Yet they were interrupted again—a rider coming over the hill. Amarande’s training came back to her in a rush, her father having engrained it in her since the day he put a tiny wooden sword in her hand and began to share the things all living warriors knew.
Beware or be dead.
Make the first mark.
A warrior made is a warrior alive.
The first tenet whispered in her ear, and the princess shot to her feet, the abandoned knife now clutched in her fingertips. The castle grounds weren’t dangerous, but preparation paid off.
The rider scrambled down the steepest part of the hill, a tough grade before hitting the flat of their meadow. Not armored—in riding gear only—he flew toward them on a dappled mare with wild legs. It was then that Amarande recognized that it wasn’t a he, it was ashe—General Koldo, the king’s best friend and second. She was the leader of his army as much as she was Amarande’s surrogate mother, and the princess had never seen her with a note of fear on her sun-mottled face. And yet there it was as she came closer, braid flying out behind her as the horse’s hooves kicked up plumes of rust-dirt dust.
“Ama!” The dam broke on the panic rising within Amarande.
Koldo called her Ama in private, alone, but never in front of anyone else, even Luca, who used the nickname in the same way. With the general, she was always “Princess” in a space such as this.
The fact that Koldo broke her own protocol was just as terrifying as the fear that rode her tone.
Luca felt it, too, tensing at Amarande’s side. His fingers brushed hers as if he wanted to grab them, to give her an anchor for the blow that they both could see coming.
Koldo reached them and before she even dismounted, the princess registered tear tracks on her dusty cheeks. Amarande’s heart began to fail before the words were even out, breath seeping out of her lungs, until all of her had evaporated into the mountain air. She watched the words fall from Koldo’s lips outside of herself, above, shattered.
“The king is dead.”
CHAPTER
2
INa single breath, everything had changed.
One moment King Sendoa was sipping from his ancient waterskin, the next a gruff cough, and death. The whole of it so quick, he fell from his horse’s saddle in a royal heap, no one fast enough to realize he needed saving, let alone catch him.
It was the king’s heart, some said, drumming to a stop. Maybe his blood, gone haywire in his brain. Or his lungs, an old illness creeping up in the altitude.
Amarande didn’t believe any of it.
When the dust and chaos of that day settled and the next came, General Koldo stood in the too-bright light of midafternoon in the sitting room of the princess’s chambers. Amarande was curled up, barefoot on the golden cushions of a long divan, still in the clothing she was wearing when it all crumbled. Only her chest plate and boots were missing, ripped off the second she’d thrown herself into her quarters.
She’d begged Luca to stay, and he did, with her at every moment, only leaving to tend to the horses. He greeted Koldo with a nod from his spot on the other end of the divan.
“The Royal Council requests your presence, Ama.” Koldo’s voice wasn’t what one would call soft or gentle. It was battle tested and measured. But just the drop of her nickname at the end of the sentence made the princess want to run into Koldo’s arms andstain her full garnet-and-gold regalia with tears. The word “Ama” on the general’s lips would forever sound different, no matter how many times she’d said it before. “If you do not feel well enough, I can propose a time tomorrow.”
The princess swallowed, willing her parched tongue to work. She wasn’t accustomed to the way so many tears could leave a person with nothing left.
“No, no, I’ll go.”
Koldo had met with the council only an hour after returning to the castle with the news of Sendoa’s death on her lips. In many ways she was closer to the king than even Amarande herself—if she could discuss castle business after such a shock, so could Amarande.
It was what leaders did.
Though Amarande wanted Luca to come with them, it was not allowed, and so he departed to ready the stable for the hordes of equine funeral guests. When he was gone, the maids appeared, and the princess shrugged on a clean dress: shiny black with a lace bodice and long sleeves, as was the style. Rather than dainty slippers, she strapped on her boots, the knife she kept there pressed into her skin in a way that grounded her. The scuffed toes of each boot peeked out from the dress’s hem, but comfort and preparation trumped fashion.
The Royal Council of Ardenia met in the North Tower of the Itspi, the whole northern wing set aside for matters of state. The glittering sandstone walls of her home pressed in on Amarande as she walked shoulder to shoulder with Koldo. The familiar corners and edges felt like both too much and not enough. She could relish the Itspi’s embrace or be crushed under the weight of the walls—either was possible. Nothing felt right without her father here.
The great garnet-studded doors of the council room were thrown open. As the princess and the general entered, they were greeted by Councilor Satordi, de facto leader of the council and the Warrior King’s top advisor.
“Princess Amarande, General Koldo, welcome,” Satordi said from his seat. Amarande had always seen all members of the council stand when her father entered the room. Yet Satordi and the other two councilors, silver-haired Garbine and rosy-cheeked Joseba, stayed seated at the table that dominated the room. The three of them were the image of melted candle tapers at the great table, with their gold-and-white silken robes weeping from their shoulders. Behind them, tapestries of kings past covered the walls in dark-woven judgment. The only illumination was backlight from windows, ringing the council in the halo of late afternoon.
The councilor gestured before him. “Please, sit, and we shall begin.”
