He appears, whole and vivid for an instant, his body lacerated and leaking blood, his beard fouled with dirt and more blood. “The Prince,” he whispers. “Don’t come for me.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m waking, fighting my way out of the dream. My body is slick with sweat and my heart shudders with terror.
I fling myself out of bed. There are traveling clothes laid out for me—a pair of elegant pants and a long dress with a split up the front so I can ride astride, as well as delicate underthings and a fur cape. I snatch all of it, not daring to dress in the bedroom lest I wake Joss. She’s a warrior, and she’ll rouse at the mere scent of danger.
In the chilly upstairs hallway of the inn, I strip my nightdress off and sponge the sweat from my bare body with it. I’m not even concerned with anyone seeing me naked. Not anymore. Not when my Warlord is in distress.
I pull on the clothing as quickly as I can. There’s a lump in the pocket of the overdress—it’s the magical spray that stops my breathing attacks.
Speaking of attacks—on impulse, I slip back into the room and take one of my sister’s swords. I slide it out quietly, not bothering with the belt and sheath—they’ll clink and jangle too much. It’s the shorter of her two favorite weapons—short and thin enough for me to wield. There’s no way I could carry her big broadsword.
Prince Havil has Cronan. He’s hurting him. And they have to be nearby, because I don’t think the Prince would wander far from the comfort of the inn. They must have found a place where no one would hear the screams.
I creep down the inn stairs, wincing at every creak, and glide along the back hall, through the kitchen. The door is barred, and the man on guard there is lolling on a bench asleep, with an empty bottle lying near his hand. I ease the wooden bar up and let myself out, into the frigid black night.
Beyond the kitchen doorstep lie the snow-flecked cobbles of the innyard. The leather boots I’m wearing are finely made, but not overly sturdy, and I can feel every lump and pebble of the ground through their soles. They keep the cold at bay well enough, but I doubt they’d do me much good up North.
I walk between the stables and outbuildings, toward a fringe of dark trees. The inn stands at the southern edge of Hoenfel. If the Prince is doing anything underhanded, he’d probably do it outside of town where the village folk won’t notice. Not that they’d fault him for torturing one of our district’s mortal enemies.
There’s a gate in the low wall around the innyard, the only obstacle between me and the black forest. As I reach for the gate latch, three figures on horseback trot out of the dark and range up in a row, barring my way. Two of them wear the bear’s head shield of my father’s guard, while the third sports the emblem of Prince Havil’s house—a dove with four wings.
I was already holding the sword low, against my skirts, but I quickly shift my right hand behind me to conceal the weapon from the men.
“Hold there,” says Prince Havil’s guard. “What’s your business, woman?”
“It’s the child,” says one of my father’s soldiers. “It’s Ixiana, the one who was taken. What are you doing out here in the dark, lass?”
“I need some air,” I tell them. “The inn feels too close and confining. I thought I’d breathe the pine scent of those delightful trees.”
“Afraid we can’t let you take a midnight walk, my lady,” replies the soldier. “Too dangerous. Could be ruffians about.”
“We caught one earlier,” says Prince Havil’s man. “Big monstrous brute, lurking in the forest.”
“Oh indeed?” I raise my eyebrows, trying to keep my voice steady. “How wonderful that you caught him. And what did you do with the villain?”
“Dragged him in there.” The soldier points to an outbuilding, an old barn at the far corner of the innyard. “The inn-keeper’s got a cold cellar, thick-walled and all, so His Highness took the brute down there for interrogation. Didn’t want to disturb everyone, you see.”
“The Prince is going to interrogate the man himself?”
“Oh yes. His Highness is a fair hand at torture. Enjoys it, you might say.”
“Lovely,” I say through smiling, gritted teeth. “Well, thank you for guarding us so well. I’ll just have a short walk through the yard then, before I return to bed. Good night!”
“Good night, my lady.”
As I turn, I shift the sword, keeping it hidden in my skirts. I pace casually back toward the inn before glancing back. The men have turned toward the trees, with their backs to me, so I quickly cross the yard and slip into the shadow of an outbuilding—a privy, by the smell of it. I wish I could cut straight to the old barn, but the guards will likely keep an eye on the innyard as well as the woods. To avoid catching their eyes, I’m forced to circle the stables and a chicken coop to stay out of sight, jumping from shadow to shadow like a child skipping across a creek on stones.
At last I reach the door of the old barn. There’s no one on guard, so I open the great door a crack and slide through.
All is silent inside.
If Prince Havil has killed my soulmate, I’m going to slice him apart. I don’t care if his father and brothers demand my head for the crime.
I slink through the dusty expanse of the barn, my way lit only by a few shafts of moonlight glancing between broken rafters overhead. The place reeks of musty, mildewed hay and rancid rot. At one end, between thick posts, stone steps descend to a door shrouded in black shadows.
That must be the entrance to the cold cellar.
Quietly I descend the steps and fumble in the dark for the handle. My other palm sweats against the leather-wrapped hilt of my sister’s sword.