Page 1 of Untempered
PROLOGUE
ISOLDE
“The deadliest weapon is the shattered blade.” ~ Matri’sion proverb
Go, they’d said.
She could disrupt fate’s plans, they’d said.
Well, the girl wasn’t even able to change her own slippers without triple-checking whether she should. Anxious, flighty, and obedient were traits I could name. Her only use was her malleability, and I didn’t have time to craft her into the weapon we needed.
Her brown eyes were huge as she looked around the rooms we’d been shoved into as if she hadn’t looked around them constantly since we’d arrived early yesterday.
When I’d first seen those eyes gleaming in the firelight, big and liquid, I’d thought they were animalistic. I’d hoped for a time that the soothsayer had been right, that she did have some deep, well-hidden streak of strength, some killer’s instinct. A small, drab lump who looked younger than her eleven years, she slid into her chair before the plain table, eyes downcast.
She’d need strengthanda killer’s instinct if she were to truly be our salvation. And I’d seen naught of it.
Somehow, she’d stumbled through the festivities that should’ve marked the start of their wedding celebrations last night. When I thought of how that celebration was now postponed, I couldn’t help but smile. Her gaze flickered up to me in alarm.
“Eat,” I told her, impatiently.
Her fingers fumbled the plain spoon, and something about that graceless anxiety brought home what I’d managed to do for her yesterday when she’d been falling apart, and I’d convinced her betrothed she was far too young, and he was far too honorable to wed her now. Soft hearts were easy targets and my aim was true. The young fool hadwantedme to convince him. I’d barely had to do anything except listen to him ramble about honor and love.
He was the scholarly son of a country lord, and he didn’t even need to shave yet. What he knew about honor or love would make the shortest tale of time.
Whether or not this girl was who we needed, I’d saved her some pain and postponed her nuptials. All the lordling had to do now was break the news to the Butcher. Living through that task would also be useful for him, I supposed.
I watched dispassionately as the child pushed fruit around in her porridge. The province we were visiting was obviously not wealthy, but even so, the grains were thickened with milk and sweetened with honey. She could at least be grateful, even if she couldn’t be fierce.
I opened my mouth to tell her to eat, not toy with it, but her head snapped up like a rabbit hearing the hunter. A split second later there was a knock at the door.
The way her face had drained of all color had the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.
Blood beat heavily in my veins, and that pre-fight rush of battle energy filled me with power and purpose. I strode to the door, flicking my cloak over my forearm as a makeshift shield as I went. In a rush I pulled it open and positioned myself in the gap between the child and the world, ready to defend.
There stood the Duke of La’Angi, the infamous Butcher of Wolfswail and stalwart defender of the locways that kept the poor in the gutters and the rich few on cushions. The Butcher barely glanced at me before his eyes latched onto his daughter. Every muscle in my body tightened as I dropped down into a curtsy. If they learned what I was, the possibility of me stealing this child away vanished.
I’d never been so close to a real monster.
Heat radiated off him, and my mouth was dry as the Steppes in summer. His hands were jarringly clean. They should’ve been blood red.
“Your grace,” I said, giving way so he didn’t walk over the top of me.
I was unarmed, unprepared—and he was undefeated.
His massive shoulders were hard beneath his plain woolen jacket as he walked past. Somehow, even his steps held rage.
I was a Matri’sion warrior. I did not cower before big, bad-tempered men just because they had collected titles and I did not recognize the locways of Arcanloc. If men came into our territory, they were prey, and the fatter the purse the richer the pelt. Steeling myself to inform him that the child hadn’t yet eaten, I drew in a breath.
“Isolde,” the girl said, the word quick, urgent, and making that breath stick in my chest. “Please go and—tell lord Luca I will meet with him later in the day. For that ride. I must speak with my father.”
The man stopped to angle the top half of his body toward me, pinning me in his gaze as he waited for me to follow her instructions. His cheeks were ruddy, his lips now invisible.
There was fury in him.
The lordling had done it. Luca had done it. He’d postponed the wedding.
My feet were frozen to the ground as my heart raced.What does it mean? What is he doing?Can I justify my attendance if?—
