Samsel’s features darkened. ‘The Queen is no concern of yours. When she recovers from her latest sickness, I shall get her a new pet. You will be forgotten.’
‘You’re wrong,’ replied Cressyda, her voice steadier than she felt.
Though the Queen was selfish and difficult, Cressyda did not believe that the woman she had called ‘Mother’ these last eighteen winters would be diverted so easily. In her own strange way, Queen Flavria cared for her and truly believed Cressyda was her daughter. That was not something easily replaced.
But Samsel was not listening. ‘It seems a pity to destroy you,’ he replied. ‘But I suppose it must be done.’
He stepped even closer and Cressyda could smell the harsh scent of cologne mixed with sweat. His gaze pawed over her face, and then dropped down her body to her neck, catching on something just above her collarbone. He frowned. Reaching out a hand, his fingers brushed the edge of the ribbon tied around her neck, his nail scratching her throat.
Without thinking, Cressyda smacked him away.
The sound cracked through the hush like thunder. Her palm stung instantly, but the sensation grounded her, sharp and real.
One of the guards gasped. The other three went still.
Samsel’s eyes widened in shock. Then rage twisted his face into something monstrous. He lunged at her.
But Cressyda turned and ran.
She bolted up the slope, her bare feet slipping on the treacherous shale. Stones rolled beneath her, cutting into her feet, drawing fresh blood. The wind pulled at her shift as she climbed, the cold bitingdeeper, but she did not stop. She could feel Samsel’s fury behind her, his eyes boring into her back, but she did not dare turn. She scrambled on, up into the darkening heights, knowing that she must act quickly.
I am here,she called in that strange language of gesture and instinct that had swirled in her blood since birth, lying powerful and dormant.
Something crackled inside her, pulling at her tired, sore body and bending the remnants of her energy into words. Her hands moved without her thinking, her breath caught the rhythm of something old, and magic poured into the surrounding darkness.
I am here, she repeated.I have come to see the Great Dragon.
Alinore
A SUDDEN FLASHof purple sliced through the muted landscape of green, brown and grey, so brief and startling that Alinore wondered if she had actually seen anything at all. The mountainside had been still for so long, its colours dulled by dust and shadow, that any hint of brightness seemed like a trick of the light. But then, just beyond a patch of trees, the burst of colour shimmered again, quick and flickering. The hue was unmistakable: deep, regal purple emblazoned with gold – the royal Calestran livery. A jolt of recognition surged through her, pushing away the numbness that had begun to settle in her chest. She felt hope rise, warm and sudden, filling her chest.
‘They’re ahead!’ she shouted over her shoulder, above the rush of wind and hoofbeats. ‘I see them!’
Prince Ottone, riding close behind, did not reply. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the vague forms moving through the trees ahead. He gave a nod and nudged his horse into a gallop, the gelding responding with a snort and a rush of motion.
‘Come on,’ Alinore whispered, leaning low over her own mount’s neck. Her fingers tightened around the reins, coaxing more speed from the sturdy bay. The gelding let out a deep, rasping breath as he pushed harder, hooves pounding the rocky trail, muscles straining with every stride.
They had switched horses at the last town before the mountains. There had been no time for negotiation; Ottone had thrown down a purse so full of silver flecks that the stablemaster had stared in stunned silence as they took two fresh geldings, stabling their tired, sweat-lathered mounts. Alinore had left Flint with his nose buried in a bucket of mash, promising to return soon. Though she missed his smooth, easy gait, this gelding clearly had some Mountain pony in its heritage, judging by the way it had scrambled up the stony paths like a creature born to the heights. More than once, she had nearly lost her seat during their ascent, the bay leaping with reckless energy up ledges and gullies. But she had held on, teeth gritted, spine aching, and now that headstrong spirit was what she needed.
The trail narrowed, hemmed in by leaning pines and bramble-thick underbrush. Evening shadows stretched long across their path, and the cold breath of the mountains pressed against her skin. Prince Ottone had said little as they travelled, but Alinore could read the tension in the line of his shoulders and the way he gripped the reins, every ounce of his focus poured into reaching the group ahead. They had travelled so far, so fast, galloping through hamlets and villages, then climbing the twisting paths into the mountains until their legs ached and their eyes stung from wind and grit. Alinore had begun to fear that they were too late, that they would not make it in time, but then – that flash of purple. The Calestran royal livery, unmistakable even in the dying light. It had cut through her weariness, filling her with sudden, breathless hope.
Cressyda must be just beyond the next ridge. She would be saved.
The trees thinned and broke, revealing a slope of dry, scrub-covered land, the trail winding downwards along a ridge. The royal party was clearly visible now: four mounted guards in uniform, and at the centre of the group, a tall man in jewelled finery riding a black stallion, his figure unmistakable even from a distance.
But beside him was a riderless horse.
Alinore’s elation died in her chest. The words she had been about to shout faded from her lips as she realized that the party were trotting down the slope. They were travelingawayfrom the mountains.
Four guards, the King and a riderless horse.
Cressyda was not there.
‘No,’ Alinore gasped, all her hope turning to fear. ‘No, please.’
One of the guards spotted them and yanked his horse to a halt, the gelding skidding slightly on the rocky path. ‘It’s the Prince!’ he cried over his shoulder. ‘It’s Prince Ottone, Your Majesty.’
As they closed the distance, Alinore could see King Samsel clearly. Draped in dark regalia, his crown caught the twilight and jewels glittered across his chest. His face was lined with cold triumph, and he sat with the arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.
