C H A P T E R T H R E ERaisa shivered and pulled her wool cloak more closely around her shoulders. Soggy with rain and glazed with ice, it probably weighed more than she did. She scooted closer to the fire, extending her frozen hands. Steam rose from the sodden fabric.
Maybe if she actually sat in the flames, she’d be warm again. She already smelled like a wet sheep toasted over a wood fire.
It had taken a week to cross the high country between Demonai Camp and the West Wall. A week of freezing weather and early autumn snows, of huddling together in tents while the wind howled outside. Raisa had foolishly assumed that the weather would improve as they descended toward Leewater, the ocean to the west she’d never seen.
In that she’d been mistaken. The early high country snows turned to sleet and icy rains—relentless storms that rendered the trails treacherous. They’d been camped for a week in this miserable between-place. They’d pitched their tents in a small box canyon that blocked the worst of the winds, and waited for the weather to clear.
It would have been easier traveling by way of the Dyrnnewater Valley, which ran through a break in the Spirits from Fellsmarch to the West Wall. But there was too great a chance they’d be intercepted on the easy road.
“Lady Rebecca?”
It took Raisa a moment to realize she was being addressed. When she looked up, the cadet Hallie Talbot loomed over her, extending a mug of hot tea.
“Call me Morley,” Raisa said automatically, accepting the tea and sipping the hot liquid. She shouldn’t allow Hallie to wait on her, but it took more strength than she possessed to say no.
Rebecca Morley was her alias, meant to hide her from those hunting the runaway princess heir of the Fells. The other Gray Wolves believed she was a daughter of the minor nobility whose parents had bribed her way into the military academy at Oden’s Ford. Nobody knew who she really was but her friend Amon Byrne.
Early on, Raisa had asked Hallie to cut her hair, to alter her looks. The cadet had obliged using her belt knife. Hallie’s skills as a barber were dubious. The result was a ragged cap that reached to Raisa’s earlobe on one side and her chin on the other.
Raisa’s hair had always been a point of vanity for her—long and thick, a wavy mass falling nearly to her waist. It was her best physical feature. She closed her eyes and extended her neck, remembering how Magret used to brush it with a boar-bristle hairbrush…
“You’d be warmer and dryer in your tent, my—Morley,” Hallie said, breaking in on her thoughts once again. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
Raisa bit back a sharp retort. In camp, it seemed they were constantly on top of one another. Everything was difficult—from starting a fire to using the privy. Boredom and the constant close contact made them all snappish.
Well, it made Raisa snappish, at least. The others took it in stride.
“If I spend any more time staring at four canvas walls, I’ll go mad,” Raisa grumbled.
At first she’d shared a tent with Amon, Mick Bricker, and Talia Abbott. It was three per tent, with Raisa making the fourth since she was extra. That was fair in a triple of nine plus one. It had been cramped but cozy.
Then she’d awakened in the middle of the night to find herself snuggled up against Amon, one arm flung across his chest, nose buried in his wool undershirt. As children, they’d slept that way a hundred times.
This time it was different. Raisa crashed into consciousness, suddenly aware of his familiar scent, the thump of his heart under her arm, his rigid body. Amon lay on his back, still as stone, as though she were a viper who might strike if he twitched. He was jammed against the wall of the tent, eyes wide open, hands fisted, sweat beading on his forehead. He took quick, shallow breaths like he was in pain.
When he saw she was awake, he disentangled himself and stalked out of the tent.
After that, he’d swapped Mick with Hallie and moved into one of the other tents, leaving the three female guards together.
It wasn’t like she’d rolled onto him on purpose. It wasn’t like she’d attacked him.
He was inconsistent. Half the time he insisted she act like any soldier, the other half he was making special rules that applied only to her. She never went on patrol, and she never stood watch alone. He told the others it was because she was a first-year cadet and the others more experienced. He’d turned into the worst kind of bully.
They had plenty of food, but it was nasty stuff—hard biscuits and dried meat of undetermined origin, cheese going moldy in the damp. The nuts and dried fruit weren’t bad, but there was only so much of that Raisa could stomach. At the middays, if she didn’t finish her portion, Amon would nag her until she did.
“You’re losing weight, Morley. Up here, you need insulation. Once we start moving, you’ll need to keep up. I don’t want you fainting away from hunger. No one’s going to carry you, skin and bones or not.” And so on.
So what if she lost weight? Anyone would, under the circumstances.
They drilled every morning. Walked for miles in a large circle around the camp, in all kinds of weather. Every day, Amon assigned someone to match swords with Raisa, to work on her stance, her stamina, her form. Everyone took a turn but Amon Byrne. He probably knew what a mismatch that would be.
Still, the bouts were always humiliating. And exhausting. Everyone in the Wolfpack had a longer reach than she did. They could stand back in total safety and clip her at their leisure, smack her with the flat of their blades while she was kept constantly moving. It was like having eight big brothers and sisters to pick on her.
“If you’re going to be a cadet,” Amon would say, “you’ll be competing with people who’ve been fencing since they could hold a stick.” People such as Amon, who’d always known he would be a soldier like his father.
Maybe he wanted to work her hard enough to wear her down, to make her give up the idea of hiding among the warrior cadets at Wien House. His idea was that she’d stay in the temple close, cloistered with the dedicates, gardening and reading and studying healing and doing needlework with the speakers.
There, she’d be less likely to be recognized by students from home. Few Fellsians attended the Temple School at Oden’s Ford. There were fine ones closer to home.
Raisa knew mingling with the other students was risky, but she’d accept the risk. She’d spent enough time in a cloister. She wanted to learn about the real world.
Raisa set her mug down on a rock, wrapped her arms around her trousered legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Sweet Hanalea in chains, she was tired of this.
Hallie was on watch in camp. Talia Abbott was on patrol, looking for trouble over a three-mile radius. Everyone else huddled in the other two tents. Except for Amon, who was missing, as usual.
Amon used the name Morley like a stick to keep her at bay. To bury the memory of the childhood they’d spent together, finishing each other’s sentences, using their assets and talents to support and defend each other.
That younger Amon had taught her to hold her own in the physical, rough-and-tumble world outside of court. He’d taught her the skills her mother had neglected—riding bareback, longbow archery, and a dangerous form of soccer played from horseback. He’d taught her tavern games—nicks and bones, darts, battle cards, and dicing.
Amon had been the conduit through which the skills he learned from his father and older cousins and on the streets of Fellsmarch were passed to Raisa. They’d sparred with wooden training swords. He showed her how to throw a knife and hone a real blade. When Raisa was twelve, he’d taught her how to disable an opponent in a street fight as soon as he learned it himself.
Raisa had her own talents to contribute to their childhood enterprises. People naturally deferred to her lineage, granting her an authority she didn’t necessarily have. With Raisa to front them, they could get away with anything.
Of course we’re allowed to ride out alone, she’d tell the stableman with breezy confidence. Saddle up Devilspawn and Thunderheart. Yes, those two. Yes, the queen approves. Do you really want to bother her?
Of course Amon is invited to the party/allowed to help himself in the pantry/allowed to choose weapons from the royal armory/can ride any horse he wants.
They were lucky they’d survived to their naming. But they’d had fun.
Then Amon had turned thirteen, the age when warrior cadets were named and sent to Wien House, the military academy at Oden’s Ford. Raisa had gone to Demonai Camp, to be fostered with her father’s family. They’d been apart more than three years.
Amon had returned to Fellsmarch at seventeen, tall, lean, and handsome, an intriguing combination of worldly soldier and familiar friend. Now Raisa wanted him to teach her different things, or to learn them along with her, but he was being uncooperative. A few tantalizing kisses—that was all they’d had. At first he’d seemed interested, but now…
There was no chance of a marriage between them. Her mother had made it clear that she disapproved of a dalliance with an officer of the Guard. Was that why Raisa was so fixed on him? Or was it because she was used to getting what she wanted?
That couldn’t be it. The threat of a forced marriage to a wizard had sent her into exile. A marriage that violated the Nǽming—the agreement that had ended the wars between wizards and clans. Some days it seemed that no one got less of what they wanted than the princess heir of the Fells.
Still, Raisa’s heart beat faster whenever she got close to Amon Byrne. She noticed everything about him—the way he moved, the way he sat on a horse, the way he tilted his head and chewed on his lower lip when working a problem, the way he rubbed his stubbled chin at the end of the day.
Whenever he turned those gray eyes on her, the blood rushed madly around her body, heating every part of her…when she wasn’t fighting with him. They did a lot of that, lately. Sometimes it seemed he provoked her on purpose.
And now he was avoiding her. She was convinced of it. He left camp nearly every day for several hours. She had no idea where he went, but she couldn’t help thinking it was because of her. She felt restless and tired of sitting around, freezing to death.
At court, it seemed like she never even had time to think. Out here, she thought too much. Chewed on things like a dog with a rawhide.
Maybe he thinks of you as a friend, she thought. He doesn’t want to ruin that friendship by pushing it further.
Well, you are friends, but lately he scarcely talks to you.
Or maybe he’s interested, but views you as unattainable. He’s afraid if he makes a move he’ll be refused or humiliated.
Or maybe it’s the blasted Byrne honor getting in the way. He finds you attractive, but he knows there’s no future in it, so he’s not going to get entangled.
He just doesn’t know how to say any of that. He’s never been good with words.
Raisa was used to speaking her mind. She wasn’t flighty Missy Hakkam, mooning over every officer in a uniform, dreaming of marriages to foppish nobles with big palaces and tiny brains.
I’ll go and find him, she thought. We’ll have a frank discussion, no tears or drama, and get this settled. But she needed to find a way to slip off on her own.
“I guess I will rest in my tent for a while,” she told Talbot.
Hallie grunted approval and laid another log on the fire.
Leaving her empty mug where it was, Raisa crawled into her tent, which was only fractionally warmer than outside. She found her baldric and strapped it on. Crouching at the rear of the tent, she thrust her sword under the tent wall. Then she flopped down on her back and slid underneath the rear wall and back out into the rain.
Once on her feet, she shoved her sword into the baldric. Keeping at the back of the tents, she walked toward the entrance of the canyon until she reached the privy tent, the one farthest away from the others. She waited until Hallie was occupied stacking firewood, then slipped through the border of trees and out of the canyon.
Raisa had studied tracking with the Demonai warriors. She scanned the ground until she spotted boot prints amid the ruck of leaves. And there, another, where water collected and froze at a low place. She picked out a path beaten into the slushy ground from Amon’s daily trips to wherever he went.
Raisa followed his trail for a mile or so, wiping rain from her face and blinking ice from her lashes. The path followed a clear, half-frozen stream for a while, then veered sharply off to the west, climbing into an aspen forest, ending in an upland meadow. Raisa stopped amid the trees edging the meadow and peered out.
Amon stood centered in the meadow, stripped to breeches and undershirt. His sword belt and other gear were arranged in a neat pile at the periphery of the field.
He held a long staff in his two hands, and he was in constant motion, bending, twisting, circling around, the staff a whistling blur as he swung it over his head, swept it forward, lifted it high, and skimmed the ground. It was an elaborate dance, and he’d clearly been at it for some time. His dark hair lay in wet strands on his forehead, and his skin steamed in the chilly air.
Raisa stared at him—at the muscles rippling across his chest and his corded arms—and all her good intentions flew out of her head. He was beautiful and deadly, totally unself-conscious. He went at it as if determined to work himself to exhaustion. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. More like it was punishment. She could hear the rasp of his breathing from where she stood.
How in the name of the Lady could he be coatless? It was freezing out. Raisa shivered, the cold penetrating deeper now that she’d stopped moving.
She stood (almost literally) frozen for another long moment while her courage drained away. This was wrong, her spying on him. Whatever was going on, he meant it to be private. She’d find another time to speak her mind. She’d go back to camp, sneak into her tent, and stay there until he returned.
You’re just a coward, she thought.
But before she could move, Amon paused in the midst of a sequence, the staff horizontal in front of him, his head cocked. He flipped the quarterstaff to a vertical position, turned, and looked directly at where Raisa was hiding.
“Rai?” he whispered.
Bones. How did he know? Timidly, she stepped out of the woods. They stood staring at each other across an expanse of frozen grass and stumpy shrubs.
“I came looking for you,” she said finally. “I wondered what you were doing.”
“You came by yourself? Where’s Hallie?” he demanded, looking around as if the other cadet might be hiding in the brush, too.
Hallie’s supposed to be watching me, Raisa thought. So much for being just another soldier. “I slipped away. She thought I was in my tent.”
“You shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe for you to be out here on your own.”
“If it’s not safe for me, it’s not safe for you,” Raisa said. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No. I’m not,” Amon said, as if it hadn’t occurred to him till then.
The silence coalesced around them once more.
“That’s impressive. What you were doing,” she said. “What is that called?”
He studied the weapon in his hands as if he’d forgotten it was there. He seemed absent, distracted. “I learned it from the Waterwalkers. They call it sticking. Their staffs are made of ironwood—it grows in the marshes. They don’t use metal weapons, but a weighted staff is deadly in the hands of a stickmaster.” He shut his mouth, as if to cut off the flood of words—a whole month’s worth for him.
“Were there Waterwalkers at the academy?” Raisa asked, surprised. “Was that where you learned it?”
Amon shook his head. “No. I fostered in the Fens for six months during one of my terms at Wien House. I was sponsored by the marsh-lord, name of Cadri.”
“Is this what you do every day? When you leave?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Pretty much. I…ah…train in different ways. It helps relieve the tension.”
Tension? Raisa squinted at him. It was miserable, true, what with the rain and ice and wind and bad food and all. But it was more tedious than tense, in Raisa’s opinion. She almost wished something exciting would happen, to break the boredom.
Was he really worried about an attack? That seemed unlikely, despite his warnings. They were still in the Fells, and Demonai Camp kept this area well patrolled. Besides, who would venture out in this weather if they didn’t have to?
Perhaps it was just the stress of knowing his father was counting on him to keep the princess heir safe; of not knowing what would happen when they reached Oden’s Ford.
It had been too long since they’d had any fun. Raisa yanked off her gloves and stuffed them inside her coat, then strode toward him.
Amon flipped the staff horizontal, making a barrier between them. “We’d better get back to camp,” he said, jerking his head in that direction.
Raisa stopped a foot away and looked up at him. “Amon. Could you teach me?”
“Teach you what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“That battle dance. How to fight with a staff.” She took hold of the staff, slippery with ice. She couldn’t compete with his swordplay, but she could learn this.
It would be like the old days. Amon had been her first weapons master.
He shook his head. “It’s too heavy for you.”
“You can take most of the weight. Just show me the moves. If it works out, I can always get something lighter.” She could see how it could work, using the staff. Being small wouldn’t matter so much when she had a long staff to leverage her reach and the strength of her blows. Once she had the moves down, any kind of staff would serve. With a reinforced staff, she could fight off a swordsman. And the weight of it would build up her shoulders and arms.
“You might get hurt.” Amon seemed to be looking everywhere but at her.
“I’m not breakable,” Raisa snapped. “I’ll try not to hurt you, either.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m just…it’s not a good idea for us to have a go at each other.”
“Oh, really? Why not?”
“Just trust me, all right?”
Amon had never been one to be threatened by capable girls. And he’d never taken it easy on her in physical competitions because she was female. Any more than she gave him quarter in those areas in which she excelled. Was he angry that she wanted to be part of his military life? Maybe it had been a relief for him to be away from her, to go down to Oden’s Ford and live with less demanding people.
“I’m stronger than you think,” Raisa insisted. She should be, after all that drilling. “Here. We don’t have to fight against each other. Let’s try this.” She ducked under the horizontal staff so she was inside the circle of his arms, between him and the staff. She turned her back to him, gripped the staff with her two hands, positioning them beside Amon’s. “Now, give me some of the weight and let’s try some moves.”
Amon released a long breath of frustration. And resignation. Another moment, and she felt the weight of the staff in her hands. Amon spoke in her ear, and she could feel his warm breath on her neck. “Turn to the right, swing it up high, down to the ground, thrust forward. Turn again, fast to the left, now bend at the waist.”
It was like an odd sort of front-to-back dance where you couldn’t see your partner’s face, only hear his voice. It was surprisingly graceful, anchored as they were, connected by the weight of the staff. Amon seemed to be taking special pains not to slam into her. His arms pressed against her shoulders, though, and she felt the heat of his body against her back, driving away the cold.
She heard only the whistle of the staff, the crunch of icy grass beneath their feet, the sound of their breathing. Her skin tingled, anticipating each contact between them.
Little by little, Amon gave her more of the weight. Raisa struggled to keep the staff moving, dragging in cold air in ragged gasps, sweating inside her heavy clothing.
Then it happened. She slipped on a patch of ice, Amon tried to adjust, their legs became tangled together, and they fell. He came down on top of her, but managed to brace himself and so avoid flattening her. She heard a smack as the quarterstaff landed some distance away. So they didn’t get a self-administered clubbing, at least.
Raisa giggled, and then she was laughing, snorting with mirth, helpless to free herself. “W…we are a dangerous pair, Amon Byrne.” She pressed her hands against his chest, and then noticed that he wasn’t laughing. His gray eyes were roiled with frustration. Sliding his hands under her head, he kissed her, pressing her hard against the frozen ground. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
By the Lady, she thought. I do love kissing Amon Byrne.
He ripped himself free and sat up. “Blood of the demon,” he said, his face ashen. He bent double, looking almost ill. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. We can’t do this.”
Your Highness? Raisa blinked at him, thinking it was the best thing that had happened in a very long time. But just then a strange voice broke in on them.
“Step away from the princess heir.” This coincided with the metallic whisper of swords sliding free of their scabbards.
Raisa whipped around, yanking her own sword free, ending in a low crouch. A dozen horsemen had emerged from the trees, all wearing the camouflage scout uniform of the Queen’s Guard. One wore a corporal’s scarf tied around his neck. He looked familiar.
Amon sprinted for the edge of the woods, where his sword and clothing lay, but one of the horsemen wheeled his horse and charged toward him, swinging a large club with a spike at the end.
“Amon!” Raisa shouted.
Amon launched himself sideways. The club missed his head but slammed into his shoulder, sending him flying to the ground.
The other guards dismounted. Two of them grabbed Amon’s arms and hauled him upright. Blood dripped from the wound in his shoulder and spattered the frozen ground.
The corporal dug in his carry bag and made a great show of pulling out a small, framed portrait. He looked from the portrait to Raisa and nodded with satisfaction, then tucked it back away. “Your hair’s different, but it’s you all right,” he said.
“What is the meaning of this?” Raisa demanded.
“Calm down, Your Highness,” the corporal said. “You’re safe now.”
“I was safe before, Corporal,” Raisa said, advancing on Amon and his captors, her sword extended in front of her. It was foolish to confront a dozen armed men with one sword, but she was seized by the desire to cut someone. “It’s only now I feel in danger. Release Corporal Byrne immediately and explain yourselves.”
“We saw Corporal Byrne attacking you, Your Highness,” the officer said, sliding a warning look at his comrades. “Who would have thought it, and him the son of the captain of the Queen’s Guard.”
“He was not attacking me,” Raisa said. “We were practicing self-defense.”
“Never you mind, Your Highness,” the corporal said. “It must have been a scary thing, to be carried off by a member of your own guard. But he won’t harm you no more. We’ll make sure of that.” He smiled chillingly, and Raisa suddenly remembered where she had seen the corporal before. He was Robbie Sloat, who’d been one of the guardsmen at Southbridge Guardhouse the day she and Amon had rescued the Raggers.
“We was on our way to Demonai Camp, to look for you, Princess,” Sloat said. “Now we don’t have to go there at all.”
Sloat barked out orders, and the other guards collected Amon’s sword and his belt dagger and tied his hands behind his back. They took Raisa’s sword, but didn’t bother to search her or bind her hands.
How had Sloat ended up out here in the rough, close to the West Wall?
Whatever he was doing here, she knew it meant they were in terrible trouble.
Sloat faced Amon, ignoring Raisa. “So, Corporal Byrne, I know you’re not out here on foot. Where’d you come from? Where are your horses and who else is with you?”
Amon said nothing, his face hard and set, and an awful, blank look in his eyes.
Sloat slammed his fist into Amon’s midsection, and Amon doubled over, the air whooshing out of him. After a long moment, he straightened, but still said nothing.
“Corporal Sloat,” Raisa said, and enjoyed seeing him flinch when she spoke his name. “Just stop it. I can tell you what you want to know.”
“No, Your Highness,” Amon said, shaking his head. “Don’t tell him anything.”
“We brought three salvos with us, Highlanders loyal to the line,” Raisa said, looking Sloat in the eyes. “I expect they’ll be here any minute.”
Sloat laughed for show, but Raisa noticed he glanced around just the same.
Raisa pressed her point. “When my mother hears what you’ve done, you will find out what vengeance means to a Gray Wolf queen.”
Startled into honest speech, Sloat blurted, “Oh, yeah? Well, we an’t taking you back to the queen. Least not right away.”
“What?” It was Raisa’s turn to be startled. “Why not? What’s this all about?”
Sloat smiled. “Never you mind, Your Highness. We’re taking you back to Lieutenant Gillen, and he says the queen’ll be no problem.”
“Gillen? Mac Gillen?” That was the greasy-haired, snaggletoothed sergeant of the Queen’s Guard who had tortured prisoners at Southbridge Guardhouse and threatened to put her on the rack. And for that he was made lieutenant?
Raisa’s mind raced. Gillen was in Southbridge, wasn’t he? What could he possibly have to do with…Never mind. Gillen was nasty, but he was just the muscle. Somebody else was yanking his strings. Sloat must be convinced he’d never hang for it, or he wouldn’t be telling her this much.
She glanced at Amon, bloody and bound tightly, his arms still pinioned by two of the renegade guardsmen, who no doubt knew his reputation as a fighter. Raisa could tell from his intent and focused expression that he was trying to think of something, any way, to change these impossible odds.
Sloat yanked on his gloves. “All right, let’s get out of here,” he said. “You’ll ride double with me, Your Highness.” Seizing Raisa’s arm, he dragged her toward his horse.
“What about him?” one of the guards gripping Amon asked.
“Take him into the woods and kill him,” Sloat said. “We’ll ride on ahead.”
“You—wouldn’t—dare!” Raisa said, struggling to rip free.
“Well, yes, I would, Your Highness,” Sloat said, grinning, keeping tight hold on one wrist while he swung up onto his horse. “You see, Corporal Byrne went mad with desire and kidnapped the princess he was supposed to protect. When we tried to rescue you, he resisted and was killed. And you’re going to keep your mouth shut because you don’t want word to get out that you was out here carrying on with a soldier.” Looking pleased with the story he’d made up, Sloat leaned down and reached out his other hand, meaning to haul Raisa into the saddle in front of him.
When Sloat’s smug face appeared at eye level, Raisa stiffened her fingers and stabbed them into his eyes, a technique Amon had shown her all those many years ago. Sloat howled, backhanding her across the face with such force that she landed on the ground, the breath exploding from her lungs.
Raisa spat out blood from a split lip. The mounted corporal loomed high over her, rubbing his streaming eyes, his face purple with rage. Then he stiffened, eyes bulging, rage dissolving into surprise. He groped behind his back, flinched again, then toppled off his horse, narrowly missing Raisa. He ended with his head and shoulders on the ground, one foot caught in his stirrup. Two black-fletched arrows bristled his back.
Demonai arrows.
Bedlam ensued. Guards dove for cover, including Amon’s captors, who abandoned him at the center of the field. Horses ripped free of their tethers and plunged into the woods. Spooked by the body dragging at its stirrup, Sloat’s horse screamed and kicked, and Raisa had to roll one way, and then another, to avoid its flying hooves.
Running a zigzag course, Amon charged across the field and shouldered Sloat’s horse so it wouldn’t trample Raisa. “Go!” he shouted, jerking his head toward the trees. “Get under cover!”
He made too good a target standing there holding back the horse with his body. Raisa rolled to her feet and ran in a half-crouch to Amon. Pulling free her belt knife, she cut the cords binding Amon’s hands.
“They’re Demonai,” Raisa gasped into Amon’s ear. “The archers. On our side.”
More Demonai arrows arced over the meadow, and two more guards fell, one with an arrow sticking out of his throat. The attack was all the more frightening because the archers were silent, apparently invisible.
Amon pulled Raisa into the edge of the forest, shoving her up against a tree.
“Stay here,” he growled. Snatching up his quarterstaff, he waded into the meadow, swinging it at the renegades fleeing in all directions.
“Amon!” Raisa called. “Be careful.” She wasn’t at all sure the Demonai would distinguish between Amon and the rest of the guards.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. Amon stood alone in the clearing, breathing hard. All of the guards were down, four felled by Amon and his wicked staff.
Raisa quieted Sloat’s panicked horse and yanked the dead guardsman’s boot free of the stirrup. Shadows in the fringes of the woods coalesced and came forward, some dragging the bodies of the guards who’d fled into the trees. All at once there were a half dozen Demonai in the meadow, clad in their nearly invisible traveling cloaks.
Two of them walked toward Raisa. One, tall and raptor-eyed, she recognized as the warrior Reid Demonai, called Nightwalker. His shoulder-length hair was sectioned off into multiple plaits wrapped in colorful thread. Raisa had met him at Demonai, though he wasn’t in camp much. Only two years older than Raisa, he was already a legend, hotheaded and deadly, the object of much speculation by the girls in the camps.
In fact, he and Raisa had shared a brief romance during her time at Demonai Camp. But she’d found that a romance with Reid was like fighting a series of daily skirmishes in an ongoing war of egos.
The girl beside him looked to be about Raisa’s age, and she moved with an easy, long-legged grace that Raisa envied. Her head of dark curls hung free from thread wrappings. Though dressed in Demonai colors and fully armed, she did not wear the Demonai warrior amulet around her neck.
“Find out if any of them still live,” Reid said to the girl, who broke away to kneel beside the nearest fallen guardsman.
“Princess Raisa, how goes it with you?” Reid asked calmly, as if they were meeting at a harvest feast.
But his eyes gave him away. They glittered with excitement and feral joy. His face and clothing splattered with bluejacket blood, the Demonai warrior looked elated, exhilarated by the recent battle. Nightwalker was much too fond of bloodshed.
“Did the Vale-dwellers harm you?” he asked, looking her up and down, taking in her cadet uniform. “I saw the guardsman strike you.” He reached out and ran his thumb along the corner of Raisa’s mouth, then wiped her blood on his leggings.
“I am well, Nightwalker,” Raisa said, licking her finger and rubbing her face. “Please accept my thanks for your service to the line.”
Reid inclined his head, accepting his due, his dark eyes riveted on her in a way that most girls found irresistible.
Raisa felt Amon’s presence beside her, and turned. He’d found his shirt and sword belt, and slid them on. Blood already soaked through from his wounded shoulder.
“Corporal Byrne, this is Reid Demonai, called Nightwalker,” Raisa said. “Corporal Byrne is a member of my personal guard,” she said to Reid.
“Son of Edon Byrne?” Reid asked. When Amon nodded, Reid said, “I know your father. An honest Valesman,” he said, as if that were a rare find.
“Do you have a healer with you?” Raisa asked. “Corporal Byrne is wounded.”
“There’s no need, Your Highness,” Amon said, expressionless. “It’s not serious.”
Reid’s gaze flickered from Raisa to Amon. “You fought well, Corporal,” Reid conceded. “Once you were—ah—free.”
The young warrior returned, having finished her survey. “All dead,” she said.
“Too bad,” Reid said. “I would have liked to have saved at least one for questioning.” He tilted his head toward the girl next to him. “This is Digging Bird of Marisa Pines Camp, a warrior apprentice. Her arrows took three of the enemy today.”
The girl bowed her head, her cheeks coloring.
Digging Bird has a bad case of Reid Demonitis, Raisa thought. “You fought very well,” she said, smiling at the warrior. “I’m sure it won’t be long before you carry the Demonai name and amulet.”
“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Amon said, the words propelled by his relentless honesty. “If not for you, I would be dead, and the princess heir a captive.”
Reid shrugged as if to say, it was nothing.
“Which raises a question,” Amon went on. “How did you happen to be here?”
“We often patrol this area,” Reid said. “Watching for jinxflingers and trespassers. The Guard presence in these parts has been rather thin.”
“Then you weren’t following us?” Amon asked.
Reid’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Digging Bird, then back at Amon. “Well, yes. We were.” Raisa suspected he might have lied had the girl not been there as witness.
“We would have welcomed you to our fire,” Amon went on.
“We were watching over the princess heir,” Reid admitted without apology.
“Well then,” Amon said. “Good you were here.” He did not smile. “We should get back to camp,” he said, looking at Raisa. “Hallie may have missed you by now, and we’d better move on. Lieutenant Gillen may be nearby.”
“You would be welcome to be our guest at Demonai Camp, Briar Rose,” Reid said, using Raisa’s clan name. “We would be glad to offer escort.”
“We just came from there,” Raisa said. “We’re heading for Westgate. I’m leaving the Fells for now, until I can get things…sorted out with the queen.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? To leave the Spirits?” Reid raised an eyebrow.
Raisa felt a prickle of unease, the return of her earlier forebodings. “It’s not that I want to leave,” she said. “It’s just that right now it doesn’t seem wise to stay.”
“We can protect you, Your Highness. No one will touch you at Demonai.” He smiled and touched the longbow that slanted across his back. “No one should force you from your birthright. I urge you to seek the protection of the clans.”
Raisa bit back a harsh response. After all, Nightwalker had just saved her from…Gillen, for a start. But she didn’t like the suggestion that she was running away.
Wasn’t that just what she was doing? Shouldn’t she stay and hold her ground? When she was queen, she wouldn’t be able to run from conflict.
When she said nothing, Reid pressed on, encouraged by her silence. “Given the dangers here, it may seem safer in the flatlands, but that is an illusion. Away from the protection of the camps, you will be vulnerable to flatlander assassins.”
“It is not my own safety I’m worried about,” Raisa snapped. “I do not intend to start a war. We can’t afford it right now. It would tear the country apart.”
“It’s time to teach the jinxflingers a lesson,” Reid said. “We cannot continue to appease them while they trample over—”
“If I meant to appease wizards, I would be married by now,” Raisa interrupted. “I will protect the Gray Wolf line. But I will not choose between my parents. I will allow time for cooler heads and good sense to prevail.”
“It seems to me the Princess Raisa has made her intentions clear,” Amon said. “If there’s nothing else, we need to get back and break camp before nightfall.”
Reid stared at Amon for a long moment. Then turned to Raisa and inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness. I just wanted you to know that you have options. Naturally, we would be honored to escort you back to your camp.”
He swung around to Digging Bird, who was watching this exchange with intense interest and not a little surprise.
She’s probably never seen anyone say no to Nightwalker before, Raisa thought.
“Round up the loose horses,” Reid ordered Digging Bird. “Find suitable mounts for Princess Raisa and Corporal Byrne.”
Reid Demonai would be happy to see a war, Raisa realized. It’s what he lives for.