, but they do have a knack for realizing who in our threesome is the easiest to unfoot. The little pink critters have tripped me up many times, with their pointed ears up and stick-tails crooked in mischief. Mud seeps and rocks tear through veils with depressing ease.

On the bright side, individuals aren't smart enough to realize that I've caught each of their brethren magically after that. Each time I use my magic to catch a kobold, I lower my ability to catch one with my hands, but I never had much chance of pulling that off, anyway.

I pick my way carefully over to Aidan and Silva. Aidan holds this last kobold hostage by pinning it to the ground by a knife through the ear while Silva pries the naril earring from the little four-fingered hands. The kobold alternates between squealing at Aidan and chittering at her.

Silva finally gets the earring and straightens, one hand on her back. "Last one," she says with a grim smile and a wince. "Only took what, a month?"

"Near enough. At least we had the coachman to alert my dear fiancée that we'd be late." Aidan sounds flippant, but I notice him glance over me to ensure my veil's secure.

Father sent one gryphon to check on us that he noticed; I haven't told him about the others. Even Silva neglects to mention the magical tension and feeling of being watched when they come. I doubt Aidan is keen enough in magic to recognize the sensation as any more than a chill.

Aidan frees the kobold, which immediately takes off. He cleans his knife and sticks it back in his sleeve.

"Boot would be more comfortable," I mutter.

He glances at me. "Sleeve is easier to reach without raising suspicions," he replies in a similar tone. "Besides, you're hardly an expert in knives."

I ignore that point. "What are you going to do, kill Father with it? It's hardly—"

"We should return to Master Oscar," Silva interrupts.

More lessons. Wonderful. I yawn. As if learning to burn spells like I can physical things hasn't been exhausting enough every evening; now he wants to teach me how to examine a static spell.

"Static spells are a lot easier to identify than dynamic ones." It's not _that_ time of month for Silva; I've just grumbled overmuch. Her hearing isn't as bad as she sometimes wishes it were; a detail I've picked up from her own grumbling.

I scowl and snap my jaw shut against a yawn. "You don't need to know _what_ something is to burn it; you just need to know the type, intensity, and trajectory."

Silva won't let it rest. "A technique that would be difficult enough against one hostile opponent, much less three." Interesting how contagious depression and pessimism can be.

Aidan ignores my dark look. "As I've been saying."

"Can we discuss something _other_ than our pending deaths for daring to withstand three powerful mages?" Silva asks mildly.

Aidan immediately starts a monologue on his most recent batch of pups and which stud he told the servants to pair with each bitch in his absence.

I dig some mud out from behind my ear and flick it at him. "Oh, shut up."

After an annoying few hours of study that were surprisingly less draining than expected, I drag myself up the stairs. With our task done, we'll be resuming our journey towards Grehafen soon. Getting it over with will be such a relief.

I lean against my door to open it, stumble in—stumble _over_ something on the floor that I can still see somewhat despite the dark. My attempt to catch myself catches on something else in the darkened room, and I land, hard, on a few things that weren't there this morning. Whatever they are, they blend with the floor.

I only realize I've bitten my lip when I taste blood. It's not a bad injury, I find when I test it with my tongue.

The racket brings Silva with a lantern. I blink at it, shielding my eyes from the unwelcome light.

"Evonalé?" she asks after a few attempts that get interrupted by yawns. "Are you...?" She lifts her lantern to find some large rocks on the floor and moved furniture. "This wasn't here when I went to bed."

Aidan finally saunters in, yawning and stretching. "Problem?"

Even when I thought her a mere maid, I knew better than to think Silva stupid. She scowls at him and picks up one of the rocks. "You know Evonalé can't navigate a mess like this in the dark." She puts it away as best as she can, up against the wall out of the way.

He merely gives her and me a bland look. "I trust that will bruise?"

"You were trying to bruise her?!"

"I asked him to," I quickly interrupt, recognizing Silva's tone as tired and irritable enough to possibly do something more drastic than her standard calm scolding. I still think she caused those hiccups Aidan couldn't get rid of two weeks ago after 'innocently' asking if she and Master Oscar shared a (giant) cousin.

With her apparent sensitivity to the question, I can't help but wonder if she is at least a little giant. That ancestry would explain why no one ever got mad at Lord Elwyn for marrying a cook. From the legends that I now know not to discount entirely, giants have clan structures that tend to be very problematic for anyone who insults one member of the clan.

"You _asked_ him to give you bruises?"

"So I look abused," I explain, too tired to fully feel the surprise I should that Aidan remembered the promise he'd made me a month ago to give me bruises one night. I'd forgotten it, myself.

"Bruising you _is_ abuse."

I'm too tired for this. "Just go back to bed."

"Yes, Silva, do. We have an early morning, tomorrow." Aidan's far too alert and cheerful for the middle of the night—a time when _I_ 'm supposed to be the alert one. "If we leave early and set a quick enough pace, we should reach Grehafen in time for supper."

"Thank you," I say before Silva can put words to her weary sigh.

"You're awfully eager for something you're convinced will kill you," she snipes.

"I've waited with this looming over my head long enough. Now, I just want it over with." And honestly, learning to burn spells makes me feel a lot better about my ability to defend myself. _That_ is something even Carling won't expect me to know. I think.

Aidan takes Silva by the arm and guides her to the door to her room. "Go. To. Bed." He gently pushes her in, then turns to me. I step back to his step towards me. "That goes for you, too."

I probably look more sullen than I intend to in my exhaustion, but I nod and plod through my room. Aidan catches me as I trip and sees me safely to my bed. Then he goes back to his own chamber.

That reminds me: our renewed travel brings with it the renewed pretense that I'm his unwilling mistress. Fun.

We make good time to Grehafen, since we can't put it off any longer. I spot the elf-small slaves first, tending the fields under gryphons' beady gaze. My mouth goes dry.

"Try to calm down."

I start at Prince Aidan's voice. I turn towards him slightly, preferring to keep what little space we have between us in the carriage. "Your Highness?"

He raises his hand as if to pat my shoulder, but Silva glares at him. He lowers it. "You're on edge."

I set my jaw, not bothering to reply as the carriage clatters over the drawbridge. On the other side, male elves, slaves, pull up the bridge by rope, sweat pouring down them in the summer heat. Younger ones come to guide our horses to the stable. Father's deepened the moat since I fled.

Prince Aidan helps Silva step down from the carriage, then comes around to assist me. I keep my head bowed, despite my veil. Father and Carling greet us. I restrain myself from pondering what Drake is probably doing.

I keep a little behind His Highness, more out of fear than for respect of my supposed station. Aidan presents Silva first, letting her be ahead of him by right of her rank.

"You remember Silva Feyim, Prophetess of the King my father, of course." His smile's sweetness is false enough that I'm sure Father and Carling have noticed. He moves forward himself, offering to take Carling's arm.

Carling dodges it gracefully, waving towards me. "What of Lady...?" she asks, obviously knowing full well that I'm no lady, but as obviously wanting me to not be exempt from the political maneuvering.

Aidan frowns, confused for a moment. "Lady—" He glances at me, realizes what Carling's doing, and immediately turns his voice frank. He laughs a little, nervously. "That's _not_ a lady."

"And she would be?"

"My...girl."

Carling smiles. "At least you had something to enjoy in your delay."

Aidan's frozen smile lasts a few seconds as he wonders how he's supposed to respond to that. Then he spots Drake squinting out the massive oak door that someone's holding open for us. "Drake! You remember Nallé, of course?" he calls.

Introductions duly made, Aidan carelessly takes Carling's arm with his right, mine with his left, and starts walking us towards the castle.

"You must be famished." Father completely ignores me. He doesn't comment on our lateness, either. "This way."

I'm reminded of Dwaline-Het while I eat this meal, served beside Prince Aidan just like Drake's current mistress is served beside her master. She's a lovely veil-less redhead with hands rough enough that she may have been peasant-born. Her name, Jenna, suggests origins on the higher end of low middle class, but low is low. I wonder how Drake found her.

Father, Carling, and Prince Aidan chat, with the occasional additions from Silva or Jenna. Jenna's ability to make intelligent observations on the court gossip conversation surprises me. Drake had always boasted that he'd only take a woman without much brain in her head, admittedly with a pointed stare at his sister. Carling's attempts to kill him, the elder of the two, haven't precisely been few.

I say nothing. Drake doesn't, either, but his bleary blinking and grimaces at loud noises suggest his silence is due mostly to a hangover.

Carling eyes Silva curiously. "I am surprised you look so well-dressed after such a long journey."

The prophetess nods politely. "Thank you. It is Nallé's doing."

"She must have the gift of beauty, then." Carling looks at me. "And you must also be beautiful to have your position. Are you elfin?"

Yie! Hardly am I here for an hour before that question arises! I draw a deep breath, struggling against my freezing. I cannot afford to let myself take fright. The ivy growing everywhere helps. "I cannot say, Princess." My voice comes out as a murmur as I misleadingly phrase that truth.

"A simple test can determine that." Father waves at one of the elf-maid 'servants', who immediately leaves and promptly returns with a glass of steaming clear liquid. I stare at her, wondering if she's anyone I should recognize. She looks half-familiar, but so do most of the slaves here, even some of the small children who I know I never met.

Father holds up the glass. My blood chills.

"We have discovered that elfin blood sinks in hot water. Do you mind, Aidan?"

Aidan hesitates before shaking his head. Ice creeps over my body. I stare at him. How can he? I may only be a quarter elf, but if my blood sinks—

Abruptly, I strangle the fear, thawing myself so I don't panic. I must trust in my father's blood to save me—the very one who now seeks to enslave me. How ironic.

The slave lass reluctantly brings the demanded needle. She hates this. I swallow.

Aidan himself takes the sharp object. His other hand takes mine. He holds it well, then pokes—

His own hand?

Clenching his hand in a fist over mine, he hands Carling the glass. She lifts it gracefully to study its contents. The blood floats, as is normal.

Even though it's been years since I last saw Carling, I recognize the flicker of disappointment in her eyes as she dramatically returns the glass to Aidan. "An even rarer catch, then." Her lips curve into a self-assured smile. "She must please you well."

Despite my veil, I cannot bring myself to watch her directly. My face burns. After all this time of worrying about Drake, I'd forgotten her poor taste, too.

She could hardly be expected to lack it, given our family history and her preference for a great deal of free time to work her magic in peace. Encouraging the men she knows to take their pleasure would only further her goal of out-studying Father.

Aidan hides his discomfort, but I see his knuckles whiten on the hand gripping the napkin in his lap. "Very well," he returns with a mimicry of her smile. He moves my unpricked hand under the table to his lap. "I only take the best."

He squeezes my hand to remind me that I must play along. I fight the bile rising in my throat.

Carling primly slices a thin bit of fine cake and takes a bite. "I would think the noble women of Salles castle would fight over who would get her aid for affairs, with her gift of beauty."

Aidan has to think before he responds to that. "We don't exactly publicize it."

"Ah." Carling smiles. "I understand. Perhaps I could borrow her beautifying services for the wedding, or would that impose on your time with her overmuch?"

I shiver at the idea. Drake may be brutal like Father, but Carling is devious and cruel. She wouldn't mind seeing what I look like to know how Aidan's tastes run, and she's smart enough that she could guess my identity if she saw me. She knows I was in Salles, and she's already tried to kill me once while she knew I was there.

That I suspect she'd be willing to find another of Aidan's presumed tastes to replace me after she disposed of me keeps me embarrassed enough to not freeze.

Aidan glances at me, hesitates, then carefully responds, "I'd rather have her company."

Carling nods graciously. She has no jealousy, only a greedy interest. The she-mage likes this rake of a betrothed she thinks she has. The less he desires to bother her, the more time she will have for herself.

I cannot finish my meal. I've lost my appetite.

Though Prince Aidan sprawls on an armchair, the only sound comes from my knitting.

Clickety-clack-click!

The fire is out. I shiver from a draft. Aidan doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't seem to notice anything, right now, not even his awry brown locks or royal garb, or the steaming teapot awaiting pouring. It unnerves me. I almost like when he stares at me better.

Clickety—

My needles' clacking pauses as I take a moment to smooth out the fabric. The soft white nightgown already takes shape. Since that ugly sweater incident, I've bothered to pay the more for the nicer yarns. "With the work I managed today, this might be done by the end of the week," I comment, wanting the silence to end.

Instead of replying, he starts stealing glances at me. It discomfits me even more. I squirm in my chair. Minutes pass.

Suddenly, he stirs in his seat. "Carling is obscene."

I nod, focusing intensely on my knitting, on the white yarn and oaken needles, struggling to keep my hands from shaking. She's keen and cruel, too.

His sigh sounds frustrated. I turn towards him. He looks frustrated, too.

He abruptly gets up, stance tense with anger. He stiffly walks to the window, sticking his head out into the fresh air.

"What _are_ gryphons, anyway?"

My jerk yanks the fabric, causing the stitch I drop to unravel down several rows. "Your Highness?"

It doesn't distract him. "You heard me."

I swallow hard. "Th—" My voice squeaks. "They enforce Father's rule, Highness." His look orders me to continue. "Some...some can siphon someone's life..."

"What of the fire curse? Can they set that, too?"

I cough. "N—no, Highness." My shrill voice hurts my own ears. "But they can activate it if you've been cursed—"

He shifts and interrupts with "Is Carling a hussy?"

I blink. Why does he ask _that_? The queries concerning gryphons are strange enough. "Your Highness?"

This time, he shoots me an irritated glance at the attempt to distract him. "Is my fiancée like her father and brother?"

I gulp. "Not that I'm aware of, Highness."

Aidan frowns. He returns to his former position; his broad hand grips the back of my chair. I hunch forward over my knitting so his hand won't touch my back, watching him sidelong.

"She always was too keen on her magery to show interest in much else," I add, I hope helpfully. Aidan shouldn't be so upset over this. "She spends much of her time in the forbidden hallway."

"Forbidden...?"

I nod. "Only the family can enter it. We think it's for learning about magecraft, the Bynd..."

"The Bynd?" comes the sharp response.

Now that I've riveted his attention, I regret it. Cold rushes to my face. "I...It..." My throat sticks. "...No matter, Your Highness."

I quiver under that brown stare.

He glances away, for once accepting my intentional tease. "So the hall holds their power?"

I don't answer, because I don't know.

He peruses me for several stitches, returns to slouch in his chair. Silence reigns for several more minutes while I carefully recover the dropped stitch. The silence isn't nearly as discomfiting as I found it earlier, since I now know it's better than whatever questions he's considering.

I hear Aidan slowly straighten in his chair. He leans towards the dead fireplace. "Have you ever thought about what you would _like_ to happen, rather than merely what you don't want to happen?" He absentmindedly gets up sets about restarting the fire.

Yet another odd question. "What do you mean?"

"What..." He sighs, looking around the pale grey marble room. It chills easily, but Father probably figured that we wouldn't mind that. The prince takes the poker and stokes the teeny flame the kindling brings forth. "What are your dreams?"

I'm confused. "At night?" He knows what I am; doesn't he know elves don't have them?

He shakes his head. "For the future."

The question puzzles me, even now that I understand it. "...I don't believe I've thought about it."

Aidan nods slowly, unperturbed even by my attempt to tease him as he stares into the steadily-growing fire he crouches before. "I thought not."

"What does that mean?" I accidentally wonder aloud.

He doesn't move. "You're too worried about what's about to happen to consider what you want." Aidan shrugs. "Comes with your...inordinate fear, I guess."

"Inordinate?"

"Inordinate." His head turns so he can give me a sharp look—I almost think he looks hurt. "You know I'm not like Drake. You also know that Silva and I are here to _help_ you. Why can't you trust us, trust the Creator, that you _can_ survive this?"

I laugh. I can't help it.

But the laugh ringing off the marble surrounding us reminds me of other laughs I've heard, here, of Carling and Drake and Father...

I swallow self-consciously and focus on forming the twin rib-pattern bodice. What am I on, again? An eyeing of the fabric tells me to do another knit stitch before purling three for the row's end.

Clickety-click-click! My work resumes.

I steal a glance at him. Aidan's eyes are closed, his finely-chiseled face drawn. My knitting drops. Could my distrust hurt him?

My body chills at the thought. Of course it hurts him, even if I dare not consciously consider why.

Oh, why lie? He's often reasonable; maybe a direct explanation will help him get over his foolish fondness for me. I set my knitting aside. "In case you haven't noticed, we're surrounded by three, well-trained lethal mages with their magical guards, and I'm supposed to somehow cause their power over Marsdenfel to topple. I'm not even certain exactly how the magic worked to give them that control to begin with.

"Add that whatever magic gives them that control almost certainly doesn't apply to _me_ ," I add, referencing my illegitimacy but for some reason remembering the Liathen in my dreams, "and my likelihood of surviving drops from 'improbable' to 'miraculous'."

"The Creator can work miracles."

I ignore that overly hopeful point. The Creator _can_ , certainly. He actually _does_ very rarely.

"Anyone who tries to manipulate the Bynd, the spell commanding the elves' Crystal, without being of the proper family, _dies_. It's part of the spell."

He gives me a frowning look. "You are of the proper family."

I'd laugh if the memories my prior laughter had brought weren't quite so clear in my mind. "I'm a child of the court, Aidan! The only thing I'm 'proper' for is being a courtesan.

"Besides," I continue, before he can insist, again, that my illicit heritage means nothing, "Carling is far from stupid. Drake and Father may be convinced that I can't be elfin, but she already knows your father took me in. We're going to slip sometime, and she _will_ notice. And that won't bode well for either of us."

I pick my knitting back up and eye my place in the fabric. "I'll do what I can to see you spared, but by the Creator, don't seek to save me. I'm not worth saving." I hear him breathe in sharply at my frankness, but I ignore it and focus on my knitting. Knit three, purl—

"Why don't we try it?"

I actually manage to stick myself with my knitting needle from my jerk at his unexpected and inexplicable question. My "Ow!?" is not the 'What?' I hoped to ask, but he answers it, anyway.

"The blood test. See how you would respond." He pours a bit of still-hot water from the unused teapot and finds a sewing needle in my bag. Without asking, he takes my small hand, examining the fingers closely before pricking one. I flinch, staring at him blankly.

"Forgive me." He squeezes my fingertip slightly over the glass. A drop of my blood falls in.

It dips from the momentum of its fall—then floats.

I shiver from the room's chill as the wind outside shifts enough to catch a crack, causing a draft. He puts another log on the fire and finds a quilt to give me. He insists on tucking it around me, though I glare. He's a bit old to be so foolish.

When he persists in his attentions, I make myself freeze as if he frightens me. Aidan notices my stiffening almost immediately and lets go. His cheek twitches.

"Stay here. I'll direct that you're not to be bothered. Get some sleep, if you can."

And, hurt by what he assumes is fear, he leaves.

I think over our past conversation and pale. Did I really call him 'Aidan'?

Someone shakes me.

My eyes snap open. A pretty redhead leans over the bed I lay on.

...Bed?

I sit up. I gasp, hastily quitting His Highness's sleeping chamber. Jenna follows me. "Nallé!"

I rub my face, trying to remember how I'd gotten in Prince Aidan's bed. I fell asleep by the fire, my knitting in my lap. I have a vague impression of His Highness entering...

Ah. He must've moved me.

My face burns. That must've been why he'd directed that I not be bothered. Others would've assumed I was sleeping in because we'd...

Jenna grabs my arm from behind. "Nallé!"

I start, remembering that's _my_ name. "Yes?"

She's tense and glaring at me a little, but she releases me and curtsies slightly in respect to the guest, me. "I thought you'd want breakfast."

I blink, surprised that she would bother. Then I remember that most of the visitors to Grehafen are from kingdoms under Father's rule, and therefore visitors that are peers to Jenna in her position as mistress to the crown prince are few and far between.

After what has probably been too long a pause to be fully polite, I copy her slight curtsy. "I'm honored by your attentions, Lady Jenna."

Jenna snorts, confirming my suspicion that she isn't well-bred—or if she is, she isn't fond of etiquette. "I'm no lady, and I never was one." She studies me. "I think you are, though."

The freezing sensation travels through me. My tongue sticks in my throat. Reminding myself what she and Drake probably did last night promptly relieves _that_ problem. "Oh?" I step towards the door, inclining my head for her to go first. "What makes you think that?"

"You're a child of the court, aren't you?"

Ah, so she's a smart one, too. If she's smart enough to hide it, Drake might even bother to marry her if he gets peeved enough at Father. He'll kill her eventually, either way. I nod graciously. "So I've been told," I murmur as we traverse the halls towards the kitchens.

"Have you been with Prince Aidan long?"

I intentionally misinterpret her question so I can answer "Years. You?"

Jenna laughs and feigns innocence. "Oh, I've never been with Prince Aidan."

"Prince Drake, then."

She shrugs. "Awhile," she answers vaguely, and I get the impression that Jenna herself can't remember. It wouldn't be unlike Carling to find an intelligent lowborn woman to strike her brother's fancy for spying purposes, I realize. I tentatively reach into the magic around me to see.

My stomach lurches as I identify traces of memory-and-loyalty affecting magic use, some of it delicate and precise enough that only Carling could have worked it. A noticeable chunk is brutishly done with Drake's overly rough style, sickening me further. I doubt she was willing when Drake first took her. Nowhere do I glimpse anything that I can identify as Father's.

I withdraw my magic cautiously so I don't brush against anyone else's tendrils and leave my own traces in the magic. But I pay for my magical concentration with my physical—I slip on some water that I've neglected to notice.

Jenna catches me, but despite her extra head of height over me, I nearly topple her over. "P—pardon," I sputter, caught off-guard.

The woman catches herself before anything rash escapes her lips. She frowns and carefully says, "It was nothing." Rather than resume walking towards the kitchen, though, she stops beside the forbidden hallway that I try not to think about. An orange glow encircles the entrance, just like it did when I was small.

I entered it once, as a child, making it down a few feet before Father caught me. It was a month before I could walk, again.

This corridor is still empty for the time being. I itch to continue, not wanting to be found here.

"They've changed me, haven't they?"

I jerk, startled by Jenna's blurt. "I, I—" I stop, and collect myself so I can speak clearly. "How would I know? I never knew you, before..."

Her bland expression makes me stop. Jenna glances around; the hall is still empty. She steps closer to me and says quietly, "You were _surprised_ to be in his bed." So I'm not who or what I pretend to be, she omits. "My memory may be garbled, but there's nothing wrong with me, otherwise." She furrows her brow and frowns. "I hope."

I swallow, reigning in fear's ice enough to ask, "What do they say happened?"

"That I caught a brain fever," Jenna says frankly, "but I'd remember having that. I can't say how I know that, but I should remember having it if that's what's wrong with me." She pauses. "I think I was an herbalist."

I nod slowly, shuffling back so I can lean against the wall beside the forbidden hall. An herbalist with the habit of tasting the herbs she worked with probably also ate linashor, which would explain why the alteration spells have failed enough for Jenna to realize they're there without Drake or Carling noticing her knowledge.

This could be a trap, but _something_ inclines me to believe her. Something...

The realization hits me abruptly, stopping me midbreath. Carling would never think to pretend that one of her spells was slipping. She's far too proud.

Drake's not nearly duplicitous enough for it, either. And when Father wants to trap someone, he does it himself, not through his children's toys. My family has likely changed in the years since I've known them, but I doubt that significantly.

I reach into the folds of my skirt, into a little pouch where I'd hidden my personal safeguard against my family: linashor. I give her a strand. "It's nasty raw," I tell her softly, "but it'll keep any of them from pulling information from your mind for now."

Jenna takes it, looks at it, looks at me, and looks down the forbidden hallway. "Drake's there, now." She sticks the whole bit of linashor in her mouth, stumbling and grabbing the wall for support at the taste. "Ick." She swallows a few times and wipes her mouth. "I'll distract him. You go do what you need to."

I pause, at first in surprise but then eyeing the odd glow around the entrance. "I don't—"

"They aren't fools," she snaps. "Wait for them to realize you and Prince Aidan have lied to them if you like, but you'll not get a better chance to do what you came here for than I'm giving you now."

"...Why am I here?" I ask weakly.

Jenna scowls. "To find just cause to free Prince Aidan from his betrothal. And as someone who lives here, I can swear to you that your search will find nothing _except_ down that hall." She turns about and strides down the forbidden hall before I can respond, much less protest.

I gulp. Most of me wants to flee back to my rooms, to find Aidan and Silva and ask them for help. But most of me also recognizes that by the time I collected them, this opportunity would be passed, and if I fail here, I'd rather not kill the two of them, too.

Carling _will_ kill Aidan, I remind myself. I must try to save him.

And Silva. I stiffen, realizing what I've been trying to keep myself from noticing. This castle isn't faery-friendly, to keep out Fael Honovi. Silva risks her tenuous sanity by being here, as well as her life.

I force myself to take the first step, directly into the ring. Fire-based magic flares to life around me, but it doesn't even attempt to burn me, letting me through.

I'm part of the family. Just like Jenna, who has shared her body with Drake, is part of the family.

It's slow going, ensuring that I make very little sound without letting myself fall. I'm most careful in passing the doorway behind which I hear Drake and Jenna making noises that I _really_ don't want to think about.

Several yards in, the light vanishes except for a faint glimmer of a nearby torch fastened to the wall. I stumble, gasping as I recognize the odd hazy vision from the nightmares I've had since my sixteenth birthday.

If this haze is true, what does that say for the man in my dreams, Liathen?

I remember the nightmare with Drake's attempt to shove me into a torch's flame, and I decide I'd rather have that advantage, myself. I stand still for a few seconds, hear nothing, then reach up for the torch. I remove my veil and wrap it around the handle, and I release the torch from its perch with more caution than speed. Thus armed with my own external supply of light and fire, I resume my travel.

Soon, I glimpse on the left a short adjacent tunnel with a door at the end. I turn for a better view and notice a line of runes encircle the tunnel a few paces ahead. The runes look strange, translated, transformed into a language I do not know nor recognize.

Crossing lines of magic I cannot read could cause anything: death, poisoning, raising of an alarm, nothing. I shouldn't...

But it's hardly less foolhardy than anything else I've done so far, today. That hall may be where I need to go. The Bynd might be there.

I lift my torch to examine the runes more closely, but they are still unrecognizable. My arm shakes, the torch sputters, and I reach my left hand towards the runes.

Nothing happens to my fingers. I edge forward and offer my wrist.

Nothing.

I step swiftly through the rune circle.

_Through_ the runes. Nothing happens. Why would Father make useless runes? Why would anyone?

The door.

I still hear nothing; I'm still alone down here. Carefully, I unlatch the door and slowly open it, wincing as it creaks.

An oddly frail male of Aidan's age leans against the wall in long chains. Oddly frail, for his frame is similar to my mostly-human one, and he seems unusually well-fed for a prisoner.

He looks up only slightly, as if the torchlight is too bright for him to adapt to directly. I'm reminded of my own mild sensitivity to light.

"Who are you?"

After a minute, he squints directly at me. His puzzlement shifts into a glare. "Who am—" A cough interrupts his hoarse question, as if he's not used to often speaking or having enough water to keep his throat moist. "Who are you? Only Grehafen's royal blood can pass the runes to my cell."

Is the Crystal, is the Bynd behind similar magic? Is that why I must be the one to free it?

I jerk my torch up as I shiver from the fear-induced cold. A swallow wets my dry mouth a little. "I'm Evonalé Yunan," I manage to say. Something about his narrow features strikes me as familiar.

" _Love my daughter_ ," he murmurs, glancing away before his eyes lock on my face and he studies me. Their intense grey by torchlight reminds me of Gaylen's vibrant blue.

The man from my dreams.

After a good minute of his examination, he quietly states, "I am Liathen the Second, son of Gaylen and..." he pauses. "His wife."

"Gaylen had a wife?" Who would give the son a king's name? Did Queen Yuoleen give her crown to her prophet Gaylen?

Liathen smiles slightly, intense eyes glancing towards the door before returning to me. He moves his arms, chains clanking. "I don't suppose you have the key?"

"No..." But I do know that unlocking spell that Faed Nirmoh taught me. Might it work?

No, not might. It _will_ work. I concentrate, thinking only of the chains unlocking themselves, falling from the wrists of Liathen to the floor to free him as I draw the runes Faed Nirmoh taught me to summon the magic and focus it at the chains.

A stray thought jerks me as the chains slip to the floor. "But the runes! How can you leave?"

Liathen offers a slight rueful smile. "We share a mother," he says quietly.

What?!

In my shock, I dimly realize he has taken my torch and held the door open for me. I recoil when he gently touches my shoulder.

"Come," he says, still with the quiet that suits the prince he is—with faery blood, no less!

My mother's legitimate son leads the way out.

Liathen turns left rather than right out in the hall. I hesitate at the fork in the hall. "The exit..."

He glances at me. "Our Crystal."

I freeze for a long moment before I shake it off and quickly follow him further down this hall. "It's here?"

My newly-discovered half-brother moves carefully, leaning against the wall for support. I offer my arm, which he either ignores or doesn't notice. "So they have taunted me."

I wince. To be so close, for so long, and unable to do anything about it..."You don't look hungry," I blurt before my mind catches up to my mouth.

He shrugs, slightly enough that I'm sure his back hurts him. "They have to keep me healthy. It would hardly do for them to anger the Bynd by causing the death of its rightful heir."

...If he's who the Bynd wants, and he's from before Father forced Mother, then Father _had_ to sire me so he'd be able to control the Bynd.

But I'm younger than his other children, so he didn't have control of it when he sired them, so—

"Carling and Drake _can't_ control it!" I gasp at my accidental volume. It sounds loud, far too loud in the quiet of the hall. And I _know_ Drake is up the hall.

Liathen sees my horror and understands. I sense him awkwardly pull on air magic to aid him as he quickens his pace towards our goal. " _Come_!" he snaps in felvish.

After a fear-frozen moment, I yank the fire around me to thaw me so I can continue. I don't fully release the magic as I follow his swift pace—something tells me I'm going to need it.

The door ahead shimmers, inlaid with naril. Liathen looks at me. I stare at him.

"You obviously know more magic than I do."

I flinch at the reminder. Letting my teeth chatter so I can concentrate, I check the magic on the door. It's a ward, which I recognize as identical to the one that guards the entire hallway.

If I'm caught here, if they realize who I am, Aidan will die. I draw a quick breath. _Silva_ will die, too. Faed Nirmoh is letting his fiancée risk her life for...for _me_?

My head starts hurting. I gather my wits and shove the door open.

I gasp at the view. Scrolls, stones, tools of magecraft fill the room. The far end glows faintly.

Liathen pushes me in and enters. He lets the door latch behind us. I stare all around, awestruck by all Father's line has gathered.

Was it only Grandfather who began his family's journey into magery, separating themselves from other men? Or has this family studied magic from far before Grandfather's day?

The source of the glow is under glass. I approach it, following after Liathen.

My breath catches at the sight. It's... _beautiful_ ...

The many facets glow with an ethereal light that I feel more than see, for what I see in it is Father's grand hall, where Aidan and Silva per court protocol engage in idle chatter with Father and Carling.

"Beware the theft's fulfillment, for then death will come," murmurs Liathen.

At that quote of one of Gaylen's prophecies, the reality of where I am hits me. I chill, glancing fearfully around. This must be the elf Crystal. The scene it shows centers on the Bynd Father wears.

I edge forward. Liathen nods at the glass lid of the chamber containing the Crystal. I flinch when the lid creaks as I lift it.

Liathen nods again—does he fear to touch it due to his faery blood? Faeries are sensitive to this kind of magic. I tentatively touch the Crystal, the one that the Creator Himself gave to my grandmother's people.

It's warm.

In its center I see Father redden and Carling stiffen at a comment of Aidan's. Gryphons adjust their stances on their perches, which line the walls of Father's hall like plants once did King Aldrik's.

I grab the gem, startled when a light flares behind me at the wards around the door. I blink at its afterimage, then return to studying what I hold.

I stare into the Crystal in shock as the Bynd's light flares grey, consuming its usual orange as flames consume Father like they did Mother. The orange returns, stronger than before and edged by green.

...Father's dead?

Something—one—lunges into me. I let out a cry, the gemstone flying from my hands. I hear it skip across the floor.

Drake!

I scratch at him, yank at his hair, struggling to get away. Purple magic-fueled fire dances around us. Mine destroys the few roughly-aimed curses he manages to fling into his foolish attempts to burn me, a fire mage. The fire smolders my clothing, instead.

I glimpse movement in the view the Crystal provides, but that's all I can see as I fight Drake.

He muzzles me with his arm. I bite down, shoving fire into his eyes to block his vision.

He growls, releasing me. I scramble over to the Crystal and scoop it up. The sight it reveals makes me freeze. _Silva_ is fighting Carling?

I gape. Silva can't fight! Killing drives Hearers mad!

The gryphons aren't helping her, but they aren't coming to the princess's defense, either. One seems to be preening whenever Carling falters, but it's hard to tell with its grotesque form.

Aidan casually reaches in his sleeve, retrieves his knife, and stabs Carling's torso from behind. Surprise is all that shows on her face as she falls, blood pooling on her gown, and I know it does on mine, too, that Aidan could so easily kill—

But then he grimaces and swallows, looking a little green, and I know he's going to have nightmares from that moment. Suddenly, he looks around the hall frantically. He grabs the Bynd from Father's ashes and runs out.

Drake pries my people's Crystal from me. I hit him, sending it across the room once more. He grabs my wrist and twists. The pain makes me scream. I pull the magic around me, try to fight him...

I cannot— He's too strong! Yie! " _Fael Honovi_!" My screeching petition is useless here. Someone in Father's ancestry had a care to make Grehafen castle so faeries couldn't shift planes here.

Someone topples Drake. Abruptly he and Aidan are in a tangled heap of limbs and grunts, smearing blood on the floor. I hastily stagger to my feet.

The Crystal flies my way. I barely catch it. I clutch the elves' freedom to my chest.

Aidan bites back a cry. Is he hurt?!

He breaks free of Drake for a moment; flings the Bynd at me. I somehow catch it.

"Flee!"

Tears freezing on my cheeks, I immediately obey.

I must get out!

My feet carry me past Liathen restraining the willing but unfortunately bespelled Jenna, out of the castle, out into the forest...

I splash through a creek, slipping and falling hard against the stepping stones. I taste blood.

Seeing my tattered and burned gown's reflection, the welts on my arms, my hanging wrist, I realize just how close Drake came to subduing me. I gasp, curl up in the frigid water, and sob uncontrollably, clasping the now freed Crystal and Bynd...

My chest hurts. I can barely breathe. I wrack with coughing. My teeth chatter, and I'm shaking.

I cannot calm myself. Whenever I near it, I remember, and I...

My face is covered in ice from my tears. Where am I? I don't know. I don't even remember where I was before this little creek...

"Evonalé!" calls a familiar voice. I sit up, still huddled. The Crystal and Bynd lay against me. Who calls me? Should I...

Aidan comes through the trees, with a redheaded woman I half recognize. Another coughing fit takes me. He immediately enters the creek and scoops me up. "Come, Evonalé. Your people await you."

I stare at him blankly. My...what?

As we pass the woman— _Jenna_ , I remember, though I can't remember from where—swallows and curtsies. "Your Maj..."

I lose the rest of what she says to darkness.

" _Kgh_!" I swallow more coughs. I sniffle, clumsily drinking broth before a blazing fire in one of Prince Aidan's guest rooms. I vaguely remember the carriage ride back, but it's a pain-filled haze, the bench too hard and the clatter too loud.

I'm wrapped in blankets. I don't know why I'm here. Or where anyone is. Is Silva all right? I haven't seen her since...

My head swims.

As if from far away, I hear Aidan arguing with some noblemen. He's saying something about a treaty. His father speaks too, but quietly enough that I can't distinguish any words.

After more undertones, I grimace from a yell.

"Carling's _dead_! Her heiress inherits the terms!"

Before drifting back asleep, I idly wonder what the noblemen have a problem with...

"Evonalé." Aidan's voice breaks through the fog.

"Your Highness?" I tease. Aidan shrugs, halfheartedly. Something's not right. "What's wrong?" I ask quietly. He's upset.

He sighs. "Drake's dead," he states directly. Aidan looks away and swallows. "Carling, too."

I nod. I remember that, now. Tears begin to form in my eyes. Why did _he_ have to do this?

"Your father killed all his siblings and cousins, so there isn't anyone else left for the succession."

...His point?

"That leaves you queen."

For a long moment, I forget to breathe. I stare. A minute ticks by. "...What?"

"You're the only surviving heir of..." He coughs. "...Grehafen's royal family."

I laugh, convinced he's joking. He must be. Me, a baseborn child, _queen_. "You play!" My laugh swiftly dies at his still-serious mien. My eyes widen. "You...don't play?"

He smiles slyly and shrugs. "I don't know what's so special about it. It's a pain. You have advisors, nobles, and populace to keep happy; have a multitude of outrageous, illogical rules you have to follow, else be shunned..."

I bite my lip. "If I'm queen..."

"You are," he assures me, which doesn't help me get the nerve to finish this.

"Then who's ruling Grehafen now?" I wince when the words escape my mouth. So mercenary—not like I meant them.

"His Majesty of Marsdenfel, Liathen the Second," Aidan says promptly. "It'll take some time to remove the integration between Marsdenfel and Grehafen. He's working on restructuring the kingdom, too, so you won't have to figure out and untangle everyone your father, ah, persuaded to join him."

He sighs. "But when you feel up to it, there _is_ a matter that needs your personal attention. Nothing utterly _urgent_ , you understand, but..."

"Right." I swallow. "And Liathen can't handle it?"

Aidan's looking up and to the side when he says "No," in a tone that's half amused, half irritated. His brown eyes twinkle before dimming. "Speaking of acts as queen... Would Her Majesty of Grehafen be willing to ally with Salles?"

I giggle despite myself. I ponder his question, a bit puzzled. "We're already allies; I'm not going to change that. I owe you. And...we're friends, aren't we?" Rulers can be friends, right?

Aidan's answer is quiet. "Of course, Your Majesty." He stands. "I'll let you sleep. Here's your knitting." He moves a basket closer to my seat. I see my not quite complete nightgown inside, with the needles and as-yet unused yarn.

He bows. "Sleep well, Majesty."

He ignores the tongue I stick out at him as he leaves.

I finish off the ends on my nightgown, though part of me wonders if others will even let me wear the plain garb now that I'm a queen. The dress I'm wearing now is simple, but even it is of a nice fabric.

After putting the completed nightgown aside, I pull myself up and plod carefully over to the wardrobe to find a robe. Moving hurts my head. I bite my lip against the pain. I have a duty to perform.

There's a bell on my side table. After steeling myself for the pain that will bring my head, I sit on the side of the bed and ring it.

Lallie appears within seconds and curtsies, to my surprise. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Um..."

Thankfully, Lallie shows her usual good sense by smiling widely and flouncing over to sit beside me. "And how is Our Royalness doing today?" she asks, and gives me a big but gentle hug.

"...You're here?"

She releases me and gets up. "Of course! I wasn't gonna leave you all by your lonesome with Rees and the head matron to tend you, the horror! I'll fetch some tea for your head," she says, "then we'll see to the gryphons."

I jerk. "What?!"

"The gryphons," Lallie repeats, then purses her lips. "Did Aidan not tell you? That boy..." She sighs and picks up some hours-old dirty dishes left over from breakfast. "They need you to release them back to their natural bodies."

"Their..." The words stick in my throat. I remember the hand, years ago, that showed under the boulder that crushed one gryphon. I gulp. "The monsters," I whisper. "Father made them that way."

Lallie almost ruffles my hair before remembering my headache; then she pokes my shoulder, instead. "Clever girl. Keep that up, and you'll be a queen fit for chronicling."

"If I survive the coups," I mutter. Nobles loathe illegitimate children.

"True," Lallie admits, and I smile at her. At least _someone_ is thinking realistically about this mess.

That she's not refusing to admit to any possibilities but the idealistically optimistic ones is surprisingly comforting. I wish..."Thank you." I reach for her to hug her back. "I've missed you."

"Aw, girl." She nudges my back with her free elbow. "Don't talk like that." Because our places are so different. Because I'll soon be leaving for my lands, leaving hers behind.

As she leaves with the dirty dishes, I let my wish speak, for once. "Lallie?"

She stops. "Yes?"

"Do you think..." I swallow, uncertain if I even _should_ ask. Salles is her home. "Do you think, when I go back...you could come with me?"

Lallie just studies me. "If the offer's still open when the time comes, I'd like that."

After she leaves, I lie down to nap until she brings my tea.

My yawn interrupts the introductions between me and the gryphons. "My apologies." I blink to freshen my eyes and move so I can see more of the leader's awkward attempts to scrawl in the dirt with his claw.

I shiver to be so close to them. They stopped speaking when they noticed that and started their scrawls, instead. After several painstaking minutes of their attempts to write with their misshapen bodies, I think I understand what I need to do.

"Find and unwind the nexus of the spell that Father mastered to bind and control each of you," I mutter. Simple enough. Right.

I sit on a bench and reach inwards to grasp the magic firmly. Once I have that secure, I start my magical probing with the youngest, assuming he's been bound the most recently and therefore any traces of where the problem is will be freshest and easiest to find.

And I'm right. I find the magical bulge in seconds, survive its check that makes sure I'm of the right blood to access it, but I'm dizzy and panting by the time I manage to gently work it out.

I blink and grip my bench for support as I return to reality. "Did that work?" I somehow manage to ask while gasping for breath.

I hear coughing before my eyes focus enough to see the prepubescent owner of that voice. Lallie found a cloak to cover the boy before I recovered enough to witness his nudity. I flush and heat, anyway. "Yie."

Lallie supports me with a hand on my shoulder and checks my forehead with the back of her other hand. "Her Majesty must recover before attempting that, again."

"Lallie..." She looks at me blandly. I sigh and acquiesce. "I'll do the next one after a nap." This is going to take a while.

It took me nearly a month to free all the gryphons with all the attempts and recovery naps I needed, so I'm looking forward to this. Aidan's quiet as he escorts me out into one of the gardens.

I've missed the plants. And in the center of this garden, a familiar dark mare snorts. "Rowan!"

I hear him chuckle as Rowan nuzzles me. I pat her. "Who's escaped her pen again?" I hope she gets to come with me when I leave. I'm afraid to ask.

The prince watches me. "Do you like it here, Majesty?"

"Evonalé," I correct him. "Of course I do." Rowan sniffs me. "Sorry, girl; I didn't know you were looking for me. I don't have any sugar for you."

She snorts and turns away, pretending to scorn me. I know she's only pretending, because she stops if I get upset from it.

"Would you like to stay?"

I smile regretfully and stroke Rowan's hide. "I cannot impose." I've caused the deaths of more than enough people in his kingdom.

For some reason, my response makes him hesitate. I turn to look at him.

He considers a moment, then steps forward. "That's...not what I meant, Evonalé." He takes my hand. "I mean..." He sighs. "Promise not to try to burn me?"

I blink. This does not bode well, but "Of course!"

"You _are_ your father's daughter, you know, in the legal sense."

"If you ignore every criteria regulating legitimacy that exists."

He shrugs again. "Treaty didn't exactly specify."

_Then_ I realize what he's talking about, and I gape at him for several seconds before shutting my jaw. "I'm _not_ marrying you!"

Aidan laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, well, you see—"

I'm chuckling, now, and not exactly pleasantly. "No, no, no, no, _no_ ," I insist over him. "No."

He sighs. "A treaty by betrothal isn't something you can exactly get out of."

"Sure it is. Mutual consent. Halfway there, already. All you have to do is agree with me."

Aidan's looking at the trees around this garden. "My father would also have to grant his consent."

Rowan sticks her nose into my neck. A stableboy clears his throat. I let him take Rowan. Not sure why she was out here, anyway. "I'll come give you a ride later, girl."

I wait until the stableboy's out of earshot. "Your father's reasonable. He'd side with me."

Aidan snorts. "Not likely."

"He'd rather not lose his _only_ son and heir to...assassination, coups, civil war—"

He laughs. "Civil—"

"That _does_ tend to follow from a child of the court gaining a throne, Aidan." He had the same history lessons I did.

He remembers the cases I'm referring to, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he studies one tree's blossoms. "You mean when the child of the court causes a coup himself or assassinates her lover. This isn't the same kind of situation." He reaches up and plucks a flower. "Your mother?" he adds as an example.

"She never ruled, and elfin kingdoms don't function the same way."

Aidan shrugs, twirling the blossom between his fingers. "That your mother inherited _her_ mother's fiancé makes that fact obvious."

I had _liked_ the Gaylen—when he wasn't making vague prophecies about me, that is—so I don't appreciate how wrong he makes the man's choice of wife sound. "I'm sure they had a good reason for it."

Another shrug. "It's not that hard to figure out. If Queen Yuoleen had married, your mother would've been disinherited. He probably originally agreed to the idea out of a sense of pity or duty."

He offers the flower to me, but I ignore it. "He couldn't have loved her?"

His eyes widen. "Well, I _hope_ he didn't, when she was a baby."

Only then does the age disparity between King Liathen II's parents strike me. I have to think, hard, to come up with a suitable response: "Oh."

Aidan laughs. He eventually settles down and eyes me. "Treaty still says you're marrying me, though."

I pull off my shawl to ball up and throw at him. "I'm _not_ getting you killed!"

That statement startles him. Good. Let him realize that he risks his own life by insisting the treaty stand. I recover my shawl, put it back on, and head back inside.

It's a few seconds before he follows me. "Perhaps you'll change your mind after Silva's wedding."

I give him a long look.

He shrugs. "I know, you're not the sentimental type, but a man can hope, can't he?"

"A man can seek another wife," I reply. "If you're that eager to marry someone with few worthy prospects, what about Geddis? She's my age, has a prophetess for a sister—"

Aidan's expression and laugh say he can't believe I just suggested that. "I'm not marrying _her_! That's just..." He shakes his head. "Not my cousin. No."

I stare. "Your _cousin_?"

He cocks his head as he looks at me. "Elwyn Elf-friend is my uncle, born to King Jarvis by his mistress, Lady Fae."

I frown, trying to figure this out. "And Silva's older than you are...but your father's older."

He pauses. "No, which is much of why so many nobles hate him. For two sons, the older illegitimate and the younger legitimate, to get along as my father and uncle do is unusual enough to be considered unnatural, almost...uncouth."

He studies me curiously. "You've lived here all this time without suspecting it? There is something to be said for the discretion of servants over nobles, that's for certain."

Aidan sees my sullen look, grins, and offers a much-flourished courtly bow. "Your Majesty."

I glare.

"What? You mean you haven't been quietly thinking how lovely 'Queen Evonalé Yunan of Grehafen' sounds? And how marvelous it will be to see the all those formerly-spitting nobles cower by your boots?"

"Queens don't generally wear boots."

His amused glance contains a hint of irritation. "Wouldn't you love to make Marigold do your mending, for once?"

I shudder. "Elves, no! She'd completely destroy it." He's giving me an odd look. "What?"

Aidan smiles slightly and kisses the back of my hand, sending shivers up my arm. "Nothing," he says mildly, "but Her Majesty is still recovering from her recent ordeal and could use her rest."

Refusing to harbor further distraction or protest, he tucks my arm under his and returns me to my rooms.

"Silva Feyim, daughter of Elwyn Elf-friend, prophetess for King Aldrik, come forward," the holy man says, calling her down the aisle.

Cultured gasps arise from the nobility when Silva appears in the simple bright red gown that had been her middle-class mother's. Or so I assume from her grin and wink towards we attendants who stand on her side of the dais as particular witnesses.

Lallie elbows me lightly, and we exchange smiles. I smooth my gown, a bland tan that I had to fight with her over so she'd let queen me order it. She and Geddis wear the same color that I chose for myself for some reason of protocol. If I'd known that would be the case, I would've picked another color. Tan doesn't like Geddis.

The holy man turns to us. "Do you witness the presence of your sister and friend at this altar, free of duress, to wed the man her heart has chosen?"

"We do," Lallie and I say. Geddis only remembers to say it after I surreptitiously kick her. She gives me a quick, nervous smile of apology as she gives her own assent. She's surprisingly anxious for her _sister's_ wedding. Lallie lightly cuffs Geddis's shoulder in a failed attempt to calm her.

Silva has come up the aisle, and she kneels before the holy man. The wreath of small red chrysanthemums droops in Silva's hair. I resist the urge to straighten it. Aidan, standing beside the holy man as representative for Salles, notices my lingering look at the wreath and grins at me. The grin gets smaller but doesn't vanish when I give him a sharp glance for his rudeness.

"Silva Feyim, you have chosen Faed Nirmoh as your husband."

"I have," she declares, facing the holy man.

"You are not your own woman. Has this choice the approval of your king?"

Prophets of the King have great power, true, but that does not free them from accountability. King Aldrik stands from his place the seated audience. "It does, and my son stands as witness."

The holy man nods sagely, his homespun grey robe looking shabby even compared to Silva's intentionally middle-class gown. "Silva Feyim, you give up much to marry. You will leave your friends, your family, your home to make your house with your husband. You know this."

She nods, making her wreath droop even more. "I do."

"Your husband is a faery, not even your own race. His language, his culture will be foreign to you—and faery blood can be treacherous, as you well know. If you have any doubt about this union, yield now, and do not vow this day."

"I vow freely and gladly. Regardless of where life might lead, as long as I have my right mind and life, I will love, cherish, and support to Faed Nirmoh." She turns her head so all can see her grin. "Even when I'm right."

The holy man smiles. "Indeed. Faed Nirmoh, come forward." The faery does swiftly, coming to stand on his side of the aisle. The holy man's smile falls, his expression grim. "Faed Nirmoh, you have chosen Silva Feyim as your bride. You know she is a Hearer."

"I do."

"You know that she will, in due time, lose her sanity. You will have to watch your beloved wife eventually lose her mind. Do you swear to keep and cherish your wife even then?"

"I do. Wherever my life may lead, 'til its end, I will love, cherish, support, and care for Silva Feyim."

I'm not the only one who notices that Faed Nirmoh has bypassed some of the holy man's words. A murmur arises from the audience.

"With the Creator as our witness, we will be faithful to and take proper care of each other, for the duration of our lives," bride and groom vow together, Silva easily accepting her groom's adjustment of the wedding.

"Does anyone have a reason why these two may not be joined? If yes, speak now, else hold your peace forevermore."

"The bride's grandmother was baseborn, the daughter of a whore and a whore herself," Essere Carraway speaks up, standing and offering Faed Nirmoh a slight bow. "Perhaps Faed Nirmoh would reconsider his choice of—"

"Grandmother was—" blurts Geddis, blushing.

"A courtesan," Silva quickly but smoothly interrupts as people stare at the family display. Her lazy tone suggests it's _that_ time of month. Geddis's blush deepens into crimson at everyone's shocked looks. Essere Carraway gapes with surprise. Even the holy man looks startled.

Faed Nirmoh smiles. "I am fully aware of the family into which I am marrying." He winks at Aidan. I draw a sharp breath, realizing that by this wedding, Aidan will have a faery as a cousin. Not that he'll ever likely admit it officially, of course. Children of the court don't get official recognition from their fathers and legitimate siblings. It's...basic etiquette.

Then why, I wonder yet again, why am I stuck with my father's throne and my half-sister's betrothal?

I miss the wedding's close in my musings—the holy man lights that candle to indicate the birth of the wedding, and he gets out another. Someone else is evidently getting married, today. Silva hugs her sister first, then Lallie. She pulls me into a firm hug.

And doesn't let go. And _moves_.

I automatically resist, but then I feel Lallie and Geddis on my arms, also dragging me up—

_Up_ the dais?!

"No!" I protest, digging my heels and weight against them—and slipping on the grass with my slippered feet and falling back into Elwyn Elf-friend's grip.

Now I _know_ what they're trying to do! "Absolutely _not_!" I writhe, scratch, and yank every which way to try to get away from the dais. I'm not foolish enough to try calling magic to my aid with Faed Nirmoh, Elwyn Elf-friend, _and_ the Prophetess of the King all present.

And then my faery godmother's undoubtedly in the audience, somewhere, as _my_ witness. "By the Creator, I'm _not_ marrying—"

"You are betrothed by treaty," the holy man says, with just enough calm for me to know that he was forewarned that I would be less than willing, and enough relief for me to suspect that he'd been warned that I might be unwilling enough to add a bit of fire to the celebrations. "Your willingness or lack thereof to marry Prince Aidan has no bearing on _your_ wedding."

"It would if Aidan'd just use his _sense_ and agree with me!"

People gasp. Aidan makes a show of considering, then shakes his head with a grin. "No, I think I like this arrangement."

"You were trying so hard to break off the treaty's betrothal not all that long ago, yourself," I remind him as I make myself as hard to push up the dais as possible.

Aidan has apparently decided to take my stubbornness with good cheer. "Carling _was_ a..." He glances at Geddis and the audience. "Well, I won't sully the children here. I'm sure you know more of your sister than I do."

"Half-sister."

"Still. Marrying her would _not_ have been very conducive to living to see my next birthday. Marrying _you_ , on the other hand, adds a nice familial linkage to the Crystal-elves' royal line..."

I glare. He doesn't care about the politics. I _know_ he doesn't—

Fine. He _does_ care for the politics, but they're not his primary reasons. He'd insist on marrying me if half his noblemen would declare war on him for it. Not in such a public ceremony, of course, but he'd still yank me into it.

Actually, I know many of his nobles _will_ declare war on him for this. Not with soldiers, but...

Is he really such a fool to think men like Essere Carraway will stand for a child of the court as _queen_?

I lose my struggle and am brought to the bride's place on the dais. "Halfwit," I mutter, letting my body fall limply to the ground. From the snort of quickly-muffled chuckles that produces, I think it's safe to guess that this will be one of the holy man's more memorable wedding ceremonies.

—No. I'm _not_ marrying Aidan. No, no, _no_.

My lunge to get off the dais knocks Silva over and is stopped by an angry-looking Faed Nirmoh. "Excuse me, m'lord," I apologize, and try to slip out while I—

Can't.

I fight and kick and struggle and do everything I can short of calling my fire magic on these people. Even the sight of the grass shriveling and dying around me didn't faze the holy man, though I think it does many of the noblewomen. Their screams and faints and fleeing—and their children and spouses' requisite ensuing flurries—make it one empty audience indeed when Faed Nirmoh intentionally tosses me over his shoulder like a bale of hay.

"Faed Nirmoh!" That insults me. I am a _queen_ now, after all, albeit a less than willing one.

Then I notice, upside-down, Aidan's sad little smile. And the holy man lighting the marriage candle that will be kept burning all night as—

Faed Nirmoh flinches beneath me and curses quietly as I heat to a temperature that likely scalds him. " _Fool_ ," he whispers sharply. "Brat and fool!"

"I'm a—" I struggle "accursed royal _bastard_ , you—"

"You are a _queen_ who is about to be very, very foolish."

The rebuke stings, and I restrain from insulting the faery. I resent that accusation. Queen Yuoleen was 'very, very foolish'. I'm _practical_ , not hamstrung by ideals of 'Oh, let's marry regardless of what the subjects will think just because he cares for' whoever is unlucky enough to get the bloodsucking fondness of someone more powerful than she is. Or someone who has _allies_ more powerful than she is. I could take Aidan, were it merely my magic against his sword. I know I could!

By the Creator, I'd curse Aidan if there weren't at least three mages poised to stop whatever I try, all of them with more magical training than I have. See if he wouldn't immediately blow out that marriage candle and divorce me _then_.

Handmaids I don't recognize await me when Faed Nirmoh tosses me in my new antechambers. They don't comment, so they were warned, too. " _Get out._ " I am _not_ looking pretty for Aidan tonight.

I don't bother to bolt for the door as they leave. I know that at least Elwyn Elf-friend is there to stop me, if Fael Honovi isn't. I shiver, remembering the cold rain she brought on me that time I fled from Aidan—fled _with reason_.

Not that my knowledge has helped me escape this mess. I'm angrier with myself than with any of _them_. I know them. I know Silva, know how devious she can be. This was indubitably her idea.

"It's called a betrothal. The marriage comes if you like it or not. I realize you've not had your life to get used to the idea, but I'd think that you'd be used to being stuck in circumstances you'd rather have nothing to do with, by now."

Aidan's dry voice startles me. I hadn't heard him enter by the door that links this room to our...shared...bedroom. "If you hate me so much, why go through with it?" I snap. I won't look at him! "Divorce me and have done with it!"

" _Hate_ you?!" Aidan's laugh is forcibly cheery. "You foolish girl," he scoffs bitterly. "You young... _foolish_ ... _girl_."

That makes me look at him, eyes narrowed. His smile says he knows precisely how much he's insulting me with that.

He draws a deep breath and returns to his serious, reserved tone, the one he usually reserves for discussion. "You're _alive_ , Evonalé. Your father and siblings are dead. Your mother's people are free."

His tone turns gentle. "You've spent your life refusing to wish for what could never be yours. Well, now you have them, Evonalé. _You_ have a throne. _You_ have a husband." He swallows. "When your hair's brown fades and your eyesight dims, is this really how you want to remember your wedding night?"

Minutes pass as I gape at him.

Minutes more pass before I can cool from my flaming embarrassment, and I think the fire's unnatural vigor has damaged the chimney.

I _am_ a fool.

**How did you like the story?**

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Continue the series in _A Fistful of Earth_!

Who likes easter eggs? (Yanno, those bonus goodies that you can sometimes find in programs and on websites and such.)

I know I like easter eggs, so I've compiled some for you!

**STEP #1:**

Answer the question:

__

_When is Evonalé's birthday?_

The one-word answer can be found from:

1. what Evonalé doing when she turns 16 (see year 248)

2. when that something can be done (see year 242)

**STEP #2:**

Take the password and go to:   
http://mistiwolanski.com/bird/firefist

**STEP #3:**

Enter the password.

**STEP #4**

Enjoy the goodies!

__

_Please refrain from sharing this bonus willy-nilly, if you want me to offer more easter eggs in the future. Thanks!_

**Acknowledgements**

Creating a book worth publishing takes more than just the original writer. When you write a book over a seven-year span, it's impossible to list everyone who helped you. I won't give names, because I'm sure I'll miss someone.

God has blessed me with many friends who write, themselves, and more who are fantastic critics. What talent I have comes from Him.

And without everyone who has helped me through the years, I would be nowhere near the writer I am today. You who helped me know who you are. I thank you all.

**About the Author**

**Misti Wolanski** has always loved to play in fantasy land, though it took her a while to realize that her mind games were fun enough that others would want to join in, too. In her spare time, she likes crocheting and knitting jewelry, baby clothes, and small toys. However, unlike the narrator in the popular-on-Wattpad _A Fistful of Fire_ , she does not embroider.

She also writes dystopia (as **Cara Lee** ), dark fantasy for adults (as **Carralee Byrd** ), and space opera (as **Misty White** ).

**Twitter:** @carradee

**Wattpad:** @carradee

**Blog:** http://carradee.blogspot.com

**Website:** http://mistiwolanski.com/fiction/mistiwolanski/

**Newsletter:** http://mad.ly/signups/43518/join

Intrigued by the herbal remedies mentioned in the novel? Find out more about Misti's experiences with herbal remedies (and websites where you can buy spices for far cheaper than the grocery store tends to charge), on www.aboutthatherb.com.

(The website's still in development, but you should still find it useful.)

**Also by Misti Wolanski**

**The Chronicles of Marsdenfel**

_(novels)_

_A Fistful of Fire_

regarding Evonalé Yunan

_A Fistful of Earth_

regarding Lallie Nonsire Cobbleson

_A Fistful of Water_

regarding Geddis Feyim

**COMING SOON!**

_A Fistful of Deception_

regarding Tully "Tuelzi" Brylee

**Tales from Aleyi**

_(short stories)_

**Driven by the Deadline**

Fael Honovi needs a job, else she'll go insane from her life in the monochromatic land of creepy. She's been offered one, if she can only get there on time. But her own plane of existence doesn't like that kind of magic, and it's out to stop her.

**Of Her Own**

All young Lallie Nonsire wanted was a quiet life, minding her own business and ignoring what she was by birth. After her magic betrays her by saving a friend's life, she'll settle for escaping Saf before she's turned into a live torch. But where can the child of a despised race go?

**Associated Accidents**

Faed Nirmoh once dreamed of growing up and having a job he enjoyed, a wife he loved, and children of his own. Instead, his particular magical gifts have landed him a job he hates, while being harassed to marry a woman he despises. Is there anyone who can accept him for what he is?

_followed by "Bewildering Boundaries"_

**Bewildering Boundaries**

Faed Nirmoh's impulsive streak has gotten him into trouble before, and he might've outdone himself, this time. He's promised his bodyguard something that was foolish enough, because if either of them screw up it could lead to Nirmoh being forced to marry a woman he loathes. But then Nirmoh even more foolishly arranged to meet his superior before he figured out an excuse that would let him keep his promise. Has he stuck himself with an insane, despicable wife, or can he find a way out of it by lunchtime?

**Find more stories by Misti on her website,  
****http://MistiWolanski.com** **!**

# **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Blurb

License

Year 222 of the Bynding

Year 242 of the Bynding

Year 243 of the Bynding

Year 245 of the Bynding

Year 247 of the Bynding

Year 248 of the Bynding

Year 250 of the Bynding - I

Year 250 of the Bynding - II

How did you like the story?

Egg

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Misti Wolanski 
