I glance over my shoulder at Ivory and debate escape. How many steps to her? Could I even scramble onto her without a saddle? And how quickly? She’s dancing at the end of her lead with all the fuss.
Havis interrupts my vital deliberation. “Found this beauty in the forest,” he says, pulling a white flower from his pocket. “Do you know what it’s called?”
I glance at the delicate petals and yellow middle. “Bloodroot,” I reply warily. “It grows in the early spring.”
“Ah, I don’t believe we have it in Resya.”
“Indeed. It must be too hot for anything beautiful to grow.”
He doesn’t hesitate, only smiles and says, “Yes, we must import all our flowers from the civilized kingdoms of the North. Though we have little time for gardening, you know. All the fighting and revolts. Who has time for tending petunias?”
His wry edge doesn’t evade me. “Who, indeed?”
“Though to be clear, this entire Northern continent spent hundreds of years with kings lopping off heads and people being pulled apart at the bones, and that’s conveniently forgotten when summarizing your noble history. Can you explain this curiosity, Princess?”
I refuse to take his bait. He thinks I despise him for being Southern, always luring me into political debates I have no time for, but I couldn’t care less about where he comes from. In truth, I despise him because I know his most shameful secret—I caught him with one of our ladies late at night in the palace halls, her giggling stupidly into his muttered words, his hands cornering her hips beneath the glittering sequins, their kisses bold and desperate and sinful with the gold ring on her wedded finger. I saw the truth and I’ll never forget it. Havis is a charming creature who plays noble at dinner, who’s convinced my mother of his honour and fidelity in all things, but who’s a rogue to the very bone—handsome and vain and free as a wild hawk in the sky.
And he won’t trick me.
“I do quite like the outdoors,” he continues at my silence, studying the mountains, “and being alone. I come from a large family. Six brothers, and I’m the youngest. There’s always someone round every corner.”
I reach down to gather my paints and paper. He never accepts defeat in a conversation.
“You must like to escape out here for the same reason, Princess. Your mother’s always with her friends, your uncle, your brother, even the maids. I’d imagine it’s a rare occasion to catch her alone, where curious ears are not nearby … away from eyes that speculate.”
I look up. His tone has changed and he’s watching me intently. “She makes time for me,” I say, wary again.
I finally stand, because it’s not very comfortable having him tower over me like this, but it brings me closer to his face. He smells of sweat and cologne, a shadow of black stubble along his jaw and neck. My traitorous brain imagines the nightmare of that strange mouth on my skin, those gloved hands on my hips, and I feel rather sick. Only his desires to satisfy, never my own. How do you please a man who has tried a dozen lips before yours? How can that ever be love?
I’m not even sure how a proper kiss is supposed to go.
He swings the gun from his shoulder, extending it towards me. “Have a try,” he says. “It might change your opinion of hunting.”
“Never.”
“One shot, Princess. You can aim at one of those trees.”
“She couldn’t hit the side of a palace wall,” Uncle Tanek mocks, nearing again. “She’d prefer to throw herself in front of a gun and protect our evening dinner.”
His friends nearby chuckle.
Havis gives me a look, the sort that says “Are you going to let him get away with that?” and offers his weapon again. I want to refuse. Father hated this bloody sport, as I do. Even touching the metal feels like a betrayal. But Uncle’s comment stings, spurring me forward. Sometimes I think his cruelty is jealousy—there isn’t a drop of royal blood in his veins, and he lives on the charity of his sister, the Queen Regent, while I’m the daughter of a true Northern king. Even if I never inherit the crown like my brother, I’ll still have more worth than Uncle ever will.
The thought is selfishly satisfying.
I take the gun from Havis. “I can manage one shot.”
Uncle’s lips twist incredulously, and Havis moves behind me, showing me where to place my hands on the rifle. It’s terrible having him so close, his breath prickling my neck, but at least this skill might come in handy, should he ever try to kidnap me for ransom—or marry me.
“Aim for the birch tree,” Havis instructs, stepping back.
The target is a good twenty meters away. I take a deep breath and place my finger on the trigger. A moment goes by, then another. Everyone in the clearing waits.
A tree. It’s only a tree.
I can do this.
But then, like a rotten song that won’t leave my head, I see once again the slaughtered fawn from years ago, its eyes wide and rolling, fragile breast heaving, bones and meat exposed to teeth. Eaten alive. I remember being skinny and twelve, trying madly to pull Uncle’s dog from it, screaming, grabbing at black fur and nearly getting attacked by those vicious jaws myself. Uncle had to beat the dog back with the butt of his rifle. Afterward, he said I was a stupid, thoughtless girl. Mother was horrified at the bite mark on my arm.
I only felt helpless.
I made sure to find out the combination key on Uncle’s hunting cabinet and then silently stole his bullets for two years. He’s certainly still wondering where they all went.
Now, I let the rifle drop, clicking the safety latch on, and hand it back to Havis. “I’m sure I can make the shot, but Mother wouldn’t be pleased.” Which is true enough. She doesn’t believe in me doing anything that might be deemed improper, and hunting is quite thoroughly a man’s sport.
“Sparing yourself embarrassment?” Uncle laughs. “Wise.”
“Saving herself the ire of Sinora Lehzar,” Havis remarks, and anger tingles in my mouth. I hate how casual he thinks he can be. Being old friends with my mother is far from permission to address her—or me—with such informal candor.
I’m sorry, Father, I whisper in my head. They’ve ruined your day.
Frustrated, I grab my bag and march for Ivory. I untie her and search for a higher rock to stand on, to mount her, but Havis comes to my side. He’s tall, over six feet, and I shrink back against her shoulder.
He holds out his arms, his eyes copper in the light.
It’s an offer to help, but I’d rather not owe him anything. He smiles at me too quickly, like he knows my thoughts without even trying, so I relent and place my knee in his hand. He hoists me up. Then he grabs the leather reins and tugs Ivory forward, putting her between him and the others nearby. He holds out a letter, using her body to shield it from sight.
“Take this to your mother, Princess. You’re her loyal daughter, and since I returned from Resya last month, I’m never allowed a private audience. Your uncle forbids it.”
I stare at the paper.
He thrusts the letter into my limp hand, impatient. “Swear that no one will see except her.”
I nod, and he releases the reins. “Ride safe, Princess.”
“It’s Your Highness,” I say hotly, since no one else can hear.
He grins, cavalier as a devil, and I slide the letter deep into my pocket. I give a last glance round the clearing, then kick Ivory to a furious canter, abandoning them all behind.
3
ATHAN DAKAR
Valon, Savient
The Impressive is everything the rumours promised.
She sits in the water proudly, shining like a tethered beast on display, over eight hundred feet in length with four turrets and eight guns. A firing range of twenty-two miles, gleaming anti-aircraft batteries pointed skyward. Her keel was laid here in the capital, inland from the coast, and the narrow canal that links Valon to the Black Sea can barely contain her.
The crew on board—gunners and armourers, radio operators and signalmen, men from every background under the sun—wave from the deck, showing off for the thronging crowds gathered on the docks below. Shouts and whistles rise on the breeze, tangling with a cheerful military song pumped out by drums and trumpets.