PROLOGUE
ASthe Sand and Sky found new footing, midnight came quietly to the Bellringe.
The moon was high and no longer weak, the clouds gone, the night ripe with silver energy. A platinum light slithered across the summer-dry landscape of King’s Crest and the Pyrenee mountains beyond, bathing everything it touched in glitter beneath a million stars.
Those stars had power too, as all in the Sand and Sky knew—the night sky marked by departed souls, looking down, watching over those below. As designed, the Bellringe’s chapel’s windows were especially good at capturing the glow from above, being so much closer to the sky than any other kingdom—even Ardenia.
Tonight, the windows shimmered a little more than usual.
For on the table beneath those great star-born windows lay the body of Crown Prince Renard.
Stinking of herbs and tinctures, shirtless, the gaping wound under his ribs sewn closed, skin puckering under the pull of sutures, Renard appeared just the same as when the medikua had left him days before, taking her bags and talents with her for the royal ship in the Port of Pyrenee.
Yet, in that gleaming moonlight, things were not the same at all.
No, that silver light beamed across his unshaven face… and the air charged, suddenly full with all the power of the stars and their peculiar magic.
And there, alone in the silence, the mostly-dead would-be king opened his eyes.
—From the final page ofThe Queen Will Betray You
CHAPTER 1
HIGHin the hills of Ardenia, a queen and a king met swords in the meadow they’d always called theirs.
Amarande and Luca each wore chest plates and pained grins, color flush in their cheeks as they sparred with blunt blades as they’d done for years.
Whenever she had too much on her mind, all Amarande needed was Luca and a good fight. To work out her nerves, her thoughts, her feelings—all the inconveniences she often kept buried so deep. She had dreamed of today for ages, but troubles still nipped at her, and the most soothing combination in the world was the movement of her body and a dimpled smile on Luca’s face.
Even better—they were blessedly alone.
Well, almost. Beltza, the black wolf, watched from the trees on the far side of the meadow. She’d been Luca’s shadow since the Otxoa supporters’ arrival. As the breathing symbol of his fallen family, perhaps Beltza thought it her duty to keep a watchful eye on the last Otxoa in existence. Still, the wolf always gave them space, so long as she could keep her golden gaze pinned to Luca.
It was close enough to being alone for Amarande and Luca—because, for all the power that being royalty provided, solitude was hard to come by.
They had an hour, maybe two, and they would make the most of it. In fact, they had already, proof in the slick of sweat glinting in the cloudless sun as they raised their blades and crashed together yet again.
“What hurts more, your arm or your leg?” Luca inquired, his mouth curling along with the jest in his sweet voice as they met in a body-jolting high cross, Amarande’s face just inches from his. He hit as hard as he was handsome, but Amarande was stubborn and Luca was fighting with as many injuries as she was. He’d just had a head start in healing, that was all.
“Nothing hurts.”
Luca pivoted to the left, forcing Amarande to hack across her body in such a way that tested both her arm and leg—straining Ula’s careful sutures with the brunt of the blow. Amarande’s teeth ground together as she attempted to muscle Luca’s sword away.
It didn’t work.
Her guard failed, and Luca tapped her waist with a hit.
“Stars and dragon’s piss,” Amarande grit out. With her good arm she smashed the blunt tip of the practice sword into the dry summer earth. The hit bruised her pride much more than her body. Luca wasn’t one to gloat, but he did pause before returning to his starting stance.
“Do my ears deceive me or have you perhaps picked up a colorful phrase or two from Urtzi?”
“It’s useful.”
“Yes, for when thingshurt.” Luca’s dimples flashed and Amarande knew she’d laid her cards on the table.
Itdidhurt.
It’d been three days since they’d won back the Itspi—when her mother had stabbed her in the leg, and four days since her arm was mangled in a rescue from sure death in the Warlord’s firepit.
