Huwen Delarcan stood at his window, its glass frames opened to the chill night air. The scent of approaching autumn was in the wind. He couldn’t sleep. Rather, he’d slept, but worry had woken him.
The One God, his star outshining the densest clusters in the River, stood constantly in the north. In the distance, snow-covered mountains stood pale against the horizon, while below, shadows striped the hardpack of Holderford Castle’s bailey.
He could not shake the incident from his mind. It had happened over a week ago. Yet, no one seemed to think he was old enough to be told what was going on. Mother, who’d fretted for weeks when Eamon was ill, even failing to discipline Jace or sit with little Hada to sew, went back to fretting over him, dismissing the tutor and haunting the boy’s footsteps. Eamon disappeared into his suite again, so Huwen saw neither his brother nor Mother at all on most days.
Father had not returned—he and Huwen’s bastard brother, Uther, had been gone almost four weeks and Huwen could not fathom why. His tutor, Sieur Daxtonet, had said other kings were jealous of Father’s prosperity and had banded together to charge taxes on Arcan’s trade goods. But among the aristocratic boys, gossip had arisen that Father was not merely negotiating the unfair trade practices. There was war. That the king of Midell had been capturing Arcan territory, sending thieving parties to raid Arcan towns. Why, after centuries of peace, the borders or trade goods were under dispute made no sense. But the final insult was that Uncle Avin, a fearsome man ruling in Father’s stead, refused to enlighten Huwen.
However, rumor of war on the far borders was only a distant excitement; Father would come home soon and explain the misunderstanding. What troubled Huwen more was his younger brother.
Eamon had placed his death token on his tongue and tipped himself into the water.
Why?
How could a boy, thirteen years old—a child!—want to die? Heaven was beautiful, certainly. It was more real than this world, everyone knew that. But one’s life, here on the lowest sphere, was sacred, too. Huwen could not imagine leaving his home, his family, his ambitions, his responsibilities to the people of Shangril. And most of all, his life.
But there was more.
Three days ago, Gweddien had become suddenly silent and thoughtful. He, too, refused to admit that anything had changed, and he, too, disappeared into his rooms.
Servants whispered. Huwen’s tutor claimed to notice nothing amiss and redirected him to his studies. His swordmaster and his groom did the same.
And why didn’t Father come home?
A horse whinnied. Hooves on cobbles.
Huwen leaned deeper out of the window.
A groom led a saddled horse from the stables to the rail near the tradesmen’s entrance to the castle grounds.
Stranger and stranger. Who needed a horse in the middle of the night? A courier?
As Huwen watched, the groom returned to the stables and re-emerged, leading a second horse, this one bearing pack boxes.
No courier, then. Someone planning to be gone for some time.
Huwen pulled on his boots and found a soft leather cloak in his wardrobe. He knew better than to ask Sieur Daxtonet what was going on. He would get no answers. He slipped out of his sleeping chamber, past his tutor into the outer chamber, and past the dozing page, to the corridor.
By the time Huwen eased through the castle’s kitchen door and crunched as quietly as he could across the bailey, three saddle horses and three pack horses stood at the rail.
The kitchen door behind him opened, and he whirled to see a tall young man and a woman, cloaked for travel, in startled uncertainty.
“Gweddien?” Huwen was as surprised as they were.
The woman—Gweddien’s mother, a half-magiel with skin that barely wavered—recovered first. She pushed Gweddien’s shoulder, urging him toward the horses. “Your Highness,” the mother murmured as they scurried past.
Huwen scrambled to follow. “Where are you going?”
The groom emerged from the stables with a final pack horse. Spotting them, he tightened the cinches on the saddle horses.
Gweddien’s mother cast a worried glance over her shoulder at him as they approached their mounts.
Huwen ran and caught Gweddien’s arm. “Gweddien! What’s going on?”
The groom helped Gweddien mount a gelding, and his mother turned to Huwen, her lips pursed with decision, eyes flitting over Huwen’s head to the castle beyond. “Please, Your Highness. If you love your friend, keep our departure in your confidence.”
What—
“Lady.” The groom brought a second saddle horse forward.
They were running away. The guards—Uncle Avin, Mother—didn’t know they were going.
The woman, in riding culottes, mounted.
Had they committed some crime? “Why?”
Gweddien brought his horse around. “It’s your father,” he whispered savagely.
What?
“Hush,” the mother said.
The groom opened the vendors’ gate to the city.
“Father isn’t even here,” Huwen protested.
“Your father attacked Gramarye’s capital city—the king’s fortress in Highglen.” His friend’s lip trembled. “Huwen, my father has been imprisoned.”
Huwen stared at him. “What?”
“Hush!” Gweddien’s mother admonished him.
The groom mounted the third saddle horse and led the string of pack horses toward the gate.
Gweddien tugged his gelding to a halt. “It’s no longer safe to be a citizen from Gramarye, in Arcan.”
No—this wasn’t possible. There was a mistake.
Gweddien’s mother brought her horse around and slapped Gweddien’s mount on the rear, spurring it forward. “Get!” she said to her son.
Gweddien shot Huwen a contemptuous look and urged his gelding through the gate.
“I beg you,” the mother said, “if you have any softness in your heart, let us leave with our lives.”
Huwen could do nothing but stare at her madness.
She pressed her lips closed against tears, then hastened her animal beyond the castle wall.