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Chapter 1
The Messenger
It was hard to miss the thundering of approaching hooves. The rider had returned, bringing news from Kavanar.
At the distant sound, even before shouts rang out at the castle gates, Iseris sprang into motion. This was powerful news. Depending on what was said, it might change nothing. Or it might mean her death.
It wasn’t proper for a princess to run, but she strode as briskly as she could from her rooms toward the stairs. No one would like her any better for exhibiting restraint and decorum, but they already didn’t like her now, so she didn’t know why she bothered.
When she reached the long, spiraling stairs of the eastern tower, she ran.
Her morning had been quiet in the castle, spent discussing with Red Squirrel and Owl how she might acquire a map that no one would miss. She’d packed her bag a few weeks ago—in secret, of course. But without a map, having never traveled or even ridden a horse before, she had no idea where she would go or how she would get there. Not to mention how poorly the last time she’d tried to ride a horse had gone… She needed more time to think, to plan. She wasn’t ready.
But the rider from Kavanar didn’t care if she was ready. He brought his news just the same.
Vicious winter winds whistling through the tower’s arrow slits tugged at her thick, wool skirts the color of a bluebird’s wings and bid her feet to go faster as she dashed down, down.
The pieces were moving in the elaborate game of Rooks and Pawns she’d played all her life. The board had always been tilted, stacked against her, but one slight chance of her winning remained. She hoped.
She slipped from the tower into the shadows of the mezzanine, wrinkling her nose. The throne room where her parents held court reeked of too much perfume and incense and looked even worse than it smelled.
Maybe throne rooms ought to be gaudy, but she had always had the sense that her family was trying too hard. The place was an architectural monstrosity. Not that anyone was asking her. Five generations had made their mark here, one on top of the next, layers encrusting over layers, each successor trying to surpass the last in grander and grander attempts.
Was every royal court done in such poor taste? She’d never seen another throne room, but somehow, she didn’t think so. If she ever found herself in another kingdom’s throne room, it would be to be married. She’d flee first, if she could. Because marriage would mean the discovery of her secret, the end of the game, and—ultimately—her death.
The court gathered on the lower level, a sea of gold feathers and ivory satin, storm-gray brocade and ash-black velvet. Iseris’s path through the shadows of the upper mezzanine was mostly deserted. If she could just find a pillar in full shadow to hide behind…
What news would the messenger bring? Rumors in the castle spoke of war in the Northern Kingdoms. War between Akaria and Kavanar.
A war over magic.
If the news truly concerned magic, the court would cease to speak openly about it as soon as they knew she was present, hence the need to hide in the shadows. Reaching the corner closest to the throne platform, she slipped behind a smooth, cold column just as the murmurs began to build. Perfect spot. Throne in sight.
The crowd parted for the messenger. His stride was quick and self-assured, the gait urgent but not desperate, not thrumming with the violence of tragedy. Yet.
But something was still wrong.
He bowed before the king and queen, straightening with a speed that only messengers were allowed. “I bring word from Kavanar, Your Majesty. My news is dire.”
“Spit it out, boy,” her father growled, although the messenger was a grown man.
“Kavanar requests your aide. The war between my lords and Akaria escalates. The kingdom’s enslaved mages are being conscripted to fight, but my king fears they will not be a match against the power of the many free mages in Akaria.”
“You can’t be serious.” The queen drew in a breath, like she’d been burned. Her contribution to architectural posterity was an abundance of sapphires studding her throne, except that there wasn’t enough light to reach them, to make them sparkle. They glared like frozen, unblinking almost-black eyes out of the gold. If they’d once sparkled, they didn’t now.
“I, myself, am a mage slave, Your Majesty. I can only relay what my Masters have ordered. I am bound by the power in the brand.” He barely pointed at his shoulder, but the queen flinched as if he’d revealed a hideously infected wound.
Iseris shifted in the shadows. She had heard of the enslaved mages of Kavanar, but she hadn’t heard much. Books about anything related to mages were hard to find. She only recalled that the monarchy of Kavanar possessed a magical artifact that they used to brand the mages, like cattle—somehow turning their own magic against them, forcing them to do the bidding of those who branded them.
“Perhaps we should start our own mage force,” interrupted one advisor, a stout, self-important-looking man.
“Gods, no. We do not want their unholy blight on our side,” snapped a priestess.
The advisor cleared his throat. “It’s a waste to just kill them all. We should harness their power.”
“I do believe the man is on to something,” chimed in her half-brother Alekur. She figured he would think that, the vicious snake.
“Yes, yes, come now. If Kavanar has already been cowed by Akaria, it’s only practical.” Encouraged by Alekur’s support, the advisor puffed his chest a bit.
