Tearloch took the betrayal all the more personally since the prince happened to be his best friend. Raised in the palace together, his earliest memories were of sparring with Cathair and their friend Liam in the courtyard. Fighting with wooden swords, pretending to declare war against their enemies.
Now the three friends stood ready to go to war in truth. From the moment they crossed into Deachair territory some hours back, Tearloch had felt the constant prickle of warning at the base of his neck. Perched on the hill overlooking the royal palace, the prickle had escalated into a stab of dread. As much as he wanted revenge, want to hunt down the cowardly traitor and subject him to a thousand tortures, he could not be confident that this was the best course.
They were vastly outnumbered. Most of their numbers were untrained. The rest were undertrained. In recent years, the queen’s focus had been on diplomatic relations. With no hope of military success, she poured their resources into political negotiations and treaties.
Tearloch had been frustrated by the lack of support, but he understood the realities of the situation. Alliances would protect them when magic and strength could not.
Revenge had made them all too emotional to think clearly and tactically.
Reasoning with Cathair had no effect. He would not listen. The prince was determined to attack, to retrieve the traitor and punish his collaborators. No matter his hesitations, Tearloch would not defy his prince.
He only hoped they did not pay too high a price.
At least they had listened to reason concerning the queen and the prince’s younger brother. Eimear and Aedan remained safely within the palace walls, though each had argued to join them. They could not risk the entire royal family in one foolhardy campaign.
Their only advantage was surprise. They barely had time to develop a strategy, let alone time for any spies to send notice of their plans. The Deachair could not be expecting them.
Tearloch sensed someone move next to him and knew before turning it was Liam. The head of the Palace Watch moved more stealthily than any creature in the forest, even without the use of his powers.
Liam looked no more happy about this than Tearloch felt.
Then again, Liam never looked happy.
“Your force is in place?” Tearloch asked.
Liam nodded, his jaw set in a grim line.
Their plan was simple: surround the palace, lay siege, and make sure no fae or raven escaped to call for reinforcements. The Palace Watch would take the rear flank, the Royal Guard the front, while the volunteer force would guard the right side. Nature guarded the left side in the form of a sheer cliff, solid rock that loomed taller than the palace itself.
“Cathair is ready to approach,” Liam said.
Tearloch nodded. According to fae tradition, before any military action, the leader of the offensive force would seek audience with the defenders, to give them the opportunity to negotiate or surrender.
If the Deachair chose not to fight, instead handed over the traitor without drawing bow against the Moraine, they all might have a chance of surviving the night.
But Drustan, the Deachair king, had never been known for his restraint. This more than anything else made Tearloch nervous. Which was why Tearloch and Liam would approach at Cathair’s side. Their prince’s life could not be risked.
“All is ready?” Cathair asked, emerging from the circle of Royal Guards that had been assigned to protect him on the journey.
“It is, my prince,” Tearloch replied. He stepped closer, dropped his voice low so only Cathair could hear. “It is not too late to reconsider. If your temper has cooled—”
Cathair speared him with a royal glare. “My temper is not inflamed. The traitor cannot be allowed refuge in the home of our would-be ally.”
Tearloch nodded. “I understand.”
The decision had been made. They would proceed with the plan, come what may.
Without another word, Cathair turned and started down the hill. Liam fell in step on his left, Tearloch on his right.
As they reached the path that led to the palace entrance, Cathair stopped. Feet braced wide, he called out, “King Drustan of the Deachair, I, Cathair O Cuana, High Prince of the Moraine, seek audience with your duplicitous highness.”
“Well that’ll get things off to a great start,” Tearloch muttered.
Cathair ignored him.
They watched the huge palace doors, waiting for the royal page to emerge and invite them within. But the doors did not move.
A flutter of color caught Tearloch’s eye and he looked up at the battlements.
“Prince Cathair,” a female voice called down, “I am afraid my father is away from the palace at the moment.”
The three of them stared up at the young woman who stood between a pair of heavily armed guards. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in heavy curls and, even across the distance between them, her tawny skin glowed in the torchlight.
Her pale purple gown fluttered in the evening breeze.
Though he had not seen her in many years, he recognized her instantly.
Princess Arianne. The fae Cathair was to marry, before the assassination attempt. And before the prince fell in love with the human girl, Winnie.
Tearloch saw the glint of the arrowheads trained on their party. His muscles tensed, ready to place himself between the prince and the palace if things went badly.
“Then I seek your audience, Princess,” Cathair called out.
“That, I am afraid,” she said, her voice less steady than Tearloch would expect from a royal, “is impossible.”
Chapter 3
Arianne’s hands shook as she gripped the edge of the battlement. She forced herself to take a calming breath, to project more surety than she felt. For years she had managed to lead her clan and deal with allies and enemies without revealing the truth of their situation. It was a matter of survival. If the other clans knew how weak they truly were, if they knew her father was missing, that the Deachair were being led by a teenager, her people would not survive a fortnight.
At first, the deception was supposed to be temporary. Just until her father came home. But as time went by, season after season, it became more and more obvious that King Drustan would not be returning.
By then, she had fallen into the routine of pretending her father was away. Of managing to keep her kinsmen and visiting diplomats from suspecting the truth. It seemed easier to maintain the facade.
The facade that could not end today. The Moraine could not be allowed within the palace walls.
Prince Cathair looked stunned by her refusal.
“I cannot admit you into the palace,” Arianne hastened to explain. “We can speak here.”
As she looked down on her would-be—or rather would-have-been—husband, Arianne could not help but be relieved. Wedding the Morainian prince would not only have usurped her autonomy, her authority, but would have taken her away from her kingdom. The alliance with the far-stronger clan would have protected them for a time, but in the long run… She shook her head. It was no use thinking back over what might have been. Queen Eimear had called off the betrothal, and for that Arianne was grateful. Even if it meant her clan was more vulnerable for it.
“Princess Arianne,” Cathair said, executing a polite bow.
The two soldiers—clearly warriors from the rigid set of their broad shoulders and the size of the swords that hung from their waists—at his side bowed even deeper.
“On behalf of the royal house of O Cuana of the clan Moraine,” he said, his voice strong and clear, “we demand you turn over the traitor Ultan who shelters within your borders.”
Arianne forced herself not to jerk back. “Queen Eimear’s advisor?”
Her sources had missed that important detail. No wonder the Moraine had gathered the full breadth of their forces. If one so high in Arianne’s own household had betrayed the Deachair in such a way, she would stop at nothing short of war to hunt the traitor down.
“Turn him ove
r,” Cathair continued, “and our forces will leave your lands in peace.”
Arianne took a breath. She had to handle this both quickly and carefully. With the high emotions she knew must be running through the Moraine ranks, she had to make certain she did not exacerbate the situation.
Not for the first time in recent years, she wished her father was there to advise her.
Finally, she replied, “I am sorry, but I cannot turn over what I do not have.”
“Do you mean to tell me that Ultan is not within your walls?”
“Exactly so.”
Cathair exchanged words with the warrior on his right, a tall fae with close-cropped dark hair whose pale gray eyes studied Arianne intently as he listened. After a few moments of consultation, Cathair turned back to face her. “Forgive me, Princess, but that is a lie.”
The guards to either side of her tensed, but Arianne quickly put up her hands to stop them. There was no need to go to battle over a perceived slight to their princess’s honor. Especially not a battle they could not hope to win.
“I speak the truth,” Arianne called down. “The traitor Ultan is not within the palace, nor would he be welcome here.”
The blond warrior to the prince’s left leaned in and said something that made Cathair frown. The prince shook his head sharply.
“You leave me no choice.”
Cathair raised his right arm, hand clenched in a tight fist. As one, the forces of the Morainian army raised their weapons to the ready position. Swords unsheathed, steel glinting in the light of the full moon. Bows drawn, arrowheads aimed at the line of guards that surrounded her.
The two guards at her side and the dozen more spread along the parapet were the entirety of her force. They would be massacred.
Arianne’s heart thudded into a high-speed chase. This was exactly what she feared.
“No, wait!” she shouted before she had time to think through her words. “Wait. Please.”
The prince left his arm in the air, but flattened his palm. His forces did not lower their weapons.
“It is no lie,” Arianne insisted.
“Give me proof,” Cathair replied.
“I can offer none.” Her mind raced. How could she convince him that she spoke the truth? Short of letting them search the palace—which would leave them in no doubt of her clan’s weakness, the most vital of her secrets—she could think of none.
Adrenaline and fear were making it impossible for her to think clearly.
“You leave me no choice, Princess.”
Her thoughts raced circles in her mind. She had to think of something, had to find a way to stave off this battle they could never win. A battle that would leave her clan on the verge of extinction—as if they weren’t already.
Cathair’s hand began to tighten back into a fist.
“No, wait!” she blurted. “Wait.”
He paused, looking at her, awaiting her offer. If only she knew it herself.
When she stepped out onto the battlement, she had a desperate plan: hold off the Moraine long enough for her message to reach its destination and—hopefully—for the recipient to send them aid. It was, perhaps, a ridiculous hope. But it had been a hope nonetheless.
Now, however, she knew she did not have the time. Morainian emotions ran too hot. She had to act quickly.
It came to her in a flash. She was, in the same instant, both relieved and terrified. She might be able to save her clan. But at the cost of herself.
“Wait,” she said again. “I cannot give you the traitor you seek.” She closed her eyes, so she could not see the prince’s reaction. “But in an offer of good faith, I will turn myself over into your custody.”
“Princess, no!” Margaux gasped behind her.
Arianne held back her hand to keep the maid from rushing to her side.
Her decision made, her fate sealed, Arianne open her eyes. Straightened her spine.
“To prove my sincerity,” she said, “I surrender myself.”
Far below, the prince and his warrior companions stared up at her with varying reactions. The blond scowled. Cathair looked stunned. And, though she couldn’t say for certain from this distance, Arianne thought the warrior with the cropped hair and silver eyes looked impressed.
She squared her shoulders. “Do you accept my offer?”
Cathair shook his head, then turned to each of his warriors in turn. While they debated, Arianne felt the tingle of sweat dropping down her spine. She had never been more nervous in her life.
Was she making a terrible mistake?
But before she could panic, she reminded herself of the first lesson her father had ever taught her. A princess must always do what needs to be done.
And she had done exactly that.
As Cathair looked back up, he nodded. “I accept.”
Arianne forced the air in and out of her lungs in as normal a pattern as possible.
“I will be down at once.”
Then she turned away.
“Princess,” Margaux cried, “what have you done?”
“There is no time, Margaux,” Arianne replied as they moved toward the door. “You must listen carefully and do exactly as I say.”
Margaux nodded, falling in step beside the princess as the reached the stairwell.
“If all goes according to my plan,” Arianne explained, “I will not be long gone.”
“Oh Princess—“
“I give you leave to act in my stead,” she continued, as if Margaux had not interrupted. “You know my mind as well as any other. Keep our people calm and reassure them that I will soon return. Can you do this?”
“Of course, Princess.”
They reached the base of the stairs, and Arianne picked up her pace.
“Send Tobias into the countryside,” she instructed. “Call all the farmers and their families to the palace. Shelter here until you next hear from me.”
Arianne felt a twinge at the thought that the entirety of their clan could easily fit within the palace walls. There had been a time when the Deachair numbers could have filled a dozen such palaces. Those days were long past.
Arianne quickened her pace as they reached the main hall. The prince might have accepted her offer, but she could not trust him to be overly patient.
“What if we—“ Margaux began, then started over. “What if your raven is answered?”
Arianne stopped at the main entrance to the palace.
“Send word immediately,” she said, knowing that an answer might just as easily mean their doom as their salvation.
Margaux looked like she wanted to cry, but she held her emotions in check remarkably well for someone with such responsibility thrust upon her. Arianne reached out and pulled her friend into a tight hug.
“Above all,” Arianne said, “keep the people safe.”
Margaux nodded as she hugged the princess back. “I will.”
Releasing her friend, Arianne smoothed the layers of her lavender gown and twisted her thick curls back into a loose knot at the base of her neck.
“And as always,” she said, turning to face the door and prepare herself for the journey ahead, “if my father returns—“ She nodded to the pair of guards who had not left her side. Each reached for a door handle. “—detain him by whatever means necessary.”
The doors swung wide, and Arianne stepped out into the night. Her prison awaited.
Chapter 4
The princess moved like a petal on the wind. Gentle, graceful, weightless. She swept out of the palace, facing down an invading army with the confidence of one twice her years. Tearloch could not seem to look away.
Tales of Arianne’s beauty had not been exaggerated. But tales of her strength should have been just as plentiful.
She was a far cry from the girl he had met oh so many years ago.
“Are you certain this is a good plan?” he asked his prince.
“It could be a plot,” Liam suggested.
“I am quite certain that it is,” Cathai
r replied. “But it gives us leverage. Drustan is more likely to cooperate while we hold his daughter.”
The prince had a valid point. That did not mean Tearloch was comfortable with the decision. They were essentially letting their enemies get away with sheltering the traitor, and that did not sit well with him at all.
If they were truly going to bring the enemy princess into their territory, into their very palace, precautions were necessary.
“She cannot ride alone,” Tearloch said.
Liam nodded. “Can’t be allowed to escape.”
“No,” Cathair said. “We would lose whatever advantage we have gained.”
“The royal carriage,” Tearloch suggested.
Cathair looked to Liam, who nodded.
“Yes,” Cathair agreed. “The royal carriage.”
“I will drive,” Liam.
“Tearloch and I will ride within,” Cathair said, “with the princess.”
“And Flann,” Tearloch added.
They could not ask the aged driver to ride home astride.
The arrangements made, Liam went to prepare the carriage as Cathair greeted the princess. Tearloch remained at his side.
“We shall treat you with the utmost courtesy,” Cathair said, deigning to bow to the enemy princess, “until your father returns and we are able to negotiate the release of the traitor into our custody.”
Tearloch was not certain, but he thought the princess fought a smile. What could she possibly find to amuse her about this situation? Did she laugh at the thought of King Drustan ever turning Ultan over to the Moraine?
If that was her thought, she would soon see that the Clan Moraine was not to be underestimated.
As Cathair led the princess to the carriage, Tearloch walked two paces behind them. Far enough to show respect. Close enough to act if something went awry.
But they were soon settled into the carriage, without incident, and on their way to Moraine lands.
For some time, they rode in silence. Tearloch took the seat next to the princess on the front-facing bench. Normally he would have insisted his prince take the preferred position. But etiquette dictated the princess face forward, and he was not about to leave his prince vulnerable at her side.